Caleb brings raisin scones and good coffee over for breakfast and wants an update on Lochlan and on New-Jake because on both fronts he is curious.
Well, Lochlan's being difficult and aloof as usual but is still forthcoming with his affection and New-Jake I saw briefly yesterday as he wolfed down a sandwich that he made himself and then he took off with PJ. So....not sure why everyone I am interested in seems to speak of sexual competition for Caleb but heh, may as well milk it and watch him slowly self-destruct.
Oh, stop. Who can blame me for that? He has it coming and I take my hits where I can.
I think everyone has the wrong idea, including some of the people in this house. New-Jake is an enigma to me because I can say that name to a face I don't recognize and it's a skill I will have to learn. I'm aware that Jacob Thomas Finnian Reilly is a unique name (maybe not on the rock) but Jacob is not.
I have no trouble with Henry Jacob, just not with Jacob on a strange set of facial features. It's getting easier. Clearly he is not my Jacob and perhaps that's where the fascination ends. Not to say he isn't a terrific guy, I just have my hands full already with the three different sets of arrogance that rule my world as it is.
There won't be any more. Hell, if I had my way I would dispense with two altogether but the part of me that needs to be arrogant as well won't allow for it and that's the part of me that Caleb adores. The reckless Bridget, the completely ruined Bridget who takes risks and loves so hard she leaves a mark, not unlike the reckless ruined Benjamin that I keep on love support because he needs me so badly most of the time he will tell you he doesn't need me at all.
I don't need to remind Caleb of any of this. He is painfully aware of how pathetic I am. Only I'm not, outwardly. I'm trying to make this new place a success instead of a failure, like the last one. I'm trying to be better and be fun and smart and I feel like I can turn a corner only to find there's a set of hands there that shoves me back to the starting place. It isn't me. I want so much and I can't seem to ever catch a break to actually HAVE any of it.
So instead I sit in tears while Satan evaluates whether or not I'm embarassing him on this day. If I make him look bad I am taught not to and if I make him look good I am rewarded with a taste of what it is I want only I'm not sure and I can't commit because all of these things come with a price and I don't have anything to pay with.
Or rather, I do and I'm not willing to part with those things.
So once Satan is satisfied that he doesn't have to extend any lucrative offers to get rid of new boys he returns to the task at hand. Lochlan. The ever-present logical golden boy who says a third of what's on his mind and we're still all wishing he would just stop being right all the time, his arrogance fed by massive self-doubt because perhaps he raised me wrong after all and a few different decisions along the way would have meant we might have had some sort of Utopian happily ever-after and we might have gone to Cole's funeral and been sad for a friend that died and then a few weeks later had a picnic at the beach and life would have returned to normal with our children and our lives.
So blame him for the mess that I am. This isn't fascinating, this is ridiculous. So I don't have an update on Lochlan, Caleb, so why don't you just go fuck yourself for a change, and leave me alone?
(When I wasn't looking this morning, Lochlan hitchhiked back to the cornfield and got down on his knees and dug with both hands until he unearthed everything we buried there when we were young. He's brought it back here and spread it out on the table, clods of dirt spilling off and exploding in soft pufts on the floor. Dirt, sweat and tears streak his face and all I could do was freeze. I need to take it all up in my arms and run back out and bury it again but I can't move. I just can't move.)
