Yep... and Michael plans to fix up things with Cat

Dear Michael,

The couch, it turns out, is not bad.

I don't want to say it was the best sleep of my life, because that would be disloyal to my wife, and to our mattress, which we picked out together at Costco after lying on eleven different ones in front of strangers. But I woke up at seven feeling like someone had unplugged me and plugged me back in. No back pain. No Catherine stealing the blanket. Just me, the hum of the fridge, and a few chip crumbs I'd missed when I cleaned up.

I lay there for a while thinking about last night. I lost a bet. I yelled "that's bullshit" in my own living room. I let a man take his pants off in front of my wife and then let him take my side of the bed. And worst of all, I went to sleep without saying goodnight to her. In eight years, I think that's happened twice, and both times there was a flight involved.

So I decided this morning was going to be a reset. I was going to be the best husband in the world. And the best husbands, in my experience, bring coffee.

I used the good beans from the Christmas gift basket, the ones we were "saving." I ground them by hand so the grinder wouldn't wake anyone. Oat milk and one sugar for Catherine, in her favorite mug, the one that says WORLD'S OKAYEST EVENT PLANNER. Black for Brady, in a plain white one, because I'd decided I was going to be the bigger man about all this. And I'd get mine after. I only have two hands.

I walked down the hall slowly so I wouldn't spill. I was rehearsing what I'd say. "Good morning, sunshines" felt like too much. "Rise and shine" felt like my dad. I landed on "Coffee's here," which is simple and friendly and doesn't take a position on anything.

The door was open a crack. I could hear Catherine snoring.

I should explain that Catherine snores. Not loudly. It's a little whistle on the inhale, like a teakettle that isn't quite ready. I've never told her, because she would be mortified. She thinks she's a silent sleeper. I think it's one of the cutest things about her, and I've lain awake listening to it more nights than I'd admit, even to you.

I nudged the door with my foot and it swung open.

I'm going to describe this in order, the way my eyes saw it, because my therapist says that when something is overwhelming you should break it into pieces.

Piece one: the duvet was on the floor. All of it, in a heap at the foot of the bed, like they'd kicked it off in the night. I remember thinking, good, at least nobody was cold.

Piece two: Catherine's face. She was on her side, facing the door, facing me. Her sleep mask had slipped back on her head so a little brown hair was poking out the front. Her mouth was open, and she was whistling, and she looked so peaceful that for a second that was all I saw.

Piece three: the arm. Brady's arm was draped over her from behind, thick as one of our dining chair legs, and it went down across her body and disappeared under the front of the cat shirt. The shirt was bunched up over his forearm, so the front of her was pulled up to her ribs and the soft little curve of her tummy was showing. And where his arm ended, his hand was cupping her left breast. Not near it. On it. Holding it the way you hold a grapefruit at Safeway to see if it's ripe, the whole weight of it sitting in his palm, his thumb resting right on her nipple through nothing at all.

Piece four: their legs. One of Brady's tree-trunk legs was thrown over both of hers, pinning her down. Her plaid pajama pants had slid down far enough in the night that I could see the top of her ass, pale and soft.

Piece five: I almost didn't write this down. Brady's boxers had shifted, or come open, or whatever happens to boxers. He was out. All of him, hard, pressed flat against the small of her back. The only thing between it and my wife was a thin layer of faded cotton and a cartoon cat.

My first thought, and I'm not proud of it, was that it was even bigger than I remembered from the living room. My second thought was that this wasn't a helpful thought. My third thought was that the cat on her shirt seemed to be looking right at me.

I stood in the doorway holding two mugs of coffee and did nothing. My therapist would call that pausing before reacting but I'd call it standing there like a dope.

Here are the options I considered, in order:

1. Back out quietly and pretend I never saw anything. (Coward's option. Also, the coffee would get cold.)
2. Yell. (Not who I am. Also, Brady has anger issues he's working on, and I didn't want to set him back.)
3. Wake her up gently, like a husband.

I went with three. I set the mugs down on her dresser, on top of a bridal magazine, and stepped closer. A floorboard creaked under my foot, and something strange happened that I only noticed later: Brady's snoring stopped. Just for a second. Then it started again, slower and deeper than before.

"Hey, babe?" I whispered.

Nothing but light snoring.

Then Brady's thumb moved. Slowly, in a little circle, the way you'd rub a worry stone. In his sleep, obviously.

And Catherine sighed. It was a long, soft, low sigh, and I know that sigh. It's the Sunday-morning sigh, the no-alarm sigh. Without waking, she pushed back into him, slow, the way she pushes back into me when we don't have anywhere to be.

I'd like to think she was dreaming about me.

"Honey," I said, a little louder.

She stirred. Her eyebrows did a little frown. "Mmm," she said, eyes still closed. "Five more minutes, Mikey." And she reached back blindly with one hand and patted Brady's hip, twice, exactly the way she pats mine. "You're so warm."

"Oh, umm, I'm over here," I said urgently.

Her eyes opened.

