Salt + smoke.

To free all those who trust in Him
From Satan's power and might
Oh tidings of comfort and joy
Comfort and joy
Oh tidings of comfort and joy

Every time I see him my brain goes into emotional recall. My heart lurches forward effusively, recklessly and my body hesitates, somewhere in between, torn between my heart yelling GO GO GO in one direction and my brain signalling flight the other way. I usually hesitate too long, just long enough for him to notice, the bloom of shared memories clouding his vision, his plans, everything with the dim light of darkness that we try to outrun but never seem quite able to.

A walk on the beach culminated in a formal, unfamiliar toast by the sea, by the bonfire he surprised me with, by words I haven't heard him say before, watching him struggle in a way I haven't seen before. It was sobering, a feeling the champagne couldn't smash its way through and didn't even try, flooding in to cover his words before harmlessly washing back out to sea, drawn up with the tides. Caleb took my hand, picked up the bottle with his other hand and we came back up from the beach in the dark, the bonfire drowned in its own flames and saltwater.

He didn't disappoint. We lit the big copper lantern that hangs outside the stable, just where you turn the corner in the driveway and come down the hill toward the houses. Then inside where he had a fire already going, smells of pot roast and woodsmoke mingling beautifully throughout.

You smell like salt.

Salt and smoke.

Salt and smoke. It's intoxicating.

I stiffen perceptibly. He notices but does not remark, covering easily. You sit up here and I'll get dinner together. I offered to help but he wouldn't have it and soon we were taking our plates outside to the tiny glass table underneath the patio heater.

He had a blanket draped on the back of each chair nonetheless and the Christmas lights on that trailed along the railing and then down along the fence too. Magical. Tealights in shells were scattered all over the table, all over the floor and along the railing. Dinner was indeed pot roast, potatoes and mushrooms in earthenware bowls, along with some big hunks of multigrain breads and whiskey in tumblers. Water too. Another toast and we dug in.

Jesus. You need to cook more. My mouth is full but holy cow. This is wonderful. So good.

He laughs. I'd be delighted to. A look passes between us and I realize it's getting very late to match the very dark. I'm not cold but that vague unsettled chill remains that I can't shake, that undercurrent of excitement mixed with dread. I know how late it is. I know what this night is.

You're cold. Let's head inside. Are you finished? Did you want more bread first?

No, thank you. I'm perfect. I smile but not with my eyes. I try, but not all that hard. We stand up and I try to help him with the dishes but he won't let me.

He smiles back, disappointment crashing in to fill the void where hope was, just momentarily. His eyes are hard. The wall is going up. I can almost see it from here.

Get the door for me? 

Of course. 

Once inside he leaves the tray on the counter and pours fresh drinks for us. My whole being is thrumming already from anxiety and firelight and alcohol. My blood sugar soars to the surface along with a flush that buries my summer freckles behind a pink cast.

We take our drinks in by the fire and he gets on his knees in front of me as I sit down. He has a box. It's a cube, actually. The size of his hands.

Open it.  

I stare at him.

Please, Bridget. 

I take the box but my eyes remain on him.

I think you're going to love this. 

What is it? 

Open it. 

I unwrap it and take the lid off. Inside is a glass fishing float. It's the most beautiful shade of palest teal with dozens of tiny air bubbles. It's thick. It's perfectly round and weathered just enough to be real.

Where did you get this? I breathe.

I found it on your beach. 

This is the holy grail of treasures. This is what I look for and I only ever find tiny rounded shards of sandblasted glass.

You didn't! When? 

Just before Halloween. 

So beautiful. 

Like you. Singular. Incredible. 

I shake my head. The knot of dread remains in the pit of my stomach, like it always does, even as I hold this beautiful glass ball in my hands.

Take it home and show Lochlan. 

Should I get your present? I thought we were waiting until Monday. 

We are. I wanted to give this to you alone. I'll see you tomorrow, okay? You can tell me what everyone thought of it. 

You don't want me to come back? 

Unless there's something we've forgotten, our solstice celebration is complete, I think. 

Cale-

Bridget, I told you I want this new year to be different. I want everything to be different.  Now for Gods sake, get out of my sight before I change my mind.

I check the dread that turns to relief, welling up, spilling over so he can't see it, I finish my drink in one go and I pack the weight carefully back into the box for the trip across the driveway.

Goodnight, Diabhal. 

Goodnight, my Neamhchiontach. Enjoy your treasure. 

But his eyes. As blue as the glass, as sad as the sea. On impulse I run back and kiss him on the cheek.

I'm glad you like it. Now go. Please. Hurry.