Second Hand: A Tucker Springs Novel 2

tone was light.
“Don’t take it personally,” I said. “I’m broke.”
He laughed. “You and everybody else who walks through that door.”
Twenty minutes later, I was home with my electric weed whacker. My neighbor Bill, a man only a few years older than me but missing most of his hair, stood watering his front yard by hand. I tried to look like I actually knew what I was doing with the tool and prayed I wouldn’t make a total fool of myself by chopping my own foot off.
The outlet in the garage didn’t work, but after hunting around in the bushes, I found one near the front porch that did, and after only a few minutes, I’d successfully spinchopped the tall grass around Stacey’s sculptures and all along the base of the house. Unfortunately, when I stood back and examined my work, my heart sank. The grasses and weeds had been overgrown, but with them gone, the cement foundation of the house was left exposed. The barren flowerbeds looked even more pitiful than before.
“You should plant some flowers.”
I turned around to find a cartoon character come to life. A young woman who could have been Velma from the old Scooby-Doo shows was standing behind me, using her hand to block the sun from her spectacled eyes.
“Excuse me?” I asked.
“Irises would be perfect, but it’s not the right time of year. Maybe something tall like lilies or columbines. Sunflowers are nice, too.”
Flowers would help hide the gray foundation of the house, and the flier had said the judges would be on the lookout for yards that were well-kept, colorful, and inviting. Of course, flowers would also cost money. How much could I justify spending in an effort to win $500?
I glanced over at my neighbor, who stood watching me, his hose hanging forgotten in his hand. He was clearly hoping to win the money, too.
“That’s a good idea,” I said to Velma. “Thanks for the advice.”
She smiled at me. “You bet.”
Too bad the pawnshop didn’t sell flowers.

chapter 6

“S
    o,” Denver said as he shoved his laundry into the washing machine next to El, “what’s up with Strawberry
    Shortcake?”
El laughed, less at Denver’s description of Paul than at the
fact that El knew exactly who his friend meant. “Nothing.” “Not like you to date, is it? Always thought you were more
about quick and easy.”
“It wasn’t a date.”
“It looked like one.”
Choosing not to answer, El finished loading the washer
and put his money in.
“Not sure what I thought your type was,” Denver said,
“but that skinny kid sure wasn’t it.”
His words annoyed El, but the fact that he was annoyed at
all annoyed him even more. “Lay off, man.”
Denver leaned against his machine. “Don’t get touchy.
Kinda got a thing for that type myself. Just not what I imagined
you being into, that’s all.”
“That’s because I’m not,” El said, but there wasn’t much
conviction behind it.
El couldn’t really say that he’d ever had a “type” the way
Denver meant it. For him, real attraction had never been about
age or size or the color of their hair. It was more complicated
than that. It had to do with gentleness and vulnerability, and
the truth was, Paul had both those things in spades. He was
the only thing El had thought about for days. Something
about his confused eyes and his freckled nose made El smile. The thought of his pale lips and the soft skin of his throat
made El’s heart pound and his blood race for his groin. “You’re smiling,” Denver said, interrupting El’s thoughts.
“Cut it out. You’re giving me the creeps.”
“It’s not that unusual, is it?” El asked as they headed for
the booth to wait out the wash cycle.
“It’s not that you’re smiling. It’s the way you’re doing it.” That brought El up short. “What the fuck’s that mean?” Denver sat down and regarded him across the mustardyellow Formica of the table. “Nothing wrong with admitting
you like him, you know.”
“I have an idea.” El turned to stretch his legs out along the
length of the plastic bench. “Let’s talk about your love life.” Instead of answering, Denver flipped him the bird. Which
was exactly what El had expected. Denver Rogers was not the
kind of guy who sat around laundromats chatting about his
personal life.
“Fine,” Denver conceded. “Forget Strawberry Shortcake.
Tell me the latest about your sister.”
“She’s in love. He’s wonderful. He’s the best thing that ever
happened to her. For now.” El’s fingers