The Worst Best Friend: A Small Town Romance

The plant has these tiny hairs, but they’re actually sharp barbs that hurt like a grease burn if they get in your skin. As I’m reaching down to grasp the weed close to the roots—any higher up and I’ll be cussing up a blue streak from the pain—I notice a cigarette butt on the ground.

Then another and another and...holy crap.

It’s like the back of a bar, except I doubt Grady ever lets people toss garbage around the Purple Bobcat like this.

The mess irritates me more than the nettle weed.

Once I’ve torn it from the ground, I carefully tuck the roots in my back pocket and then use my phone to shove the weed in deeper so it won’t fall out.

I’ll use my shirt to pull it out at the trash.

Sighing, I stuff my phone in my front pocket and use both hands to scoop up about a dozen cigarette butts and carry them to the parking lot trash can.

I’m going to have to mention this to Carson, since he’s likely our only recent smoker.

Jeez, I even told him the only place he’s allowed to smoke is the parking lot, didn’t I?

We keep it over asphalt for a reason. We’ve had a dry autumn so far without a lot of rain, so one stray smoldering butt could even start a fire in the grass by the barn.

Throwing them on the ground isn’t just rude, it’s potentially dangerous.

As I drop the butts in the trash, I wonder why I never smelled cigarette smoke on Carson. Usually, I can since it’s something I got sensitive to at college. Too many drunken students puffing away at all hours, right outside my dorm room window.

Then again, whenever Mr. Hudson’s around, all I smell are those godawful truffle almonds.

Seriously. Is he actually leaving tomorrow?

I thought he’d be on his merry way after the car show ended, and his current stay ends after tonight. I’m dreading yet another extension, no matter how much he likes to pay in advance.

Maybe I can kick him out if he keeps littering like this...

Thank goodness Faye sewed up his pocket, at least, so he hasn’t dropped more of those gross snacks around like bird poo. I’m still pissed at how sick they made Herc.

Honestly, though, tonight I’m just pissed at everything.

Period.

Including myself.

I need to talk to Weston ASAP, even if it leads to another screaming match. I can’t handle things melting down so abruptly.

I’m in the process of trying to pull the weed out of my back pocket with the hem of my shirt so I don’t get stung—way easier in theory than reality—when I hear sirens.

Multiple vehicles. Ambulance and police.

Back in D.C., I wouldn’t even blink at the wailing noise...but Dallas is a speck of a town. When sirens shriek here, it almost certainly involves someone we know. Someone close.

A rough knot forms in my stomach and I hurry into the house. I can use a towel to get the weed out inside.

Gram emerges from the private area. “Was that an ambulance I heard?”

“Yeah, and police sirens.”

“Oh, dear. I wonder what’s happened...” Gram places both hands over her heart. “Granny Coffey isn’t getting any younger, and the way she rides that two-seater bike around town is downright dangerous. I sincerely hope it’s not her.”

I smile. Though they might be strawberry arch-enemies, Gram and Granny have been frenemies for years.

“Hopefully not,” I say, and I don’t think it’s her. I’ve seen Coffey riding her bike around pretty safely with that flower helmet she always wears. “Hopefully no one we know.”