Page 16 of Our Own Light

Finally, Oliver said, “Wow, that was odd of me, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Floyd said because what else was he supposed to say?

Floyd’s face was still on fire when Oliver asked, “Can we play pool now?”

“Uh-huh.”

And Effie was laughing it up inside his head.

Floyd and Oliver chose the closest table and set up the balls. Floyd broke. He sank the blue number two, which meant that he was solids, and then shot for the six but missed.

Oliver proceeded to sink six balls in a row.

“Shit!” Oliver exclaimed upon missing the seventh.

Which was when Floyd realized that his mouth had fallen open, probably some time ago.

“What in the heck was that?” Floyd asked.

“What?”

“You sank six in a row.”

“Oh, well, I had a pool table in New York.”

Oliver said this like it was completely normal. Completely uninteresting. But it was interesting. Worse, it was infuriating. Embarrassment and irritation flooded Floyd’s veins, making his blood run hot. Now Floyd felt silly for inviting Oliver to play pool. He hadn’t played in years. Even when he’d played as a kid, he hadn’t been very good at it. Pool was one of the few things Floyd couldn’t seem to pick up too easily.

“I ain’t in the mood to play no more,” Floyd said, placing his cue on the table. Not only was he not impressing Oliver, but he was practically making a fool of himself, too.

“Don’t be like that,” Oliver protested. “Lucky shots. That’s all.”

“Lucky? I know luck, and that ain’t it.”

“Come on, keep playing with me. Or are you a chicken?”

“Just not in the mood,” Floyd said curtly. “Like I said.”

Oliver made a couple of chicken noises—sputtering a bunch of fast bok-bok-boks—and started to flap his pretend wings. Floyd clenched his teeth in response. When Oliver continued teasing him—making a few more sounds that were even louder—Floyd couldn’t hold back anymore.

“Oliver, you’re a—” Floyd started to say but caught himself before he might have said something he’d likely regret.

Oliver wiggled his eyebrows up and down. “I’m a what?”

“Never mind.”

“I nearly upset you enough to make you finally utter some profanity, didn’t I?” Oliver asked with a smirk. Gosh, he was so fun. Floyd couldn’t even manage to be mad no more. “Honestly, Floyd, I had no idea you’d be so bad at pool.”

Floyd reached out and lightly shoved Oliver back a step.

“I ain’t bad,” Floyd said defensively, now unable to keep himself from smiling, too. “I’m rusty, is all.”

“Alright, then, practice,” Oliver said. “We won’t play a real game. Just take a few shots. I’ll take some, too.”

Floyd hesitated before ultimately relenting. Over the next half hour, the two of them went back and forth with their shots, with Oliver making nearly all of his, no matter how hard they looked to be. Floyd wanted to be more irritated than he was. Truthfully, he liked watching Oliver play. It was pretty dang impressive. While they were practicing, Oliver offered up a constant stream of funny commentary, too. Floyd sure was enjoying spending time together. He hoped they’d come back to the pool hall again sometime.

When Floyd had finally had enough practice to make three shots in a row immediately after poor Oliver had somehow only made one, Oliver sputtered something like, “you Goddamned lucky lunkhead!” with such seriousness that Floyd burst out laughing.

By the time Floyd composed himself, he realized that Oliver was staring, wearing a lopsided grin.

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