Just going to blow up the top of the driveway and I'm all set.

When I was younger I thought that the dog days of summer meant the very end, what we called 'Indian Summer' when the last few days of the season were languid, scorching, bleached-out days in which we could hardly think for the waves of heat broiling down upon our heads, that somehow it was a last burst, if you will.

Now that I'm older and have internet I see it's from July 3-Aug 11 and it means hot days, mad dogs and bad luck, thunderstorms and drought. Fire.

I think I liked my interpretation better, although now Indian Summer is something we no longer say because it's not politically correct and also because the internet says it's in October, a false summer, so to speak so I guess I'm off on all counts but that's okay. Summer still contains so much promise, though of what I don't know anymore. Everything is closed. I stand on circles everywhere I go. I ran out today for an old-Bridget singular adventure (sober, given one hundred minutes exactly). I went to the store to pick up eggs and lettuce, I got gas for my Jeep since the price gets higher and higher until the long weekend is a memory, and I went to see my favorite hairstylist (the one I only see every two or three years because Daniel loves to play stylist and who am I to deny him?) who cut ten inches off my hair. I have a hella cute pixie bob now which makes me look shorter and smaller than ever but I also don't have to worry about it taking four hours for my hair to dry nor do I have to gather it up and drape it over people's arms so they don't pull on so much. I can skip conditioner if I want and I also have much better baby bangs now, because I cut them myself after Daniel didn't do them short enough and egads, bad idea. She fixed them. I don't know how but they're longer now.

 I feel a little better. I wore my mask the whole time. I saw a lot that didn't. Most people seem content to skip the mask, the arrows, the circles, the instructions. There is no 'greater good' for them. They are the permanent misery of this summer, the mad dogs, ready to bite. I saw a man get in an altercation outside of a restaurant because he wasn't wearing a mask and got too close to another and it ended after a few minutes of shouting. I saw people driving like fools. I saw everyone trying to feel better but in this heat with everything that's going on there's no chance of that.

I came home with my prizes and my new look and everyone loved it. It's me. It's better like this. They took the groceries out of my arms and gave me hugs as I told them about how I *almost* came home but then finished what I set out to do (bravery is hard to come by for me) and am more relaxed for it.

I'm not leaving again until actual Indian Summer though. Mid-  to late September, we were always told but probably into October too, if that's what the official record says, to be certain.

Cabin in Candlelight version.

It feels like a Friday morning even though it's only Thursday, hot and dusty, dry and burning-bright. A day for long drives down familiar roads only to jump out and explore abandoned barns with glass bottles of orange crush, gulped down like water while I shake out polaroids and step on Lochlan's shoelaces, not paying attention, getting too close but never close enough.

God, I miss those days. But today is even better.

It's a day for bacon and eggs in the big skillet, fresh hot coffee and black rye bread with last summer's grape jelly. A day for very short dog walks (down the driveway and back, his legs are five inches tall, it's enough, trust me), and patio umbrellas and water-misters attached to the hose. Not-hot chocolate (thanks to Matt, who pulled out this surprise recipe which is a weird mousse-ice cream hybrid but he calls it frozen hot chocolate) to chill us from the inside out and mackerel and salad, picked from the garden being prepared for tonight's dinner.

I am blessed. Everyone is healthy, employed and safe. Everyone is happy. Everyone is navigating this strange time with grace and aplomb and I now try to take my cues from them in order to learn and to grow.

When the photos develop every one is of us, slightly out of focus, not quite ready but smiling even as we wait to get a cue like say cheese but selfies don't work like that. The pictures he'll stick on the dashboard of the truck where they will fade in the sun, melting in the heat into an unrecognizable but precious memory all the same.

Love you to the bones.

Open fire on the needs designed
On my knees for you
Open fire on my knees desires
What I need from you

I was trying to figure out the words. I couldn't do it drunk, I couldn't do it sober. He was patient. He finally got irritated enough to deploy the worst nickname he has for me and I hate it so much. He started calling me it when I wouldn't snap out of a undeserved mood or wouldn't listen to reason after an appropriate amount of time.

He's not saying on the needs, he's saying underneath. I think all of these lyrics are posted wrong.

Okay, Sad Clown. That's enough of that song for now. 

I only played it eight times. Okay, more like twenty. It's a very Nirvana song though it's Silverchair. It's a good song. It came out the very first year of my life that I didn't run off to the circus for the season. The summer after I met Jake. The summer Ruth was born.

That's twenty-one years.

I'm not allowed to listen to sad songs? It's a challenge. It's also hot out still and Lochlan has long come down off his own lighting and we have resorted to lazy stabs, half-assed verbal punches and stinging insults. It's the death by a thousand cuts and we've been doing it since just before Daniel Johns was born and would go on to sing that song I can't honestly confirm the words to.

These are the hardest parts. When I just can't focus long enough, just can't hear it well enough so it, like me, gets louder and more annoying, a shriek on the breeze, a pained soul looking for a place to rest and finding so many but there's no peace in them.

I know what I'm supposed to do, it's just a very hard pill to swallow at this point. It didn't turn out like it was supposed it. This isn't how the song really goes.

Bridget. Please stop. 

Or what.

I'll become a sad clown too. And I hate playing that role. So much. It's a whisper rising in waves like the heat off the pool this morning.

Fair enough, I whisper back. I'll call a truce for this day but I can't promise I won't pick up my knives and my words tomorrow and we'll resume.

(For the record, these days the only unproblematic song in my life is Owl City's Fireflies. ROTFL.)

Drunk on stars and juniper perfume.

I've been living in the shade by the far side of the pool, staying hydrated (with gin, sorry, this is a good vintage) and wearing bikinis under pretty sundresses when necessary, and absolutely nothing when not. I've been cooking elaborate, wasted dinners and spending hours talking about life and love with Ruth and Henry, and I've been drowning my memories in the fire of every sunset to cross my path, only to see them resurrected like phoenixes in the light of the next new day.

This isn't working. Maybe I should drink mor-

Or maybe less, Lochlan is so helpful. So helpful. Content to stand back and watch as always, a cuckhold soul I would trade for no one else at this point, since, as Ben points out, he's enabling me to a fault, something even Ben didn't do.

Oh, but Ben's a liar too. Ben is the original watcher, as long as I can remember. Caleb is a go-getter, Ben is a sit-back-and-see-what-happens, but Lochlan is a steady flame. You can't blow him off, put him out, smother him or make him cold.

Thank God. I tested him and he's holding and that brings me to my knees with a gratitude you don't even know the depth of.

But as I said. It's hot. And I'm usually drunk. Because it's summer and if you don't take advantage of it it's gone before you know it and the cool dark early nights of fall will close in tight around you like a vise.

I don't like the heat.

Right now I'm...

Plotting to build a walk-in ice freezer just in the middle of the driveway because at least there's some shade up there but this is getting ridiculous. I'd call Emmett to build it but honestly I don't want to deal with anything else today. Too hot. Sitting beside the cold air vent. Wishing on a frozen star.

