Page 9 of Husband of the Year
“Daddy!”
As soon as we walk through the front door, Illona, in her favorite pajamas adorned with purple unicorns, rushes into her father’s waiting embrace. Every few days, I have to wash them first thing in the morning so they’re ready for bedtime because, for some reason, currently, no other pair will do. Olan says not to fuss; she’ll manage with another pair, but it’s such a small thing to do for her. Why not let the child be happy in her purple unicorn pajamas? She’s almost seven now, and I keep waiting for him to tell her she’s too big to be picked up like this. But he hasn’t. And I don’t suspect he will for a while. He gets to pick her up and I get to wash her favorite PJs.
Olan was still quiet on the ferry ride, but it’s been a long day of travel, and it’s almost our bedtime, let alone Illona’s.
“What are you doing up?” Olan squeezes his little girl, and she buries her face in his neck before answering.
“Mommy said it was okay.”
“No sleeping was happening until you two were home.” Isabella walks toward the entry, a chunky white cable-knit sweater wrapped around her thin frame. Even when she’s relaxed and comfortable, shemanages to appear like she’s just stepped out of a fashion magazine. “She’s been waiting patiently.”
I wrap Olan and Illona in a hug, and she leans over and kisses my cheek. She smells like bubblegum and jasmine, the latter remnants of her mother’s perfume. I love traveling and seeing unknown places, but nothing beats coming home.
“And where’s my kitty boyfriend?” I ask.
“Gonzo had no trouble falling asleep,” Illona says. “He’s in my bed.”
“He slept with her every night you were gone.” Isabella brushes a loose strand of hair from her face. “It was like he was watching over her.”
“And missing his dads.” Illona kisses Olan and then yawns. It’s well past her bedtime, and now that we’re home, her body revolts against her insistence on waiting up for us.
“Let’s get you to bed.” Olan’s hands smooth Illona’s hair as he carries her up the stairs, leaving us in his wake.
“Did you have a fun trip?” Isabella asks. She moves toward the living room, where I see her travel bag, presumably packed and ready to head out.
“Oh yeah. It was beautiful. Very relaxing.”
“And Olan. He seems more quiet than usual. Is he okay?”
Two years ago, Isabella asking me this would have sent my anxiety into overdrive, but we’ve become friends. Jill will never stop ragging me about befriending the ex-wife, but really, having her move to Portland has been a blessing. She knows Olan better than anyone and Illona has thrived even more having her mom so close again.
“I think so?” I sit on the couch and Gonzo, presumably woken by having his bed intruded on, saunters down the stairs to investigate.
“There’s my guy,” I say as he leaps onto my lap, immediately headbutting my chest as his loud purr provides a soothing score.
“This one barely ate while you were away. I had to resort to cans of tuna.”
I run my fingers over Gonzo’s coat, feeling the smoothness beneath my touch, confirming his frame hasn’t drastically changed.
“Your dads are home. Normal eating may resume,” I say.
Isabella’s eyebrows draw together. “Maybe Olan’s just tired.”
“Something happened.” I bite my lower lip. “At the airport.”
“In Mexico?”
“No, Boston. At Logan.”
Isabella’s eyes open wide and I take a breath.
“When we came through customs, they took Olan away. It was only for a few minutes. He says they just asked him some questions, and that it wasn’t a big deal. And he doesn’t want to talk about it anymore.”
“Oh.” Isabella’s fingers rub her chin. She knows something. I can tell. Or at least has a thought.
“What? What is it?” I ask.
She reaches over and takes my hand. Her fingernails are a deep burgundy, and the polish is smooth like glass.
