Page 6 of Best Friends, Tennessee

But on the surface, it never seemed to phase him.

He was solid as a rock.

Back in school he was a popular football player, friends with almost everyone, and somehow got pretty good grades, too.

Sometimes I forgot he’d been through anything at all. He never let it show.

“Have fun at the saloon,” I said.

When I turned around, he was already walking away.

2

FINN

Ever just need to go out and find someone to fuck after a tense conversation?

Maybe that’s the beer talking.

I polished off my second IPA of the night, setting the pint glass down on the thin cork coaster. I leaned back on the cool leather of the bar stool, finally feeling like the hundreds of butterflies in my chest were starting to calm down.

So much for my reunion with my best friend.

There wasn’t enough citrus IPA in this bar to make me feel better about how things had gone with Ori.

My plan had been to hug him. To tell him how much I’d missed him. To wave a magic wand and make everything how it used to be.

But we’d gotten right back under each other’s skin, quicker than fuckin’ whiplash.

Now I was pent-up, and I needed a fuckin’ release.

Max, the bartender on duty, was already grabbing my glass and refilling it.

“Good man,” I told him.

“You look comfy,” Danielle said as she returned from the restroom, taking the seat next to me.

“Beer definitely doesn’t cure all my problems, but sitting in this bar almost does,” I said. “Thanks for meeting me.”

A country western saloon wasn’t Ori’s vibe, but I fucking loved this place. The building used to be an old independent bookstore, but when it had gone out of business, Kane had bought the place for a steal and turned it into a bar. Tall, built-in bookshelves still lined the tucked-in alcoves along the walls, reaching all the way to the ceiling. Each alcove had its own comfy booth or pool table, and the leather worked perfectly against the dark wood of the shelves.

Even the big, U-shaped bar top used to be the front counter when it was a bookstore. The bookshelves around the place now held tacked-up photos of bar regulars, as well as Hard Spot T-shirts and hats for sale.

“Did you guys see that?” Max said suddenly, pointing toward the other side of the bar. “That light by the patio was on earlier tonight. Flickered off. Now it’s back on again.”

“Tell Kane it needs to be replaced,” Danielle said, pushing back a lock of her dark hair.

Max stared at us, leaning over the bar as if he was expecting more of a reaction. He was only a few years younger than me, but he’d just graduated college and still very much acted like life was one big fraternity.

“What?” I asked.

“Haunted,” he said in a hushed tone. “This place is haunted.” He looked back down, shoveling some ice into a glass.

Danielle and I exchanged a look.

“Or maybe the light socket is faulty,” I pointed out, “because this building is a hundred years old and has been about ten other businesses before it was the Hard Spot Saloon. How ‘bout that?”

“Hey,” Max said, holding his hands up. “I’ve been working here for long enough now. Cabinets open up, when they weren’t before. Last week after my shift, the jukebox started playing a random song—”

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