Page 18 of Husband of the Year
He moves behind me, wrapping me in his arms, staring over my shoulder at the soft petals in my palm.
“Wait, blue roses don’t exist?”
“It’s a lovely idea, but negative. I did some investigating, and Japanese researchers produced a rose with blue pigment petals through genetic engineering. It took them fourteen years, but they’re not mass-produced. So, when you see a blue rose, it’s typically…”
“Fake.”
“I was going to say dyed.” Olan’s lips pepper my neck, snaking up right behind my ear.
“Maybe we can get blue ones for our wedding.” I lean in, letting the warmth of his breath send shivers down my spine.
“Perhaps.” Olan spins me around, and his lips brush mine. Sometimes, I wish I could hit pause on the world. Dinner cooking on the stove: pause. Illona upstairs waiting for dinner: pause. Planning our wedding: pause.
My tongue finds the gap between Olan’s two front teeth, and the excitement in both our pants becomes palpable.
“We’re going to bed early tonight,” he whispers in my ear. “Tuck Illona in, and then…” Olan reaches down and rubs his thumb against my tented pants. “Take care of this.”
With no actual pause button for life, the timer rings. Olan resumes stirring the stew instead of my insides, and I head to the bathroom as Illona comes skipping down for dinner.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Illona dries the dishes as Olan scrubs the stew pot. Our kitchen has a fancy dishwasher with lights and buttons and beeps I still don’t quite understand. Thankfully, Olan prefers to hand wash and dry. When I asked him why, he simply flashed his intoxicating smile and said, “It’s more family time.” And how am I supposed to argue with that?
I’ve packed the leftovers in a large plastic container, and Gonzo sits on the counter, staring at his humans, hoping there’s a spill for him to help clean.
“That’s a pretty flower,” Illona says, nodding toward the rosebud. It sits in a small juice glass on the windowsill, next to a ceramic chickadee Olan bought at a quaint craft store near the ferry, not knowing it was Maine’s state bird, but simply because it was cute.
“Your dad got that for me,” I say, snapping the lid on the leftovers.
“I’m thinking roses for the wedding.” Olan dries his hands on a dish towel and plucks the flower from its nest, handing it to Illona. “What do you think?”
“White roses?” Illona asks. She’s holding the flower like a tiny baby bird, careful not to ruffle its petals. “Marvin mentioned blue.”
“Yes, I think blue.” Olan places his hands on her shoulders, rubbing. She leans back into him, and my heart melts watching the two of them.
“Blue roses sound lovely. But I’ve never seen a blue rose.”
“A florist would have to dye them.” I nod toward the flower in her hand. “White ones. They dip them in blue dye.”
“Ohhh.” Illona hands me the rose, turns around, and squeezes her father. “I want a blue dress then. With blue roses. Or a white dress. With blue roses. Pink with blue roses?”
“Your mother will help you,” Olan says. “She’s already offered to be your stylist.”
“Perfect. Maybe we can look this weekend.” Illona steps back from Olan and opens her arm, inviting me into their huddle.
The three of us embrace in the kitchen and, not wanting to be left out of the love fest, Gonzo saunters over. His tail curls into a question mark as he weaves in and out of our legs, rubbing on us.
“Blue roses,” Illona says. “Even Gonzo approves.”
I can’t help but be overwhelmed by the sense of calmness and contentment that washes over me as we nestle into each other. These two have welcomed me into their family with so much love. Honestly, Isabella has too. She moved to Portland to be closer to Illona but has made it her business to include me in their family structure.
The voices of colleagues and parents echo in my head.
You’d be a wonderful father.
You’re so natural with children.
It’s a shame you don’t have kids of your own.