So hot. I want to barf.

Heatwave Jesus and the slow to realize.

This morning is beautiful. I'm painting flowers on the southwestern side of the garage. I'm watering plants. I'm going to harvest the potaotes today and maybe have another beer. I'm trying to self-care without instructions. Then I'll sit at the bottom of the pool for far longer than anyone's comfort like every teenage boy in every movie ever made when the going gets tough.

But first, coffee. Coffee and an admission that I did indeed go looking to quiet my curiosity last evening but my curiosity quieted me instead, as we stayed up super late watching old movies and when I finally had enough and went up I knocked softly on Caleb's door and then finally let myself in. His rooms were dark and he was asleep in bed, covers thrown back, ceiling fan looping gently overhead. I let myself out again and went down the hall to my own rooms, asleep before I even got undressed.

Sam is playing Podcast Jesus again in deference to the coming heat wave, choosing to have people stay in and listen over sitting in a stuffy church trying to stay cool with masks on, baptized in hand sanitizer instead of saltwater, and I don't blame him one bit. He asked if he should just do a standard sermon and keep it formal but the answer to that suggestion is always no. Sam is better when he just talks from the heart, keeping things fluid and casual. I think I could listen to his voice all day and then I remember I can. I grab my gardening gloves and my airpods and head out to the garden. I never thought before to bring my music outside but on Sunday mornings this is even better, I think. I can show Jesus my efforts and he can call it a miracle and do nothing to help and I'll point out the only reason we're both here is because of his dad's good graces and he'll laugh and tell me I'm probably, no, one hundred percent right.

Bridget don't float.

I'm on the biggest floating chair, it's Ben's and he loves it because his weight doesn't sink his backside into the water like most of the other floats so I can bring a drink, sunglasses, a good book and even my phone (if no one's looking). I got out there early to get it. Ben won't go outside in this heat but I wanted at least thirty minutes with my Vonnegut (the Ms. Rosewater one, bought it and promptly lost it and found it the other night) and some silence before the point comes alive. The boys always want to build things, do landscaping, work on or clean trucks and then play hard in the pool before drifting off to rest or watch movies after dinner so I like to wake up very early sometimes and have some quiet time before then.

Except they won't leave me alone. Lochlan can see me from his chaise up above and Caleb is up and dressed in a light tank and his swim shorts, sitting at the other end of the pool in the shade on a lounger, checking his bank accounts, probably.

What are you drinking? He asks without looking at me.


Lemonade, I say. It's the truth, though it's eight in the morning and it's Bad Tattoo lemonade on an empty stomach in the sun.

(Why?

Why not?)

As I said. My sole focus right now is managing this anxiety before it begins to manage me.

What is that?

Busted. I show him the can. It's a pretty label.

Bridget, you haven't had breakfast yet. Also, what is that?

I said already. Lemonade. 

Kind of lowbrow. I can make you a mimosa-

Lowbrow? I lean forward in my chair to stare at him. Have you met me? 

You know what I mean. 

Not sure that I do. Want me to go don a Valentino so I can float to your standards? 

Neamhchiontach-

Oh, fuck off.  I slump down in the chair and tune him out.

But I forgot he's in his trunks and within a second he is beside me. Did you tell me to fuck off?

Is that lowbrow enough since you're slumming with the freak today?

I meant the stupid drink. It's not a reflection on you. You have the world at your fingertips so I was pointing out I could get you a nicer drink. 

I have the drink I want. 

Noted. 

Stop curating me. 

'Curating' you? 

Yes, dressing me up and putting accessories in my hands that you approve of. Just let me make my own way. 

Ah. This is not about me. 

I'm sorry? 

Lochlan's parental tendencies come back like PTSD whenever I try and lead-

Leave him out of it. 

Boy, you are cranky. Let me know if you need another. He nods at my can and strides back to the steps, leaving the pool.

I will. Thank you. I say it politely and return to Vonnegut. I don't know if this book is even my thing but it seemed like a good idea at the time.

And never ever tell me to fuck off ever again, he warns.


Or what?

You don't want to find out. 

Well, now I'm curious. Dammit.

On the crowning of a new memory thief: Introducing the memory keeper.

(Instead of stealing them he brings them back as they try and run.)

But I knew you'd linger like a tattoo kiss
I knew you'd haunt all of my what-ifs
The smell of smoke would hang around this long
'Cause I knew everything when I was young
I knew I'd curse you for the longest time
Chasing shadows in the grocery line
I knew you'd miss me once the thrill expired
And you'd be standing in my front porch light
And I knew you'd come back to me

On a smoky, rain-soaked Friday morning we were chasing nostalgia like a fox through the meadow, tripping over clumps of wildflowers, laughing at each other, stealing kisses and hearts with abandon, without responsibility, having left the weight of the fortune teller's premonitions at the last rest stop, on the curb before you pull up to the pump to spend your last twenty in the fierce humidity of late summer.

My sweatshirt is three sizes too big and has ADIDAS written on it. It's black with white stripes down each arm. It's Lochlan's but I got cold so he took it off and now I trace the goosebumps like a galaxy on his arm while he drives. His face is dreamy, focused on the highway but his mind is a thousand miles away, chasing dreams he's written on paper like promises, promises he'll never keep for the future has rules and none of this is permanent. None of this is real life. None of this will stick around when things get hard. He holds my face in his hands after the sweetest kiss I've ever shared and he says this is a memory we are living real time and he tells me to soak up every last detail, that it is magical and I can conjure it up whenever I want later.

And he was right. 

They sent Sam in in his full emotional armour and then hid behind the fucking door.

Your drinking-

No, I'm not. Okay, well right now I'm not. (Last night I found another bottle of wine and watched Rocketman alone, at the top of my lungs. And cried. And laughed. And swore whenever they approached to tell me to go to bed.)

I mean, we need to discuss the drinking. 

What about it? 

I think it's probably contributing to your anxiety right now. 

I think it's the only think helping me right now, personally. Better to be drunk most of the time and not give a shit then be on edge twenty-six hours a day. 

What are you on edge about, Bridget? Sam looks so kind. Fuck Marry Kill? All of the above, please. I always have a hard-on for kind people who sit and listen while I spool into a frenzy.

What am I NOT on edge about? Everything, Sam. You know this. 

How do we fix this? How can we make things easier?

Let me get drunk. Perfect girl. Problem solved. 

I drank to deal with my problems once too, Bridget. Don't be flip. 

There's a reason all us deep-feelers are raging alcholics, you know. Deep people feel things more strongly. It's harder to keep out the bad. It all just pours in through the cracks and we get overwhelmed. I wish I could stop but it's better this way. 

There are ways to stop. I stopped. 

I just need a new hobby, like you all. Maybe like fucking my landlady!

