Second Hand: A Tucker Springs Novel 2

bar by the front window, the tables along the brick wall, and the couches in back. Stacey hadn’t yet arrived. I bought a cup of coffee for myself and a raspberry mocha cappuccino for her, and took one of the open tables near the front, where we could watch the people passing by. She liked to people-watch.
    She came in, and I waved her over to my table. She’d cut her hair shorter than I’d ever seen it, and dyed it platinum instead of the dirty dishwater blonde it had been since I’d known her. A clunky shell necklace was visible under the collar of her blouse. “Hello,” she said as she sat down with her back to the front window. “How’ve you been?”
    “Good,” I lied. “Happy birthday.” I slid the foam-topped mug across the table. “I got you your usual.”
She looked down at it and wrinkled her nose. “It’s not my usual anymore. Too many calories. I drink chai now.”
“Oh.”
She sniffed and nervously touched the side of her eye, first one, then the other. She was wearing makeup—eyeliner, shadow, and thick mascara. When we’d been together, she’d only worn makeup like that for parties or evenings out. Never during the day.
I fought down the disappointment that welled up in my chest. “Seems like everything about you has changed.”
She tapped her finger on the table.
I took a drink of my lukewarm coffee and tried a new tactic. “How’s your work going?”
She relaxed marginally, leaning back in her chair. “I’m finishing up another sculpture. I’ve been showing my portfolio around, and there’s a consignment gallery in Estes Park that may be interested.”
“That’s great,” I said, although the words were like sand in my throat. We’d come to Tucker Springs specifically because it was artsy, and Stacey had thought she’d be able to sell the scrap metal monstrosities she called art. I knew I should tell her good luck, but any connections she was making in Estes were probably through Larry, the man who had replaced me. I’d moved here to make her happy, and she’d moved on without a backward glance.
“Are you still working for Dr. Reynolds?” she asked.
I nodded, unsure what to say. The box with the necklace was wedged into my front pants pocket. I could feel its bulk against my thigh. “I bought you something.” I kept my eyes down so I didn’t have to see the exasperation in her eyes. I took the box out and slid it across the table to her. “For your birthday.”
“You shouldn’t have done that.”
She was right. After buying the necklace, I’d imagined giving it to her. I’d pictured her being surprised and appreciative, smiling and pleased, but the folly of that belief was now painfully clear. She had a new life. A new hairdo. A new lover. She didn’t want diamonds, fake or real.
She didn’t want me.
Nick was right. I was a fool. A glutton for punishment. I wished desperately I’d never bought the necklace at all. I was about to reach across and take the box back, but I was too slow. She picked it up and opened it.
“Jesus, Paul,” she said in disgust. “What were you thinking?”
“I thought you’d like it.”
“I can’t accept this.” She snapped the box shut and put it on the table between us. “Thank you for the thought, but really, you shouldn’t have bought it.” She pinched the bridge of her nose, shaking her head. “I shouldn’t have come.”
The words I’d planned to say died in my throat. I’d hoped to have a chance to talk about things. Maybe if you came home, we could work things out.
“Don’t call anymore,” she said as she stood up. “And don’t buy me any more gifts.”

    Going home after my date with Stacey was like pouring lemon juice on an open wound.
I stood on the sidewalk in front of the house for a solid fifteen minutes, forcing myself to document every reminder of her I had, starting with the outside of our home. The house itself was her doing, a cute tri-color bungalow that looked like a gingerbread house with a modern twist. Her curtains decorated the windows, custom ones she’d ordered even though we hadn’t bought the place. We’d signed a three-year lease, or rather, I’d signed it, which was why I’d be stuck here for another eighteen months, minimum.
The outdoor decor was Stacey’s too, all of it failed sculptures or projects that’d never panned out. In addition to the faux barbed wire she’d called “anti-edging”—a failed entrepreneurial idea she’d dumped into the flowerbeds—two of her