More Than His Best Friend (More Than Best Friends Book 1)

by Sally Henson

  He tilts his head and gives me a closed mouth smile.

  I twirl my finger in a circle between us to spur him to answer my question. “This spot?”

  “Oh, uh, my dad told me about it. He used to fish here when he was a teenager.”

  Lane

  I lean over and whisper in her ear, “He swore me to secrecy.” She smells like coconut suntan lotion, and it makes me wish we were floating in the middle of the pond at the cliffs. All by ourselves.

  “Yeah?” Regan’s voice buzzes through a mouth full of her slushy, urging me to keep talking.

  I take a deep breath, staring at the railroad tracks that run as far as I can see. “One day this summer I came back here, got out of my truck …” The cooler lid squeaks as I lift it, offering Regan a piece of chicken and a container of potato salad along with plastic silverware.

  “Oooh, utensils too,” she teases, grabbing a fork from my fingers.

  I take a bite of chicken and watch her unwrap her food. Before her gaze reaches mine, I dart my eyes away, back to the rails. The thought of her catching me staring at her spikes my heartbeat. It’s not like I don’t look at her, but my nerves are getting to me. I’m afraid she can read exactly what I’m thinking. That’s what I want, though, right? Ugh. The timing must not be right.

  “Hello?” Regan snaps her fingers. “Earth to Lane.”

  Crap. Act calm. I glance at her sideways and take another bite of my chicken. Hopefully, she can’t hear my heart pounding in my chest right now.

  “You didn’t finish what you were saying. You got out of your truck and what?”

  “Sorry.” I chuckle. “I was distracted by how delicious this chicken is,” I recover, closing my eyes for a few seconds and placing my hand on my stomach as if I’m savoring the taste.

  Regan shakes her head. “I swear food is all you think about.”

  She knows me well, except the fact that she’s the one who occupies my thoughts most of the time. I chuckle and pick up where I left off. “I was changing the lure on my fishing pole when I looked up and saw”—I motion all around us—“this.”

  She takes in the whole area and furrows her brow. “It’s cool back here, but I don’t think I follow.”

  I shrug and try my best to play it cool. “I thought you’d like it.”

  “Yeah.” She licks her lips and rubs them together.

  Since her brow’s still scrunched, that means she’s not getting it.

  “This place reminds me of our spot at the creek. But with the railroad tracks, it's … different.” I wipe my palms on the top of my thighs and gaze ahead, continuing with the plan to show her we belong together. It would be easier, better, if she comes to the conclusion herself. “It's like a sign.” I take in a gasp of a breath. Ugh, I’m losing my cool. Pull yourself together, man. Where was I? Oh, yeah, “I could picture us hopping on that train, disappearing into the horizon.”

  I take another breath, and it’s so loud I’m sure she knows something’s up. Do I dare look at her while I’m blowing this? I take the chance and turn to see her.

  She feathers the tines of her fork back and forth on her bottom lip.

  It causes my chest to ignite with fire, like a puff of gas exploding with one spark, burning the nerves away. I want to lean over and replace that fork with my lips. “It's kind of like what you want for our future.” I study her. Did she catch my insinuation?

  Regan tilts her head and reciprocates the enquiry.

  Our eyes are locked in place, and neither of us look away. The silence is turning up the dial on the magnetic pull she has on me, but I can’t blow this by doing something she’s not ready for. I should’ve been doing stuff like this the entire summer.

  She blinks, and I know the moment is over.

  “That was poetic,” she stammers, and then dives into the potato salad, avoiding eye contact. “Mmm, this is good. Did your mom make this?” she asks with her mouth full.

  The tension holding us in place turns awkward. “Yeah,” I answer and drop my gaze to the container on the tailgate, scooping a fork full.

  We eat in silence or a few minutes. The cicadas mock me, creating the sound of a clock ticking the countdown of the ever-present deadline of summer’s end.

  “How often do you come here? I've never heard you talk about this spot before.” Her words come out in a rush before she shovels in more food.

