Page 49 of Husband of the Year
That email from Olan gutted me in the best possible way. Like his father, Olan’s not a man of many words. He talks to me when we’re alone, often avoiding eye contact when he’s spilling his most vulnerable feelings. But his past, his family, and his addiction are topics he doesn’t bring up often. What I know is culled together from small bits and pieces he’s shared and information from Isabella, who tries her hardestto remember she’s Olan’s ex first and my friend second but often blurs the line.
I knew Olan’s relationship with his parents was complicated, especially with his mother, but he never told me about the time he tried to make amends or her reaction. The pieces of Olan Stone are slowly revealing themselves. In time, with more information, maybe I can understand more about his relationship with his family—and more about him.
My arm wraps around Illona, pulling her close. Having her near, a piece of her father, really does comfort my soul. We’re bonding over missing him.
“Your dad told me to give you this,” I say, leaning over and kissing the top of her head.
Isabella texted early this morning. Illona wanted to meet at the ferry dock so we could take the bus to school together. Isabella braided her hair over the weekend, and I’ve located a smooth spot to plant a kiss.
“Well, this is from him to you,” she says.
Illona turns her head and plants a smooch right on my lips. I close my eyes and let the pure love from Olan’s daughter ground me. Vincent calls her “the sweetest angel,” and he couldn’t be more correct.
“When did you talk to him?” I ask.
“Over the weekend. It was quick. But he told me to give both Mommy and you a kiss.”
I squeeze her a little tighter, thankful she remembered.
“But, you know, even if he hadn’t asked me to, I would have.”
The smile that blooms on my face could melt the polar ice caps. Illona’s face mirrors mine, and I give the top of her head another peck.
When we arrive at Pelletier, I leave Illona in my classroom with her journal and a variety of pens and markers and head over to check in with my work wife.
“The cat is away,” Jill says, counting out construction paper for one of her infamous craftivities. “Did the mouse play?”
“If by play you mean staying in bed most of the weekend snuggling with Gonzo, then yes. The mouse had a fucking fiesta.”
“Did Maria wear your ass out that much?” Jill pinches her face, waiting for my reply.
There’s no way I’m admitting how over my head I was. And I figured it out with a little help. Plus, I know she’ll ask again, and I want to be there for her. I’ve learned my lesson. No matter what little lost lamb cuteness Maria attempts, one cookie. Period.
“No, no. It wasn’t that at all,” I say. “I just felt… meh. Like when you’ve been waiting the entire episode for the lip sync onDrag Raceand neither queen knows the words.”
“Gosh, if Nick took Maria away for the weekend, I’d be in heaven. The entire house to myself?? I’d order takeout, take a bath, and binge regency romances with hunky men dressed in tailcoats. Wait, I’d eat the takeout in the bath while binging dreamy historical men on my laptop. I’ve yet to see a single episode of any of the new shows. Maria prefers Bluey.”
“You know, I’m happy to watch her anytime,” I say. I puff my chest out a little, reminding myself I actually enjoyed myself once she settled down from the cookie fiasco.
“I know. And I will definitely take you up on that. Nick and I needed that night out.” Jill raises her eyebrows and smirks.
“Hell yeah, you did,” I say, pleased my babysitting allowed my friend to get some.
“You’ve missed the baby and toddler stages with Illona,” she says. “You’re always busy doing something for them—getting a snack, cleaning up from a snack, laundry from the mess the snacks create. So much fucking laundry. Sometimes I feel like I work in a laundromat. And not the cute kind where kinky antics happen in the back room. The kind where you simply have an endless mountain of clothes to wash and fold. I swear she’s so small. And one child. I’m not sure how she produces so much laundry. But she does.”
“Yeah, Illona is fairly independent. She’s been like that since kindergarten. I think she gets that from Olan. She wants her bedtime story. To be tucked in. She needs to eat, obviously, but she’s not picky. And she helps me fold the laundry.” I smile, showing all my teeth, waiting for Jill to smack me.
“Well, I have something to look forward to.”
“And you have Nick to help,” I offer.
“Yeah, he barely knows how to use the washing machine. He ruined Maria’s favorite blanket by washing it on the regular cycle. With bleach. Part of me wonders if he did it on purpose, so he’d get out of helping with the laundry.”
“Just show him how to do it correctly.”
Jill snaps her head back, giving me her patented “Are you fucking serious?” look I know all too well.
“I’ve gotten him to stop throwing his own clothes on the floor. I’m taking the wins where I can.”
