Page 16 of Friends Don't Kiss

“But that’s what you meant.”

Yes, that’s exactly what I meant. Of courseit’s what I meant. We’re close enough to finish each other’s thoughts. “Nope. I meant to say, before you rudely interrupted me,” and she snorts at this, “the first thing that comes with an all-wheel drive or four-wheel drive, good ground clearance, good cargo space, good fuel efficiency. These are non-negotiable.”

“You’re so full of shit.” Finally the tension leaves her as she laughs.

“Am not,” I pretend to be serious.

“You would never, ever, call a car a thing.”

Well, that settles it. “Seriously though, a VW?”

“Seriously, I am not getting a newvehicle.” She spits the word like it’s dirty. Then she perks up and adds, “but if Icouldget a vehicle, it would totally be a souped-up VW Camper.”

“Souped-up, huh? I don’t think anyone can do that for you.”

“Why not?” Her arms are crossed again, but in a challenge. We both know she’s never getting a VW bus for her business, souped-up or not.

“Well, for starters, you’d need a new engine. New transmission. The wheels are ridiculous, especially for the winter season. The inside is…” I glance at her, then smirk when she returns the gaze, “I guess it’s to size.”

She punches my bicep. “Jerk.”

“Why?”Small is beautiful.I snap my eyes back to the road and think better than to add that last part. We’re finally back to normal, and honestly, why do I feel the need to give her compliments now? It was never like that.

I take the last curve before my garage and instantly notice my loaner sitting on the side of the bay under a foot of snow. Kiara doesn’t notice it, or if she does, she could think it’s any random car. But her mind is elsewhere. It’s almost like I can feel the tension radiating from her.

The fork where I’d take a left to go back to Sunrise Farms is coming up, but I don’t want to go home yet. I need to unwind from this weird evening by hanging out with friends. And I don’t feel like going home with Kiara just one floor away from me. I just need to get back to norm—

“I could use a beer,” Kiara interrupts my thoughts. “At Lazy’s?” she adds quickly, in case I thought she wanted a beer with me, the two of us alone at my place or hers. Like we’ve done a hundred times.Bad idea.At least we’re still on the same page.

I keep going straight, toward the center of Emerald Creek, toward The Green and Lazy’s. It’s one of those moments when it’s clear to me how damn lucky I am to live here. When driving into Emerald Creek gives me that feeling ofhome.

Not just the fact that to my left, down Timberline Way, is where my parents live; that to my right, up Hardscrabble Road, is the Arena where I spent so much time playing hockey. Or that my third-grade teacher, Ms. Angela, now owns the bed-and-breakfast on Winooski, on top of working occasionally at the general store and the bookshop, and overall being in everyone’s business in the most endearing way.

Or that my cousin’s bakery is now famous and sits right on The Green.

It’s all of it. The knowledge that in a minute, I’ll walk into Lazy’s, grab a beer, sit with my friends, and justbe. No expectations.

We glide down the empty streets, freshly plowed and bathed in the warm glow of streetlights. The bright gleam of storefront windows showcases cute displays—most of it overpriced stuff tourists lose their minds over. But what do I care? It’s good for business, and no one’s complaining. Most of the town lives off tourism and if—

“Holy fuck!” Kiara screeches as she sits tall, looking out the passenger window.

On instinct, I hit the brakes, though lightly enough to keep control in the snow. A furtive shadow darts across the sidewalk, sliding into the narrow alley between two buildings.

“What happened?” I say.

“Whoever that was just threw eggs at the Shy Rabit!”

“It’s Shy Rabit,” I say, and we both chuckle as I stop the truck and get in reverse. The relatively new name of the bookshop is a topic of gossip, and sometimes heated discussion, at Town Hall meetings. A few years ago the store was bought anonymously through shell corporations, so we don’t know who the owner is. The name was changed to Shy Rabit and the manager, who’d worked for the previous owner, repeatedly assured there should only be one B and no The.“It’s not a rabbit,”she’d say and roll her eyes.

“Fuck, you’re right,” Kiara says, squinting at the storefront. Two bright yellow streaks drip down the window, frozen solid before they could hit the ground. She steps out of the truck and picks something up from the sidewalk. I lower the passenger window and cold air quickly fills the cabin. “What are you doing? Come back in.”

“We interrupted them,” she says, showing me a carton of eggs.

“Good! Now get back in here, it’s freezing.” I start closing her window, but she raises her voice above the rumble of the engine.

“We need to report this!” Her eyes are widening like I’m missing how bad this is.

Seriously? “Sweets,” I say, the nickname escaping me, “it’s just eggs. Come on.”

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