The Worst Best Friend: A Small Town Romance

Frowning, she looks at me for a long moment, no doubt sensing I’m changing the subject.

“Nope. No sign of him yet. I did notice a few of those footprints Drake mentioned...they’re mostly scratched away now from the morning frost and the wind. But they’re there if you want to take a look,” she says, catching a lock of her hair and twirling it nervously.

Do I scare her sometimes?

I should.

“He’ll show up when he’s hungry, I’m sure, and thanks. I’ll check again before I go.” I pick up the screwdriver and pretend to tighten that lock one more time.

I can feel her watching anxiously behind my back.

Trying to make light of everything, I say over my shoulder, “These jobs always take twice as long as you expect.”

“Uh-huh,” she mutters softly.

She’s too smart to buy my act—or I’m that shitty of a liar.

At least it doesn’t stop her from planting a quick, understanding peck on my cheek.

“I pulled a few other pairs of your aunt’s shoes out of the closet while I was up there. They were dirty so I gave them a good cleaning. I’d better put them away before I forget.”

She walks into the house, and I rub the back of my neck like I’m being swarmed by mosquitoes.

Damn, this tension has nothing on a thousand little bloodsuckers. I hope like hell it won’t cause me a migraine.

That was the worst after I came home, hurting like a jackhammer lodged behind my right eye while I tried to quit the bottle and fought to dry myself out.

I had to take shots for them after the ambush to be functional.

It still isn’t fair.

Good men and women lost their lives, and the only injury I wound up with was a little shrapnel scar on my leg, a long night of panic pinned under debris, and these blinding fucking headaches.

By the time I’ve quadruple-checked the locks, Shelly’s in the living room, dusting and cleaning the glass display cases.

She looks so much like she belongs here it hurts.

How do I fix this? How do I rock her to pieces like I did today, knowing it has an expiration date?

The answer that gnaws at me isn’t one I want to entertain.

Make sure it doesn’t happen again, you dolt.

I drive her back to the B&B and decline a dinner invite, saying I need to get to the shop to catch up on business.

It isn’t a lie.

That’s where I go and bury myself in replacing a transmission on an old Dodge Ram now that the gasket set arrived with my last parts order. I’m covered in transmission fluid by the time I’m done, and the phone in my makeshift office rings.

Rick has already left for the day, so I answer it and agree to a tow job on the interstate.

An evening rain starts as I’m heading outside.

I take my sweet time walking to my truck, feeling like I need the coolness on my face, my shoulders, the back of my neck.

I need them so that when I lose it a split second later, the red-hot anguish bleeding from my eyes is just between me and the maker of this universe.

This is my life.