Sleep at Night

“When I move out in two years I know you’ll miss me.”

I said to JC, my roommate/ex-husband, over a glass of wine on the porch.

“As if you’re moving out. Where would you even go?”

JC scoffs, as if he knows something I don’t know.

Getting back together was never the plan when I moved in with him last year. It was temporary, it’s always been temporary, right?

Is there a world where we slowly slip back into our marriage? Like how we’ve accidentally started sleeping in the same bed again this week.

I hate to admit this but I haven’t slept this good in a decade. Cuddled up under a weighted blanket and our twelve-year-old Golden doodle, Goldie Hawn. I only wake up once, maybe twice, to reach over the pillow barricade between us — punch JC in the arm and demand he stop snoring.

Is this what I’ve missed sleeping alone for the last ten years or with a child who refused to sleep in his own bed?

Besides the snoring, it’s been kinda … nice.

JC fills up my water and puts my phone on the charger, like in our early days of dating.

When you first start sleeping next to someone new, it’s brutal. Recently, I spent a Sleepless (three nights) in Seattle, not the fun kind either.

Every time one of you moves an inch, the other one wakes up. A lot of shifting, adjusting, readjusting. It’s a delicate dance of cuddling then rolling away, but still touching enough to let them know you’re not rejecting them, you just need to get some fucking ZZZ’s.

Having a new boyfriend is like having a new baby. Lots of eating, crying, and very little sleeping.

When JC and I first started having sleepovers it was much of the same. Anytime I would move even the tiniest amount JC would sit straight up in bed and ask

“Candy are you ok?! Do you need me to drive you home?”

I would always decline his sweet offer and stay as still as humanly possible for the remainder of the evening. In hindsight, JC, who works seven twelve-hour days per week, was probably desperate to drive me home at 4 AM so he could get some freakin’ sleep.

I refused to be the girl who had her parents pick her up in the middle of the night from a sleepover (I was totally that girl). Still sometimes, I wish I could have my mom pull-up and whisk me on outta here, then I remember — I live here and I am the mom.

One weekend during our first month of dating, as JC and I tucked into bed, I gave myself a pep talk.

“Light as a feather, stiff as a board. Don’t you move a muscle, Candy Downs. You let this poor man get some sleep.”

It worked, for him … not for me.

Staring at the ceiling I wondered how long I could live without sleep. I worked up the nerve to ever so gently reach for my glass of water, trying not to wake him. I took a sip and when I carefully set the cup down on the nightstand, JC sat up and at full volume announced

“I put two horse tranquilizers in your water.”

I froze, waiting for my impending death.

“The shed has four walls, I put a stool out there for you to sit on.”

I knew this man was too good to be true, he’s drugged me and is going to chain me up in his woodshed. I was reaching for my phone to call the police when I heard a loud snore, JC mumble something else, roll over, and continue sleeping.

I was relieved he was finally getting some rest, even if his sleep talking was something straight out of a horror film.

I poured my own water from then on.

Last night I asked JC if we should stay together, because I am tired of dating and just plain tired. He said …

“That’s not interesting for your readers, Candy!”

So to everyone who’s asked me lately why we haven’t gotten back together, you have JC to thank for that.

He’s doing it for the plot.