Bridget-

Sam, saying 'stop worrying' doesn't work. This isn't normal, this is fear. Tied to everything going wrong. 

I know your diagnoses, Bridge. This is worse than usual. 

I have a 'usual'? 

Yes. This is at least fifty percent more. 

Ah. The value-pack Bridget. 

He laughs. My Lord. At least you can laugh. 

Only on the outside. 

What can I do to help?

Just pick up any pieces you find after I implode and put them up on a shelf for safekeeping.

Bridget. We worked so hard on mechanisms and behavioural shifts-

She isn't interested in being comforted or pacified. 

She is you. Stop it. 

Right. She's ten years old and has no power and is scared and sometimes I can't help her! 

But you can. You just won't. 

I can't believe you all sit there so high and mighty telling me not to do the one thing you all did to cope as if there's some magical thought process that I can go through to feel better when none of you could do it. 

We all do it now. We all did the work. I would save you the pain of having to hit bottom before you do the work. 

Exactly how high up am I then? 

Not bottom. 

You don't think?

No, I don't. 

Okay, that's a good start. 

Tell her it's going to be okay. 

I'm the only person that doesn't lie to her, Sam, and I'm not about to change that now. 

Let your light be mine (literally).

Blessed are the weird people – poets, misfits, writers, mystics, heretics, painters, troubadours – for they teach us to see the world through different eyes.
                                                                                             ~Jacob Nordby

Don't worry, Daniel was there too.

And Ben.

What?

I might still be drunk but you're fucking uptight. Why are you reading this if you're shocked? Go read some regular thing then. I really don't care either way but it's on the left-hand side of every page and if you want to follow a freak....then expect them to be freaks, you know what I mean?

***

Ben and Schuyler actually took mild offence to the day-drunk part of the day but once we finished the current bottle we didn't open any more. So between Lochlan and I that's two bottles for two super lightweights and I am definitely still drunk, just no longer disorderly.

Okay, maybe a little.

What's on today, little muffin? Duncan is in fine form this morning as I approach warily, like a rabbit near a lion. My head aches just enough but I don't care, which is my cue that tells me one more drink this morning and I might be right back where I started.

I pour coffee instead. Probably avoiding my Diabhal, I admit.

He on the warpath?

We were with Danny and Schuy yesterday..

Oh. 

Yeah. 

***

Caleb finds me easily. Not like I was hiding. Coffee and (yes, more) champagne in the library with music blasting out through the doors. My motivational playlist that I play when I need a little boost or a good hard shove all the same. PJ is within two rooms cringing so hard at me, as always.

Wonderful Feeling (SWITCHFOOT, NATURALLY YOU SHOULD LISTEN TOO) is blaring from the speakers and he pokes his head in, making me jump a thousand feet. He waves and waits until I dig out my phone from a deep pocket (dresses. with. pockets.) to pause my song.

Bridget. 

Listen. I-

Hey. You're coming out swinging and all I said was your name. It's a greeting. 

Hi. 

Hey. How are you doing?

Hungover. 

You'd never know it with this music blasting. 

Huh? Oh, that's default. 

He nods. Want to go get a greasy breakfast? We can pick it up and bring it back and eat it on the wall. 

I stare at him. Why-

If you don't feel well, I can help fix it. 

But you usually-

I told you I was trying. Taking my cues from Lochlan who is a whole lot more free than I will ever be.

He really doesn't have his possessive tendencies developed enough for them to stick ever. 

No, he does not. Caleb laughs kindly. I'm trying to see that this is okay. 

Is it?

Are you happy?

Depends. 

On my reaction? You clearly don't live by what I endorse, Neamhchiontach. But you are afraid after that fact. Insolent to a fault. As always.

Always and forever, Diabhal. 

So breakfast or not? 

Can I continue my music in the car?

Again, as always. 

Thank you. I'll go get ready. 

He looks so pleased. This is weird. He'll either throw me off the wrong side of the cliff after breakfast or he has already pregamed and poisoned my food. I can pretend I trust him but no way in this hell do I actually trust him one bit.

You know what I love? That Lochlan and Schuyler have somehow managed to figure out how to compartmentalize their work relationship so that it doesn't make their personal relationship weird. Or maybe it does and I don't know because I don't go and work with them. Either way, we spent all of this afternoon in Schuyler and Daniel's cavernous bed in their cavernous room watching their giant television. With no clothes, champagne and air conditioning. We watched the entire first season of Indian Matchmaking on Netflix and hate-loved it. But sometimes no one watched the television and that was fun too.

What?

I have already navigated a month's worth of Mondays in less in thirty-six hours and I have earned a bottle of champagne on an empty stomach and a good old-fashioned round of pass the Bridget so I'm extremely drunk, extremely overtouched and have nothing of consequence to write about, save for an admiration that Loch and Schuy are like brothers one moment and lovers the next.

Except Lochlan always says it's not like that even though I'm RIGHT THERE. I told you he was the most affectionate person in my entire world. I wasn't wrong. I did good.

All hail the tiny bacon queen.

It's Monday. A fresh start. A new week. I've pulled down the remainder of the birthday ribbons, leaving them on the kitchen floor for the cats to play with. I'm excited to get my appointments over with so I can come home and settle in in a cool spot with a cold terribly alcoholic drink now that Henry's shift for tonight has been cancelled and I'll make a cold dinner at six. Maybe I'll finish my book. I'm already way ahead on chores thanks to two appointments in one day (no it's not anything salacious, just a trip to the vet for one pet and then a trip to the dealership for a followup on a vehicle) and that's a good thing.

(I love car shopping. I mean, secretly I do but outwardly no way.)

It's supposed to be the hottest day of the year today, too.

I head back to the kitchen to put my coffee cup in the dishwasher and Gage is sitting at the island. I pause just long enough for him to catch me hesitating before I head straight for the sink. Dammit.

Hey, he says. Casual. Like always.

Morning. You sleep?

He nods. You?

Never, I frown and then smile. No big deal.

Aw. Eventually, I hope.

Me too.

Hey, Bridge?

Yes?

Let's not be weird.

Trying my best.

Look. I've got this plate of bacon and it would be a shame if you didn't steal it.

Oh my God, I didn't even see that!

Right? Come share it with me. He pulls a stool over beside his with a grateful smile as if the sun rises and sets by my happiness-

Oh, wait, that's right.

It does.

***

Also, does anyone else see that A Perfect Circle's The Outsider is a good companion to Evans Blue's The Promises and the Threat?

God. It's the perfect blend, one seamlessly into another.

Your music taste is a force to be reckoned with. Ben's always been in awe of how precisely I weigh what goes into my ears.

Has to be, I say hastily. Blame Lochlan. Gotta go already. It's getting late.

Sunday boys.

Maybe sunlight burns off the last of the spent rocket fuel, the rainbow puddles drying to purple and green streaks on the concrete, a circle charred into the centre where I took off and landed again, easily. I'm good at this.