  I shrug and answer, “It just depends.” Her uneasiness plasters a smirk on my face. “I don’t think anyone else knows about it, except my dad.” I wink. I don’t know why, other than maybe I’m pushing her to see what she’s probably avoiding.

  Regan’s eyes widen ever so slightly as our eyes lock. All of a sudden, our connection turns to sparks of electricity popping in the air between us. A tinge of pink shades her cheeks and she breaks the link, tucking her chin to her chest and stirs the food in her container with her fork.

  She had to have felt that. That’s why she blushed and turned away. Please, let me finally be making some progress with her.

  My phone alarm goes off, and I groan. Pulling it out of my pocket to shut it off, I mumble, “Of course I’m out of time. We were so close.” I sigh. “I'm sorry. I need to get back to work. Do you want to take the food with you? Finish your lunch?”

  “Nah, I'm full.” She reaches in the cooler, grabbing a water bottle, and holds it up. “I'll take a water, though. Thanks for lunch.”

  “Sure.” My voice came out mopey. I blew another chance of showing her we’re more than friends.

  I slide the cooler to the front of the bed by the cab while Regan shakes out the quilt and rolls it back up. We finish tying the blanket and both get in the truck at the same time.

  Regan has another thirty minutes before the pool opens back up. I wish I had thirty more minutes with her.

  “What are you going to do until the pool opens?” I ask, driving faster than when we left for lunch.

  She stares out the window as she answers, “I'll find a comfy spot and read.”

  “What’re you reading?”

  “Nothing new. Just a re-read.”

  Can you say evasive? She’s yet to look at me since I asked what she was going to do. Something’s up.

  I scoff. “I can tell by your voice it's not one of your ‘intellectual’ books.”

  She raises her chin and finally turns her pretty blues on me. “You have no idea what I'm reading.”

  I make a right onto the street that leads to the pool. And then it hits me. “I know exactly what book you're ‘re-reading.’ How do you plan on getting up for church tomorrow? You stay up all night every time you read it,” I tease, pulling into the parking lot.

  Regan flips her seatbelt off, leans toward me, making sure I see her exaggerated eye roll.

  I chuckle, stretching my arm across the back of the seat and shoot her my best “I told you so” grin.

  She shakes her head and huffs, “You are so ridiculous,” then bolts out of the truck with her bag in hand, throwing the door shut behind her. After a couple steps, she twirls around, hand on hip, and cocks one eyebrow. Yeah, it’s her I'm-better-than-you pose.

  I roll down the window and say, “You know I'm right. And what's ridiculous is your obsession with Twilight. Which book are you on?”

  She stiffens, her back as rigid as a board, and barks, “The first one.”

  She actually admitted to reading Twilight…again. I just won the game of Clue with one hint. Aha! The baker did it, in the greenhouse, with a toothpick and a piece of gum.

  My eyes widen the same time my chest puffs, grinning as wide as physically possible. “See, I told you I knew what you were reading! I know you better than you think, Regan Stone.”

  Regan’s mouth drops open. For a moment she stares back at me as if I’ve uncovered all her secrets. And I love that I got her a little flustered. It only takes a couple more seconds for her to stalk to the open window, reach her arm through, and muss up my hair. “You should read it. Learn a little something ab
out female perspective.” Leaning closer, she uses a voice meant only for me and says, “Consider becoming a student of the opposite sex and not just an observer.”

  The way she said those words should seriously be punctuated with a kiss. If she only knew how much I study her. My smirk stays firmly in place while I shoot her a comeback. “I'd rather read something good like Gates of Fire. It's way more relatable than vampires and werewolves.”

  I glance at the clock on my stereo. This teasing between us could become something good, but I don’t have time to see it through. “I'm going to be late. I'll see you tomorrow at church. You better be bright-eyed, unless you want me poking and prodding you the whole time.”

  She shouts, “I'll be up and out of bed before your lazy butt, as usual.”

  I roll up the window, grinning the entire time. I back out in a hurry to get back to work before I’m late. Dust flies up in a trail behind me through the parking lot.

