Hop Hop, Carrot Top

By Holly Day

Flynn Thomas is back in Hartley. His plan is to be out of there before anyone notices he’s back. He left twenty years ago and promised himself he’d never have to face his childhood bullies or set foot in his bigoted hometown ever again. But it’s been six months since his mother passed away, and someone has to clear out the house.

Caspian Cook is out on a walk with his three dogs when he sees Flynn Thomas, at least he thinks it’s Flynn Thomas. He never forgot the red-haired boy his brother used to harass, and he never forgot how he used to wonder if there were freckles underneath his clothes as well as on his face.

Flynn mistakes Caspian for his childhood tormenter and flees. Caspian can guess why he’s in such a hurry to get away, but he hasn’t seen Flynn in twenty years, and if he allows him to run off, he fears he’ll never see him again. Will spending time with Flynn be enough for him to forget who Caspian’s brother is?

Flynn needs help. He underestimated how much work it would be to move his mother’s things. Caspian offers to give him a hand, but can he trust someone who looks like his worst nightmare?

• Language: English
• Publisher: JMS Books LLC
• Release date: Jan 9, 2021
• ISBN: 9781646566563

Holly Day

Holly Day and Sherman Wick are the authors of several books about the Twin Cities. Sherman Wick received his BA in history from the University of Minnesota and has been a member of the Minnesota Historical Society for several decades. Holly Day has worked as a freelance writer for local and national publications for over twenty-five years and teaches writing classes at the Loft Literary Center.

Book preview

Epilogue

Chapter 1

Flynn Thomas looked around the grimy living room and sighed. He’d put this off for too long. Mom had passed away back in July, and now it was January. The house plants had died a long time ago, the spiders had taken over the ceiling, and the layer of dust had grown thicker with each week.

When he’d arrived the day before, he tried to hide his car in the garage, only to realize his mom’s car still occupied the spot. His sister, Tanya, lived in Australia with her family. She’d made the trip for the funeral, but made it clear he would have to sort out the house on his own.

He’d packed things from his old bedroom. They were his anyway. Or had been. His mom had kept shelf after shelf of his rejected toys, school projects, and old drawings. Now, only the bed remained.

He’d hired a cleaning company to arrive in six days. Clearly, he’d miscalculated his own ability. How would he get the beds, the bookshelves, and the sofa out of here on his own? Saw them up into manageable pieces? It was an option. He’d never handled a chainsaw in his entire life, but it was never too late to start, right?

He huffed. He’d end up missing an arm.

Maybe there was a thrift shop or something in the vicinity that collected stuff. It would be a safe option, though not as safe as he’d wanted. He wanted in and out of here without anyone seeing him.

Grabbing yet another box, he plucked a dusty china figurine from the bookshelf. As a kid, he’d loved the figurines, the women dancing in their beautiful dresses, the little white dog with brown ears. He used to dance in the exact spot he was standing now, pretending he too wore a long, billowy dress in a beautiful color. The woman in the purple dress holding one hand to the top of her hat and a cane in the other was his favorite. He’d mimic her pose and strut around the living room, his mom applauding his performance. But that was before he’d realized there was no room for swishy, femmy redheads in this world.

There had been space in this living room, though.

His eyes burned. His hair wouldn’t have matched well with a purple dress, anyway.

He’d gotten out of this hell hole as soon as he could, and he’d never looked back. But in this living room, in this house, he’d been free to be whoever he needed to be. He was still a swishy guy, but he tried to keep it under wraps; disguised himself in boring gray suits.

If he got too excited, his hands got a life of their own. People took one look at him and assumed he was queer—which he was, so they weren’t wrong—but he’d stopped pretending they would be okay with him wearing purple dresses. It wasn’t as if he yearned to wear a dress, it was the beauty he found alluring. He’d fantasize about how the fabric would react to his motions, how the light would catch it, and how, when he moved, it would create a wave down the long skirt.

But he’d stopped dancing a long time ago too.

He’d adjusted to the world and what it meant to be an adult. Dresses were beautiful, but they weren’t for him. He didn’t want one, and he’d learned not to openly admire their beauty.

It had broken his mother’s heart to see him adapting to society, but they all had to do their best to fit in. For their own safety, if nothing else.

Boys shouldn’t want to dance in purple dresses, especially not if they had orange hair.

He put on a suit every day and went to work. He answered the phone, talked people through how to install stuff on their computers, and helped them with troubleshooting. They didn’t know they were talking to a faggot. He could have worn a purple dress for all they knew, but he didn’t. He wore a gray suit, or maybe a dark blue one if he was daring.

Sighing, he wiped the dust off the figurines and put them in the box. His skin was too tight, his muscles tense. He blew out a breath, packed the box full, and placed it next to the others along the living room wall.

With determined steps, he walked to his almost empty room, pulled off his clothes and put on running pants, shoes, and a sweater. It was cold outside, but not too cold. He walked out the door, locked it, and hid the key under the pot with the dead petunias.

Dusk had conquered the day, and he cursed not having gone out to run earlier. Now, he’d have to stick to the lit track, which meant he’d have to run past the footbridge by the hydroelectric plant.

Cold sweat coated his skin, and he swallowed hard. It had been twenty years. He could pass the bridge. It was only about a hundred and fifty feet long, and yet it had taken up most of his focus as a child. All day in school, he had dreaded having to cross the bridge. Hop hop, carrot top.

He shuddered, turned up the volume of the music on his phone, and ran. He’d run the long way around.

* * * *

Caspian Cook looked out through the kitchen window of his rickety house and sighed. It was already getting dark.

Who wants to go for a walk? He didn’t, but Moose, his five-year-old Rottweiler mix, flew to his feet, followed by Taco, his two-year-old American Staffy. They looked like mean dogs, especially Taco who had some scars on his face, but they were both cuddly