Page 24 of Our Own Light
“But—”
“I won’t put Effie or Jo through something like that.”
“Don’t you want a better life for your family?”
Floyd’s eye twitched, nostrils flaring. “I like our life!”
Jesus Christ, why was Floyd becoming so irate? Oliver was only trying to have a conversation with him!
“Doesn’t your family deserve—”
Floyd took a step forward, closing the distance between them.
“Don’t you talk about my family, Ollie,” Floyd hissed through clenched teeth. “You know nothing about where I come from or how hard I worked to make a life for us here.”
Irritation zipped through Oliver’s veins faster than lightning.
“Of course not! You won’t talk to me! You won’t even tell me about your childhood!”
Floyd curled his lip. “I talk plenty.”
“Bullshit!” Oliver yelled before remembering not to be so loud. “You refuse to tell me anything real about your life.”
“What’s wrong with you? I’ve known you for less than a month.”
Floyd’s words hit Oliver like a bucket of cold water, cooling every ounce of his fury instantly. With the flames of upset snuffed out, Oliver could see his request for what it was: selfish and childish, a misplaced expectation of a fool who had never had a friend before.
Without waiting for Oliver’s response, Floyd turned to leave. And Oliver stayed fixed to the spot, wondering how the hell he could ever come up with a sufficient enough apology.
***
That evening, Oliver was standing in front of Floyd’s house, nervously shifting his weight from one foot to the other as the soft late-spring breeze whipped through his hair and rustled the fabric of his worst-looking suit—a rust-colored, ill-fitting atrocity. Earlier, while Oliver had been stewing in his remorse back home, he had started to feel that all-too-familiar itch—the itch to cut his losses, either by simply ignoring Floyd and finding a new butty or by reaching out to Frederick to inquire about employment with the steel mill instead.
But Oliver had never felt such a strong connection before. He had been having so much fun with Floyd. And Floyd was so, so sweet. Oliver couldn’t explain it, exactly, but Floyd had a sickly sweetness about him sometimes. It seemed as though he truly cared about Oliver, even though they’d only met earlier that month. Ever since Floyd had made Oliver his butty, he had been such a patient teacher, always looking at Oliver with kind eyes and speaking to him like he wasn’t ever frustrated, even when Oliver had made a mistake. No one else had ever really treated Oliver like that. Not family members. Or teachers. Which, Oliver realized, was probably why Floyd’s random bouts of secrecy had bothered him so much. In some ways, it felt like the two had known each other for much, much longer.
Floyd seemed to like Oliver’s playfulness as well. He had never once scolded him for his strange humor. He listened to Oliver babble, which was really sweet of him, especially since most people either stopped listening or made excuses to leave the conversation whenever Oliver veered off into one of his tangents. But not Floyd. Not since they had started to become friends. All of these things together—they made Oliver realize that he had to try to fix things.
So, Oliver smoothed out the fabric of his terrible suit (mostly out of habit, because, God, there was no way to make it look less hideous) and started up the porch stairs. With a slightly trembling hand, Oliver rapped his knuckles on the wood.
Floyd answered with a scowl, and Oliver smiled sheepishly.
“Uh, hi,” Oliver said. “Can we talk?”
“I never talk.”
“Right.” Oliver blew out a breath. “I’m sorry I said that. I’m sorry for, well, everything.”
Floyd simply crossed his arms over his chest. He looked like he was waiting for Oliver to elaborate, which made Oliver’s stomach creep up into his throat from nervousness.
“Do you mind if we talk inside? Or outside?” Oliver asked. “Anywhere else, really. Just not, you know, with you standing in the doorway like that. You’re making me worried that we’ll let your cat out or something.”
“Cat?”
“Yeah, uhm, I had a cat in New York—a sweet little fellow I found by a dumpster when he was only a teeny tiny kitten. I brought him home with me, and then, once he was big, it became clear to me that I shouldn’t keep letting the poor fellow outside. It wasn’t that I was worried about him running away or anything, but I realized that he was the type of cat who would run into the street and try to fight other cats and even try to fight squirrels sometimes. After that, we had to be careful not to keep letting him out, and so, now I end up feeling nervous whenever people leave their doors open for too long.” Oliver took a pause. He couldn’t stand how Floyd was just staring at him, not making a single comment of his own. Instinctively, Oliver continued to ramble. “I kind of miss Colonel Whiskers—that was what I’d named him. Which I know is a strange name for a cat. It’s not like he was in the military. Obviously. I mean, he was a cat, for Christ’s sake. Or is a cat. He’s probably still alive. Jesus, I sound like a fucking lunatic.”
Just like that, Floyd was laughing that perfect, melodious laugh of his. With a flick of his wrist, he pointed toward the other end of the porch, and so Oliver took a few steps back, the floorboards creaking beneath his feet. Floyd followed and shut the door. Then they stood around awkwardly for what felt like a year but was probably more like four minutes.
Floyd cocked an eyebrow. “Colonel Whiskers, huh?”