Second Hand: A Tucker Springs Novel 2

unsold sculptures stood in our front lawn. One was a seven-foot-tall flower, its stem made from a car bumper, its petals from garishly painted hubcaps, and its leaves from rearview mirrors. She’d called it Detroit Daisy. It was possibly her best work, which wasn’t saying much.
The other was harder to describe. It was some kind of cross between a dinosaur and a chicken standing on one leg and wearing a cowboy boot. I’d forgotten its title. It was taller than me, and I thought it was horrific, but of course I’d never told her that. Both sculptures seemed to mock me as I made my way to the front door.
The house was empty, of course. Stacey swore she was allergic to all animals—cats, dogs, and birds, anything I’d named. I’d always thought it was psychosomatic, but I’d never said anything about that either.
The inside of the house was a little better, as Stacey’s taste in furniture was pretty standard, though each piece she’d selected reminded me of her. As I stood there feeling sorry for myself and my failures, I remembered how much I’d let her call the shots in our relationship, and I decided it was time for that to stop, since she wasn’t here anymore.
My first act of defiance was to park my butt in front of the TV and zone out until it was time for bed. It wasn’t much, and I wasn’t sure it was exactly defiance since Stacey probably wouldn’t have told me I couldn’t do it, but it still felt good. Maybe it was defiance because I didn’t let myself spend the night obsessing over what I’d done wrong with her. As rebellions went, it was paltry, but I supposed we all had to start somewhere.
Nick was nice enough not to ask about my date with Stacey the next morning, although I did catch him watching me out of the corner of his eye. I kept my head down and chose not to fill him in on how right he’d been.
It was a shitty day at the office all around, not only because of my epic failure as a boyfriend the night before, but also because we had to put down two different animals that day. Both were old, and loved, one a cat who could no longer eat because of late-stage cancer, the other a dog whose arthritis had grown so bad he could barely stand. In both cases, it was probably for the best, but it still broke my heart. I was glad their owners both went back and held them as it was done. The ones who dropped the animals off and left always made me angry. Stacey had told me many times that I was too soft, and maybe it was true, because I hated to see any life having to end. Both times I ended up in the bathroom, washing the evidence of tears off my cheeks.
I couldn’t quite face my empty house again after work. Instead, I grabbed the necklace and walked downtown to the heart of the Light District. It was a bit cooler than it had been the day before, but still plenty warm. As it did most Friday evenings, the mall buzzed with after-work energy. Later, it would give way to the drunken revelry of college-age kids, but for now, the crowd was slightly older, sharing a few drinks with coworkers before heading home for the weekend. The patio of the martini bar was full. Men in suits, women in skirts, one table of drinkers all wearing medical scrubs, toasting each other, laughing a bit too loud.
Two violinists were playing an impromptu concert in the small amphitheater in the center of the square. Kids splashed in the fountain while their parents lounged in the sun on the stone steps, toes tapping to the rhythm. Not only to the music from the musicians, but to the entire ensemble—the drinkers, the shoppers, the kids shouting and giggling. The strings of lights overhead were beginning to twinkle on, even though it wasn’t yet dark. The bright earthy smell of the linden trees mingled with the scent of coffee and the sweet aroma of ice cream. Two men sat on a bench, kissing—not the lewd public affection so common among teenagers. It was sweeter than that. These men were a bit older, a bit more reserved. I imagined they were crazy in love.
I tried not to be jealous.
I sighed and reached into my pocket to finger the box holding Stacey’s rejected present. No point in delaying the inevitable any longer.

    The pawnshop was northeast of the mall, a block east of Nick’s office. I found the owner sitting in exactly the same spot—feet on the counter, cigarette drooping from his mouth, magazine in his hand. He raised his eyebrows at me.
“Back already?”
    “I’m afraid so.” I pulled out the box and