(The crush has loomed long on the beat poet too, but we mostly ignore it. I still worry about him though.)
Duncan is standing outside in the pale sun. Cigarette dangling from his mouth, sunglasses in place, he strikes a casual pose on the edge of the lower cliff on the opposite side of the backyard, where I rarely go because the view is better on the right side, away from the city, toward the open ocean. He's in his vintage swim trunks. They fail to make him look any more modern for his retro-ness, he's still as close to a real live lizard king as I will ever be again because he's one of three who eschew haircuts until the others start referring to him as a girl. It puts his appearance squarely in 1972.
He is staring at the water and shaking his head.
This is going to hurt. He doesn't seem concerned though. Maybe he isn't right for his role here. You see, Duncan is normally second in command around the house, after PJ. (Yes, it takes two full-sized men to look after one tiny princess on a regular basis. One because she's fast and two, because she's hypnotic.)
He flicks his cigarette to the ground and tells Ben Time is money, friend. Then he takes a swan dive off the edge. I yell his name with alarm, they had yet to clarify whether or not it's safe to jump off this side. It's all been theory and conjecture up until now! I jump up and go racing toward the edge and Ben puts his arm out and when I hit it full on and bounce back he catches me nicely, and then Dalton and Christian are over the edge too and I say something about waiting to see if Duncan has survived when I hear him calling to me from the water.
And then oddly, Lochlan says Ben, don't you dare.
Cue the screaming.
Too late I figure out what Lochlan means, as Ben throws me off the ledge.
I scream all the way down and when I hit the water Duncan yanks me to the surface instantly. Good thing too, since the cold water takes my breath away so I open my mouth to breath. A reflex or an instinct, I still don't know.
I look for an angel to come and envelope me in warmth to carry me to the top again so I can go inside and stand inside the fireplace until my flesh dissolves into lava but none appears. I ask Duncan if there's a fast way back and he says no, we have to swim around to the other side, to the beach.
Oh what? Really? I won't make it.
Sure you will, come on.
He tucks me under one arm and sidestrokes easily along the rock wall and I sort of feel warm suddenly. Not because he's cute but because I have hypothermia and I stop talking and sort of become distracted watching the clouds. We're at the beach now and I hear Ben hollering the whole way down and then a giant splash somewhere behind me and PJ is standing there with an armload of blankets and boots and coats. I swear at Duncan while I am wrapped up like a mummy, shivering.
He declines the offered warm clothes and shakes his head like a dog.
There. You wanted new traditions.
Not those kind. Not death-defying, dangerous, crazy ones.
What other kinds are there, Bridget?
He's grinning at me, dripping wet, shaking like a leaf, eyes wild and it suddenly dawns on me that Jacob must have been a mirage. A representation of all the pieces and quirks of the rest of the boys, all wrapped up in a pretty package. I can almost see exactly which facets of his personality and his demeanor match each of the others in turn and sometimes I am floored by the similarities, the familiarities involved.
I meant m-maybe I would m-m-make some different foods or we would s-s-switch to opening presents on Christmas Eve or s-something.
Oh. Then you'd better talk to Benny. He said you seemed sad that there wasn't more excitement lately.
That wasn't w-what I was t-t-t-t-talking about, Duncan. Besides, I already had a s-s-s-swim this w-w-winter, remember?
Ben is out of the water. He's as white as a sheet. He shakes his head too and said that was invigorating but he won't be doing it again because it will take him more than a year to pry his balls out of his throat with a dull fork.
I start laughing and shivering while the boys cringe at Ben's description. He's never been one to censor himself. We make a great pair.
We chalk the whole thing up to a bad idea with flawless execution and resolve never to try to make it a tradition again. Some things just don't fly, like Bridgets off cliffs. Something tells me I'm not the only one relieved to find this out.
(Tonight the only one who isn't still cold is the only one who didn't jump in. Go figure.)
