I want to tell you I dug more splinters out of my fingers from pulling roses almost two weeks ago. I need thicker gardening gloves or maybe a better method besides wading right into the thorns and attacking from the centre out.
I want to tell you I was safe in my bed last night but I wasn't, instead waking up in PJ's arms at two in the morning when he found me in the wrong place and went with it, keeping me until sunrise, not sorry in the least. His excuse? I'm not Caleb. Also, finders keepers. And he winked like a shithead.
I want to tell you I'm ashamed of that, but I'm not.
I want to tell you Ben washed his hands of all of this because he's so into self-preservation he had no choice. Two for one. Always a bargain, Bridget is, on sale, low-rent, picked-over last digs for a song, folks. Not that anyone minds. Like when you're eyeing the runt of a litter of puppies and true to form it's the only one left after all the others have been claimed.
That's me.
I want to tell you I'm ashamed of that too but again, I'm not. I know what my pedigree is, my history. Nothing we were ever proud of outside of survival, nothing we could ever survive outside of pride.
Nothing to be said about another rainy Monday with sporadic power and underreported hearts other than to point out it's almost over. That's good. Because I want to tell you I called the Devil and asked him to come back because Lochlan said to me point blank that running never solved a thing in his life so it wouldn't for anyone else either and he meant me but if he does that, he has to mean everyone and so Caleb might as well come back and get his moment in the sun to explain why he had to scare me so badly now, of all times.
I want to tell you why I couldn't dismiss it suddenly but I don't know, honestly. Joel could probably tell you. August and Sam for sure, and probably Caleb too but they don't share these things with me. It's just better not to. I want to tell you I don't understand that, but I do.
I want to tell you a lot of things but I can't.
