Page 49 of Our Own Light

“I feel like I’m about to receive a lecture,” Ollie said.

“What?”

“You towering over me like that,” Ollie said with the flick of a wrist. “Can you sit? You’re making me nervous.”

“Oh.” Floyd shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Where?”

“What do you mean ‘where’? On the couch, lunkhead.” But Floyd still hesitated. Finally, Ollie stood, took Floyd by the sleeve, and yanked him onto the couch. “There. Christ.”

There was another stretch of silence, itchy and uncomfortable like a new woolen scarf, and Floyd couldn’t manage to keep himself from fidgeting. Neither could Ollie. They sat there like that—silent and awkward, shifting this way and that—before Ollie finally let out a small, frustrated scream.

“Will you stop moving like that?” Ollie nearly shouted. “Are your clothes filled with ants?”

Floyd sputtered, “Ain’t like you’re keeping still neither.”

“Because of you! You’re making me crazy, moving like that!” Ollie exclaimed. “And, yes, I know this couch is pathetic, but it’s not that bad, is it?”

“It’s kind of lumpy.”

“Well, where else are we supposed to sit? On my bed?” Floyd’s face immediately turned hot. He must have been redder than an overly ripened strawberry. Ollie probably noticed because he buried his head in his hands and said, “Don’t think too hard about that.”

“I wasn’t,” Floyd lied.

Ollie huffed a laugh, one that made him sound tired, rather than happy, and then he came out from hiding behind his hands. “Oh, fuck, Floyd, what’s wrong with me? I can’t stop liking you.”

Floyd’s stomach pulsed and squeezed and fluttered, but he wasn’t too bothered by the sensation, not enough to keep his own feelings to himself. On the night when he and Ollie had held pinkies, Floyd had promised himself that he’d tolerate his stomach feeling sick if it meant that the two of them could be together. And, so, he said, “I like you, too, Ollie.”

“You like me, too,” Ollie repeated under his breath. “Great, Floyd, that’s perfect.”

“We won’t tell no one,” Floyd said cautiously, thinking maybe that would help.

“Don’t you understand how horrible that is?” Ollie asked, and Floyd stayed quiet.

It was horrible not to tell people? Floyd had to wonder what kind of life people like him were living up in New York.

Ollie fell backward to rest against the cushion and sighed. “Floyd, you’re married.”

Floyd’s eyes went wide. “Oh!”

It suddenly occurred to Floyd that Ollie wasn’t aware of the peculiar nature of his marriage. Somehow, in letting Ollie into his life, Floyd had forgotten that Ollie only knew what everybody else in town knew. He only saw what everybody else saw. Gosh, he had been fixing to tell Ollie about his marriage, but then when Ollie had rejected him, Floyd had plum forgotten. He’d been busy thinking that Ollie had rejected him on account of them both being men!

“Oh, my God. Did you forget that you have a wife?!”

“No,” Floyd said quickly. “My marriage ain’t like that, is all.”

“Your marriage isn’t like what?”

“Me and Effie are friends.”

Ollie stared for a few seconds, his brow creasing like he was thinking this over.

“Are you trying to tell me that you and Effie aren’t really married?”

“Well, no, we are. We were married in the courthouse.”

“But it’s not a real marriage, then?”

Floyd wasn’t too happy with the way Ollie was making it out to be black and white. But it seemed real important for him to hear Floyd answer in a specific way.

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