The Worst Best Friend: A Small Town Romance

Of course, that was kinda hopeless when Marty stopped by while I was scrubbing to apologize again and tell me he’ll talk to Weston.

I said don’t bother.

I’m not ready.

Or maybe this is just something I need to figure out on my own. I told him I appreciate his concern, but whatever’s happening between us is our problem, not his. Not anyone else’s.

I’m still not sure if I’m desperate and angry for Weston to see me as a grown woman or if I need to accept the fact that he was right.

There will never be anything between us.

Nothing besides the best romps of my life during a blazing summer fling with an old friend I could never bring myself to let go.

Look, I’m not keen on acceptance, nor have I made up my mind about which way I should focus, but I sure wish he’d get home soon.

This is the third time I’ve walked over to his place since supper, and there’s still no sign of him.

Hercules, however, is happy to see me every time, pushing against his pen with a chirping grunt that sounds like a human baby trying to laugh. I lean in too close and he snuffles at my hair—a few inches lower and I’m sure he’d lick my face.

“Easy, big guy! I’m not going anywhere. At least for a few more weeks,” I tell him.

I give him a final scratch behind his floppy ears before making my way back to the B&B, almost wishing we had more grout to scrub. I might just have to fold up on the couch soon for a scary movie, and see if Gram wants help passing out candy and cookies to trick or treaters.

Because you know it’s bad when you’re wishing for dirty grout.

Maybe the guest who called in earlier today asking about a room will show up tonight. Checking them in and a little polite conversation will keep me busy for five whole minutes.

Ugh.

I just don’t get why Weston shuts down with his emotions, if he’s not running them off like a boar on the warpath.

We always talked in the past.

We always had secrets we shared since the first time we connected on that day he pulled me inside for cookies.

He always had this special talent for dragging me out of whatever funk I was in. Like when my parents died and I was so devastated, and again when he told me he was leaving for bootcamp.

The sigh that leaves my lungs feels heavier than concrete.

Both of those times revolved around me, didn’t they?

Just like when I’d wrecked the motorcycle. But then again, he never talked much about himself.

Opening up now just isn’t something he’d do.

Not with me.

Because apparently I’ve always been the brat next door he had to save. Never the other way around.

The bitter fact that it makes sense puts a new ache in my heart.

Jackass or not, he’s always been there for me, but I’ve never been there much for him. Certainly not when he needed me the most. Not during that time he came home hollowed out, gutted by all the things he could never bear to tell me.

How the hell do I help him now?

I kick at the ground, sweeping a few dried out fall leaves away with my foot.

A stinging nettle growing at the corner of Grandpa’s barn catches my eye. I walk over to pluck it out before it gets bigger.