Page 103 of Husband of the Year
“You’re absolutely right.”
I pull Illona close, a smile lighting up my face as I give her a heartfelt hug, cherishing the moment.
“Now,” I say. “Let’s go home.”
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Teaching tires me out like nothing else—even with my anxiety humming along at a slightly lower frequency. Mondays are always a smack of reality, and coming home to Olan is always a refresher—like an energy drink to propel me over the bedtime finish line.
Somehow, Olan’s presence at home all day calms me. Sure, I’d like to be home with him, but the simple knowledge he’ll be waiting for me brings a little extra sense of ease to my days.
Tonight, after we savor Olan’s homemade meatloaf, I stand at the kitchen sink, the sound of running water filling the air, while Olan cradles Greggie and Illona concentrates on her math homework at the island. Second-grade math is no joke.
With the last plate loaded and the counters wiped down, I stand watching them. Olan sways slightly, keeping the baby content while he watches Illona’s pencil move across the paper. Gonzo lies on the counter, his tail thwacking against the assignment. Just like his dad, fractions are not his cup of tea.
“Two-fifths. I can barely say it, let alone solve the problem.” Her tongue juts out the side of her mouth.
“Princess. Watch.” Olan takes her pencil and draws something, scribbling and shading. “Understand?”
“Oh. Duh.” She rolls her eyes, takes her pencil back, and writes something. “There. Done.” She pushes her homework away. “Fractions. Oy.”
A mischievous smirk dances on my lips as I watch them, and a desire to stir up some cheer takes hold of me.
“I have a lesson for the class,” I say, grabbing my phone and quickly connecting to the wireless sound system Olan spent weeks teaching me how to use.
“A lesson?” Olan cocks his head.
“For all of you. Come here.” I motion to the open area of the kitchen beyond the island and press play on my phone.
The bright singing and xylophone intro pumps through the entire first floor, followed by the deep, funky bass line, and when Shanice’s distinct, bright voice begins, Illona’s face lights up like a sunrise.
I extend my hands to her, reaching out to bridge the distance between us.
She takes them and we sway, moving our shoulders to the music.
When the chorus hits and “I Love Your Smile” blasts through our home, right on cue, Olan’s face cracks into an enormous grin, and I’m not sure there’s ever been a more perfect song to capture my admiration for him.
Illona lets go of one of my hands, extends it to her father, and he takes it.
“Your dad’s knowledge extends beyond fractions.”
Olan’s hips move to the rhythm of the music, gyrating with a confidence I’ve only seen in the bedroom, and a burst of laughter escapes me, catching me off guard.
“Go Daddy!”
Greggie’s head bops, either from Olan’s movement, the music, or both. This might just take the prize for the cutest thing I’ve everwitnessed. As we dance, Olan holds him tightly with one arm, ensuring his safety.
“Motown. 1991. Produced by Narada Michael Walden and featuring a sax solo by Branford Marsalis and laughter from Janet Jackson near the end of the song,” I say over the music.
“Color me impressed.” Olan winks and yeah, I may have studied up on the song while he was away.
“Your teaching skills are on par with your ability to be a student.”
“Marvin’s an excellent teacher,” Illona says. “I should know.”
“Thank you,” I say and hold her hand up so she can spin.
In the kitchen, the four of us are caught up in the infectious rhythm of Shanice’s complete bop, moving and grooving with pure joy while Gonzo watches from the counter. The vibrant beats and catchy melody fill the air, igniting an undeniable energy that propels our bodies to sway and twirl effortlessly. Laughter and smiles adorn our faces as we’re bound by the sheer euphoria that only music and dance can provide.
