Page 65 of Teacher of the Year

“Thank you for coming. Thank you for everything.”

Collected in Olan’s arms, the entire back of my body pressed into the entire front of his, being the little spoon makes my head buzz. I lie there taking it all in, and soon his breathing gets heavy, and there’s a low rumble from his mouth. He’s fallen asleep. I close my eyes and inhale his smell, his warmth, his energy. There’s no denying the intense heat between us, but perhaps, more importantly, our connection. Opening my eyes, I peek at his silhouette in the dark one more time and drift off to the best night’s sleep I’ve had in years.

Chapter21

The rest of the weekend proceeds like a dream. Saturday morning, I wake up alone, but Olan’s warmth lingers next to me. Remembering last night, my body aches for him. Having him inside me. Feeling connected in a way I can’t recall. Falling asleep surrounded by the heat of his body. A deep breath to center myself, a quick prayer of gratitude, and I’m ready to consider abandoning my current cocoon of bliss.

The noises and voices downstairs clue me in. He’s with Illona. Grinding and gurgling noises, the faint aroma of coffee, and something sweet whir my stomach awake. He’s cooking. In addition to everything else, Olan Stone got up to make breakfast. Rolling over to where he slept, I shift my head to his pillow. The faint scent of coconut and shea butter remains, and I breathe it in, wishing I could keep my head here a little longer.

“You up, Marv?” Olan pokes his head in, attempting to whisper but failing miserably.

“Excuse me?”

“Ah, you are up. Illona was asking for you.”

“Did you just call me Marv?”

He looks down with that bashful face, and I know he’s blushing. I want to drag him into bed and kiss every inch of him.

“I like it. It’s… sweet. You’re sweet.”

“Coffee’s brewing. And we’re making waffles. Chocolate chip waffles.”

My stomach gurgles at the mention of food. He turns to head downstairs, and I call out to stop him.

“Olan, wait. What about Illona?”

“What about her? She’s downstairs waiting for you. Us. Get up, lazy bones.”

I wrestle into my orange hoodie and flannel pajama pants and head downstairs. I know Illona knows I’m here. I know she suggested her dad and I share the room. I know all this, yet I have no idea what to expect this morning. At the bottom of the stairs, Illona appears, like a tiger waiting to pounce, throwing her arms around my waist, pressing her head against my side, shouting, “Marvin!”

“Illona, good morning! What’s for breakfast?”

She wears pink and purple fleece pajamas with ponies on them. Two braids lie on either side of her head, and immediately I envision her sitting patiently, her dad carefully tending to her, and again, I am moved by how patient and loving he is with her.

“Waffles! Do you want yours with chocolate chips or without chocolate chips?”

I give her an are-you-seriously-asking-me-this-question? look.

“With chocolate chips!” she shouts to her dad.

“Please, and thank you.”

We sit around the wooden table which is filled with knots that I trace with my fingers, and pour copious amounts of maple syrup over waffles stuffed with chocolate chips. We talk and sing and laugh, and it feels so correct. At one point, Olan reaches over to squeeze my shoulder, and my body stiffens because I’m hyper aware of Illona. She’s caught up singing the latest teen-girl-group sensation power ballad to us. Her eyes land on her father’s hand where it rests on her teacher’s body and she doesn’t flinch. She simply keeps singing. For the first time in a long time, I feel safe. Right. Worthy. Hopeful. Loved.

* * *

The weekend continues to play out like the love collage in a sappy romantic movie. We take walks, have another picnic, and introduce Illona toThe Muppet Movie. Her face and reactions when Kermit rides his bicycle are priceless. On Saturday afternoon, we take the golf cart to the convenience shop for more coffee because Olan underestimated how much coffee a queer Jewish kindergarten teacher spending a long weekend with a student and her phenomenally handsome father drinks. As we exit the store, a strange voice calls, “Olan! Buddy!”

“Ralph, I forgot you live on the island full time,” Olan says as they shake hands.

An older gentleman, easily in his late sixties, Ralph wears what appears to be the island uniform: an old baseball hat, old flannel, old jeans, and old sneakers. Peaks Island – where everything’s old… but in a quaint isle way.

“Yeah, I’m over on Reed Ave., the far side. And who is this?” He’s looking down at Illona, who’s grasping her father’s hand and standing slightly behind his long legs.

“This is Illona.”

“Oh, I’ve heard all about you. It’s so lovely to finally meet you!”

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