I watched her do the math, and it took a while, because she's not a morning person. She looked at me at the foot of the bed. Michael is over there. She looked down at the arm across her body. Then at the hand. Then, very slowly, she reached behind her, with the same hand that had just patted his hip, and her fingers found the thing pressed against her back.

She froze.

Then she screamed. Catherine doesn't really have a big scream in her, so it was a short, sharp "AH!", like she'd touched a hot pan, and she launched herself off the bed. She didn't climb out. She launched, like a cat that's just seen a cucumber. For a second the hand came with her, still attached, and dragged the cat shirt all the way up to her chin. For one full second, everything was out and bouncing in front of both of us, until his hand finally let go and flopped back onto the mattress. Her foot caught in the duvet on the floor. She went down on one knee, popped back up, yanked her shirt down so hard I heard a seam go, grabbed the duvet, and backed into the closet door so hard the mirror rattled.

"Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God."

She was breathing like she'd sprinted up a hill, the duvet clutched to her chin, her eyes enormous.

And Brady woke up.

I want to describe this accurately too. He went from snoring to sitting bolt upright in one motion, with a huge gasp, like a man pulled out of a frozen lake. His arms flew out to the sides. He looked left. He looked right. "WHAT? Where— where am I?"

I thought that was strange, since he's been sleeping here two nights. But I guess when you sleep that deeply you lose track of things. I'm a light sleeper so maybe I just wouldn’t understand. Catherine says I wake up if a moth lands on the window.

He just sat there, still completely out, sticking straight up like a flagpole, hands thrown wide. He looked at Catherine against the closet. He looked at me. He did not look down.

"Guys," he said, blinking. "What happened?"

For a second, nobody answered. Then Catherine opened her mouth.

"You— um." She swallowed. She was trying to be polite. I could see her trying. My wife was backed into a corner holding a duvet, and she was still searching for a nice way to say it. "Your hand was— it was kind of— and your, um. Your… friend. It was— on my— it was very close to my— I'm sorry, I don't want to make this a whole thing—"

"DUDE," I said. "You were groping my wife in your sleep!"

I don't know where it came from. It just came out, loud, louder than I've ever said anything in this house. My voice cracked on "sleep," but still. I said it.

Brady's eyes went wide. Slowly, very slowly, he looked down at his right hand like it belonged to somebody else. He held it up in front of his face and turned it over. Then he finally looked down at the rest of himself. "Oh," he said. "Oh, shit."

He didn't grab a pillow right away. He kind of glanced around for one, the way you look for your keys when you're not in a hurry. Finally I picked my pillow up off the floor and threw it at him. He caught it and set it in his lap.

That's when I felt Catherine move. She'd come out of her corner and was standing behind me, one hand holding onto the back of my shirt. I'm going to be honest, Michael. For one second, I felt like I'd won something. My wife was in trouble, and she came and stood behind me.

"Cat." Brady put his hand over his heart. The hand. "I am so sorry. That's not me. That's not who I am. I would never, ever touch a woman without permission. Unless I'm asleep, which, legally, I'm pretty sure is different."

"It's— okay," Catherine said from behind me.

It's not okay! I wanted to say. But Catherine is one of the nicest people I know. It’s part of why I loved her so much. But sometimes she was too nice. Heck, I’ve even seen her say "it's okay" to waiters who spill soup on her.

"And honestly?" Brady went on. "No disrespect, Mikey. But if my hand was gonna do something stupid, at least it's got taste. Those are elite, Cat. Top five I've ever seen, and I've seen a lot. Kayleigh paid six grand for hers and they still weren't in your league."

"Oh," Catherine said. "Um. Thank you?"

"Brady!" I said.

"What?" He looked genuinely hurt. "I'm complimenting her. You don't want your wife complimented? That's cold, man."

I didn't have an answer for that. I never have an answer for that.

He spotted the dresser. "Is that coffee?"

It was. I handed him the black one. I don't know why. My hands just did it.

He took a long sip, sighed, and stared down into the mug. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter. "I owe you guys an explanation. It's a Kayleigh thing."

"Who's Kayleigh?" I asked. It came out cold, and I wasn't sorry.

"My ex. We were together three years." He paused. "She was a model."

"Oh," Catherine said behind me, in spite of herself. "Like, runway?"

"Like the Jiffy Lube calendar. Miss March. She also did a Monster Energy event at the speedway one time. She had forty thousand followers on Instagram." Another pause. "Like eleven of those were me. Different accounts. I was her biggest supporter."

Behind me, I felt Catherine bite back a laugh. Her grip on my shirt tightened.

"And I treated her like a queen," Brady said. "Every day I made her a sandwich. Every single day, Cat. Footlong. Do you know what that adds up to, even with the employee discount?" He shook his head. "And I let her pay for everything. Rent. Groceries. My truck payment. Because I'm a feminist. I believe in women making their own money. And I didn't ask for much in return. Basic stuff. Dinner on the table. Quiet during games. Sex four or five times a day, because a man has needs, and a woman has needs, and honestly I was mostly taking care of hers."

