The Worst Best Friend: A Small Town Romance

No laughing over banana pancakes alone.

No heart-twisting trips down memory lane.

No flirting.

Definitely no eyes on her lips.

No killing glances at her moon of an ass that makes me break out in a cold sweat when I imagine how it’d feel in my hands.

Abso-fucking-lutely no wandering lips.

As I pull myself together, I wonder when friendships like this became so hard.

* * *

I find Shel in the sitting room a few minutes later, talking with Faye and Thelma.

“I’m heading home, ladies,” I tell them. “Gotta fix the hole Hercules made in his latest jailbreak with something more permanent. Want to come with me, Shel? You can pick up that scrapbook.”

“Of course she does,” Thelma answers for her. “No need to have a girl as young as Shelly Bean joining in our dirty little fantasies about Andrew the weatherman.”

“Gram!” Shelly hisses as I try not to shudder.

If Andrew from Channel Six News ever wants his own personal harem, he’s got his pick of every woman over fifty in this town.

“See? You’re not old enough for this conversation, dear,” Thelma says. “Run along now.”

“Tell Hercules I’ll walk over later to say hello!” Faye calls after me.

Shelly stands up and nods at me. “Fine, I’m coming. I do want to check out that scrapbook.”

I figured that would seal the deal, Andrew yuck factor aside.

She also tells Faye that she’ll deliver her message to Hercules personally with a few evening treats. As I head for the front door, she touches my arm and says, “We can go out the back.”

“My truck’s out front.”

“Yeah, but you can drive it home later.”

It’s been years and she hasn’t changed that much. Neither have I when it comes to her, and knowing there’s something gnawing at her eats at me.

“All right. Later it is,” I say, hoping she’ll tell me what’s on her mind.

We’ve barely stepped through the back door and off the stairs when her foot crunches something. She makes a disgusted face and reaches down to lift it off the ground.

“What’s that?” I ask.

“Just an empty bag. Trash.”

It’s nearly shredded, mangled like it’s been chewed. I’ve got one guess how.

“Looks like Herc got a hold of it. What was it?”

Slowly, she turns it over, and her nose wrinkles again.

“Bleh. Some really unholy almonds, I think.” She tucks it in her back pocket. “I’ll throw it away at your house.”

Thelma’s garbage cans are out near the parking area. I know because I’ve carried her trash out for years.