Dear Michael,
Catherine and I have been living together for eight years. We lived up north in the foggy valleys near the ocean, in a quiet town that might one day be used for some hit Netflix show. Just about everybody knew each other, or at least it was impossible to go the whole day out of the house and not recognize someone that you might’ve gone to high school with, or a teacher who is now retired and working at Ari’s grocery.

My therapist told me that writing this journal to myself might help me to deal with some of the issues that I’ve been having lately in my life. Although, I don’t really want to call them issues because I don’t want to overreact. In fact, that’s the last thing I want to do, as I’ve always prided myself on being a rather calm and “go with the flow” person. That’s actually one of the main qualities that made me and Catherine fall in love in high school.

In the words of the famous Taylor Swift song, she was cheer captain and I was on the bleachers. It was love at first sight—at least for one of us. She had straight brunette hair, hazel eyes, one of those beautiful noses that ends rather quickly and cutely like a button. Not to mention, she had one of those relaxed hourglass figures that you just have to be born with. I never thought a girl like that would even glance in my direction.

But we got paired together for a tough assignment. I thought I was going to be carrying us because she was the “dumb cheerleader,” but I found myself playing catch-up most of the time. After five or six study dates, we dropped the word “study” and kept seeing each other. We managed to survive the treacherous nature of long distance.

To my absolute shock, eight years later, we’re still together in our new home. She’s working as an event planner full-time, and I am doing some insurance thing with a big insurance company. My job varies a lot from day to day, so I’m not going to bother to give the official title because it really has nothing to do with the amount of contracts, Excel sheets, and pointless meetings that I have to attend. But it pays the bills, allows us to eat decently well at home (I love to cook), and, of course, the occasional trip to Disney World, Universal, and—with a nice enough bonus—maybe abroad.

So, you’re probably thinking, That sounds like a pretty nice life. Or, That sounds boring as hell. Michael, why are you keeping a diary of your super normal, absolutely boring, perfect life? Why are you hiding the fact that you’re going to therapy from your wife, whom you love and would never lie to?

Well, even though all of what I said is true, there is one thorn that has been consistently in my side for even longer than I’ve known Catherine. That thorn’s name is Brady. Brady was our star quarterback, a common volunteer at the church bake sales, and the most conventionally handsome person at our school. He was also my bully. It wasn’t just your typical old-fashioned bullying either; though there was a lot of shoving and knocking things out of my hand, there was a lot of cyber stuff, too—like photoshopping a picture of me onto a cow just because I had a slight tummy, or spreading a rumor around the school that I had a small penis. Super original; the guy was a real genius. Which is exactly why he went to the community college and ended up failing out of becoming a plumber. Until recently, the last I’d heard of him, he was working as a sandwich maker at a local Subway, where he was sleeping with the younger staff members.

I know the main reason he was pissed at me was because I managed to start dating Catherine, and he hated me for it. She went to almost everything he did, they grew up in the same rich neighborhood, and obviously, she was the cheer captain and he was the quarterback; I think in his head, it was destined to be. He got every other girl, but he never got my Catherine.

In college, he would occasionally send me some shitty text—I assume from a drunken night—and I never even blocked him because I figured I was giving him power that way.

And that leads us to now, where me and Catherine regularly volunteer at church in a local program they have where they help people who are in between homes and can’t afford a hotel because of job prospects. The idea is that the longer we can keep people off of the street, the more likely they are to stay stable and become full-functioning members of society. Hell, I wasn’t even religious, but the idea of helping people out is always appealing.

Yesterday, Brady showed up at church. He was just in a pair of worn blue jeans, Nikes that he probably got his senior year, and a thick green sweater. His hair was long and disheveled, accompanied by a beard which covered up most of his face. His eyes were still a beautiful green color and he was still very tall, but he looked kind of sad, like a wounded animal, as he approached our table. We were running the sign-ups for the program at the time.

