Chapter 8: Workplace Gossip
The smell of books was different in the morning. It was sharper, the notes of aged paper and binding glue less muted by the day’s human traffic. Kenny ran a dust cloth over the oak counter, the wood smooth and cool under his palms. His body thrummed with a quiet, persistent echo. A pleasant soreness, a memory of weight and warmth. Every movement reminded him.
He’d walked to work. Buck had offered to drive him, but Kenny had wanted the twenty minutes of cool autumn air, needed to settle the riot in his blood into something resembling normalcy. Buck had kissed him goodbye at the door—a soft, lingering press that felt like a seal—and promised to call after his shift.
“You’re humming.”
Kenny jumped, the dust cloth slipping from his fingers. Maggie stood in the doorway to the back room, holding two steaming mugs of tea. Her silver-streaked hair was already escaping its bun, and her reading glasses were perched on top of her head. Her expression was one of pure, undiluted delight.
“I wasn’t humming,” Kenny said, bending to retrieve the cloth. His cheeks felt warm.
“You were. It was that dreadful pop song they play on the bakery radio.” She set a mug down in front of him. The tag read ‘Earl Grey.’ She always knew. “A man only hums a song he hates when his mind is decisively elsewhere.” She leaned her elbows on the counter, cradling her own mug. “So. Evan Buckley’s truck was idling outside your apartment for a solid ten minutes this morning. Saw it when I was walking Balthazar.”
Balthazar was her ancient, bad-tempered dachshund.
Kenny took a deliberate sip of tea, scalding his tongue. “He was giving me a ride.”
“At 7:15 AM? On a Sunday? Your shift starts at 9.” Maggie’s eyes sparkled. “And correct me if my eyesight’s failing, but I could have sworn I saw the driver’s side door open, and a certain firefighter cross the sidewalk to the passenger side before you drove off. Looked an awful lot like he’d walked you to your door. Possibly after having been inside all night.”
The warmth in Kenny’s face became a full-blown inferno. He busied himself straightening a stack of coasters that didn’t need straightening.
Maggie’s laugh was a soft, rustling sound, like pages turning. “Oh, don’t look so scandalized, honey. The whole town’s been waiting for that boy to land somewhere solid. He’s been floating like a handsome, haunted ghost for years. And you…” She reached across and stilled his fidgeting hand. “You have looked like you were waiting for a sunrise you weren’t sure would come.”
Kenny looked up, the genuine affection in her weathered face puncturing his embarrassment. “It’s… new, Mags. Really new.”
“The best things always are,” she said simply. She took a sip of her tea. “Just promise me you’ll be careful with that one. He’s got more scar tissue than he shows. The job does it, and… other things.”
“He told me a little,” Kenny said quietly, thinking of Buck’s voice in the kitchen, raw with confession.
“Good.” Maggie patted his hand. “Now, are you going to give me salacious details, or do I have to rely on Gladys at the post office for intelligence? Her nephew is a probie at the station, and her information is always alarmingly anatomical.”
Kenny choked on his tea. “Maggie!”
“What? I’m old, not dead. A woman needs her vicarious thrills.” She winked, then pushed herself upright, her gaze drifting to the sunlit window. “I’m happy for you, Kenny. Truly. It’s nice to have the smell of happiness in here instead of just mildew and despair.” She nodded toward the poetry section. “We got a shipment of those pocket collectible Frosts in. They’re in a box by my desk. Be a dear and price them while I open the register?”
The morning passed in a gentle rhythm. Kenny lost himself in the tactile ritual of unpacking the slender volumes, applying price stickers, finding the perfect spot for each on the crammed shelves. The work was meditative. His mind kept replaying fragments—the feel of Buck’s heartbeat under his ear, the devastating tenderness in his kiss as they moved together that final time. The words I’m falling for you.
He was stacking the empty cardboard boxes for recycling when the bell above the door jingled with unusual violence.
Laura Vance stood in the doorway, still in her paramedic uniform, dark green pants and a black station t-shirt. Her auburn hair was messy, as if she’d been running her hands through it. Her sharp green eyes scanned the shop and landed on Kenny. She didn’t look like she was here for a book.
“Kenny. Hey.” Her voice was tight.
Maggie looked up from the cash register, her intuitive antennae visibly twitching. “Everything alright, Laura?”
“Fine, Maggie. Just need to borrow your floor guy for a second.” Laura’s smile was a brief, strained flicker. “Outside?”
A cold trickle, entirely separate from the autumn chill, traced Kenny’s spine. He wiped his hands on his jeans. “Sure.”
He followed Laura out onto the sidewalk. She paced two steps, then turned, crossing her arms over her chest. The morning was bright, but her face was shadowed.
“Buck’s in the clinic,” she said, without preamble.
The world tipped. The scent of cinnamon rolls from next door turned suddenly cloying. “What?”
