Page 7 of Husband of the Year
“For being such a…”
“Nerd. I know.” Olan points to himself, and I nestle my face into the crook of his neck.
“My nerd. My fiancé nerd. Future husband nerd.” My hands travel to his chest, delighted by the firmness of his pecs. “Nerdy love of my life, nerd.”
Olan captures my lips in a tender, fervent kiss, the lingering taste of the ocean salt still vivid between us. We lie side by side beneath the vast, twinkling expanse of the night sky, each star a distant witness to our closeness. The gentle rhythm of our breathing and the whisper of the waves create a serene backdrop as we bask in the cocoon of our love and the promise of our future together.
CHAPTER THREE
Some people say the bigger seats, stream of drinks and snacks, and constant doting from the flight attendants in first class are nothing more than an overpriced, unnecessary luxury. Those people are wrong.
As a teacher, I’ve never had much disposable income for flying. And when I do, I’m typically in the back of the plane—near the bathroom and galley, where the flight attendants sit and make small talk with each other. But Olan insisted I’d enjoy first class. There’s a dedicated flight attendant, and it appears his only job is our comfort.
Staring out the window, a blanket of clouds covering the ocean below, my mind swirls with thoughts of the plane. How does a giant hunk of metal filled with people and all their luggage stay up in the sky? Exactly where are the rafts if the plane goes down and manages to land on water? Was the flotation device I’m supposed to use under my seat, or is it my actual seat cushion? Do I blow into the tube to inflate it inside the plane or wait until I’m drifting on the sea full of ravenous sharks? How will the flight attendant get an infant life vest to the poor woman sitting in the back of the plane with her newborn?
Olan gently takes my hand. His strong fingers squeeze mine, and he pulls it toward his lips for a kiss.
“You okay?”
“Fine. Totally fine,” I say, biting my lower lip.
“Marvin. Look at me.”
I do as I’m told, and yup, the mere sight of his face puts me at ease.
“Take a deep breath with me,” he says.
I watch his face and follow when he purses his lips, pulling air in and then pushing it out slowly, all while never letting go of my hand.
“Better?” he asks.
I nod and offer a small smile.
“Illona will be excited to see us,” he says.
“Not as excited as Gonzo.”
“Nobody will be more excited than Isabella,” Olan says, and we both laugh. She loves the bonus time with Illona, but she’s purely a good sport about taking care of Gonzo. There’s a reason Olan and Illona never had animals. Isabella Stone is not a pet person.
“Close your eyes. I’m right here.” Olan lifts my hand and tugs it close to his chest. The thumping of his heart beats against my fingers, and my eyes shut. As long as we’re together, I’ll be okay. He’s got me.
Apparently, when you return to the United States, the government has intricate forms for you to fill out. And questions to ask. And people to ask them.
Olan and I stand in line at Boston’s Logan Airport, waiting our turn to clear customs. We each have a duffel slung over our shoulder, the only luggage we brought because Olan assured me we’d be naked or in our bathing suits most of the time. He was correct. As the line moves, we get closer to the agent, and there’s something about his face that throws me. He’s a young white man, maybe in his mid-twenties, with a buzz cut and a clean-shaven, severe jawline. The TSA uniform hugs his muscularbody, and in the time I’ve been watching him, I’ve yet to see even a hint of a smile on his face.
“Do we go up together or on our own?” I ask Olan when there’s only one person in front of us.
“Together.” Olan shifts his bag and throws his shoulders back. “They speak to the entire party that’s traveling together.”
“Oh. Okay.”
I’d noticed families going up together, but Olan and I aren’t family. Yet. We’re not married. And there’s the fact that we’re two men. Even once married, would everyone consider us family? Does the agent know we’re gay? Does he care? Does it matter? Of course, the minute we walk up to the agent together, he’ll know. Won’t he? There’s no way Olan and I are brothers. We could be friends. Or work colleagues. Traveling together. From Mexico. Yeah, not likely.
It’s our turn. We walk up silently, and Mr. TSA says, “Passports, please.”
Olan hands him our documents and I stand slightly behind, letting him take the lead. It’s one in a long list of my favorite ways Olan takes care of me.
“Traveling together?” The agent’s eyes don’t leave our passports and the paperwork Olan handed over.
