Page 111 of Best Friends for Never

“Oh, I don’t? Try me, then.”

He gulps loudly, blinking up at me. “I—I—I ...” He puffs his chest out. “You can’t stop me from reporting the truth, Noel. TheGazettehelps this community.”

“TheGazetteis one step above a trash magazine you ignore at the grocery checkout. You know it, and so does everyone else.”

He glares at me, and it’s the least scary thing I’ve ever seen. “It’s better than that theater.”

“Yeah? Well, we’ll see about that when the project gets fully funded, sells out crowds, and thrives no thanks to your shitty little paper.” I take another step toward him. “Now get the fuck out of here before I throw you out myself.”

He huffs but hurries through the crowd, and I watch him all the way to the exit.

“Thank god you said something,” Garth says. He stares after where Figgins just pushed through the doors. “I never liked that guy. He’s always causing trouble.”

“Too much of it, if you ask me.”

Garth shakes his head. “Anyway, you need a drink?” I nod. “Let me guess: A whiskey neat for Gran with some jojos and a whiskey sour for Parker?”

I laugh. “Are my women that predictable?”

“Considering they’re in here at least once a week and never order anything else, I’d say yes. What can I get for you?”

“Gimme your best scotch.”

“Neat like your gran?”

“Of course.”

He taps the bar twice, then moves away to make our drinks.

I turn back to the crowd, watching the people of Emerald Grove look like they’re having the best night of their lives.

Fuck Figgins and his articles. I don’t care what he says. This event—and the whole theater project, for that matter—is great for the town. It’s exactly what we need.

Garth reappears, setting the three drinks before me, and promises to send the jojos over once they’re ready.

I try to hand him my card, but he waves me off.

“No. All your shit is on the house tonight.”

I ignore him, pulling my wallet from my back pocket and tossing a hundred on the counter anyway. “It’s for a good cause.”

I balance the drinks, something I learned from the few months I worked at a restaurant when I first moved to LA, then head for the bowling alley.

The lanes are jam-packed, kids are running loose everywhere, and the noise level is at an all-time high.

I hand Gran her neat whiskey, then claim a stool. Axel nods at me from where he’s sitting, and I nod back. We aren’t going to be best friends anytime soon, but it’s progress.

“You going to bowl, Gran?”

She snorts. “With these hips? Not again in this lifetime.”

I frown. I hate that she can’t do the things she once loved, but I guess that’s part of getting older. You learn to adapt or find new things to keep you occupied.

Parker grabs a ball and walks to the end of the lane. She peeks over her shoulder, a playful spark in her eye, then shimmies forward. Another foot. And another.

Soon, she’s halfway down the lane. She squats and then drops the ball, letting it roll slowly toward the pins.

“Cheater Peter!” I yell, but it’s pointless.

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