Page 47 of Husband of the Year
The grumble in my stomach decides it.
Jill: Have you recovered from your night with Maria?
Marvin: I’ve slept most of the day.
I spare my friend the gory details of my phenomenal jerk-off session.
Jill: Now imagine having her all the time.
Marvin: I don’t know how you do it.
Jill: Nick helps more than I let on.
Marvin: He’s a wonderful dad.
Jill: He is.
Marvin: I’m about to demolish a strawberry donut.
Jill: Atta boy. Love you.
Marvin: Love you too. Give Maria a kiss from me. And Nick.
Jill hearts my message as I sit at the kitchen island, overlooking Casco Bay. Boats dot the water, keeping Portland’s working waterfront in business. I close my eyes and take in a deep breath. Gonzo leaps onto the counter and immediately begins rubbing the back half of his body against me.
“Yeah, I agree, buddy.” I pick him up and kiss his nose. One from me, and another from Olan.
“Back to bed for us.”
After a Sunday of polishing off the donuts in bed while binging an old season ofDrag Race, I wake up Monday with the sun peeking through the clouds over the water. Sometimes I pull the shades, but mostly, I want to wake up to the gorgeous view afforded me by living here. People pay thousands of dollars to spend a week here in the summer, and I get to savor it every day.
Gonzo’s snuggled into me and I do my best not to disturb his sleep as I reach for my phone.
There’s a message from Olan from the middle of the night.
Olan: Good morning sunshine. I love you. Check your email.
An email from Olan? Shortly after we moved in together, Olan set up private emails using a domain he purchased… solely for us. He said it’s more secure and we don’t need the Portland School Department and/or GreenSpace monitoring our correspondence. We don’t email often, but I forward him my monthly phone bill and he occasionally sends me cute articles about teaching or recipes he might like to try. It’s all very sweet.
When I open the email app on my phone, this isn’t about the phone bill. Or teaching. Or lasagna soup. He’s written a letter. And it’s long. A tingling sensation creeps up the back of my neck. Tiny electric pulses warn me that something important—or possibly unsettling—is about to unfold as I read his message.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
From: [email protected]
Sent: 3/18 at 1:45 A.M.
Subject: My Guy
Dear Marvin,
At this hour, you’re most likely asleep, which is why I’m emailing you instead of calling or texting. My beautiful guy needs his beauty sleep.
Plus, there’s a unique aspect to writing my thoughts that allows me to delve deeper. It’s almost meditative. I hope you don’t mind.
Again, I apologize for needing to cut our earlier phone call short. Things here are hectic, to say the least. In addition to being with Liam at the center, my parents are in over their heads. They’re proud, stoic people who dislike asking for assistance. And I have a propensity to forget to offer. My mother is beside herself that Liam’s landed in such trouble. She doesn’t enjoy talking about drinking or addiction. Of course, Iunderstand these aren’t the most pleasurable topics to discuss, but like it or not, they’re a part of our family’s dynamics.
