Page 51 of Husband of the Year
Sarah: What time will you be home? I need to talk to you.
“She needs to talk to me,” I say.
“About what?”
“She didn’t say. That’s her M.O. Specificity isn’t in her repertoire.”
I return my phone to the table and take another bite of my sock brownie.
“Aren’t you going to reply? Your mother needs to talk… dark clouds are forming.” Jill motions to the ceiling.
“Nah. I’ll call her when I’m home. She probably forgot how to set her DVR to recordWalker, Texas Ranger.”
“Critical information. We don’t want to miss out on Chuck Norris fighting for justice with his amazing martial arts skills.”
“And that sexy beard.”
“Marvin. No.”
“Meh,” I say, holding up my bar. “The cat is away. I gotta get my rocks off somehow.”
The rest of the afternoon passes without incident, and with the warm March sun paying us a visit, Illona and I sit on the top deck as we sail back to the island. Not knowing when Olan will return creates a tiny crater in my heart, but having Illona with me helps fill it a bit. We’ll distract each other from missing her dad by making dinner and listening to pre-teen pop music. When she goes to sleep, Gonzo will take over with kitty snuggles.
I’ve saved Olan’s email in a folder I created and named “Husband of the Year.” Each time I open it, I’m reminded of how he shared a little more about himself with me. I plan on rereading it before bed, letting his sweet words wash over me as I wind down for the night. Maybe he’ll write more letters that capture his thoughts and feelings, adding to this little collection of joy.
Walking back to the house, Illona takes my hand, our arms swinging between us, and really, I have nothing to be down about. Olan needs to be with his family back in Chicago. Despite the uncertainty of his return, I know his absence is temporary. I’ve got the “sweetest angel” to keep me company, and a cat thrilled to have me to himself in bed for the foreseeable future.
“What should we make for dinner? Pizza or tacos?” I ask.
“That’s like asking me to decide between purple and pink as my favorite color.”
“Oh. Yeah, that would be impossible,” I reply.
At the giant oak tree, we turn down the street to our house, and I pull Illona’s hand close enough to give it a peck.
“How about pizza tonight and tacos tomorrow?”
“Or we could make both,” she suggests.
“Too much work. I barely have one meal in me, and pizza and tacos are fairly simple.”
“I’ll help.” Illona stops, but doesn’t let go of my hand.
“I know you will. You’re an amazing helper.”
I tug at her hand to move, but she doesn’t budge.
“What’s wrong, sweetie?”
“Who’s that?” She nods toward our house at the end of the street. “At our door?”
My heart races, climbing to the top of the roller coaster in my throat before plunging through my torso and falling right through a trapdoor in my bootyhole.
I gulp and remind my body to cooperate. Stay upright. Breathe. And also, please don’t soil myself.
“That’s Sarah Block. My mother.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
