This is what Daniel calls cold fashion, when it's freezing but sunny outside so you can dress very well indeed. He picked this outfit out for me ages ago and I've never worn it because all conditions have to be right. Today seems perfect.
It's a fine knit micro dress in soft deep silver, with a long grey coat over the top and patterned leggings. High-heeled ankle boots in grey suede. My big silver leather bag. Chain and bracelet. Hair down. Super-straight and shiny. Minimal makeup. Escada perfume and my new Dior Pink Lingerie gloss. No earrings. I feel like it's a westernish/kittenish look. Not sure I love it and I need to be confident to wear this as it's tough to pull off very much at all with my height tearing it all down.
And not only am I out of bed for the first time in two days, but I'm clearly going out and that's interesting, because Ben went to do some work and Lochlan is out at meetings and running errands and where the hell you going, Bridge?
PJ looks cross. He's been the one making coffee all week and they all like mine better.
I smile and defer, because discretion is an art-form and they know better even though I have nothing to hide and I head out to meet Caleb, heart thumping across the butterflies, interfering with the beats, my stomach in knots because it's very difficult for me to leave the house unfed and because being nervous makes me sick.
It's not until we are settled in the restaurant and he has ordered for both of us (again, without my input) that he realizes I haven't said anything, assuming I am still waiting for privacy. He compliments my appearance scathingly, miffed because I'm not wearing one of his dresses (not HIS dresses, he would look silly in a dress. Ones he has bought for me to wear when I spend time with him). I try to appear bored even though I'm close to tears. I don't actually want to be here but I seem to be a sucker for a man in need even though he isn't a man, he's a monster but sometimes he acts like a man and those times make me weak.
In lieu of a formal apology he reminds me he is prone to taking things too far and he should have exercised more restraint but he has great difficulty in controlling himself when it comes to me. Oh, I see. A non-apology. I shift my attention back to his face, blocking out his words. I've heard all this before. Nothing ever changes. He sees my eyes unfocus, the pearl green spreading into a fog and stops, realizing his repetitiveness.
And he tells me how many days he has left to live out his dreams and I zero right in on his face, lean across the table and ask him if he's going to die on day 114 or something, as if his stupid timeline is supposed to stir panic or force me into motion. He wants obedience, compliance and servitude. I offer him nothing more than company across a table so that the humiliation of him eating alone is spared. Also, this restaurant is really really cold, as I just realized I'm wearing two layers of knit and I'm still clenching my shoulders together and it's becoming difficult to hold my cup of coffee. I look around for a server but Caleb unconsciously always manages to see that they are scarce until his signal. I need to know the signal. Then I could ask for heat or a flamethrower or a torch. I suppose I could have brought a torch but they don't fit in my handbag. It occurs to me that whenever I get a certain distance away from Lochlan I get so cold that I can hardly see in a straight line and the thought makes me laugh out loud.
I need to go.
I shouldn't have mentioned the proposal. I'm at a loss here, Bridget. I'm getting everything wrong. I used to be so together but I'm starting to slip.
You're starting to get desperate you mean, and that makes you sloppy. You seem to be trying to pin it on age or fatigue or distractions like me.
Maybe it's a combination of all those things.
No. It's desperation. I can smell it from here.
You're cold today. How can we change that?
We leave.
He looks at my plate, frittata (without toast on the side, whatthefuck) mostly untouched. My blood sugar has gone through the floor, my head is now pounding a rhythm that pulses pain dots behind my eyes and the caffeine has shot straight into my veins. I feel like a lunatic and I just want away. This was a bad idea. I never say that unless we're in the dark and he no longer hears my words. Out of control. That's how I feel. I want to go home.
His eyes leave mine and he looks above me just a hand lands on the back of my neck.
Give you a ride home?
It's Sam, and Matt and three others I don't know. One has a collar. Must have been a church meeting.
Sam kisses my cheek and says they had coffee in the patio. But they can take me if I'm heading out. God granted me an escape and I nod and put my napkin on the table beside the untouched plate and Sam pulls my chair out as I stand up. Caleb's face falls and it's as if we're on elevators in the same building going to opposite floors all the time.
But he does not concede.
Actually Sam, I'm going to keep Bridget with me for a little longer. We're not quite finished our morning. But you head on out and maybe we'll see you a little later? He stands and comes around, shaking hands, introducing himself and I am clutching Sam's hand. Sam gives me a questioning look and I shrug. I don't know anymore. I need to eat. I'm not eating this pretentious crap though. I'm not this. This isn't me. God this dress is so uncomfortable and suddenly I'm thrust ahead and introduced and I nod and blush and smile and then we're heading out, the server rushing to return Caleb's credit card, the valet whisking his car up just as we step through the opened door.
Bridget, what can I do?
The tears sting my eyes but they don't escape. Take me through the drive-through.
McDonalds? You want to go to McDonalds? Jesus Christ almighty. You can take the girl out of the trailer park but you can't take the trailer park out of the girl.
You can take that back later when I care.
He heads three streets over and pulls up outside McDonalds. They don't have valets here.
Tell me what you want.
Had you asked me in the other place this wouldn't even be necessary, you know. Sausage McMuffin and a hash brown. No drink. Do you need money?
Don't they take Visa?
I doubt it. I fish out a twenty and give it to him.
Eight minutes pass and he returns to the car with a huge bag. He passes me the bag and the twenty (They took Visa! he tells me.) and pulls away. We drive to the park and he finds a spot to stop the car, overlooking the ocean. I count the oil tankers with dismay. He takes the bag back and passes me a napkin, which I spread out over my lap. He takes my purse and puts it behind my seat and then passes me my breakfast. I am finished in six bites, no talking and I watch him from my peripheral vision as he similarly attacks the same meal.
When he's finished he says I forgot how good those are.
I smile. He catches me and reflects it, and I realize his evil is more of a habit than anything now, easily deconstructed, distracted or dissolved.
But habits are so hard to break and he reads my mind again. Does that change your mind then, knowing you can diffuse my evil so easily? Hey, maybe he is losing it. He got the d-words all wrong.
I shake my head.
But you love me!
Not in the same way.
Then CHANGE THE WAY. Give up Frankenben and the Pyromaniac and keep me company until I die. I can't give you more than everything. I don't know what you want!
I get out of the car and stand beside it, losing myself in the view of the waves. It's so windy today, just like it always is back home in Nova Scotia. And I can lose myself in the waves, numbing myself in the cold so I can't feel anything anymore.
Just like I always do because I never know exactly what to do or how to get it right.
