The Worst Best Friend: A Small Town Romance

But D.C. doesn’t have stories about my family and their great grandparents. It doesn’t have the laughter, the tears, the animated memories that come flooding back whenever I sit down and talk about the past with folks I’ve known for most of my life.

I have roots here, dammit, and maybe those roots are why I’ve always felt a little restless through college and then in my internship. Like I couldn’t quite get my bearings, no matter how many glowing recommendations I won from professors and bosses.

Weston opens the door for me to step outside. “Tell me if you find anything really interesting.”

I stop and stare at him dead-faced.

“It’s all interesting, Weston. That’s like asking me to pick a newborn kitten from a litter.”

He snorts. “I think you’d choose books over anything with fur, Shel.”

Snickering, I cover my mouth.

“I mean, we’re basically sharing pig duty, so the pet thing is covered,” I say. “Is there really anything wrong with loving books?”

We’re walking down the steps and I hate how much I wish he’d take my hand again.

“There’s not.” He bumps my shoulder with his upper arm. “There’s never been anything wrong with you, either, no matter how huge of a frigging dork you are.”

Cue my face on fire.

I laugh, straining my belly, hoping it helps hide the blush.

“Thanks, I guess. Also, I...I think that’s the first real compliment I’ve had from you since I came home.”

“Is it?” He throws me a sidelong glance.

“Yes, and you know it.” I slug his shoulder playfully.

We both laugh, only stopping when we’re near Hercules’ pen. I reach through the boards and stroke his head as he approaches.

“Remember the deal, buddy. You stay put or no breakfast scraps,” I say.

Herc squeals back agreeably, like I’ve put the fear of God in him by threatening to withhold potato peels and old cereal.

“Glad you double majored in pig psychology,” West jokes. “I’ll admit, I’m fine taking all the help I can get with that boy.”

With a final pat for Herc, we cut across the yard between his barn and the back of ours at Gram’s place.

I wonder why we’re still even calling them both barns.

Once, they were active farm buildings, but his never really held animals until recently with the single stable he connects to Herc’s pen with a little door. Ours always housed Grandpa’s cars and miscellaneous collectibles.

Weston pauses and falls behind me.

“Is that another one of those bags?” he asks.

I follow his eyes to the ground.

Sure enough, something tightens in my stomach when I see it fluttering in the darkness.

Another empty bag of almonds, almost shredded.

What the hell?

Just how many of those abominable snacks does Carson Hudson work through in a week? The bags aren’t big, about the size of a candy bar wrapper or a bag of nuts, but...

...why is he dropping empty bags all over the place?