  I run my hand through my hair. I wasted the whole summer.

  It shouldn’t take two months to find the right timing to tell your best friend she’s more than a buddy to you. The problem is I’m a big fat chicken. School starts in four weeks, and I can’t wait any longer if I want us to have time as more than friends before then. Why didn’t I just tell her graduation night?

  17

  Regan

  Climbing into bed, I leave my book in my bag, knowing what Lane said is true. If I read tonight, I won't be able to put it down even though I've read it nearly a dozen times. Instead, I drift off to sleep quickly with the events of the book, the day, and the week swirling together. My dreams are a strange, confusing combination of all three.

  I wake up at 6:30 on the dot. I feel a little like a zombie, awake but not alert. The weirdness of my last dream keeps playing in my head as I brush my teeth.

  I close my eyes and suck in a breath, letting it out in a yawn before staring at my eyes in mirror. Ugh, they look terrible—all puffy and crusty.

  Even my hair is a wreck. It was secured in a ponytail bun on top my head when I went to bed last night, but the tossing and turning has mousey brown strands sticking out in every direction.

  My dream still plays on repeat. The short version? Stacey Faniger was a vampire. And of course, she was out to get me. Lane ripped her to pieces then came to my aid while Tobi, Cameron, and Haylee burned her carcass. It all happened at the cliffs near the oil pump jack. If only I didn’t have to deal with Stacey coming after me ever again. She may not want to actually destroy me by drinking my blood dry, but she does a good job with her words.

  Back in my room, I walk eyes-half-closed to the closet, pull my turquoise striped dress out and clumsily finish getting dressed. After I run a brush through my hair, I stumble to the kitchen for breakfast for some biscuits I smell baking.

  “Smells good.” It sounds like I have a frog in my throat or something. My eyes are still half closed.

  Dad whistles low. “You look like you haven't slept a wink.” He sits at the table drinking his coffee with an empty plate in front of him.

  “No. Just didn't sleep good.” I crumble the yummy goodness on my plate, then spoon creamy sausage gravy from the skillet over the top.

  Mom sits a glass of milk in front of me after I plop down at the table.

  “Thanks.” I look up at her with pitiful, tired eyes. She smiles lovingly in return at her zombie who dreams about vampires.

  I peer around the doorway of class, scoping out the room. Lane is seated in one of the club chairs in the far corner of the room staring at his phone. Ms. Braun, my high school counselor slash youth group sponsor, is talking with our youth ministers, Tristan and Shea Shaw, by the coffee bar. Some of the other students are up there too, getting their morning drink and doughnut.

  I walk straight to the club chairs and take a seat next to Lane, attempting to conceal a yawn.

  He keeps his head down but glances up with an “I told you so” look written all over his face. “How late did you stay up reading?”

  I can’t help but smirk because I knew he was going to accuse me of reading all night. “I didn't stay up and read last night. I went to bed as soon as I got home.”

  He raises his brows. “Yeah, it looks like you had a good night's sleep.” Sarcasm drips off every word.

  “I had nightmares about Stacey wanting to drink my blood.”

  He chuckles and scoots to the end of his chair, suggesting, “How about some caffeine to get you through the next couple hours?”

  I don't drink much caffeine, but mornings like this …. Nodding my head, I soften my expression to something more grateful. The heaviness in my body lightens, and my meltdown is thankfully averted.

  Lane walks to the coffee bar and makes a concoction of caffeine and hot chocolate. It doesn't taste great, but it's better than straight coffee. At least I can choke it down this way.

  Halfway through our lesson, I finish the drink and feel the caffeine boost. My eyelids don't threaten to slide closed and though my brain isn't functioning at a high level, I make it through class and the sermon without falling asleep.

  18

  Lane

  Every Sunday, Regan’s and my families eat dinner together. The Stones are hosting today. The food’s usually accompanied by discussion of the sermon, scripture, Sunday school lessons, politics, and family news. When it starts getting too heavy, Regan and I escape for a walk, go fishing—anything that takes us outdoors.