“Hey, Brady! Hey, Catherine! Long time no speak, huh?” He smiled. I hated to admit it, but despite his body not being where it was at its peak, a lack of money, and a disheveled appearance, he still looks handsome. I looked to my Catherine, but she looked completely unaffected by his charms, as she always had been.

“Yeah, been a while,” I said, without much interest in talking to him.

“How are you doing, Brady?” Catherine added.

“To be honest,” he started tearing up and used his sleeve to wipe off some excess snot that was starting to form at the base of his nose. His voice shook as he continued, “Not very good. After high school, I got mixed up with some bad things and some bad investments. My parents passed away and it turns out that they were committing tax evasion, so we lost everything there—”

I felt bad for him, but it was also kind of embarrassing to see someone so large and proud break down like this. Don’t get me wrong, I fully believe men should be able to cry openly, but I can’t say I didn’t take some satisfaction. Me and Catherine just sat behind our desk, holding our pencils and the forms that were needed to sign up.

“Anyways, I’m sorry. I really want to apologize for how I treated you in high school, Michael. That wasn’t cool of me. I was just doing it because I didn’t get enough attention at home. Ahhhh!” He let out a scream into the air.

I jumped up from my chair to hold him so that he wouldn’t grab the attention of the entire church-going population, but it was too late as everyone turned to look at us as I held my former bully who was a whole foot taller than me. “Please stop.” Catherine gave me that look of, Oh my gosh. What is going on?

In return, I gave her a classic, Leave it to old Mikey C.

“Hey buddy,” I said, “you’re clearly going through something very serious. So how about we get you connected to the mental support services we have here, right? Doesn’t that sound nice?”

His eyes turned to mine, panicked. “No! No, no, no.” He got closer to the table, putting both of his hands on it and pushing me away. “I came to you guys because you’re the only ones I trust. I just need a place to stay for a week, that’s it.”

I moved back to my seat as Catherine continued, “Well Brady, we’d love to help you. Just fill out this form for us and we’ll find a suitable host that can accommodate your needs.” Her voice is so sweet; honestly, it was as if the lack of bad words she said ended up reflecting on the pure innocence of her vocal cords.

I nodded at what she said. We’ve been doing this song and dance for a long time now.

“Well, that’s the thing. I don’t really feel comfortable staying with anyone except you two, since I know you guys and I know how sweet you are.” He got down on his knees and put his hands up in a prayer position and started crying again. “Please. Just one week.” His hands moved down, and those green eyes looked straight at us, like crystals—almost snake-like.

“I don’t... we—” I don’t know why I hesitated so much, but I finally got the words out. “We just help host the program; we don’t actually have anyone stay at our house. It’s a two-bedroom, one-bath sort of situation, so not a lot of space compared to some of these other people.” I slapped my hand on the pile of forms next to me.

“That’s okay, I don’t need much space. I’ll be quiet as a mouse.” He looked straight at Catherine. “I promise.”

One thing I’d always loved about Catherine is that she could be firm despite her sweetness. I remember one time when we were in the Bahamas. A guy kept harassing us about buying these bracelets for each other, even going as far as to place them on our wrists without our consent. She turned to him, took the bracelet off, threw it on the ground, and then she took my hand and walked us away. She was that kind of nice—the kind that could hold her own. That’s the kind of Catherine I expected, especially since she knows my history with Brady, but instead she just said, “It would be an honor to have you as a guest in our house for the week.”

His face lit up. “Really?! I’ll go grab my stuff!” He sprinted off in the opposite direction.

“Catherine? What?” I couldn’t believe my ears.

She took me by the hand and spoke softly, “I know. I know. He’s a huge jerk. But I mean, look at him.” She pointed to Brady, who was in the parking lot by a car from the ’90s with a duct-taped window, grabbing a black trash bag from the back of his car. “The reason he was such a mean person in high school is because he had so much. Now he has nothing, so this could be a good opportunity for us to teach him some humility and maybe even find forgiveness.”

