Page 8 of Husband of the Year
“Yes, sir.” Olan’s voice comes out louder than I’m used to.
“Where are you flying from?”
“Cancún, Mexico.”
The agent’s eyes dart up, scanning Olan, me, and back to Olan. I’m not sure what he’s looking for, but my skin crawls as he studies us with his slightly squinted eyes.
“How long were you out of the country?”
“Five days.” Olan’s never a man of many words, but my throat constricts with his particularly clipped answers.
The agent scours us with his eyes. Then, back to the paperwork. He types something on his computer without returning his gaze to us.
“Sir. Mr.”—he reads my passport—“Block. Welcome home. You can wait over there.” He nods to a cluster of metal benches. “Mr. Stone, come this way.”
There are two more agents. I’m not sure where they came from—they seem to have materialized out of thin air.
“Keep your bag with you,” one of the new scary agents says. Her hair is pulled back into a tight ponytail.
“Should I come—” I begin, but Olan interrupts.
“Marvin. Wait there. I’ll be right back.”
I walk to the bench, a knot tying in my stomach, as I watch Olan escorted by the two agents. They turn a corner and he’s gone.
My hand wanders into my pocket and checks for my phone. Yup, it’s there. Maybe I should call Isabella. No, Jill. She could be here in an hour if she drove fast. Jill Kim will know what to do. She’s not only my work wife and best friend, she knows how to handle the toughest situations at school. If you can manage a kindergartner refusing to come down from the jungle gym, you can handle two menacing TSA agents. Why did they take him and not me? What do they think we were doing in Mexico?
I’m staring at the contacts on my phone. Isabella. Jill. Sarah Block. Yes, I have my mother’s full name instead of “mom” in my contacts. What if I call someone and they come for me? What are they asking him? Doing to him? My head feels light and I take a deep breath and remind myself I’m safe. Olan needs me to be calm. Cool. Collected. Fuck. I’m none of those things. Ever.
Olan drove us here in his fancy James Bond car and, even though I’m a capable grown-up, I’m not sure I could get the damn thing started. And the parking garage ticket is in his wallet. Would they let me out of the lot without it? Of course they would. They’re not going to hold me hostage in Olan’s fancy-pants Aston Martin for all eternity. But I’m not driving back to Portland without him. No way. He’s driving. He has the ticket. And the car keys. And he’s… Olan. Fuck. Tears sting thecorners of my eyes, and I close them, breathing deeply. My fingers reach for my temple and, using my index and middle fingers, I tap quickly the way Erika showed me. Five taps near my eyebrow. Five under my eye. Five on my collarbone. Combined with deep breathing and my anxiety might lower a notch. If not, I’ll repeat. Erika truly was the ideal therapist for me, a perfect match. Why’d she have to go and retire? Didn’t she know it took me my entire life and four failed therapists to find her? She knew. Because I told her.
Counting to twelve, I move to my clavicle and repeat. Am I calmer? Marginally. Another deep breath, in through my nose and out through my mouth, and I open my eyes.
And then I see him. Olan. Alone. Walking toward me like nothing happened. His lips pulled in, but a hint of a smile on his gorgeous face.
“Are you okay?” I leap to my feet and wrap my arms around his torso, pulling him close, wanting to check him for any harm.
“What happened? What did they want?”
“Marvin. Babe. I’m fine.”
“What happened?”
“They just had a few questions about what we were doing in Mexico.”
“We were on vacation. Fucking. Daily. Did you tell them that?” A fire ignites in my belly now that he’s safe with me. “Why didn’t they ask me? Why only you?”
“It’s random.” Olan’s gaze darts up for a split second and he shrugs. “They’re just doing their job.” He takes my hand, pulling me toward the exit. “I’m used to it.”
“Used to it? Used to what?”
“Marvin. Please. Not now. I’m tired. Let’s go home.” Olan’s eyes find mine, and a pleading stirs behind them.
“Okay.” I take his hand, right in the middle of Logan airport, and I hope the agent sees. Olan walks a half step in front of me, an eagerness to leave propelling him toward the parking garage.
As soon as we’re on the highway, Olan flips a switch on the steering wheel, and “My Girl” blasts through the speakers. There’s no lesson. No information about the artist, songwriters, or chart history from him. I simply listen as I stare out the window. Clouds stretch across the sky, casting a shadow, but The Temptations insist there’s sunshine behind the overcast sky, and a bittersweet atmosphere lingers as we drive home in silence, accompanied only by the comforting sounds of Olan’s Motown playlist.
CHAPTER FOUR