“He’s fine,” Laura said quickly, holding up a hand. She saw the blood drain from Kenny’s face. “Fine. I mean it. It’s stupid. A dumpster fire behind the old hardware store. A ceiling of soggy drywall collapsed. He got tagged on the shoulder. More of a heavy bruise than anything. But protocol is protocol for a head-adjacent impact. They’re checking him for a concussion. He’s probably just getting a lecture about hard heads.”
Kenny’s heart was hammering against his sternum, a frantic bird. “A dumpster fire?”
“Yeah. Kids, probably. It was contained in minutes. Just bad luck with the building.” Laura uncrossed her arms, her posture softening a fraction. “Look, he’s gonna be bored and cranky. They’ll release him to someone. Usually, that’s me. But he… he told the crew to call me, and then he specifically said, ‘Don’t let Kenny hear about this from the scanner or Maggie.’” She imitated Buck’s low rumble poorly. “So I’m the deputized messenger. He doesn’t want you to worry.”
“Too late,” Kenny breathed, his voice thin.
A faint, genuine smile touched Laura’s lips. “Good. That’s the appropriate response.” She studied him. “He’s okay, Kenny. I swear on my truck. But he’s also stubborn and he downplays everything. Having someone there who worries… it might do him good. Remind him he’s got more to be careful for than just his own hide.”
She pulled a set of keys from her pocket and held them out. A keychain with a tiny silver fire axe dangled from the ring. “My truck. It’s around the corner. The clinic’s on Maple, you know it?”
Kenny nodded, numbly taking the keys. The metal was warm from her hand.
“Tell him I’ll want a full report on the nurse’s bedside manner. And that he owes me lunch.” Laura started to turn, then stopped. “Hey.”
Kenny looked up.
Her expression was uncharacteristically gentle. “The fact that you’re pale as a sheet right now? That’s the part he needs. Not the bravado. The real stuff.” She gave him a short nod and walked away, her boots clicking on the pavement.
For a moment, Kenny just stood there, the keys biting into his palm. The comforting narrative of the morning—the soft sheets, the whispered promises—had just been violently edited. The other side of Buck’s life, the dangerous, chaotic side he’d spoken of with such stark honesty, had reached out and tapped him on the shoulder.
He turned and went back into the shop. Maggie was already there, holding his jacket. Her eyes were wide with concern.
“Laura told me,” she said quietly, helping him slide his arms into the sleeves. Her hands rested on his shoulders for a moment, a steadying weight. “Go. We’re slow today. I’ll hold the fort.”
“Maggie, I…”
“Go to him,” she said, her voice firm. “That’s your job now, too.”
Kenny drove Laura’s truck with a singular focus. The clinic was a low, brick building he’d passed a dozen times. He’d never had a reason to go inside.
The waiting room smelled of antiseptic and anxiety. An older couple sat holding hands in the corner. A kid with a bloody nose whimpered to his mother. Kenny went to the reception window.
“I’m here for Evan Buckley. He was brought in from a fire.”
The nurse, a woman with kind eyes and a brisk demeanor, scanned a computer screen. “Are you family?”
The question hung in the air. Kenny’s mouth went dry. I’m the shore after his storm. I’m the one he’s falling for. “I’m… I’m his…” He couldn’t find the word.
“He’s with me.”
The voice came from behind the nurse. Buck stood in an open doorway leading to the treatment area. He was still in his station t-shirt and bunker pants, the latter smudged with soot and white dust. A large, square bandage was taped high on his left shoulder, near the curve of his neck. His hair was a mess, and he had a smudge of ash on his cheekbone. He looked tired, irritated, and incredibly beautiful.
He held Kenny’s gaze, and something tight in his own expression loosened.
The nurse looked between them, smiled slightly, and nodded. “He’s all yours. Diagnosis is a glorified bruise and a spectacularly thick skull. Discharge papers are printing. Keep an eye on him for the next 24 hours for any concussion symptoms, but he’s been lucid and annoyingly charming the whole time.”
Buck walked toward Kenny, his gait a little slower than usual. He stopped a foot away. “You weren’t supposed to find out like this.”
“Laura told me you were fine.”
“I am fine.”
“You’re covered in drywall dust and you have a bandage the size of a paperback on you.”
“It’s a small paperback. A novella.” A flicker of his usual smile. “You drove Laura’s truck?”
“She lent it to me.”
“She’s a meddlesome traitor,” Buck said, but there was no heat in it. He reached out with his right hand—his left arm seemed stiff—and took Kenny’s hand, lacing their fingers together right there in the middle of the waiting room. His grip was strong, sure. “I’m really okay. It’s nothing.”
Kenny looked at their joined hands, then up at the bandage, the soot, the tired lines around Buck’s eyes. The fear that had frozen him was melting, replaced by a surge of something fierce