Page 86 of Our Own Light

Oliver’s stomach fluttered from nervousness as he readied himself to try to bring up Matt.

“While Effie and I were cooking, we, uhm, we talked about Matt a bit.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Oliver reached for Floyd’s hand, which was sticking out from beneath the thin brown blanket. “If you ever need someone to talk to about—”

“Nah, I’m... I’m fine, Ollie.” Floyd let go of Oliver’s hand and then started to stretch. “Actually, I want to be by myself for a bit. Just feeling so tired right now.”

“Oh.” Oliver’s throat tightened. “Of course.”

After placing a soft kiss on Floyd’s forehead, Oliver left. Out of politeness, he stayed with Effie for a little while so that they could share some of the cake in the kitchen, but his mind was elsewhere.

Why was it that Floyd suddenly seemed so... so far away? Even though he was only one room over, Oliver felt as though there was a whole chasm between them. It had to be because of Matt. Or well, because of Floyd’s feelings for Matt. Oliver had offered his ear. But Floyd hadn’t seemed to want it.

If Floyd wouldn’t talk about Matt, then what was Oliver supposed to do? Maybe Floyd had been keeping Oliver away on purpose ever since they had confessed their feelings for each other. Floyd still hadn’t let him work with the explosives. Floyd still hadn’t initiated more with Oliver in bed. And now...

No, Floyd wasn’t pulling away, was he?

While Oliver munched on the cake, he tried to consider the possibility. If Floyd’s love for Matt had been—or, hell, still was—one with the sort of passion and timelessness that could usually only be found in the most fantastical of storybooks, Oliver couldn’t understand how he was ever supposed to compete. Whereas Floyd and Matt’s love had been, from the sound of Effie’s stories, as deep and everlasting as the earth’s oceans, Floyd and Oliver’s brief entanglement seemed, in comparison, as transient and shallow as a rain puddle. It made Oliver wonder when Floyd would tire of him. Because eventually, Floyd would realize that Oliver wasn’t Matt and that he would never be Matt and, well, that would be that, wouldn’t it?

Oliver set his fork back on the table.

“Effie, I think I’ll head home. I’m feeling a bit tired myself.”

“Alright, well, feel free to come back for some more cake later, if you want.”

Oliver faked a smile. “Thank you.”

Oliver walked home, kicking a rock as he traveled, each swipe of his foot sending it tumbling ahead on the path, creating little clouds of brown dust. His pant legs became messier with each step, the plumes of brown clinging to the fabric. Along the way, Oliver tried to tell himself that the slight transformation he sensed in Floyd was merely a trick of the mind—the result of his insecurities making him extra sensitive to even small changes in Floyd’s behavior. He and Floyd were fine. Floyd was tired. Everyone felt tired sometimes.

By the time Oliver reached home, his muscles were completely spent from being so constantly tense. Weary and nervous and sad, Oliver collapsed onto the bed without even first removing his shoes.

***

One week later, Oliver was standing in front of Aunt Betty’s house praying to whoever might listen that his relative would have some advice for him. Because Oliver had truly become lost. Over the week, Floyd had rejected every single invitation Oliver had extended for the two of them to spend time together without Effie and Jo present. Sure, the two of them still worked together, but Floyd went straight home once they were finished with their shifts. One time, Oliver had eaten supper with Floyd’s family and even then, Floyd had been more reserved than ever, barely showing Oliver even the tiniest bit of care. It wasn’t that Floyd had been unkind to him. No, Floyd was never unkind. He was still sweet, but that sweetness had been tempered for sure.

Somehow, Oliver must have messed everything up back at the summer party. He wasn’t sure how, but it was clear to him now that Floyd’s interest in romance had vanished—poof!—like magic. Oliver nearly smiled at the irony of that. Presenting Mister Oliver, Master Magician: he can make people’s love for him disappear. God, he hoped Aunt Betty would have some wisdom to offer him. It wasn’t as though Oliver could talk to anyone else. Roy? Effie? Not a chance.

Nervousness continued to percolate inside him, bubbling in Oliver’s veins, causing him to fiddle with the buttons on his sleeves. Figuring that he’d better head inside before he inevitably ruined his suit, Oliver started up the walkway.

This time, when Aunt Betty answered, she seemed more pleasantly surprised than merely confused.

“Hello, Oliver,” she said, the faintest hint of a smile on her face. “I thought I requested that you provide some notice when you wanted to visit next.”

“Yes, I know, but it was a last-minute decision to come here. I need some... help.” Oliver smiled meekly while Aunt Betty looked at him with skepticism. “May I come in?”

“You may, but I need a couple of minutes first.”

“I can wait.”

Aunt Betty closed the door. Five minutes later, she opened it again.

“Come in.”

Oliver followed her to a small sitting room, and they both sat in chairs in front of an unlit fireplace. She had two small tumblers filled with what looked to be illegal brandy waiting for them. It was curious that she seemed not to have a servant. Oliver’s own family had always had hired help—a nanny, a maid, and a woman who cooked and cleaned and helped out in various ways. Clearly, Aunt Betty had the money for servants. It seemed strange for her not to have one. But then, Aunt Betty had always been strange.

Oliver reached for his drink and took a couple of sips in rapid succession. He and Aunt Betty sat in a comfortable-enough-yet-still-a-bit-awkward silence for a few minutes.

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