Fools (Licking Thicket 3)

“Aw. Thank you, Tucker.” Dad ruffled his hair, like Tuck was five instead of thirty-five. “That’s why you’re my favorite son. Along with Malachi, who made the town sign. My other two sons, meanwhile…” He winked.

I felt my teeth grind as Brooks let out a snort of laughter.

“Need help with the grill?” I tried again.

Dad shook his head. “Paul’s out there already. Said Ava likes her meat just so.”

“I’ll bet she does,” I muttered, turning back around to face the music in the kitchen. Tucker was smiling big like we weren’t in the middle of the biggest fight since the 2017 mustard or mayo fiasco, which had not been my fault, damn it. We’d barely known each other then. How was I to know the man had such a deep aversion to mayo?

He had a good smile. The kind that made my heart feel a little janky. It reminded me of the time he’d been awarded a big grant for the charity he ran and you’d have thought he’d won front-row tickets to see Old Dominion. The man knew how to freaking smile.

Brooks shouldered past me back into the kitchen. “Mom, Dunn had something he wanted to ask you about.”

I lifted my boot and nailed him in the keister. “Do not.”

Tuck blinked at me, and his smile lost some of its light. “Hey.”

I shoved my hands in my jean pockets. “Hey.”

“Jesus,” Brooks muttered under his breath.

Mama gave Brooks a secretive look and spoke almost too softly for me to hear. “I thought you were going to talk to him?”

I forced myself to meet Tuck’s eyes. “Thanks for, uh… fixing the shutter.”

Brooks spoke to Mama out of the corner of his mouth. “Nah, this is too fun.”

Gracie snickered again under her breath. She was getting good at that.

Tucker swallowed. “Yeah. It’s no problem. I was out this way to take your dad’s blood pressure anyway.”

Mal finished pouring potato chips in Mama’s big plastic bowl and leaned in to put a chip in Brooks’s mouth. “This isn’t fun. It’s downright painful.”

“Will you three shut the hell up?” I snapped, waving my arms through the air. “We’re going through something, okay? Tucker’s mad at me for no good reason. He’s throwing a dag-blammed hissy fit.”

My mama didn’t take kindly to folks taking the Lord’s name in vain in her house. Sometimes you had to get creative.

“No good reason?” Tuck asked through gritted teeth. “That right? You call setting me up on a date with Methuselah no good reason?” His voice got louder as he built up a head of steam.

“Oh Lord. Here we go,” Ava said, appearing out of nowhere. “Who has the popcorn?”

I ignored her. “He’s no Methuse-whatever. Hubbard Weaver is a good man. He’s… well, he’s a Licking Thicket icon!”

My dad wandered into the kitchen and took a handful of chips out of the bowl. “Hubbard Weaver? I thought he died in the tornadoes we had back in… when was it? Late nineties?”

I squeezed my eyes closed and pinched the bridge of my nose.

Tucker let out a soft snort of laughter, so I kinda opened one eye just a little to see it. I never liked to miss seeing Tucker Wright happy. He had a really good laugh that was not to be missed for love or money.

A warm hand landed on my arm. Tucker was trying to meet my eyes again. “Dunn. He had to take out his teeth to eat soup. Soup. Also, he got us the senior citizens’ discount, and it wasn’t even an early bird thing. Roxie Winslow said if Hubbard was out this late, he deserved the discount regardless.”

I felt a laugh bubble up, but I refused to let it out. “He’s a stand-up guy,” I insisted.

Tucker nodded sagely. “You’re right. In fact, I believe he helped save many women and children on the Titanic.”

I opened my eyes fully and shoved his smug ass. “Shut up. Fine. You win. I’ll do better next time. Okay? I promise.”

Tucker’s laugh died. “No. We’re done with the setups. You have to stop this, D. Promise me.”

Mal shrugged. “I hope you at least took advantage of those smooth gums before the night was over.”

My mother’s eyebrows furrowed, my father’s face paled, and Ava damned near hyperventilated.

I didn’t get it.

“You already have dinner planned with Leon,” I reminded him.

“Leon Morton?” Dad asked, getting some color back. “Now, that’s interesting.”

I held out my hand to display my father’s grand wisdom. “See?”

Dad continued. “I thought he was in jail. Wasn’t he the one who stole the franking machine from the post office?”

“That was his mother,” I explained testily. “And she had about a gazillion postcards that needed postage on them for when she announced the date change for the Miss Junior Licking contest. You can hardly blame her.”

Tucker walked over to the fridge and helped himself to Mama’s extra-large bottle of Yellow Tail chardonnay and a giant coffee mug from the cabinet.