Page 81 of The Corruption of Hollis Brown

James laughed, bright and free, and took a long drink. “Good guy. Nice enough.”

Walt took over without warning. “Would you really stay here and work here if there was somewhere for you to do it?” he asked.

Jeez, calm down.

Timothy shrugged. “I’m sure if you asked around, most of us would. My dad takes a bus three hours both ways, man. But like I said, nothing has changed.”

Walt tapped his fingers against the side of their bottle.

“I’ll ask Yulia about your situation, Timothy; we’ll see what we can do. I’m sure if you talked to Mr. Egunyemi about your situation, we can figure something out. It’s not an easy fix for everyone, but—”

James cleared his throat. He glanced at Timothy.

Timothy tapped the side of his bottle against Hollis’s and took a swig.

“Musical theater, huh.” Tim grinned. “Well, I’ll be.”

Groan

Hollis’s trial loaves of French bread were a little hard, but his second batch came out light and fluffy. He made six, froze three, and saved one for the house. Sliced them and put them in ziplock bags for the next night.

What was that bread you made when you first came here?

I like that, “first came here,” Walt said, soft. I don’t know, it was some Depression-era bread. I hadn’t made bread in forty years; I was just trying my best.

Hollis hmmed. He turned on the bathroom light and started the tub.

Walt leaned them against the sink so he could inspect Hollis’s pores.

I love your eyes.

Yeah? What color were yours?

Green.

Walt paused, then continued squeezing the sides of Hollis’s nose.

Surprised no one’s noticed yet.

I’m not. No one looks at me close enough.

Walt swiped a towel and threw it at the bottom of the door, pushing through the crevices until it was close to airtight. Then he opened the window and turned off the light.

The moon was full and bright out, but still Walt didn’t look at him.

Hollis lay there in his skin and boiled with want.

He flicked on Jorge’s lighter for Walt but let him take care of the rest, leaning their head back on the lip of the tub.

Tell me about someone else you rode in. How far did you go with them and their wives?

Walt crossed their ankles.

You’re not slick, Walt said, and blew smoke toward the window. It’s not the same as what you’re asking from me.

Is it because it’s not acting? You said this is like being on a stage for you. Pretending to be someone else, to like someone in another person’s life for their sake. Is it scarier to . . . to like me for your own sake. Or is it like . . .

What?