(Of course I Still Love You is the name of the floating remote barge that Space X rockets always land on. No, Caleb is not Elon Musk, but people ask me that Every. Single. Day. Caleb is his real name and he can afford a lot of privacy so I don't worry about being discreet save for talking about his Jekyll side.)

But like I said, it's daylight and instead of Jesus bench this morning in the lingering heat from yesterday I bailed on Sam and went kayaking very early with John and Lochlan. I could not keep up, they could not paddle slow enough stay back and eventually I turned and returned, back to shore to haul my kayak up the beach where someone can fetch it before lunch and lock it away for tomorrow.

I gave an okay-wave as I made it to the top of the stairs, if it helps. Sometimes the boys get carried away with their competitiveness and forget that I am small and not as strong or as fast. This hasn't changed since I was eight years old, the only difference being now that I can recognize when they're not going to wait or come back or slow down and I will sit on the sidelines instead.

The dynamic of that sucks but at the same time it's not a big deal to come back up and steal all of PJ's bacon while John and Loch finish their cross-ocean triathlon or whatever it is they decided to embark on this morning.

PJ is horrified that I eat all of his bacon and calls me out. A piece. You could have left me a piece.

Maybe you should go to church and pray for more, I tell him and he laughs.

Totally going to tell Sam you said that.

You go right ahead. He gives me a tight hug with one arm and then takes his dishes to the kitchen while I head upstairs to have a shower. Ben is awake. This is a rare thing.

Morning Bumblebee. He mumbles it but he's smiling.

Morning Sleepyhead.

Come here.

If I do that I'll never leave.

How is that a bad thing? The sweetness of his voice draws me in and I crawl into bed for a hug. He waits for seven or eight heartbeats and then lets go. You smell like a dead jellyfish. Go have your shower.

Nice.

I mean, not really. Were you swimming already?

Paddling.

Ohhhh. That's what it is. Sweaty lifejacket.

Huh.

Sorry.

It's fine.

Is it though? You look pissed. He laughs.

Hey. I got a paddle and a plate of bacon and it's not even eight in the morning yet.

Jesus. I thought it was ten. Why am I up?

That was my question.

I sensed you coming in. That's what it was, Bridge.

It was the bacon smell.

I wish.

Maybe cuddle PJ instead. He was the one who made it.

I'll get on that as soon as I'm done sleeping.

He's completely right but that doesn't change a thing.

My heart is a rocket ship, exploding in space only to fall to earth where the pieces are found scattered far and wide, brought back together to be reassembled and shot up over and over again in the cloying darkness, sparks heralding my departure from earth every single night. You can trace my path by the clouds, singed with black, burnt edges all along the way.

Jacob is a myth. He says it through the thick glass, wading through a fourth whiskey, up to his knees in flames by now, courage pulled up over his head like a blanket against the monsters that won't scare us but haunt us still. He is a little boy and my ghosts are his boogeymen, now.

Don't, Locket.

I have to.

No, you don't. We're reduced to half-conversations now. He just wants everything to stop but he's never going to be the one to bring an end to anything he hates, lest it backfire and I hate him for it.

I would never.

He does not believe me.

I could bring him up to space and show him there's nothing to be afraid of but he wouldn't believe me. Jacob may as well be breathing still for the risk he takes up in Lochlan's Big Book of Dangerous Things For Bridget to Stay Away From.

Let's go to sleep.

I can't sleep anymore. The minute I close my eyes everything always goes wrong.

From reckless to heavy and back again.

Why didn't you stop me from turning out this way?

I guess I'll have to do a list today, since it's Friday and it's raining and there's no pool time today (Caleb said so, Loch backed him up. I should have gone to August to split the difference but that just ends with all of my clothes on the floor and the happiest Newfie in British Columbia to everyone's absolute horror, so it's better if I don't do that so no pool time, okay, I got it) and I've got confirmation from Sam (who lies to be kind, they all do, I know this now in a bittersweet way I wasn't aware of when I was eight years old. Or ten. Or twelve. Or twenty-nine.) that I won't see Jake again until I cross the sea of glass and fire-

And now I'm obsessed with that. There are things Sam says, or any minister honestly, that sound so unlikely, so fucking magical they get stuck with me for weeks. Years. Months. He's said it a million times that the sea of glass is akin to the rainbow bridge for dogs but it's for humans and it's the barrier between earth and heaven, and that the only way to cross this sea is to die but of natural or unexpected reasons.

He always says unexpected, for clarification, because natural could mean fucking anything.

Right, so magical. Like that time he told me I was grace personified and I knew he wasn't lying to be kind then at all. He was simply calling what he saw, living what he knows, worshipping at the hand of this virtue that probably shouldn't exist and never will again-

This isn't a list, is it?

This is very fourth wall, back and forth but when Sam mentions the sea of glass now I can picture it and it's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen, like Davenport beach glass but easier to get to.

(Remember my Coast Diaries companion blog to this one? Coast Dairies is a state park in California. Now you know.)

I've almost finished Practical Magic. Gary finally showed up two-hundred pages in. I've thrown out the remainders of my makeup drawer, keeping only my beloved Benetint and absolutely nothing else. It's been two years since I had a (major, I let Daniel keep it nice) haircut and I can pull it down at the ends now and tuck it into my armpits. I finally finished the Fifty Shades movie trilogy (read the books years ago, though I can't finish Grey because I read it in Caleb's voice and that makes it hard because Christian Grey is so much nicer than Caleb) and I am having my Friday morning second cup of coffee as we speak while I type, staying inside though I could be out on the heated covered patio with the others but Ransom came by again and I'd rather just stay in.

I'm plotting to finish this and then go crawl in with Dalton for a quick nap because Dalton sleeps all day when it rains and he won't be as...reactive as some of the others so I can actually sleep. 

But coffee. I could sit here all day in the dim light and drink coffee and read.

But Dalton. Not too warm, not too cool, a just-right bear to my Goldilocks and a comfort onto himself. He remembers the beach glass and lip gloss years, the drinking until we would forget everything bad that ever happened and all of the growing up we've done since because at some point you accept that you're going to grow old and get your great reward, and it's going to be the most beautiful thing you've ever seen, a reason to wait in of itself. I only wish I could paint what I picture in my brain but there's always a shadow over the whole thing.

The shadow is Jake.

I know that now.

Milestoned.

It's the lie-by-the-pool and don't lift a finger part of summer. The triple-digits-weather part of summer. The naked part of summer (but with a handy wrap dress nearby in case of children or beta boys). The eat a tequila popsicle and listen to the Eagles part of summer. The part where Lochlan stops burning ever so slightly and begins to toast a light golden, hair included. The part where my hair turns white and looks terrible.

The part where I don't even care.

The part where I finish all of those popsicles while mowing through all of the books in my nightstand while I float in this year's new addition but the wrong way, while Lochlan floats on the other side. It's a chicken fight float where the chickens are attached at the beaks but as it turns out I still can't reach Lochlan's hands unless he leans way forward, which gives me far too much of an advantage to be fair.