I teared up. I try not to tear up in front of most people, but when she said things like that, it always reminded me how much I loved her. “My sweet Catherine. You’re right. When we get home, I’ll set up the guest bedroom.”

Don’t worry, myself. We’re almost to the reason why you came here today and why you’re writing in this stupid journal while your wife sleeps next to you.

So, that night, Brady comes over. It’s a small house; it’s one story with a living room attached to a kitchen, which holds our small dining table (we usually don’t host a lot of people anyways) and a hallway which leads to the two bedrooms on opposite sides of each other. I should mention that the walls are also pretty thin, which means that whenever mine or Catherine’s parents are over, we usually can’t do the deed. We try to have sex pretty regularly, about once or twice a week, though there have been months where we go on hiatus because we are busy and then we go back to our routine. It’s not that physical intimacy isn’t important to us, but I would rank it third on both of our personal lists, so sometimes it moves up, sometimes it moves down, but it’s always there. Sure, Brady isn’t my parents and shouldn’t stop us from enjoying ourselves, but me and Catherine agreed this is probably a good week to just avoid anything altogether because she didn’t want to bother our guest, and because I didn’t want him to hear Catherine moaning since she could be quite loud.

I knew the biggest issue we would run into is the one bathroom, since Catherine has a habit of taking long showers which have left me in a state where I end up peeing outside outside. It was hard enough already, so adding this guy to our mix was sure to be a “fun” situation.

But, to his credit, that night when he arrived, he said “hey”, got the tour of the place, took a five-minute shower, and then went off to his room with his black trash bag.

It seemed he wasn’t lying about being as quiet as a mouse as I prepared dinner for Catherine and me. It was a creamy garlic shrimp Alfredo, so by the time we were finished eating at our little dining table, there was still plenty left. “I’ll throw it into some Tupperware so we can both have some lunch tomorrow.”

But Catherine signaled with her eyes to our guest bedroom. I exhaled but agreed, and so I went over to the door and knocked. “Hey man, could you open up for a second?”

There was some tussling behind the door, but he finally opened it. He was shirtless in just a pair of gray sweatpants. He wasn’t in shape, but you could still see the outline of what was a tremendous physique, even though some of it was now covered up in body fat. “Hey Michael, what’s up, man? Did I do something?” His voice had a hushed quality to it.

“No, you didn’t do anything. Umm, I made dinner tonight and we have a lot of leftovers, so I was just wondering if you wanted to try some.” The question lingered in the air and for a moment we just stared at each other. Two guys with nothing to say.

“I appreciate the offer, but I got dinner right here.” He reached into his sweatpants and took out a small orange, one of those tangerines like Haloes or Cuties. One of those oranges where you buy thirty of them and then only eat one while the rest go bad.

“Your dinner is a small tangerine?”

“Yeah, it’s healthy.”

Three minutes later, he was sitting at the table with Catherine while I served him a large bowl of the Alfredo. He took to it like a fish to water and quickly ate up the rest of our leftovers which I thought would last us a week.

“Man, I’ll tell you something, Michael. You aren’t good at a lot of stuff, but you can cook like a chef.”

I ignored him and just took the compliment. “Thanks, I guess.”

We kept the conversation casual for a bit and then I told him it was time for us to play our weekly game of cards, and he asked to stick around, so he did until eventually, Catherine asked him if he wanted to be dealt in.

“Oh no. I can’t.”

“Brady,” Catherine said with a surprising level of sternness. “While you are in our house, you are our guest and you can do whatever we do, so don’t feel like you can’t exist while you’re here.”

“No, it’s not that. You guys have been wonderful hosts so far, honestly. It’s just my job.” He reached across his body with both hands and started rubbing his own shoulders. “It’s hard for the average person to realize how hard a part-time Subway employee works.”

I almost burst out laughing, but Catherine kicked me under the table. I was sure that night we would be giggling about ‘tough work of a subway employee’.

