The Worst Best Friend: A Small Town Romance

No matter how spot-on his wisdom can be, it’s still annoying.

“Trust me. Your head will try to screw you over, but your gut will make the right decision.” He shakes his head. “It’s an emotional compass. It knows right from wrong, up from down, fight or flight.”

“Yeah, right,” I say insolently.

I love my uncle, but he’s laying out a line of shit, that’s for sure. Just trying to cheer me up, an impossible job.

“I am right. When I first met Willow behind this bar with a broken-down truck and a damn tiger in a trailer, my brain roared warnings louder than that cat. My head told me she was something not worth getting mixed up with. Good thing my gut said I had to help. So I did. I called you to come get her truck. Remember?”

I push the dead air out of my lungs. All of me feels dead today, and it’s got nothing to do with skeletons and creepy crawlies hanging everywhere.

“Like I could ever forget, Uncle Grady.”

“Well, over the next few days, my head kept screaming stop. Get rid of her. Hell, I had two young girls to worry about. Mr. Brain never shuts up when he smells danger. But did I ditch her, man?” He gives me a slitted look.

“No,” I answer.

“Right. I knew I’d regret it for the rest of my life if I let Mr. Brain do the deciding. He’s good with numbers and getting a bead on a target when you’re at the range, but let’s be real, he’s shit at love.” He straightens up and grins, his teeth shining through his thick black halo of beard. “Look at me now. Happier than I ever dared imagine I could be.”

“Sure are, and you deserve it after all the hell you went through. Nobody was happier than me when I heard you two were tying the knot,” I tell him.

“Tell that to your face,” he says slowly. “Because it looks like you just lost your childhood dog.”

I’ve lost worse than any dopey mutt.

I might call Marty that, but in all honesty, Shel was always my best friend too. And these past few weeks, she ascended beyond any friendship.

Something slaps my shoulder so hard I’m jarred, and it’s not Uncle Grady.

I turn around.

Marty. He appears out of thin air like he knows I’ve been thinking about him.

“Hey.” He gives Grady a friendly nod and takes the mug of on-the-house beer handed to him. “How you doing?”

“Fine,” I answer. “You?”

“I feel pretty shitty.” He slumps down on the stool beside me, slurping his beer loudly.

Concerned, I look at him.

“Why’s that?”

“Because I fucked you over, and Shelly too,” he says glumly.

“What? No, you didn’t. You weren’t the one who barked shit at her.”

“I did. If she hadn’t heard us talking outside—if I hadn’t stuck my nose into your biz—the two of you would be fine and dandy. Instead, you’re sitting here wishing that pop was straight whiskey, and she’s at Gram’s, rage-scrubbing the grout in bathrooms with a ten-year-old toothbrush.”

I shrug, hating how well he reads me.

“It wasn’t your fault. I knew it wouldn’t last, and so did she. I should have just kept my dumbass thoughts to myself.”

“Like you have the past ten years or so?” he asks, leveling a look.

“Sure. What’s another decade? You know the life I live, Marty. Managing.”

“Dammit, dude, that ain’t living,” he snaps, spinning his stool to face me. “Why don’t you just tell her? That’s the only reason I’m pissed at you. Why don’t you come clean and give her what you really think? Because I know that crap you said this morning isn’t it.”