It's so fun to watch the boys on it, though I then see right through them because they're savage with each other and far too tender with me. Or maybe that's good. I don't know. I've had five of these popsicles and tequila and I (especially in the hot sun) were never so much as friends but merely acquaintances. I know her name. I don't know her.

It's the last popsicle I'm having (I swear) and in an hour I'll go take an ice-cold shower and put on a pretty dress and host Henry's birthday dinner. I feel like this is part of a dream, where I have successfully raised two human beings to be adults and they're smart, healthy, motivated and determined and I want to pat myself on the back so hard this lime slice I almost choked on will shoot into the water and everyone will shout in dismay but at least I can breathe again.

This whole world that shares my fate.

I fought you for so long
I should have let you win
Oh how we regret those things we do
And all I was trying to do
Was save my own skin
But so were you

          So were you

The heat drove us in late last night, as the camper gets close and cloying when the temperatures hover in the thirties. The breeze off the ocean does nothing, we're too high up and the windows aren't large enough in the camper. We briefly contemplated open-air sleeping (done it a million times) before the mosquitos made that decision for us. And the coming weeks ahead are forecast to be super-hot so I think sleeping out there will be on a case by case basis for the remainder of the month.

I love camping. I love living light. I love not having a schedule.

I woke up this morning with Ben making a wall on one side, arm over Caleb (HA! It's aDORable), who bookended us at some point because the door wasn't locked (I forgot) and he takes that as an invitation. Lochlan is almost sideways, arms around my waist, head thrown back in dreams, hair in his eyes. I crawl out the bottom to go have a shower and deal with the pets and no one even stirs.

The more living, breathing men I can pack into my immediate area the less often I see ghosts. Besides, Caleb has somehow figured out how to be nice again, or maybe he ran out of hard drugs, or possibly he is mellowing, something we've been waiting for since he was seventeen and was so intense people would self-immolate under his gaze.

And still do.

But God he looks so cute when he sleeps. They all do. No one's advocating, fixing, fighting. Makes me happy.

Animal camp/Animal internet.

We made a huge painted orca mural for the side of the boathouse for our project for this week, rendered on sealed wooden squares as tall as I am. Lochlan forgot how fast I am at painting and we finished before lunch today and so he's got to parse out the remaining activities to fill this new space, thinking we would work on it for a couple of hours a day. Instead we powered through the entire thing. Tomorrow we'll screw it to the beach-side back of the boathouse and then admire our handiwork forever. It's very West Coast to me. It actually turned out really cool.

(Don't tell anyone where I live if you see it from the water. It will be visible if you come up along the coast on the water from the east, but only slightly.)

Remaining projects for this week include birdwatching and naming all of the local sea lions in order to catalogue them for funsies, because we see them and forget their names and every visit now is a fumble for a theme to name them within, like planets or present and former members of US Congress or kinds of cookies.

So this time it's hot cities around the world like Phoenix and Marrakesh, Bangkok and Kuwait.

(Kuwait City, proper. Don't @ me.)

Tomorrow it will be something else. As I said, we can't remember.

In the meantime, I had five minutes to look at my email today and there was an old password of mine in a subject line with someone who attempted to tell me they had video of me watching porn on my computer, that I had good taste and that if I didn't send them $1030 in bitcoin (how specific) they would send the video to all of my contacts from Facebook and my phone.

Uh...

They've been waiting for hours. SEND THE VIDEO!

Also I don't have Facebook or bitcoin. And I don't need to watch porn on my laptop. I am the porn on my laptop but go HAM already, would you?

Rabbit rabbit (run).

I don't feel foggy, fuzzy or dull this morning. I feel alive. Ready to fight back. Ready to push the darkness off the cliff, Lochlan beside me, Ben behind me for leverage, as I can lean against him and he won't move so I won't slide backwards.

Is that a euphemism? I doubt it. He physically does this and he mentally does this and somehow it's always been slightly easier to lose my shit on Ben's watch because there was never as much at stake, and only half the same amount of history to fight through.

Henry will be nineteen years old this week and I figured out that's why Jake is suddenly breathing down my neck, unable to hide himself or step back into the night, or hang out around the edge of the hole. He can't disappear away to heaven or mire himself in purgatory right now. It seems I'm not the only one who fights curiosity so hard I get myself in all sorts of messes when I ultimately give in.

And maybe that's what Jake wants to see. He wants to see this tall (six-two and still going, by the measure of his work pants which no longer come to the tops of his shoes) blonde handsome man, who has a steady job and is starting university in the fall after taking a year to do a few extra courses to prepare for the program he wants. He has close friends, easy humour and is ridiculously kind, sensitive and logical.

He sounds like Lochlan when he talks. The pragmatism shines. Nurture over nature, every time. And he really doesn't look like Jake except in colouring and stature. I'm grateful for that. He looks more like me and a lot like himself. He is an amazing man and I thank my lucky stars every day that my children are both well-adjusted, empathetic, smart people. Good humans, as I always say. Raising them I put values over rewards and honesty over laziness. I never took the easy way out. I demanded consistency and kindness because there were some major upheavals in their lives and I didn't want to ruin them.

And it's not over. My job isn't done. I'm still teaching Henry things like how to distract himself when he feels down or overwhelmed, even as I battle for a way to accomplish that myself. I'm still teaching him how expensive life is and how he has to save far more than he spends and how a plan and a trajectory is a good thing because there will be detours and fallbacks and huge strides forward along the way. I'm teaching him that he is a gift and that every time something bad happens, that's when you learn the most and a good day is there to keep you looking forward. That life is also a gift. That mental health is a precious thing and that we will all be okay, even when days seem dark or when things get really hard.

And that he will always and forever have the entire Collective to back him up and help him out. No matter what. For the rest of his life.

He's one of them now. One of the boys. He's been moving toward this and now they just include him when they're working on projects or going out. He has made it to this time and I am a proud mom. He only has one more work shift this week and we're celebrating after that. For days.

Requiem for the easily-startled.

I just feel dull today, as if someone has taken the point of my knife and ground it all along the pavement all the way out of my neighborhood, and when I hold it up to the light to see the damage it's now an icing spreader, just a rounded flat tin safe now even in the smallest of hands.

Church was ineffective. I slid into a bench between Lochlan and Caleb. Lochlan had gone through a drive-through for coffee for us on the way and once in he handed me my coffee and then took it away again just as fast while he watched Sam's sermon float right through one ear and out the other. Sam finally came over during collection and told me I should just go home and nap in the sun. That he will bring me some God later if I want. I laughed because I took it the wrong way but continued to doze standing up, eyelashes and hands fluttering, slack-jawed staring at the sky.