But Brady just looked at us with those stunning irises of his and continued, “Subway workers are just so underappreciated these days. Our title is literally ‘Sandwich Artist.’ And with AI and crypto, our artists are really all we have left.”

Most of me was thinking, What the fuck is this guy talking about? But there was a part of me that seemed to understand what he was saying. It’s like during COVID when the people working in the food industry were labeled as essential workers. I could’ve worked from home the entire time, and even Catherine got to work from home, but the Subway employee still had to go make their sandwiches.

“It must be so hard for you,” Catherine said with genuine concern, her head tilting slightly to the side. “How often are you working?”

“Like twelve hours.”

“A day?” I asked.

“A week.” He must’ve seen mine and Catherine’s concern start to slip as he continued, “But it’s a hard twelve hours. I’m lifting heavy things, making the occasional sandwich, eating. Shit’s tough, man.”

“Oh, we don’t normally cuss here at the house,” I said.

But Catherine quickly added, “But like we said, you should feel like you’re at home. Okay?”

“That means a fuck-ton. Thank you. But yeah, I can’t play cards because I can’t lift the cards. My shoulders are just too sore and I’m too dumb to think of any way to get rid of sore shoulders.”

That didn’t surprise me. He’d always been taking remedial classes, so I guess he never grew past that. Mostly out of a need to embarrass him, I told him the obvious answer, “Well, a massage would help you feel better.”

“Yeah,” Catherine added, standing up in her sweatshirt and sweatpants, which did little to hide her beautiful figure as she went behind our guest. “How about I give you a little shoulder massage, and that way you can play cards with us and feel more comfortable? It’s only fair, since you work so hard for the community.”

“You’re too kind, really, I’m f—” but before he could continue, my wife’s hands were already hard at work on his shoulders, and I knew from personal experience that once she puts her fingers on those blades, it’s hard to continue speaking. “Mmm, that feels really fucking good Catherine.”

She was really getting in there, and eventually they started taking a while, so I just dealt myself a hand and started playing some Solitaire. Things got a little weird when he said that he had trouble feeling massages through fabric, so Catherine suggested he take his shirt off and we just sat there for a while. He drank some wine, I played solitaire and my perfect wife gave my former bully a shoulder massage for his service to us. In a way, it was the least she could do.

But why are you in therapy, Micheal!? Get to the point.

Well the innocent massage got a little weird. Now, maybe I’m completely overreacting. My therapist told me it was probably nothing to worry about, but Micheal said the soreness spread through his chest and abs, so, naturally, Catherine happily slid her hands down his chest and “abs” (they weren’t visible) and she was moving so far down his body that I could see her large tits pressing into his back and neck. He probably couldn’t even tell, but it made me a little uncomfortable, so I finally said something. “Hey, my love, do you mind raising your chest up a little, I don’t think Micheal wants to feel your things as you give him his massage.” I said pointing at my own chest.

But again, Micheal was the perfect guest, “Oh, I don’t mind. This is your house, so you guys give massages however you feel comfortable right?” He looked right at my beautiful wife who was over his shoulder, digging her fingers into his pecs. “Like me personally, and this is not directed at you Catherine, I would never disrespect a woman. I love a nice pair of honkers, and if anything it adds to the experience of a massage. So feel free to stop if you want too, but don’t do it because of me.”

“That’s very considerate of you,” Catherine said. She looked at me with an ‘I told you so face’, and stuck her tongue out to tease. “But I really don’t mind. When I give Micheal massages, my breast constantly rub his back so I’m not going to treat you differently.” And after that she even seemed to lean more into it. Even turning him around at some point, and I swear she purposefully stayed slightly bent over so her tits would hit his face, but he just thanked us and went to bed, but I couldn’t sleep that night. I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off, so that’s why I came to therapy because I was hoping you could tell me that I’m not crazy and that there’s something a little off about this whole thing.

But, that’s probably good for today, I’ll update you tomorrow, journal.

—Kindly, Micheal
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