Page 76 of Husband of the Year
Can we please talk soon? Video or regular chat, I don’t care. I crave to hear your voice. And I miss your face. Maybe a video chat would be better. I know this is tough for both of us, but please understand the immense love and longing I have for you. Every day, I pray for our peace of mind, hoping that my prayers are making a difference. We’ll be back together soon. I can feel it in my soul.
Love always,
Olan
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Olan: How is my adorable fiancé? Did you get my email?
Marvin: Yes. Come back to me. I’m missing you. A lot.
Olan: Let’s chat tomorrow night to distract you from the Sunday scaries.
Marvin: I’d love that. Maybe a video call? I’d love to see your face, Woody.
Olan: Wait, do you want to see my face or my woody?
Marvin: Both. Face first, please. Woodster.
Olan: I’m never going to live that down, am I?
Marvin: Nope! I’m ready to see McWoody.
On Saturday morning, after I’ve read Olan’s email and we’ve exchanged a few suggestive texts, I drift back to sleep and awaken with my cock rock hard, gnashing into the bed. When I hear coffee grinding downstairs, for a second, in my haze, I think it’s Olan, and my dick almost explodes through my boxers into the mattress. But then I remember hisemail. The texts. His family. He’s still away. It’s Sarah, making coffee and passive-aggressively waking me up—the very definition of Boner Killer.
I procure my pajamas from the chair in the corner of the room that mostly serves to hold my pajamas, scoop Gonzo up from Olan’s side of the bed, and head downstairs. It’s almost been two weeks since my mother arrived and while it’s been more pleasant than I’d imagined, I also know if I don’t have a conversation with her about her visit and timeline for departure, she may never leave.
And while I’m at it, I probably need to tell her about the baby. The mere thought of her reaction makes my face instinctively contort into a wince.
“Morning, sweetie!” Sarah shouts from the kitchen island, pouring a cup of coffee for both of us.
Gonzo lies near the mugs, his tail slapping the counter.
“I hope I didn’t wake you.”
“With what? The blaring sound of coffee beans grinding? Putting the dishes, pots, and pans away like you’re assaulting them? Maybe you could whip us up some smoothies in the blender? Burn some toast and get the smoke alarm going?”
“Don’t be fresh.” She dips her chin and gives me her serious mom glare over the top of her glasses, the inspiration for my teacher look.
And suddenly, I’m six again.
“I’m sorry, I just need some…”
“Coffee.” She hands me my favorite mug and Gonzo darts away. A student gave it to me a few years ago as an end-of-year gift. It’s bright orange and says “Mr. Block. He sings nice and loves kids.” Someday that phrase will go on my tombstone.
“Yes. Thank you.”
I take a sip, and of course, Mom knows just how I like it. Three sugars. Extra cream.
“So, what’s on our docket for the day?” She sips her coffee from my “You’re Strong, You’re a Kelly Clarkson Song” mug.
I don’t need to go to the grocery. Or clean. Or do laundry. She’s done it all.
“Mom, I’m so happy you’re here, and I appreciate all you’re doing, but you don’t have to stay…” I can’t even say the word—forever.
“Of course, I don’t have to stay. I want to be here. I’m enjoying helping. And Illona. And you, of course. Plus, that Bruce smiles every time I go into the store.” A brief look of joy blossoms on her face, and then just as quickly, it vanishes. “What do I have back in Arizona waiting for me? Dry heat and water aerobics.”
“You have friends.”