Jake just keeps watching me from the corner of every room. I know what it is. I brought him in. I brought him here and I keep him here and years and years have passed and I still don't understand how I fell so hard. How I mowed right over my boys for this incredible interloper who had no stake in us, no stake in the collective and no way of knowing how hard he would fall in return before he let it all slip through his hands.

You can't bring God over later. God isn't welcome here. Jacob moved right into my heart, fixed it up and redecorated and now I can't get him to leave.

I watch Lochlan as Sam mumbles. I can't even make out the words for Lochlan's curls spilling over his shoulders in lazy loops. The brilliant piercing red of early summer, before they fade to strawberry blonde, the sheer circumference of each single pop-can curl that has riddled me with jealousy my entire life, even as I can wake up in the middle of the night screaming from nightmares and ghosts that won't leave and Lochlan doesn't complain one bit as he lets me wrap those curls around my fists, falling back asleep right in his face, not letting go for hours. He does it right back, save for the screams, and it's been a thing for so long, long before Jake and now long after him.

Go away, I mouth at the man in the corner, in his rumpled invisible linen and bare feet. Leave us alone now. You've done enough.

I close my eyes and rest my head on Lochlan's shoulder and he squeezes my hands tightly in his.

This took a fucking hour and it's a story about an apple slice. Jesus Josiah Crackerbarrel.

Watching Lochlan cut up an apple for me and he asked me something but I am watching for the next slice to come off his knife and in my waiting, I forget. It's like being ten again and he wouldn't let me use our kitchen knife at all. He still cringes when I pick one up on a good day but on a stoned day I don't even have to approach the kitchen. I am seated at the table so he can keep an eye on me.

(Watch me, not wait on me, I remind him.)

Wait. What?

Would you like a hot chocolate? We'll take them in to the couch and watch the rain.

I would but can we go to the front porch?

Sounds good. Do you want to go and put the blanket out and maybe light the lanterns?

(They are solar but have always-on buttons too.)

Yes.

I head out and Ben follows me, in case I walk straight into a bear's mouth or something. It's not a stupor, but a big pause. It's harder to focus, hard to worry. Hard to take the time to point out Jacob standing in the corner of each room I pass through, a midnight albatross rendered in blonde, an elephant in the room who is the biggest fan of Jesus. Death, maybe coming for me, maybe purely unresolved.

Ben-

I'll just be a shadow, fragile miss Bee. He walks right through Jake, opening the door wide. I was sure they could see him before. Now, not so much.

Lochlan comes out with a tray and three mugs, plus the plate of fruit. Ben is grateful. I am not even allowed to hold my mug until it cools. Forever ten years old, or maybe I was just high right through those wonderful terrible years.

Hey, I tell Lochlan as I watch him burn his lips on his own mug.

Hmm? He is attentive to a fault. Finally. The only thing I ever want in life is for him not to be forever half out of a conversation, distracted or distressed.

Thank you. For looking out for me with Joel and for being here now. Thank you, Locket.

Where else would I be? He winks and passes me my mug, carefully. When I have it he rocks a kiss against my forehead and a little hot chocolate sloshes over the rim of the cup.

He takes it back and puts it on the tray. It's hot, Peanut. Give it a few. He squeezes my hand. I see it but I hardly feel it. I'm happy he's here. And Ben too. We can be the three musketeers again, forever, except one hardly carries her own weight at all.

And he shall be a good man.

Ben critiqued my piano rendition of Candle In The Wind this morning by pointing out some of my notes are off. I play by ear. If I can make the chords I'm fucking thrilled. If I can't, I chip away at it until I can.

He puts his big over-the-ear headphones on me and tells me to have a listen with those. He is 'helping' me. He hates the fact (they all do, I know) that I can't hear things.

Oh. Wow.

Right?

There's guitar?

Jesus. His face falls. It's the only way I can teach them it's merely hurtful to keep rubbing it in and that unless I live in these headphones and have all sound filtered through them this isn't going to do anything but continue to highlight a flaw I can't ever fix.

Hearing aids are awful. I've tried a dozen different ones at price points ranging from five hundred to twelve thousand dollars, trust me. I hate the way they feel. I hate the way things sound. I'm better off missing the noise if that's how I'm going to be presented with it. A rusted tin radio with terrible reception and almost-drained batteries.

Ben is still hopeful. Maybe an ear transplant.

I shrug. Maybe, turning my attention back to my keys and he plants a kiss on the back of my neck, headed downstairs to his own music.

I change the song to Levon and change all the lyrics to be about Ben. He comes back and leaves a second kiss.

***

Had a day off from my brain yesterday. It got a lot worse, Jake came into the house and they called Joel.

Joel is like Caleb but with more connections and now I'm strung the fuck out on ghosts and benzos and no one cares if I can play the piano or if I'm drooling down the side of my cheek because at least I'm not screaming. At least now I'm quiet and not fighting and not losing whatever's left of my fucking mind.

At least I stuck around to do the hard parts. Jake just comes back to make this harder.

***

Lochlan didn't want Joel here.

I got her. I got this! Get BACK. He insisted. I heard him pleading. Heard his voice break as he struggled to be heard over me yelling. Heard him pointing out over and over again that this is his fight. That he's in charge. That he can fix this if they just leave us alone.

But they won't. Too risky. They just want it fixed before the kids see me. Before it gets any worse and they can't deal with it at home. Before they're no longer able to send the ghosts away with a good nights sleep and a perfect high.

Before it's too late for anything at all.  If I could feel anything right now it would be sympathy for him.

Why didn't you tell me, Peanut?

I didn't want to hurt you too.

His face falls. Just like Ben's did later on the same morning over the music. It's just another flaw I can never fix and I wonder what the dealbreaker point is now for him.

There isn't one. He kisses my face. Oh. There are tears. I can't even feel them but I guess my body is sad (perhaps from memory) while my mind doesn't care about a damn thing right now.

Then I am crying for you, I guess, I tell him.

Barometric pressure.

What's on my mind today?

-A bit of amusement over many readers (not just a handful, a whole bunch) reading in the paper about the Rainbow Family gathering in BC going on right now and asking me if that's what our Collective is part of.

We are not a part of any other group. We're self-contained. Not a branch/division/offshoot in any way, sorry. We're not part of a polyandrous movement nor are we political or public. You can't show up and we'll welcome you or anything like that. We're just us. No name/banner/heading or defined movement. Stop searching, holy Lord.

-A wonderous moment listening to Jenny Gear and the Whiskey Kittens this morning on the stereo and wishing she would do a duet with Ed Sheeran.

I've been listening to Jenny's single album since the children were babies. It makes me sad she hasn't put anything else out.

-I'm on the hunt for a copy of Hoffman's The Museum of Extraordinary Gifts, a book that seems intriguing, and relevant to my life and I can't find any copies locally and I'm NOT buying it online. Mail has slowed to a crawl here and nothing's coming in that isn't weeks or months late. I can wait.