  Today, the humdrum of her dad’s voice going on and on about, um, I don’t even know what he’s saying. All I know is his voice seems to be a sleeping-aide for Regan. She’s fighting to stay upright. Occasionally, I jab her with an elbow or slap her leg under the table to keep her from falling into her mashed potatoes.

  Mr. Stone’s had enough of her head bobbing. “Regan, you're about to fall asleep on your plate.”

  She jerks up but still looks like a zombie, making my sisters giggle. It seems like giggling’s all they do these days.

  Regan glances at their strawberry-blonde heads. She tilts hers and squints as if they won’t come into focus.

  Mr. Stone motions to me with his hand. “Take her outside and get her woke up, Lane.”

  “Yes, sir.” He doesn’t have to ask me twice. I stand and start stacking our dishes.

  Mom stops me. “You two go ahead. We'll clean up today.”

  “Thanks, Mom.”

  Regan scoots her chair back from the table and stands, managing enough energy to squeak out a simple, “Thank you.”

  “Can we go?” My sisters, ask.

  Dad nixes the idea. “You two will help clean off the table and do the dishes.”

  The girls moan at the same time. They hardly ever have to clean up after dinner. The little boy in me wants to stick my tongue out at them and say, “ha ha,” but the grownup me refrains.

  Regan and I pick up our shoes and go out to the patio to slip them on.

  “You want to walk to the creek?” she asks. Her eyes are so droopy I’m not sure she can make the trek before falling asleep.

  I wouldn’t mind carrying her, though. “I brought my fishing gear. I need some worms.” Standing and stretching, I ask, “Are the can and shovel still in the shed?”

  “I'll get them.” She stretches, too, swiping the beach towel from the chair on her way across the yard. “I might take a nap when we get there,” she mumbles through a yawn.

  I follow her, chuckling to myself.

  She asks, “Why’d you drive separate?”

  “Uh…I’ve got to work the next few days and thought we could hang out.” Plus, I’ve decided I’m not leaving here today until we have this talk. Who knows when I’ll get the nerve to actually say it, but it’s going to happen. Before midnight.

  “Oh.” Regan fumbles in the open shed for the empty paint can we use for worms and the shovel for digging them. “Sounds good to me.” She pauses to finish a yawn before stumbling toward the opening of the trees.

  “If you don't stop yawning
, you'll have me wanting to take a nap too.” I yawn and reach over the bed of my truck for the fishing poles and tackle box. “You know it's contagious,” I say, snatching my shades out of the cab, then sliding them on.

  My heart begins to race, and it’s not because I’m jogging to catch up with her. It’s like any other Sunday. No need to get excited. Just two best friends taking a walk to their favorite spot where the boy professes his undying love for the girl.

  19

  Regan

  Lane stops halfway to our destination. “Give me the shovel.”

  I look up at him, my eyes barely able to focus.

  The corner of his mouth tugs up on one side.

  My eyes trail to the shovel in my hand. I move it toward him, and he trades me for the tackle box. Somehow, he holds everything else in one hand and hooks the wire loop of the can over the handle of the shovel. With his arm around my waist, he tugs me close to his body. “Come on.”

  I put my arm around his waist for support. This is better. I snuggle against his side and sigh. He’s my warm security blanket. Mmm, he has a clean, woodsy scent. “You’re so good to me.”

  We meander through the trail to Fox Creek at a sloth’s pace, taking in the sights and sounds of summer coming to an end. Both my brain and body are short-circuiting right now. Is it possible to become an actual zombie? Because I feel like one.

  “Let's pick up the pace. You look like you’re sleep-walking,” he chides, dragging me along.

  After a few more steps, he starts in “My dad was telling me Asian carp have found their way into Lake Michigan. They seem to populate faster than rabbits and are overtaking....”

  I try to focus on what he's saying, I hear him, but my brain drifts off. The cicadas are in full force. It's amazing such a big noise comes from a small insect. At this moment, I like the cadence of their music. How can my brain think of this right now, yet I can't seem to focus on a simple conversation?