Catherine made a small sound. I couldn't tell what it was.

"Then one day she says I never listen. Which is crazy, because I don't remember her ever saying that. She says I'm emotionally unavailable. Cat, I’m very emotionally available. I cried at Fast Five. Twice. In theaters. And she had the audacity to say I needed to get a real job, a 'job job,' like sandwich artistry isn't a calling." He was getting worked up now, gesturing with the coffee. "And then there was the thing with her sister."

"Her sister?" Catherine said.

"They're twins. Kayleigh and Kaylee. One of them's got two e's. So, they’re basically the same person." He spread his hands. "So technically? Faithful."

"Oh my gosh," Catherine whispered behind me. I reached back and squeezed her hand. Finally, I thought. We're on the same page. This guy is a disaster.

"I forgot her birthday three years in a row," Brady went on, "but in my defense, she kept having it on a different day of the week." He took another sip. "And then one day I come home from a double shift. Four hours, back to back, no break. And all my stuff is on the front lawn. In trash bags." His voice wobbled. "That's where the bag's from. The one in your guest room. That's my whole life in there. And she kept the dog. I named that dog. Brady Junior." His chin started to tremble. "And you know what she renamed him?"

Nobody said anything.

"Chad."

That's when Catherine let go of my shirt.

"Oh, you poor thing," she gasped. She came around me and sort of collapsed onto the edge of the bed, right next to him, one hand pressed to her heart and the other on his knee. The duvet slid off one shoulder. "Brady. That's horrible."

I stood there by the dresser with nothing in my hands. I wasn’t sure what exactly I was feeling but it wasn’t great.

"It's whatever," Brady said, staring into his coffee, his voice rough. "It's fine. It's just, we were together all the time, you know? All the time. And every night, after, I'd fall asleep holding her exactly like that. That was our thing. It was the only time she'd stop talking and just let me hold her." He wiped his nose on his sleeve, just like at church. "And I guess my hands still don't know she's gone. My whole body doesn't know. I wake up and reach for her, and she's not there, and I'm on some guy's mattress, and…" He stopped. "I'm gonna go. I'll sleep in my car. You guys have been way too good to me, and I ruin everything. That's what she said, too."

"No," Catherine said. "Brady, no. Stop it. You're not sleeping in your car."

"Cat, I was all over you—"

"You were asleep." Her voice had changed completely. It was the church voice, the one for people who come in out of the rain. She was rubbing his knee in little circles now, the way she rubs my back when I can't sleep. "Honestly? I don't mind. It was an accident. And I'm sorry I screamed. I was just startled." She shook her head slowly. "Three years, and she put your things on the lawn. That's so hard. I can't even imagine."

Then she looked up at me. This time it wasn't the help look. It was one I'd never seen before, and it meant: back me up.

"I—" I said. "I mean, it's— yeah, nobody wants you in your car. I just think maybe, if there were, like, a pillow in between, or some kind of system—"

"Mikey." Brady looked up at me with those green eyes, red-rimmed and wet. "What would you do if Cat left you?"

I didn't say anything.

"If you came home and all your stuff was on the lawn. And now you're sleeping on some guy's couch with your whole life in a trash bag, and your body still reaches for her every night." He swallowed. "You'd be devastated, man. Have a little empathy."

Catherine nodded slowly, sympathetically, her hand still on his knee. Then she looked at me, sad and a little disappointed, like I'd stepped on a puppy and hadn't even noticed.

And the thing is, Michael, he was right. I would be devastated. If she left me, I'd reach for her in my sleep for years. I'd probably grab whatever was there.

"…Yeah," I said. "Yeah. No, you're right. I'm sorry, man."

Brady let out a long breath, like he'd been holding it the whole time. "Thanks, bro. Means a lot. Seriously." He raised the coffee toward me like a toast.

Catherine set the new rule right there on the edge of the bed, in her calm, organized vendor voice. "Okay. If it happens again, it happens. It's not like he means it. I'll just move it."

"And Mikey's bringing coffee every morning," Brady said, "so he can wake us up before it gets weird." He pointed the mug at me. "You're the alarm clock, bro. Big responsibility."

Catherine laughed. Brady laughed. I laughed too.

"Honey," Catherine said, "could you start breakfast? He needs protein. He's been through a lot."

So I went. At the end of the hall, I looked back. She was still sitting on the edge of the bed in her cat shirt, one hand on his knee, nodding while he talked to her quietly. He had his hand on her lower back. Comforting her, I think, for comforting him.

She came out twenty minutes later and kissed my cheek while I flipped the bacon. "That was really big of you," she whispered.

So I guess it was.

For the record, here's where we landed. The hand is an accident. Accidents aren't anybody's fault. I'm the alarm clock. And tomorrow I'm bringing coffee again.

I'm not totally sure when "before it gets weird" is. I guess I'll find out at 6:45am tomorrow.

Sincerely,
Michael