Second Hand: A Tucker Springs Novel 2

blow gently so they’d flap their tongues toward my face.
“There’s no better smell in the world than puppy breath,” I said to Nick.
He laughed. “True enough. It’ll cure what ails you.”
I spent so much time helping Nick that half of my regular work didn’t get done. “Do you want me to stay late?”
“Your call. Stay, if you’d rather do it today, but there’s nothing there that won’t keep overnight.”
Yes, it would be a bit more work the next day, but it had been worth it. Working in the exam room with him had cheered me up. I was in a good mood until I pulled up in front of my house. Bill was nowhere to be seen, but across the front of his house, where the day before there had been only grass, stretched a long line of rose bushes. Leafy and beautiful and so fragrant I could smell them when I got out of my car.
“Son of a bitch,” I mumbled. “He would have to buy flowers, too.”
The next day at work, I was pleased when Brooke called in sick for the second day in a row. I knew it was a bit sadistic of me to be happy about her having the flu, but I was thrilled to have a second day helping with the animals. I rushed to get my other work done in between the times Nick needed me. It was draining, but worth it. I was more than a little disappointed when Brooke showed up for work on Wednesday and I had to go back to answering the phone and shuffling papers.
Bill’s lawn was looking better than ever, which annoyed me to no end. I eyed the rest of the houses on my street. I wasn’t sure if they looked any different than they had last week or not, and of course there were two more blocks of houses in our neighborhood I couldn’t see from my own yard.
On Thursday, I logged into the Curb Appeal site. Houses in the neighborhood were rated one through ten, ten being the ideal, and one meaning burnt couches and rusty cars on cinderblocks in the front yard. Nobody had tens yet, presumably to give everybody incentive. In fact, the highest rating in the entire neighborhood was an eight, somewhere on the next block over. There were a few sevens. Bill was one of them.
I rated a six.
There was still plenty of time for me to win. But where would I get the money?

    I spent the last half of the week worrying over my bills. Between credit cards, student loans, rent, and utilities, my finances were a disaster. I could pay everything, but with very little to spare for non-essentials. My mind kept returning to the Curb Appeal contest. Five hundred dollars would come in handy, but in order to beat Bill, I’d need to invest what little cash I had left in more flowers. Was it worth it? I wasn’t sure.
    One night I wandered into my pantry, looking for dinner. The light switch was fussy, and it took me several tries to get the lights to stay on. Fiddling with it reminded me of how Stacey hadn’t ever been able to get it wiggled into the mysterious halfway point where the connection would take, of how I always had to do it for her. It was probably one of the few real assets I’d brought to our relationship.
    Larry’s house had great wiring and no trick light switches. I was sure of it.
Dodgy wiring aside, the real issue on my mind that night was food. I wouldn’t be able to go grocery shopping until after payday, so I had to make do with whatever I had. Sadly, what I had wasn’t much. A box of Rice Krispies and one of Cheerios. Some stale hotdog buns. Half a box of Girl Scout cookies. A package of Ramen and three cans of tomato soup. The rest of the pantry was taken up by small appliances. A George Foreman Grill, a waffle maker, a cappuccino machine, a bread maker, a food processor with a billion attachments, a wok, and a turkey fryer. A rice cooker and two different crockpots. A panini press, a funky little hand-blender that confounded me, and a fondue pot we’d used exactly once. They were all things Stacey had insisted we needed at one time or another in our six and a half years together. I’d bought them for her because I’d wanted to give her the life I thought she wanted. I’d wanted to prove I could be what she needed.
Somehow, they’d all been status symbols, and yet, how could any of it matter if nobody knew about them anyway? What good did they do us?
How often had she used any of them?
I thought about the things Emanuel had said about possessions. Stuff. Now it was nothing more than wasted money on a shelf.
But I had a plan.

chapter 8
    O

    n Saturday, El’s family reminded him why his fondest