Best Friends
By J.M. Snyder
A breeze picks up as I climb into the back of
Riley’s pickup truck and for a moment I think I’m underdressed—a
T-shirt and cut-offs seemed sensible when I left the house earlier,
but the wind has a bite to it that feels like rain’s on the way.
But the hot bedliner feels nice under my bare feet, and the heat
seeps through the denim seat of my shorts when I sit down, already
reaching for the cooler that holds a six-pack of beer Riley’s dad
bought for us. This evening’s a celebration, of sorts—tomorrow my
best friend leaves for basic training, but I won’t let myself dwell
on that.
Raising my voice over the rustle of tall
grass, I call out to Riley, “Charlene’s gonna be pissed you’re
spending your last night with me.” I pop open one can, take a quick
