The Other Me
Who you become when the person you love is away, and who you are when they come home.
You’re home alone. The house is quiet. It’s clean. Everything is just the way you like it. Life is good.
Until you hear the car pull up outside. Suddenly you have an overwhelming urge to run out the back door.
Why? Because you know that everything you’ve done is about to be undone.
They walk in. They kiss you. You hug them. And all of it, the mess, the undoing, suddenly doesn’t matter.
One day last year, I met this woman at work. She was in town for a meeting. One of two annual trips she makes to Portland, each one lasting a few days.
When I asked her what she does for fun when she’s not in meetings, she said she mostly stays in her hotel room. She doesn’t go out for dinner. She orders room service.
In Portland! One of the most well-known foodie towns in the country.
I was so surprised, my eyes just about popped right out of my head.
So I appointed myself unofficial ambassador of the city, and I suggested a couple of places she might enjoy within walking distance of her hotel.
She confessed that she is always so broken up about being away from her husband for that long, she doesn’t feel like doing anything.
Part of me questions how healthy that is. But if she truly just loves her husband so much she can’t be away from him for three days, I get it. Kinda.
Since talking about local experiences was a dead topic, I roll up my sleeves and said “Pull up a chair honey. I’ve got a story that’ll make you feel better.”
I’m not sure if it did. Maybe the opposite.
My husband Cade works as a First Officer on a superyacht based most of the year in South Florida. He’s gone on rotation for ten weeks at a time.
Most people are either shocked, or think I meant to say ten days. No ten weeks.
The thing is, it’s how things have always been for us. For fourteen years. In fact, the way it is now is actually an improvement.
When we met, I had been working as a yacht chef for a couple of years. Cade had recently been hired as a deckhand on a boat docked nearby.
Yachting isn’t exactly known for diversity. It’s gotten better, but back then we were more cautious.
Someone started a secret Facebook group for queer yacht crew. It was part social group, part networking. I had seen a few posts from Cade on there and checked out his profile.
One night I was out with a couple of friends, when I looked to my right and saw him with a group of his own.
I asked if anyone knew him. My friend Dan said he had spoken to him once or twice. So I dragged Dan over to introduce me.
Cade was wearing a v-neck shirt, trimmed chest hair peeking out. He spoke with a thick Australian accent. He was sweet and polite. So handsome!
And if all of that weren’t enough, when he smiled there were DIMPLES!
I never had a chance. I was all a flutter.
As we started to talk everyone else melted away. We disappeared into the night. Talking, dancing, drinking. And we smooched. A lot.
There may have been one or two scenes in public that were unbecoming of gentlemen. Classy right?
It was clear from the start that we were mad for each other.
But the yachting industry and relationships don’t mix. And reality set in quick.
Cade left for the Mediterranean a couple of months later and would be gone all summer. I was doing freelance work in the Bahamas.
I’ve got this charming and useful thing I do.
It’s called second-guessing everything always.
Cade was no exception.
That’s why, when he asked if he could leave some things with me while he was gone, I was over the moon.
Either he was using me to avoid paying for storage, or we were officially a couple.
Yachting pays very well. It has to. You give up your life for it.
Whatever the owner wants, the owner gets. Vacation planned? Owner books a last minute trip. Vacation canceled.
Falling head over heels for another “yachtie” meant we were both in the “same boat” so to speak.
Just when we were sure our paths were going to cross and were finally going to see each other, one of our itineraries would get changed.
Literally two ships that passed in the night.
Several years later, I left the industry. Not long after that, we got married.
While I was figuring out what my next thing was going to be on land, Cade was doing well advancing up the ranks. That meant he was gone for weeks or months at a time.
A couple of years ago, he was put on rotation.
All those years of being apart finally paid off. He has a set schedule. Yes, he’s still gone for ten weeks, but he’s also home for that long.
For two and a half months we settle into a routine. Together all day every day.
It sounds dreamy.
He’s so excited to be home he has a list of things he wants to do before he even arrives.
But the thing is, I haven’t been gone. I’ve been here the whole time. With my own way of doing things. Or not doing them.
He’s an early riser. I am not. He goes to bed by 10pm. I stay up until 3am.
I put things in certain places (for a reason), he moves them. I can’t find them. And so starts the adjustment period.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m just as excited as he is that he’s home. But for the first few days an outsider wouldn’t believe it.
My space has been disrupted. The energy has shifted.
There are three of us now. Cade, myself and our rat terrier Chase. All of us have infinite amounts of energy.
I can feel my body buzzing. I start grinding my teeth. My back muscles become knotted.
After a few days though, something miraculous starts to happen.
I’ll look up from what I’m doing and stare at him without him noticing. Or he’ll say something he thinks is funny, when it really isn’t. Or he’ll be playing with Chase on the floor.
And I’ll think, damn I’m fucking lucky.
As we reconnect, I’m reminded of all the things I love about him. Instead of feeling anxious and annoyed, I start to feel comforted and safe.
He’s my person.
Ten weeks later, he starts packing his bags to leave. And I prepare to transition back to the “other me.”
The one who stays up late because he doesn’t like going to bed alone.
And who has his own way of doing things.
And who never feels quite right until the next time his husband comes home
—R. Michael
R. Michael is a former yacht chef, a married gay father, and a late-diagnosed neurodivergent writer. He tells his own stories, but he writes them for you, hoping you found something here to connect with. This is Ungarnished.
I completely understand that. I went through the same things, when Sean would go out on tour. ❤️