Page 48 of Our Own Light

By eleven o’clock the next workday, Floyd was exhausted. Practically every time he looked at Ollie, he felt like his heart was cracking in two, and once that happened, he had to concentrate on repairing it, even while trying to wield the pickaxe or shovel mounds of coal. Floyd tried reminding himself that he had spent all them years walling himself off for a reason. He ought not to have been trying to be with Ollie in the first place. Because of Matt. Floyd still loved Matt. Ever since Ollie had put a stop to the romance, the copperhead in Floyd’s stomach hadn’t been fussing. Guilt wouldn’t be a problem no more, and Floyd could carry on in life like he always had.

But then, every time Floyd was finished reminding himself of these things, Ollie would smile sweetly or say something funny or even act a little flirtatious, and Floyd couldn’t figure out how he was supposed to feel. All this back and forth was confusing. Worse, it was making him mad.

When lunchtime came around, Floyd’s muscles were tense, hot irritation simmering beneath his skin. While he and Ollie were eating together under the maple tree, he had to focus on not snapping like a twig.

“So, Floyd,” Ollie said through a mouthful of food, which was a habit that had been strangely endearing before but was on its way to becoming annoying. “How about the two of us visit Charleston sometime? Could be fun.”

“Maybe.”

It was all Floyd could muster.

“I know you said you’ve never been there as a family, but have you ever taken Effie?”

“Mm-hmm. Long time ago.”

“Aw, that’s sweet. What’d you two do in the city?”

“Saw a picture.”

“Oh yeah, I love the pictures. I went all the time when I was living in New York. By myself, typically, but I still had fun. One time, I tried to take Colonel Whiskers with me, though. I thought that might have been nice. I even bought a cage for him. Well, it was a birdcage, so it hadn’t been a perfect fit. I figured it would hold him well enough, though. Do they make cages for cats, you think? I haven’t ever seen one. Anyway, when I tried to buy a ticket—”

“Hey, uhm, Ollie, would you mind closing that mouth of yours?” Floyd asked, even though saying that made him feel sick. He really did want to hear the end of that story. He liked Ollie’s stories. He liked near everything Ollie had to say. But he was still feeling upset about Ollie’s rejection, especially since Ollie was being so lovable, telling such a funny story that was making Floyd like him even more. “I ain’t feeling too good right now.”

“Yeah, of course. I’m sorry.”

“Not your fault.”

Ollie managed to keep quiet for the rest of lunch. Floyd’s chest hurt a bit—sadness tugging at his heart—because he knew Ollie was probably itching to talk to him. And Floyd was itching to listen.

By the time they started for the elevator, Floyd couldn’t stand how much he was missing Ollie’s voice, and so, Floyd let him know that he could talk again. For the rest of the afternoon, listening to Ollie was kind of bittersweet, like sucking on a lemon while eating a spoonful of sugar. Ollie was still sending Floyd mixed up messages. Trying to figure out whether Ollie still liked him or not was like trying to make sense of the foreign languages Floyd heard some miners speaking from time to time.

One time, when they were shoveling coal, Ollie turned to Floyd and said, “Jeez, lunkhead, you’re so strong,” in this playful sort of way that made Floyd think about how fun it would be to lift Ollie up and carry him off somewhere. But then he thought that maybe Ollie had only said it because they were shoveling, and Floyd was lifting a whole lot more than he was. Like maybe Ollie had only been making an observation. But no one else Floyd knew ever made comments like that. No one else ever said those kinds of things in fun, playful voices. So, then Floyd was left wondering whether or not Ollie was thinking about his strength in a romantic kind of way, too.

When the workday was finally over, Floyd felt a huge rush of relief. As soon as the two of them entered the elevator, it seemed like the tension Floyd had been feeling left his entire body in one, fast whooosh. Once Ollie and him reached the surface, the company weigh boss—a curt but even-tempered man named Stuart—weighed their car and stamped each of their pay envelopes with the tonnage. Since it was only Monday, neither of them could collect their pay until the end of the week, and so they each put the envelopes back in their pockets. After uttering a fast “see you, Ollie,” Floyd started toward home. He needed a nap.

“Do you want to come by later?” Ollie asked, catching up with him moments later. “I need to wash my clothes. I thought maybe you’d have fun watching me struggle with the washboard.”

“I reckon I’ll eat with my family.”

“Well, yeah, of course, but maybe you could stop by later?”

Struggling to resist the offer, Floyd bit his tongue. Dang, he really wanted to spend time with Ollie.

“I’m sorry if you noticed my smelly clothes, by the way,” Ollie said. “I should have washed some last night. I’m over here being smelly and you, well, you always smell nice.”

Enough was enough.

Letting out a breath, Floyd stopped walking.

Lowering his voice to a whisper, he said, “Ollie, I can’t do this no more. Do you like me or not?”

Ollie started rubbing his forehead, like Floyd’s question was making his brain hurt. “Can you come over so that we can talk in private?”

“Yeah, that’s fine.”

They walked the entire way in silence. Floyd thought this probably meant that Ollie was fixing to smash his heart again, only he was busy working out how to do it.

Once they were inside, Ollie made his way over to the couch—a ratty old one with faded black upholstery, probably been left behind by the previous tenant—and sat down. Floyd wasn’t sure whether or not he was supposed to sit, too. Yesterday, he wouldn’t have hesitated. But so much had changed since then.

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