13. Cat-Cow in the Dark
Cat-Cow in the Dark
Wyatt
People talk about sleeping like it’s something passive—you fall asleep or slip into sleep. Even saying people go to sleep makes it sound like a simple travel destination.
Just follow the road map and go to sleep! Hop on that train! One ticket to sleep, coming right up.
But for me, every night is like waging war. My mind against my body. Or me against my mind—I’m not sure.
All I know is that when my head hits the pillow, my brain decides it’s time to wake up. My thoughts won’t quiet, and my limbs hum with restless energy. During the season, it’s not so bad. My physical exhaustion overrides the thoughts.
Now...I can’t run. I can’t even walk without stupid crutches. And knowing my outlet is gone makes me worry more about sleep, which adds fuel to the dumpster bonfire happening in my head every night.
With Josie sleeping in the bedroom just a few steps away, that challenge is multiplied by infinity.
I knew tonight would be worse after Mom’s visit. From the moment I watched her hug Josie practically to death while winking at me over her shoulder, I knew it. The hopefulness in Mom’s beaming smile hit me with crushing force.
I caught a glimpse of what could be. More like...a glimpse of what I want to be.
A giant tease—that’s what it was.
Then there’s the fact that seeing Mom is always bittersweet. It’s impossible to see her without being reminded of my dad and brother.
So it’s no shocker that I’m lying in bed with my brain lit up like Times Square and my limbs twitching with the need to move .
I’m not the only one struggling to fall asleep tonight. At least based on the sounds I can hear through the completely non-soundproof walls.
There’s the frequent squeak of the mattress and now the creak of the floorboards as Josie gets up to go to the bathroom.
I’m grateful for the exhaust fan, which is on its last legs and sounds more like an airplane engine.
The only thing that could make this whole living situation more awkward would be the inability to mask bathroom sounds.
The exhaust fan turns off, and I listen as the door opens, sounding like something ripped straight from a spooky Halloween soundtrack. Maybe Josie wasn’t so far off calling this place a murder cottage.
I can tell she’s trying to pad quietly to her room, but it’s like trying to walk silently across a marble floor wearing tap shoes. Impossible. Every floorboard seems committed to announcing her next step.
Her bed groans and squeaks again as she settles in, and I press the heels of my hands over my eyes. Trying to force them shut. Trying to force myself not to think about my injury. Or my future.
Or Josie.
Squeak. Squeeaaak.
It sounds like she’s violently flailing around in there. And now I’m picturing Josie in bed. I press my hands harder into my eyes until I see stars behind my eyelids.
Squeak. Squeak. Squeak.
“Do you mind keeping it down?” I finally shout, my voice edged with frustration. “Some of us are trying to sleep.”
I hear her quiet laugh. “Yes, some of us are trying to sleep. But it’s impossible to keep it down or sleep in this bed. This mattress is like a giant dog toy.”
Her voice is almost as loud and clear as if we’re in the same room. Note to self: Whether I renovate this house or build a new one in its place, there will be soundproofing. Lots of it.
Squeak.
And better furniture.
I sit up, punching down my pillow. Not because it’s uncomfortable, but because I want to punch something. “A dog toy?”
“Yeah. You know, the ones shaped like a hamburger or a bumblebee or something, and they squeak.”
As though to demonstrate, it sounds like she’s using the bed as a trampoline. Squeak, squeak, squeak, squeak. I half expect to hear the crash of the bed breaking apart and hitting the floor. It holds.
But it does sound like a dog toy.
I want to laugh. But I don’t. Because now, I’m never going to sleep. Not when I know how easy it is to have a conversation with Josie from bed, our voices carrying intimately through the darkness.
“Maybe if you stopped flopping around and tried going to sleep, the squeaking wouldn’t be an issue,” I call.
“Gee, and here I was going to suggest you invest in some new furniture,” she says. “But I’ll go with your suggestion and just try harder to sleep. How’s that working for you, by the way?”
“Every time I drift off, you wake me up with your squeaking.”
“Which is the fault of your mattress,” she says. “Not me.”
“Just try being still.”
There are approximately five seconds of silence. Interrupted by a squeeeeeak and a giggle. “Sorry,” she says. “I tried.”
I groan and swing my legs over the side of my bed.
And not for the first time since my injury, I stand, forgetting about my jacked-up foot.
Pain shoots through my arch, and I quickly lift my foot, then lose my balance in the process, tumbling to the floor.
I’ve barely landed on my knees and palms when Josie bursts through my door. Her hands find my back.
“What’s wrong? Are you okay? What happened?”
