Fools (Licking Thicket 3)

Ava let out a happy sigh. “My dad makes different ones each year to commemorate his favorite memory of my mom from that year. The year of the Centennial Lickin’, he made his in the shape of a tree house because he still thinks it’s hilarious Mom put Mal out in the tree house when he first came to visit.”

Mal rolled his eyes but then gave my brother gooey love-stupid eyes. “Brooks made me one in the shape of a bucket of milk that first year.”

I glanced at Tucker out of the corner of my eye. Every year I twisted a vine into a different kind of fish and left it for him in his tackle box. We never spoke of it. Ever. Because it wasn’t something you did for your best friend. I just… I knew how much he wanted that. How much he wanted someone to care about him like that, and I never ever wanted him to spend a single day not knowing that someone did.

I cared about him like that, even if I couldn’t be the boyfriend he needed.

It was why I was so desperate to find someone to fill his other needs so we could get back to our old way of being. Him and me, together forever, as best friends.

“The thing to remember, Paul, is that handmade is always best,” my dad instructed, “even if the best you can do is a rough circle. Last few years, the florists in town have tried to get in on the act. For a hundred dollars or more, they’ll make you a big ol’ wreath in any shape you like and deliver it to your sweetheart for you. Pah.” The disgust in his tone made it clear how he felt about that. “The whole point of the Entwinin’ is to tell your person that you want your lives to be wound together. And I’m sure you know, being committed to someone for the long haul has more to do with stepping up and trying your best than with achieving perfection.”

My mother’s eagle eyes bore down on me. “Tucker,” she said lightly, even though her gaze on me was heavy as a Loony Tune anvil. “I’ve heard Leon Morton is good with his hands.”

I damned near choked on my burger.

“I’ll bet he weaves a delightful vine,” she said, still pinning me with those laser beams. Why was she staring at me instead of him?

I swallowed thickly. I didn’t want anyone weaving a fancy vine for Tucker Wright but me. Clearly, I was having issues, but that was fine. I simply needed to take myself out back behind the proverbial woodshed and remind myself I was not, in fact, Tucker’s person.

I mean… I was. Just not… like that. There was going to come a day when someone else twined his vine, and I was going to have to come to terms with it.

“You know,” Tucker replied thoughtfully, “you might be right. I’ll ask him about it at dinner next week.”

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. At least he’d finally agreed to keep the date.

3

Tucker

11-Across: Annoyed; provoked (5 letters)

“Still workin’ on that seltzer water, Doc?” Alana Jackson cracked her gum and hugged her empty drinks tray to her ample chest.

“Yep.” I gave her the weakest smile in existence and chopped the ice in my glass with my straw. “Strong stuff. Gotta take it slow.”

“Right.” She smiled a smile that held more pity than humor. “You want any food, or…” She looked half-expectantly at the door.

I looked at my phone, which said it had been five minutes since the last time she’d asked me that. “I’m gonna look at the menu for five more minutes, but thanks, Alana.”

“M’kay. But, like, if it helps?” She leaned forward and put a hand on my shoulder. “Skeeter’s got more of that Triple Chocolate Heartbreak Cake from Annie’s out back. Same kind you ordered after your date last week. And the week before.”

I nodded. “Thanks. That’s… fortuitous.”

She twisted her mouth up to one side. “Not really. He’s started ordering it special on Fridays, just ’cause…” She glanced at the door again. “You know.”

I grimaced and nodded again as Alana patted me on the shoulder and left.

I did, indeed, know why Skeeter had started ordering that cake on Fridays. And the Thicket being what it was—heck, my luck being what it was—there’d soon be a freakin’ holiday where everyone ate chocolate cake for ten successive Fridays in the spring to commemorate Ol’ Doc Wright’s Terrible String o’ Dates. The Datin’, they’d call it.

Or the Sighin’.

Or the Shamin’.

All would be accurate.

And, given the way this particular Friday was going, the Shamin’ might last an unprecedented eleven Fridays. At least the kids in town would remember me fondly, even if the dentists burned me in effigy.