Page 118 of Our Own Light

Ollie shuffled his feet closer, positioning himself so that their bodies were nearly pressed up against each other, and said, “Just a little while longer.”

“Worse comes to worst, I can carry you up the stairs.”

“Don’t try to excite me,” Ollie mock-scolded. “We have an early morning tomorrow.”

“Ollie, you keep me up late nearly every night with that energy of yours. I took your excitement into consideration already.”

Ollie laughed next to his ear. “Are you poking fun of me?”

“Maybe.”

“Lunkhead,” Ollie said with an exaggerated scoff.

“Shut up, Ollie,” Floyd said through a low chuckle.

After Ollie stopped swaying, he brought his face closer to Floyd’s, pausing when their mouths were only a couple of inches from each other, and then, in the sweetest, most playful voice, said, “Make me.”

And, of course, Floyd couldn’t very well refuse. He captured Ollie’s mouth in a passionate kiss. When the music finally faded, they broke the kiss at the same time, and then they were both smiling big, silly smiles at each other. Floyd could feel the happy energy in the room, like it was leaking out from their bodies.

“Ready for bed?” Ollie finally asked, still a little breathless.

“Yeah, bed,” Floyd teased.

Ollie squeezed his butt. “I can meet you upstairs, sweetheart. I need some water first.”

“Go ahead,” Floyd said. “I’ll wait here.”

After Ollie left for the kitchen, Floyd walked over to the phonograph to close it. Standing in front of the box, his eyes found the frame hanging nearby—the one with the Ollie coin and the Matt coin side-by-side—and took some time to enjoy the sight.

Nowadays, Floyd was able to talk about Matt more easily. Even though his heart still hurt from losing him, Floyd had found that keeping Matt’s memory alive with stories was helping a whole lot with the pain. What helped even more was that Ollie and Effie and even Jo had started to mention Matt more often, too. Sometimes Ollie would pester Floyd for stories. Sometimes Effie and he would reminisce. These talks reminded Floyd that even though he had moved on from coal mining, even though he had made a new family for himself, he could breathe easy. Because Matt hadn’t been forgotten. He never would be forgotten. He was still loved.

“Goodnight, Matty,” Floyd said softly to the coin on the wall.

Seconds later, Ollie poked his head inside and strummed his palms on the doorframe.

“Coming up, sweetheart?”

“Yeah. Just talking to Matt.”

“Oh.” Ollie smiled sweetly. “Well, take your time, then.”

“Nah, I’m finished.” Floyd came over and caught Ollie by the wrist, pulling him close. “Want me to carry you?”

“God, yes.”

So Floyd lifted Ollie up, and Ollie hooked his legs around Floyd’s torso. Floyd couldn’t resist balancing Ollie’s weight in his left arm so that he could reach up and move his fingers through Ollie’s soft yellow locks.

Ollie let out a peaceful-sounding sigh. “Let’s head upstairs, sweetheart.”

And then Ollie touched their lips together, and the only thing Floyd could think about was how lucky he was to have met Ollie—this beautiful person who had helped him face his long-buried pain; this sweet, silly man with whom he had fallen in love.

Oliver

Two months later . . .

Rocking back on his heels, Oliver knocked twice on Aunt Betty’s front door. Moments later, she opened it, her typically stoic expression replaced with the faintest hint of a smile.

“Oliver,” she said, and then she was smiling so wide her eyes were crinkling in the corners. “How was the circus?”

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