The Worst Best Friend: A Small Town Romance

“Yes, damn you,” he snarls.

Pushing his face closer, his eyes shut, he inhales me like I’m pure incense.

Holy hell.

After a few heady seconds, I caress his face, before we find the focus to start moving again.

In the burrito line, we’re both laughing, swapping stories about the county fairs when we were kids.

The table with Gram and Faye is full of familiar faces when we find our way back, carrying double cardboard tubs holding mammoth burritos thicker than my arm.

Grady McKnight and his wife and daughters, Tory and Faulk and their baby, Grace and Ridge with their family, and Drake and Bella with a couple bouncing children have all joined Marty, Gram, and Faye.

They happily make room for us, raising cheery compliments for Weston on the show as we dig into our food.

Later, the men agree to help drive the cars back. It’s no surprise their wives and chirping kidlets want to ride with them. They each pick a set of wheels—the monster trucks go surprisingly fast—leaving us the old Love Bug Volkswagen.

“Smile!” I tell him. “I love this car.”

“You’re the only one. I can barely get my damn head in without bashing it bloody on the ceiling,” he grumbles.

“Hey, c’mon! Herbie rocks. Did you know my grandparents took a couple road trips out west in this thing? Imagine going cross-country in it for days.”

“You shrink with age,” he throws back.

Our banter continues, and so does a quick bout of friendly racing as everyone jostles to leave the show at once. Even in the hilariously underclassed bug, Weston wins thanks to several swift driving maneuvers I’m still gushing over as we pull into Gram’s and park by the storage barn.

While the men pull the cars inside and check them over, swapping loud admiration for every vehicle, the women help me dig out the covers. Once they’re cleaned up and strapped in place, we all walk over to Weston’s to take his pickup truck to the fairgrounds.

Five of us manage to crush into the back of the truck.

“Damn, man, I’m pretty sure this has gotta be illegal,” Faulk says in his Oklahoma twang.

“Then they’ll have to ticket the sheriff for riding in the bed, too,” Drake says, winning a round of laughs.

It’s a cool night, that heavy, almost magical feeling between worlds bleeding into my mind as Halloween approaches. Bright stars wink through holes in the greyish cloud puffs overhead.

I think I’m in heaven.

This is easily the most fun I’ve had in eons, and I can’t help wondering what happens from here. The dancing hasn’t begun and I’m tingling with nerves.

Will he hold me in those arms that make me so delirious?

Will he rake me with that claiming look?

Will he whisper what’s really in his head, his heart, his soul?

The band kicks up “Maybe Baby” by Buddy Holly when we arrive in the old barn decked out with softly glowing string lights.

It’s a fast, swaying, youthful song.

We join in with everyone else, dancing and whirling like overexcited puppies. Even Marty pulls a woman from the sidelines, which makes me grin.

Gram and Faye are still at the table, joined with several other old-timers. I spot Granny Coffey, clapping and singing along to the old lyrics, inexplicably shaking an eggplant in her hand.

Guess she must’ve picked it up at one of the farmer’s stands or something.

Weston moves with me like a dream. I don’t have a clue where he learned to dance, but the man could be a master, gliding me around with his powerful arms and gently reeling me back to his embrace.