I try to shake her off, but she’s as stubborn as a burr, her palms flattening, a warm and comforting press. “Nothing happened. I’m fine.”
And I am. Mostly. The pain in my foot subsided as soon as the weight came off it, but my knees ache from taking the brunt of my fall. And I think I have splinters from the roughed-up hardwood floors.
“Something happened or you wouldn’t be doing cat-cow in the dark,” Josie says.
“Doing what?”
“It’s a stretch. Never mind. Did you fall out of bed?” Josie asks.
“No.”
“But you’re on the floor.”
“Gee, I hadn’t noticed.”
“Save your sarcasm for someone who isn’t trying to help you.”
“I don’t need help.”
“Of course not. You’re doing just fine,” she says.
“I am.”
“Obviously.”
“Who’s being sarcastic now?” I challenge.
“I’ve earned the right to be sarcastic.”
“And I haven’t?”
“No,” Josie practically growls, tucking her hands under my arms like she thinks she can hoist me up that way. When I don’t budge, she leans farther down, her chest against my back as she wraps her arms around my torso and tugs.
And she calls me stubborn.
“Just go,” I tell her. “I can get up by myself.”
“Then why aren’t you? Admit it—you’re just trying to be difficult.”
I don’t admit it. Though it may be true.
She grunts, tugging at me again. “I want to help you get up without injuring yourself even more.”
“You’re more likely to injure yourself trying to help me.”
“Says the man still on his hands and knees on the floor.”
I’m torn between irritation, amusement, and a pull toward Josie I have no business feeling. But it’s hard to suppress anytime she’s close. This feels a thousand times more intimate than when she helped me get into bed or to the car when I was feverish. Maybe because now I’m fully cognizant.
I flush with embarrassment thinking of that day. My memories are hazy, like some kind of drug-induced waking dream. Thankfully, my fever has stayed down since the hospital. Probably because Josie has alarms set on her phone for when I need antibiotics and ibuprofen.
The first time she gave me the meds, she asked me to show her my empty mouth. She’s probably been watching too many movies. I glared and refused until she laughed and walked away.
Now I feel bad. About all of it.
She’s stuck here with me, and I’m being ridiculously, stupidly stubborn. About everything. I can’t even explain why. Am I so desperate for her attention that I’ll even take it in the negative form?
Maybe.
And maybe it’s time I tried something like kindness and reasonableness instead.
Josie’s hands shift on my torso, and I tense. Her fingers have drifted closer than I’d like to the one ticklish spot on my body.
“Stop that,” I growl, already forgetting my resolve to be kinder. The threat of tickling will do that to a person.
She tugs again. “ You stop that.”
“Stop what?”
“Stop being a stubborn oaf!”
“An oaf ?”
“How about you stop fighting and let me help you !”
She gives me another tug, this one more forceful. Her hands move even closer to the spot on my upper ribs.
“Josie,” I grumble, trying to wiggle away while keeping my torso flexed and mentally willing myself not to be ticklish. Mind over matter.
“Wyatt,” she snaps back, her fingers shifting and squeezing. “This is ridiculous. Please just—”
It happens. Her fingers hit the exact spot I hoped they wouldn’t and a giggle bursts out of me. Not a laugh, but a giggle.
I suck in a breath and clench my teeth.
“Did you just—”
“No.”
“But was that—”
“It wasn’t.”
“A giggle . It totally was. You giggled , tough guy.” Josie laughs, and I feel the vibration of it move through me where she’s pressed against my back.
I sit up, taking Josie with me since she’s still latched onto me.
“I did not giggle.”
Her fingers flex, and it happens again. Why am I not laughing like a normal person? Have I ever giggled in my life? I feel certain I have not. And now I can’t stop.
The giggles turn into laughter as Josie’s fingers move and dance over my T-shirt. Normally, I sleep bare chested, but it felt weird to do so with Josie in the house. Now I’m very grateful for even this thin barrier.
Although I have to wonder if she would have come this close or touched me at all if I didn’t have a shirt on. I have a feeling she’d have taken one look at my bare torso and gone running.
That’s the thing about Josie—she’s bold about so many things. Until she isn’t.
Her hands find another spot, then another, moving faster than I can swat them away. I swear she’s all arms. Like an octopus. A relentless one.
“Stop,” I wheeze through a laugh, twisting to catch one of her wrists in my hand.
“Can’t,” she pants, doubling down with her free hand. “Too fun.”
I’ll show her fun.
I’ve been holding back. I mean, the reality is that I’ve got inches and pounds on Josie. Muscles I’ve trained and honed for years in the gym and on the ice. Even with my foot injury, someone like Josie is no match for me.
And I don’t need my foot for this.