Page 3 of Best Friends, Tennessee

Bitter bile rose in my stomach.

Finn knew I’d hate him saying that. He knew I didn’t belong here, and knew at least some of the reasons why.

I ignored him, reaching for another suitcase. “I have a couple of rental house tours set up for next week,” I told him, already planning my swift exit from being his houseguest. “Hey, watch the suitcases. Why’s your lawn so damn muddy?”

“Here in the real world, we still get weather in the spring,” Finn said, dragging my two pearl-white suitcases across his squidgy lawn. “Next time get a more practical color for your bags, Prince Ori.”

“Usually people don’t carry them like they’re an ox hauling a wheelbarrow.”

He looked at me with wide eyes and a goofy smile, stopping outside the front door. “You thinkoxenhaulwheelbarrows? No wonder you left the country.”

“It was just an expression.”

He wasn’t done. “You think the ox reaches up and uses its hooves to push the wheelbarrow? Does it hum a tune and wink at you afterward, too? Maybe that’s just the Los Angeles oxen.”

“Kiss my ass.”

“You’ll be kissing mine, for letting you stay in my house.”

His front yard smelled like mud and flowers. I glanced over the red geraniums he’d planted along the front, the same kind my mom used to plant each spring.

He took good care of the place. It was nothing like the crappy, trashy house he’d grown up in about a mile from here—Finn had pledged to take better care of his first house than his parents ever did, and he was proving that now. It made me proud, even though I wasn’t going to tell him that right now.

“Thank you for letting me stay. Seriously,” I said. “Now get in there before I throw that cowboy hat in the mud.”

“You wouldn’t fucking dare,” he said, swinging the front door open.

Stepping into his home was like entering a time machine. It was more like a barn that had been fashioned into a makeshift living space. Pretty much everything was some variety of wood, and I could tell that half of it was Finn’s own DIY carpentry. It was rustic, to say the least, but he was good at making it cozy.

When I’d visited home for the past few Christmases since he bought this place, I had only briefly been in Finn’s house. For the short visits, I stayed with my parents, but since my niece had been born, their spare room was no longer available.

Honestly, I’d been surprised when Finn offered me his guest bedroom.

Growing up, he’d always joined my family for holidays, not the other way around. He’d always said he was more comfortable being a guest than a host. Finn didn’t exactly have much of his own family.

He hoisted my two biggest suitcases, turning to carry them down the narrow, paneled hallway.

“Guest room’s over here on the left. I think I got rid of most of the cobwebs.”

“Like a luxury hotel,” I said as he led me inside. The scent of old wood filled the room, and it had two small windows that looked out over the front lawn. My blue Beetle was right out there, like a reminder of the life I used to have.

“Bestens’ finest,” Finn said. Dust motes floated in the sunlight coming through the windows, and for a moment, all I could do was stand there.

Best Friends, Tennesseehad been our nickname for Bestens, back when we were ten years old and had nothing better to think about.

Back when we actuallywerebest friends.

By the time we were teenagers, we’d already wanted to strangle each other almost every time we were in the same room.

We used to fight, but I’d always been able to pull him back again.

To make him use his words, andtalkto me about his feelings.

Things had gotten really bad in senior year of high school. Finn had to stay with me and my family, living with us for a few months when his mom went to rehab. We clashed in every corner of the house.

The moment I’d turned 18, I’d high-tailed it out of this place to California. Finn stayed here, where he belonged.

Each year when I visited at Christmas, Finn seemed to get more and more…Tennessee. He listened to country music all the time now. He rode horses on the weekends. His wardrobe had slowly morphed from graphic T-shirts and ball caps to workman’s blue jeans, white tees, flannel, and that stupid cowboy hat. Now we were both 24, and I’d never felt more different from him.

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