Second Hand (Tucker Springs) (4 page)

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 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 placed it on the counter. “I need to return this.”

He stubbed out his cigarette and rubbed the back of his head with his other hand.

“I don’t normally take returns. That’s sort of counter to how pawnshops work, you know?”

No, I didn’t know. I felt a blush creeping up my cheeks.

He took his feet off the counter and tossed his magazine aside. “Lucky for you, I have a soft spot for redheads.”

That made me blush even more, and I automatically reached up to touch my own hair. I’d described it on my driver’s license as light brown, but it wasn’t the first time I’d been called a redhead.

He seemed unaware of my discomfort. He reached out and took the box, opening it to check the necklace.

“Girlfriend didn’t like it?”

“It’s probably more accurate to say that she doesn’t like me. Not anymore.”

His eyebrows went up again, and he stared at me, not as if he was unsure of what to say, but as if he had several options and was debating between them. I rubbed my forehead and wished I could take the statement back. Nothing like blurting out uncomfortable truths to total strangers. “Can I get a refund or not?”

“I’m going to do you one better than that, my friend. I’m going to buy you a drink.”

The pawnshop owner had long legs and an even longer stride, and I had to hurry to keep up with him. “What’s your name?” I asked as we turned the corner and headed east.

“Emanuel. But this ain’t Walnut Grove, my friend, so don’t even think about calling me Manny.”

“Huh?”

“My friends call me El. You the kind of guy who’s gonna freak out if I take you into the gay bar?”

“No.” I’d never been in one, but that didn’t mean I was opposed. “I don’t dance, though.”

He laughed. “Good. That makes two of us.”

At the end of the block was Lights Out. It wasn’t the only gay bar in the Light District, but it was certainly the loudest. Rainbow flags flew above the door, and the bass from dance music boomed from the building. At the door, we were greeted by a bouncer who made the Jolly Green Giant look like a sprout. He flexed arms the size of fire hydrants as he smiled at El.

“Look who got out from behind the counter, and not to do laundry.” He pounded Emanuel’s shoulder with a hand as big as my head. “Must have had a rough day.”

“Not me. Him.” Emanuel hooked a thumb in my direction.

Paul Bunyan looked back at me, first in surprise, then with obvious curiosity. He smirked and raised a questioning eyebrow at Emanuel.

“Don’t even start,” El said.

The big man laughed and moved aside to let us in. He didn’t take his eyes off me, though. I was sure I could feel myself shrinking as I squeezed past him into the club.

It seemed like a meat market, which worried me a bit. I hadn’t wanted to seem rude about being taken to a gay bar, but now that I was in one, I felt more than a little exposed. It was one thing for someone to mistake me for gay by accident—which had happened, even when Stacey and I had been out together—but to be at a gay bar seemed to invite speculation I wasn’t interested in courting.

I was trying to think of an excuse to leave, but El led me up a flight of stairs before I could work up to the act. The second floor was quieter and a lot smaller, with only a few patrons visible, each of them with “local” all but stamped on their foreheads as they hunched over their drinks.

El motioned to the bartender, who came over and grinned at El, extending his hand. “Good to see you, El. What brings you out of your dusty old shop today?”

El shook his hand and gestured between us. “Paul, this is Jase, who owns this firetrap. Jase, this is Paul, who’s had a very bad day.”

“Pleased to meet you, Paul. What are you drinking?”

“Uh . . .” I hardly ever drank, and I had no idea what to ask for.

El waved his hand at me dismissively. “Two 90 Shillings for me, and whatever guys like him drink.”

The bartender looked me up and down with an appraising eye that made me blush. “He looks like the rum and Coke type to me.”

El looked me up and down too. Unlike me, he seemed completely unembarrassed. “Better make it a tall.”

The bartender laughed, and the next thing I knew, I had a pint-sized glass in my hand.

“Patio open tonight?”

“For you, it’s always open.”

Emanuel handed him a ten-dollar tip. “Thanks, Jase.”

I followed him past the bar, down a narrow hallway, past the bathrooms, through a door marked
Employees Only
, then up a dark, steep flight of stairs and through a doorway.

We emerged onto the roof of the bar. The beat of the music was still discernible, more as a vibration against the soles of my feet than a sound in my ears. The Light District spread out below us, and the bright white lights of downtown seemed perfect under the orange glow of the sunset.

There were two small round tables, each with a couple of metal patio chairs.

“The smoking ordinances in this town are almost enough to make me quit.” El pulled a pack out of his shirt pocket and grinned at me as he sat down. “
Almost
.”

I sat down opposite him and watched as he lit a cigarette and slipped his lighter back into his pocket.

“So,” he said as he propped one booted foot up on the table, “tell me about your girl.”

I felt myself blush. Why was he asking about that? I’d only just learned his name. It seemed a bit soon to be talking about Stacey, but he was staring right at me, his expression guarded though not unfriendly. He seemed interested, and yet not in a nosey kind of way. I suspected he was older than me by a few years, though most of that came from the impression he gave of having seen everything at least once, like nothing in the world could surprise him.

“Stacey and I met in college,” I said at last. “At CSU. We were only nineteen.” She was the only woman I’d ever been with. In fact, other than a few nervous, fumbling, high school encounters with one of the neighbor boys, she was the only sexual partner I’d ever had at all, but I didn’t feel compelled to share
that
with Emanuel.

“She’s an artist. A welder. She makes these big metal sculptures, and she wanted to move here—”

“Of course she did. What artist doesn’t want to move to Hacktown?”

I blinked at the derogatory nickname for the Light District, having only heard it a few times, usually from locals making fun of it. That El would be one of them surprised me, but then I realize he was disliking Stacey more than anything. I couldn’t decide if that made me feel defensive for her or pleased that he was dissing my ex.

He waved his hand to send his cigarette smoke floating the other way instead of into my face. “So what happened?”

“We broke up. Two months ago.”

“I take it that wasn’t your idea.”

“No. She left me for somebody else. He’s an art professor at Tucker U.”

I stopped and took a giant drink. El continued to watch me. The fading orange light from the west glowed against one side of his face and left the other side in shadow.