Page 12 of Our Own Light

Guilt coiled in his stomach like a copperhead, causing him to shift uncomfortably on the couch. Why couldn’t he stop fixating on this city boy who owned too many hats?

Effie stood and said, “I think I’ll try to catch some more sleep. Unless you need me to stay?”

“Naw,” Floyd said. “I’ll be fine. I’ll be here beating myself at cards.”

“Alright. Night, then.”

“Night.”

After that, Effie left for the bedroom and Floyd continued to think about how much fun he’d had with Mister Frozen Strawberry.

***

After spending most of the night wide awake, except for the two hours of shut-eye he had caught on the couch, Floyd woke up feeling both sore and irritable. And, frustratingly enough, as soon as he opened his eyes, he started thinking of Oliver—of his nice laugh and his nice head of pretty blond hair and that nice beige suit he was wearing when they had first met. Nice. Jeez, why was the only word his tired brain could come up with such a plain and boring one? Oliver was far from either plain or boring. Especially with that sense of humor he had. It had been nice to laugh with him. Dang, there was that word again. Nice this. Nice that. What Floyd really needed was a nice night of sleep.

While Floyd rubbed the sleep from his eyes, his stomach tightened from unease. Guilt was not an uncommon feeling for Floyd Bennett, but experiencing it because some random man was invading his thoughts every waking moment? Now that was another story.

On his way to work, Floyd made up his mind that even though he had promised to let Oliver shadow him, it would be best for Mister Frozen Strawberry to learn from someone else. Floyd wanted to be alone. Or, well, as alone as he could be in the mines. He considered staying by the brass board to tell Oliver this his own self, but the thought of talking to him while his insides were still knotted together was only making him feel worse, and so, Floyd took his tab and left to find Billy. He had to hope that Oliver would figure out on his own that Floyd had changed his mind.

All morning, Floyd continued to feel off. Guilt came in waves. If Floyd wasn’t feeling bad for having this fixation with Oliver, he was feeling bad for turning his back on him, with little reprieve in between. Floyd supposed he ought to have seen it coming. Exhaustion had never once failed to make his upset even worse. Hopefully, Oliver had found someone to work with.

By lunchtime, Floyd was plum tired. Carrying his lunch to his usual spot underneath the sugar maple, Floyd expected to spot Oliver nearby eating, too. But Oliver wasn’t there. Floyd took his time munching on his sandwich, thinking he’d see Oliver eventually, but Oliver never came out of the mine.

At the end of Floyd’s shift, he headed over to the company store, hoping to splurge on some Tootsie Rolls or Hershey’s Kisses or, heck, whatever else might sweeten his sour mood, only to see Oliver browsing one of the men’s clothing aisles. As soon as Floyd caught sight of him, a little shudder of excitement rolled through his body, causing his heart to race.

One aisle over from Oliver, Floyd crouched low so that he could pretend to study the items on the bottom shelf—pairs of work boots and bundles of cotton socks. Gosh, what was wrong with him? He had never let someone rile him up like this before.

Floyd took a breath. Oliver was nothing more than a talkative man with an odd sense of humor and a nice head of hair. Nothing special. Just a handsome man from the city.

Determined to overcome this odd pull toward a man who was more or less a stranger, Floyd stood back up to leave. And locked eyes with Oliver.

Suddenly flustered, Floyd whirled around and walked right into a hat rack, knocking the fedoras and flat caps to the floor.

“Dogonit,” he muttered, heat blooming on his cheeks.

While Floyd picked up the hats, every single muscle in his body tensed, bracing for Oliver’s presence. Seconds passed without Oliver pitching a verbal lashing over Floyd’s abandonment, and so, Floyd forced himself to look up. Oliver was no longer there. Confused, Floyd stood to look around the store and spotted Oliver heading outside empty-handed. Floyd realized, then, that Oliver was probably avoiding him, and that realization settled heavily on his chest, momentarily making it hard to breathe.

Floyd hurried to catch him.

“Ain’t you buying something?” Floyd asked.

“No?” Oliver responded, his voice hitching up as though he was confused as to why Floyd was asking. Or, heck, why Floyd was even talking to him, considering the fact that he had broken his promise and left him to find someone else to help him in the mine.

Oliver continued out of the store. Floyd found himself following. He wondered why in the world he was bothering to. Wouldn’t life be easier if he let Oliver walk away?

After two painfully awkward minutes of this, Oliver stopped and turned to face him, his eyebrows lowered and knitted together, lips pressed into a thin line.

He took a breath and asked, “Where were you today?”

Floyd fumbled for a response. “Work.”

Which, he knew, was a right stupid answer.

“Yes, I know that,” Oliver said. “You’re covered in coal dust. But, I mean, what happened?”

Oliver said this a little loudly, which had a few people staring. Oliver, though, wasn’t embarrassed. While Floyd stayed silent, Oliver plowed on, clearly too mad to care.

“Did I upset you or something? I mean, I thought we had a nice meal together yesterday. Two meals! And I thought you said I could be your work shadow. I still have no idea what I’m supposed to do in there. I wandered around the mine like a chicken without its head for over three hours before I went home. At this rate, I’ll bleed through every penny I have by the end of summer.”

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