Page 10 of Husband of the Year
“Damn microaggressions.”
“Because we’re two men?” I ask.
“No. I mean, maybe that’s part of it.” A slight frown appears on Isabella’s face. “Yes, you’re two men. But one of you is…”
My head spins and the word gets stuck like thick glue, and I clear my throat before it comes out.
“Black.”
My heart races and my mind unravels. I should have said something more at the airport. Or called for help.
“It happens. Often. And a Black man and a white man together. Or even worse, a white woman.” A knowing look overtakes her face. She and Olan were married for years. Of course she understands this.
“Some people are…” She contorts her mouth, trying to find the right word.
“Hateful,” I say.
“Yes. Exactly.”
In bed, Olan gives me a quick kiss and turns the lights off. He hasn’t said a word since he came upstairs and put Illona to bed. Before she left for the last ferry of the night, Isabella reassured me the best thing for me to do was be here for him. Comfort him. She assured me if he wanted to talk more about it, he would. When he’s ready.
“Olan?” I prop myself up on an elbow. He’s got soft music playing, his endless playlist that he keeps tweaking for our lessons. I’m aware of the immense joy these songs bring him, so I’m glad he’s playing them, their familiar tunes creating a comforting atmosphere as we settle in for the night.
“Mmmh.” His tone is low and a sudden swell of wetness overtakes my eyes. The current song fades out and one I’m not familiar with plays. A woman, with a sweet alto, belts, instructing me.
“C’mere.” I open my right arm, inviting him in and he cuddles into my chest.
“Kim Weston,” Olan says. “‘Take Me in Your Arms (Rock Me a Little While)’. Completely underrated.”
With a faster beat than the mood calls for, the music softly fills the room, and listening to Ms. Weston, I do my best to rock Olan softly.
“You know what?” I ask. In the comfort of our bed, we sway to the soothing melody. When I catch a whiff of Olan, with his distinct special sweetness, my heart swells with affection.
“What?”
“I love you.”
I kiss Olan’s hair, pressing in to reach his skull through his mountain of coils.
He tilts his head up, and I’m able to brush my lips on his forehead.
“I love you.” I blink, saying each word quietly, like a peaceful promise. “And I can’t wait to be married to you.”
Olan doesn’t speak. He answers by adjusting himself so we’re able to kiss properly. Olan’s fingers find my cheeks, holding me in place as he presses his mouth on mine. There’s an urgency. A longing. There is nothing I desire more than for him to fully grasp the extent of my love.
He lies on his back, staring at the ceiling, and speaks softly. “I’m an engineer. I have more money than I know what to do with. I’m a good father.”
“Amazing father,” I say.
“I know I’m a good person. But I can’t change the way others see me.”
There’s nothing I can say to make this better, so I simply lean in and press my lips against his, and whisper, “I love you.” I hold his face with my hands, and the need to say it again consumes me. “I love you. I love you. I love you.”
With each phrase, I dot the landscape of his face with my lips, treating every spot of skin like a canvas in a masterpiece.
“I know.” He kisses me gently as his hand moves up and gets lost in my mop of curls. “I love you, too.”
We cuddle and kiss, our hearts beating in unison as we revel in the closeness, pausing only to whisper “I love you” to each other, the words imbued with a warmth that seems to deepen with each repetition. The soft sounds of Detroit’s finest record label fill the room, their melodies weaving through the air like a gentle caress, blending seamlessly with the warmth of our affection, finally lulling us to a peaceful slumber.
