Page 25 of Husband of the Year
Olan takes my hand and holds it on the center console. His fingers gently caress my palm, their light touch sending a tingling sensation through my skin.
“Everyone thinks the Marvin Gaye version is the original, but technically, Gladys Knight and the Pips released it first,” he says.
“Oh, I definitely didn’t know that.” The Pips, singing behind their leader’s rich alto, fill the cabin of the car with smooth harmonies.
“Technically, The Miracles were the first to record the song. Marvin was the second to record it. Marvin Gaye. Not you.”
“Yeah, I figured.”
“Gladys Knight was the third to record it. But they released hers first. At the time, it was the biggest selling Motown single. Until Marvin released his version.”
“Gaye. Not me.”
Olan cocks his head.
“Marvin Gaye. Not me. I’m gay. Most definitely.”
“Thank goodness. Otherwise, you’d have some serious explaining to do.” Olan chuckles at his joke, his eyes sparkling with amusement. His ability to recall every single fact about certain things is nothing short of enchanting.
“How do you know so much about Motown, anyway?” I ask.
We pass a small bookstore, and I admire the colorful display of children’s books in the window.
“My parents always had it playing when I was little and, well, I’m inquisitive. I had questions. And when they didn’t have answers, I did my own research. You can find almost anything in a book. And the public library was my best friend.”
I’ve seen a few photos of Olan as a small child. His cute afro cutmuch shorter, close to his head, with a pensive grin as he waves to the camera. I try to imagine the Stone house, with his parents clamoring to keep tabs on three active boys.
“I love that. And I bet you regaled them with all the facts you learned.”
He nods, and his mouth pulls into a thin line. I know that face.
“What is it?”
We pull onto Vincent’s tree-lined street. The west end of town is full of large, older homes. Many, like Vincent and Kent’s, have been converted to apartments and condos.
“My parents. My mom. Remember when she called me?”
“In Mexico?”
“Yes, well, it was about Liam.”
The moment Olan’s brother’s name comes out of his mouth, my stomach flips. I know he struggles with addiction, but Olan never says much about it. Only “it’s his path to follow” and how Olan’s recovery could be impacted if he was too involved. That’s all I need to know.
“Is he okay?” My chest tightens, and I push through it, forcing a deep breath.
“Unfortunately, no. He’s back in rehab. Well, detox specifically. In the rehab.”
My mind races, trying to remember all the details about Liam’s last time in a treatment facility. He was there for a few months with his girlfriend. Olan helped his parents find a center where they could stay together.
“Oh.”
“Yeah. He’s back, and, well, it’s worse this time.”
“Worse? How could it be worse?”
Besides his one time in college, Olan has never been back to rehab. Between his meetings, sponsors and sponsees, and all his daily readings and rituals, he’s stayed sober, except for the small relapse that broughthim to Maine. But Olan explained that not everyone is so lucky. I knew Liam had been in and out, but the last Olan mentioned, he was working at a grocery stocking shelves.
“I thought he was better.”