-What to make for supper. I took a huge tray of chicken out of the freezer this morning. I think it will become fajitas. Maybe with rice.

-Corey. He came out to return some things after isolating for a couple weeks after his trip and was mad that he didn't know Mark was here doing some tattooing. You know, while Corey was overseas for work. Was I supposed to keep Mark here? I don't know. It's been so long I'm already swimming again so not like it just happened. Corey and I don't get along. I try. He is aggressive and adversarial with me as ever. He said it's just our personalities clashing. I would say it's bitterness and humiliation over a business deal gone wrong. Because I'm right and I know that's why. He came right out of the gate and said I could sleep with him if I would be in his music videos. I asked for a cheque instead. He's never forgiven me. I've now been in a BUNCH of videos of his in twenty years. Every cheque he gives me I donate to an animal shelter.

-I'm wondering if Patagonia clothes will fit. I spent high school in an XL light jacket that came down to my knees because who needed fashion when there were boyfriend jackets to steal? But they have really cute skorts now. I don't know if they have petite sizes or maybe kid sizes will work but again, I'd be waiting three months for the package and by then summer is over.

-Jacob's been waiting by the swing for me for two days and I don't know how to tell the right people. He said I should follow him. I mean, I probably could just to see what's up but for some reason I'm afraid of him and that makes me feel ashamed. I know he wants to discuss the thing with Gage and probably the easy forgiveness of the Devil but if I don't have to answer to the living then I don't have to answer to the dead.  It makes me sad though. He still wants to advocate for me from heaven or purgatory or where ever it is that he rests and what does he get instead? Me ranging wildly between fajitas and the justifications for my ridiculous sex life. This is why he left. One hundred percent. They say he was profoundly depressed and I was a last chance for him to find happiness and look at what he found instead.

That's what's on my fucking rotten little mind. Be sorry you asked.

Fun fact: I still can't pee in the woods.

Skills week is drawing on and what have we learned? To be flexible, resourceful and cheerful even in the face of adversity. To not run or panic but stay put and problem-solve. To fix things with what we have at hand or can easily (steal) acquire.

I just stare at Lochlan as he talks. I think he's lost it. We've always been good at those things. We worked on the midway racket and then in the circus for fifteen fucking years. If I'm not inventive and fluid then I'm nothing today. Granted, the midway was far more difficult. In the circus we were just exploited and poor. So this is like the midway. Fix your shit, suck it up, get going, and whatever you do, don't cry where they might see you.

(This is where Lochlan did virtually all of his growing up and why he's a bit of a loose cannon temperament-wise but also the person you want beside you when everything goes wrong.)

(Unless it's death. He really isn't good with death AT ALL though he said he feared many times we would be killed on the road by a jealous boss or an angry farmer.)

My only actual skill was being cute on either circuit. I wonder if that will work here?

It won't, he barks and I go back to trying to help. Trying to be handy and useful but staying out of his way. I feel like I'm eleven years old again, desperately hungry and tired and the back waistband of my shorts is a little wet and uncomfortable from where I squatted behind the trees off the highway to pee and couldn't not make a mess of myself and I think he's angry at me for it but he's actually angry at himself for putting us in this position but the radiator leaks and he forgot to get more water at the last gas station.

He didn't want to admit he got distracted because I refused to use the disgusting bathroom there and so he lets me take the blame. It would be later that night after a soothing bath in the lake and hanging up our now-clean clothes to dry that he would admit anything at all.

(Gosh, we were so romantic.)

*Rolls eyes*

Fuck this. I throw the socket wrench that he is refusing to take from me and walk out of the garage into the bright sun.

He can put it back together himself. I'm going to go fire up Youtube and start a self-directed orienteering course, though as I've said before, he won't let out of sight, not like I'll ever be lost on a mountain. I don't mind being kept very close, but I do mind if you take all of your frustrations out on me.

That's MY department.

HEY. He comes bursting out of the garage into the light.

You know what this reminds me of?

That time you peed all over your shorts and I got mad at you?

Yes. AS A MATTER OF FACT IT DOES.

I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Bridget. I took my frustration out on you because you're a safe place to fall. I shouldn't have.

And what are you doing now?

The same...thing. I'm sorry, Peanut. I wanted this to be the most perfect, exciting summer with all of the things you loved about being on the road with none of the hardships and some moments, I swear it's as if the hardships just never stop.

Sure they do.

How so?

Now you just order everything online and you don't look at the prices, even.

He laughs. True. And I think that's enough work for one day.

Really? When do you think we'll be back in the camper?

A few days. In the meantime, I have a surprise.

What kind of surprise?

Let me show you.

He takes me upstairs, stopping at the sink first in the kitchen to scrub up and then takes my hand and pulls me up to our room and I'm like oooooh, "lunch" but when I open the door the room has been transformed. There are tiny lights everywhere. The furniture is gone and in it's place is the little tent that I bought ages ago to use as a shade for the kids at the beach when they were younger. It's set up with foam pads and a large double sleeping bag right by the fireplace. There is a cooler nearby.

And a Ben. Who is waiting patiently for camping to start because at least he fits in this room.

Where's my bed? I ask and they both burst out laughing.

I told him you would want to know that first.

Where is it?

On the balcony. Don't worry. We wrapped it all well so if it rains it's safe.

Okay.

Is it? Lochlan is suddenly concerned because he might be difficult when frustrated or scared but he also lives and breathes by making me happy.

Are there s'mores?

Right here. Ben holds up a picnic basket.

Just for a couple of nights until everything is ready.

I love it.

Do you?

The room is so huge! It echoes. Weird (weird) (weird)! This is perfect!

Wait a second. He closes the blinds and the blackout curtains and turns on a tiny projector. Now the room is a planetarium. Stars everywhere. Now it's perfect, Bridgie.

Sweeties.

I still have a blistering headache but I have engaged in a self-care day because summer camp appears to be on hold while Lochlan finds problem after problem with the camper he thought was ready to go and now he's questioning some of his materials and contacting some people he's reworked campers for in case they're having problems too.

So far they aren't, thank heavens so it appears I am the sole distraction that led him to mess up this one quite royally. It will be fixed by the end of the week though and watertight and dry and cozy. Also the heater will work because it's still really cold at night.

Not during the days though. It's twenty-seven in the sun right now so bikinis for the win. I can live in mine and I tend to because to me my tattoos are a suit of (relatively-squishy) armor and I forget the clothes part more than you would believe. But it's a pool day, so grab a bikini and nothing else, right?

My 'self-care' included lying on the top step of the shallow end of the pool eating honeycomb and reading while Daniel lifted up my elbow or leg periodically to spray me down with sunblock. Honey is running down my fingers and Schuyler points it out several, very annoyed times until I crawl out of the pool and give him a dirty look. I leave an oil slick in the pool from the sunscreen so he can fight with Daniel about that. I didn't get any honey in the pool. I'm not an animal.

