Page 38 of Our Own Light

Floyd called back. “Be right there!”

Once Effie was back inside, Ollie reached up to rub the back of his neck. Floyd wondered if he was feeling ashamed of what they had done.

“Sorry,” Ollie said. “I’ll head home now.”

“Yeah,” Floyd said, now unsure how to act. “Church tomorrow?”

“Yeah. Maybe.”

“Goodnight, Ollie,” Floyd said.

“Goodnight, Floyd.”

And Ollie walked away.

When Floyd came back inside, he was feeling all kinds of ways—wondering if Ollie was embarrassed about having held hands, worrying that their friendship could be coming to an end, and confused as to whether Ollie really liked him or not. All this uncertainty had Floyd’s skin itching. It was like the very act of being a person had suddenly become uncomfortable.

As Floyd tried to force away the strangeness of it all, his eyes fell upon the little black book in the bookcase, the one that held the coin collection of the man who had once been Floyd’s most important person—Matt.

Exactly then, the copperhead came back, twisting and turning in his stomach. For the rest of the evening, Floyd could think of nothing else except the man he had lost.

Chapter Six

Oliver

Oliver lifted a steel frying pan into the air and held it an arm’s length away from his face so that he could scrutinize his appearance in the reflection. He couldn’t believe he was so forgetful, so incompetent, that he hadn’t yet purchased a proper mirror. How pathetic.

More pathetic, though, was the fact that Oliver had confessed his fucking feelings to Floyd—a married man, a happily married man, an endlessly sweet happily married man who deserved to stay happily married. And yet, here was Oliver, the eternally broken misfit, trying to ruin everything. Over the last twelve hours, Oliver had mentally beaten himself so mercilessly that the memory of Floyd’s friendly smack seemed as soft as a loving embrace.

And yet, Oliver couldn’t seem to stop himself from preparing for church.

Because even if it meant another sleepless night of internal anguish and mental pummeling, Oliver wanted to see Floyd again. He wanted to see him and to smell him and to hear his low, beautiful voice. He wanted to be near him every second of every day.

God, it was so terrifying. Oliver had never liked anyone before. Not sexually. Not romantically. From time to time, Oliver could recall maybe experiencing a small bit of attraction toward another person, but there had never been any real intensity to it. Or consistency. Sometimes, that person had been a man, while other times, that person had been a woman. By the time Oliver had reached the age of twenty-five, he’d thought for certain that he must have simply been incapable of experiencing whatever the hell everyone else must have been experiencing for them to want to write love letters and fuck each other and be married.

Oliver took a moment to smooth down his hair. After placing the frying pan back onto the counter, he turned to retrieve a hat from the bedroom, but then vaguely remembered that it was frowned upon to wear hats in church. Or maybe even illegal? He couldn’t be certain. Either way, he’d have to leave it behind. He wondered what Floyd would be wearing. It would be a suit, obviously, but Oliver had never seen Floyd in a fancy suit. He’d probably look fucking magnificent in one, though. Oliver may have told Floyd that certain colors worked well on him, but truth be told, that man would look stunning in anything. Or nothing. Maybe especially nothing.

Holy hell.

With that thought in his head, Oliver left for church.

Shortly before the top of the hour, when most people were already in their pews, Oliver arrived. Looking around the nave, Oliver spotted Floyd easily. He was taller than nearly everyone else. Thankfully, Floyd seemed to have saved him a seat, but he and his family were all the way on the far side of the room. Oliver hoped that the sound of the pipe organ would hide the noises he’d make heading over there. Trying his best to stay silent, Oliver started over. He was successful for a while. Until he tripped over a bump in the carpet and then his only saving grace was that he had spluttered a surprised yelp instead of an expletive.

By the time Oliver reached his seat, Floyd was very clearly fighting back a smile.

“Do you always got to make a big entrance?” Floyd whispered.

Oliver whispered back, “Believe it or not, that was me attempting to be inconspicuous.”

Effie sat forward and caught Oliver’s eyes. “Glad you could make it. Floyd said you might come.”

“Do you mind that I’m here?” Oliver asked, as though by asking Effie if he could sit next to Floyd in a house of worship, he was also somehow asking her for permission to steal away her stupidly beautiful husband right out from under her Goddamned nose.

“Of course not,” Effie said. “It’s church.”

Church. Oliver exhaled a long, nervous breath.

All of a sudden, the volume of the music swelled, the entire room filling with the organ’s reverent-sounding notes, and then, in tandem, everyone stood. Oliver scrambled to his feet.

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