Page 10 of Best Friends, Tennessee

I stared at Ori in disbelief, but he acted like everything was normal. Even on Christmas, he’d always been the type to give handmade art as gifts, but this was above and beyond.

I slid the bottle over toward Ori. “Hey. I know you can’t afford this right now. You can return it.”

Ori waved me off. “I’m not returning your gift. I know you don’t want me in your house, and it’s the least I can do.”

I shook my head, pausing for a moment. “You don’t have to buy me expensive shit every time you feel guilty about mouthing off to me.”

He puffed out a laugh. “Trust me, I don’t feel guilty about that.”

Ori ordered a margarita and Kane slid it across the bar a minute later. I looked at him sidelong, taking him in.

His hair was the same as always—dark, a little shaggy on top, and probably still softer than a bunny. Ori really had filled out since high school. He sure as shit wasn’t gangly anymore. He’d showered and changed since I left home, and the cut of his black jacket was stylish, worn over a pristine white T-shirt, black jeans, and white sneakers.

Coveredin fuckin’ gold glitter, now, though.

Don’t make fun of the glitter.

Or how clean his shoes are.

Or about how quickly they’re going to get dirty working at the diner.

Back in the day, I’d have made jokes about any one of those things, but I knew better now. When I was a teenager, my sense of humor had been clumsier, and more brash. It was part of what had caused us to fight too much.

In those times I’d tell him something he wore looked too fancy, then he’d tell me to piss off and that my “football bro” clothes were dumb.No, they’re stylish, I’d say,and I look damn good. It made sense why he got the impression I had a big ego.

I didn’t want to make fun of him now, anyway.

These days, I just wanted to know who he was, again.

“What are the notebooks?” I asked him.

“Mini sketchbooks, with little watercolor palettes attached,” he said, showing me the inside.

It was a tiny spiral-bound book, each page about the size of a Polaroid. On the first few pages, Ori had painted various little watercolor scenes from his road trip—one of a motel, one of the Beetle, one of a sunset.

“They’re really good,” I said.

“I try to do one tiny painting a day,” he said. “Kind of like a watercolor diary. I miss some days, but it’s fun.”

“You could have just painted me one instead of buying me crazy gifts.”

“This stuff shouldn’t seem all that expensive to you, anyway, Finn,” he said, shutting the sketchbook and looking back up at me. “Aren’t you Mr. Successful these days?”

“I do alright,” I said. “Wouldn’t exactly call myselfMr. Successful, but I’m doing well for my standards, at least.”

“You’re internet famous,” Ori said, lifting an eyebrow.

I snorted. “Not even close. I’ve got a few thousand followers. People who are interested in the human body.”

“I think they’re interested inyourhuman body,” he said.

“Some people do like how my arms look in the videos. But they’re educational massage therapy videos. It’s not about eye candy.”

Ori gave me a dubious look.

“Internet famous? Who’s internet famous?” Max said, coming back up behind the bar.

I felt a slight heat creeping up to my cheeks. “No one.”

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