They are jealous because I can enjoy my time outside, sticky-sweet but untouched by mosquitoes, while they get eaten alive.

Muhahahahah.

Jesus fucking headaches.

Church on the water this morning as Sam came down and saw us off on an early kayaking adventure, saying a little prayer for us as we are heathens and had no plans to go to church if it's finally sunny outside. I have my beautiful sunhat on and my gigantic life jacket, complete with a whistle and a light. Lochlan won't let me trade for something easier to paddle in like one of those low-profile vests that he wears, because I will never be a strong enough swimmer, and I'm horribly curious and adventurous, going way too far out and way too far away for his comfort, but there are things I want to see, or sea lions. Or whales. Or boys way out on the horizon because they can cover three times the distance I can in the same amount of time and I'm always and forever running to catch up.

Sam understands my need to be on/in/around the water better than most. Plus I get bonus points because I slept in really late (for me anyway) and I stood my ground about needing some rest and relaxation instead of being shepherded around doing chores or finding chores to do, which is a curse I bear far too easily.

I have a blistering headache that won't quit and I'm moving slow as it is. It got warm enough that I didn't want to be outside anymore and called for reinforcements to help me disembark and not to leave Loch with all the work. I probably already bit off more than I should, and plan to spend the rest of the day in pajamas in the shade or inside under the big slow-rotating fans in the great room being still. Maybe I'll go back up and sleep for a bit. Who knows.

Measures (not for you, for me).

Lochlan obliged. For that night and then for last night, too. He always does, if offered. It's a way to keep an eye on me, a way to keep an eye on Caleb's teeth. What was going to be a chasm of a summer is now a bridge (literally, thank you) and as I duck out to get another bottle of champagne, I don't even wonder if they'll argue while I'm absent or embrace. At this point they will talk about me, and my ears will burn.

It's okay, I need the light from them anyway. I'm venturing back downstairs in the dark for a drink and suddenly, out of the blue, I'm afraid.

But it's okay. By the time I close the outer door to Caleb's rooms I am swept off my feet into Ben's arms.

It's late, Bumblebee. Where's Lochlan?

I point to the door. I'm just getting champagne.

Alone?

I have to go or I'll never leave my room, you know?

I'll come with you. My relief swings away from the tower and lets go, landing softly on Ben. Never was there a bigger champion of my brain or heart, which is funny, as he used to cause some of the biggest heartache of my young life. Always leaving. Always fighting. Always staying on the outside. Always tough and silent and difficult. Always inebriated and looking for someone else to hurt so he wouldn't be alone.

We get the champagne (just one bottle, it's late and I already have had enough) and go back upstairs. There was no one up. Ben stops at the door and tells me he's going to bed, maybe I can come and snooze in the morning for a bit.

Come with me.

You've got your hands full, Bee-

I can manage. You know this. Please, Ben.

Seems that word is magic and the night shifts again, only Caleb does not have room for Ben as well in spite of an easy welcome and so we move the festivities back to our room and Ben takes over easily, wrapping his hand around the back of my head, pulling my bones up out of the night into his world, the only time his skin is ever warm. He takes what he didn't think he would be offered tonight and I am left a shuddering, drunken, overtouched mess by sunrise, definitely not needing that second bottle but glad to see it not go to waste as Lochlan passes it to Caleb and they toast the morning.

What a view.

What a moment.

What a life, I think and I start to giggle but then everything hurts and I fall asleep clutching Ben's hands, Lochlan's arms around me, Caleb disappearing back to his own room, taking the champagne with him.

If I climb into his lap and use my knees for leverage I can bite his bottom lip, driving him just a little bit crazy as his hands close around my back, sliding up to hold my head in his hands. A kiss. Slow and deep. Hurtful and dangerous. Wonderful.

Neamhchiontach. Stay here tonight.

Only if you put a fire on. 

We don't need a fire to get warm, he says, kissing my forehead, holding his breath there, then letting go as his hands slide back down around my hips. He picks me up and puts me down gently on the bed, pushing up the hem of my dress, kissing up my knees, up my legs, smoothing his hands up over the goosebumps as I shiver with delight.

He yanks me back down and kisses me hard on the mouth. Go find your joker, he breathes.

He's in the library.

Go find him before I keep you, he whispers.

Keep me, I plead.

Goddammit, Bridget. He puts his head down against my chest. He sighs, a long audible sound ending in a groan as he lets go of me. He looks rattled, hot and bothered and annoyed. He picks up his phone, hits a button and holds it to his ear.

Tonight. Yes. I know. It's fine. Everything's good. I just want to...keep her. Thanks, man. Yes. Check in in the morning, okay? Thanks.

He puts his phone on the desk and turns back to me. I don't know if he deserves you.

He does not. He deserves anyone better than me.

He loves you to the point of this.

I know.

Go home, Bridget.

Hmm?

Go to Lochlan. He's a better man.

How is the guilt stronger than the need, Diabhal?

He needs you more than I want you, Neamhchiontach.

You're going through a phase.

So leave while you can.

Caleb-

Bridget! Just GO!

I'm going to get him and bring him back with me.

You're going to be the death of all of us, Bridget. It's a flip comment and it burns.

I hope not.

Jacob, you would have fucking LOVED this band.

Did you, well, did you hear the chorus of Les Friction's new song?

I think I've died a thousand deaths.

Every night I die just a little

All this time we're caught in the middle

All your lies you fought with no ending

This is just the end of the beginning

I'm on the Devil's highway

I've travelled all my life

All the pain you see is here

This is not the end

At least I think those are the words. The second half of the third line in each is a complete mystery but I did my best and I'm always loathe to ask someone with working ears to help me.

I am stubborn.

And REALLY dramatic when I like a song. And this one doesn't even show you what it has for you until a minute and a half in, which almost makes it that much better.

What are you doing, Peanut?

Murdering my own soul, I say, lost on a sea of notes and letters.

What? Lochlan looks alarmed. What are you listening to?

Nothing. Just being...dramatic, I tell him. He hates this band. It hurts my little ruined brain, my poor broken heart and my very shattered soul and so it's on his Please Don't list, which like everything he embarks on is far too polite and accommodating to me but the rules didn't work so good either so this is what we're left with. I destroy myself and he watches, helpless from afar.

Snow in the forecast for +3000 feet. Happy Canada Day!

There's a deluge outside. They have closed the pool, put the steps to the beach and the sauna off limits and towed the camper into the garage to address the leaks and get it dried out.

Camp is officially getting a re-opening day this coming Monday, a week behind schedule, which is fine as Labour day is late this year too and we can extend a little bit into September, no problem.

Lochlan forgot to do the re-caulking on one tiny area and it wreaked a little bit of havoc but he pulled everything out in that section, pulled up the flooring and took off the wall panels (he makes built-ins) and he said it will be as right as this rain is by Friday.

I know it will because he's always done these jobs and repairs and it's not catastrophic or anything. Hell, it's a tiny little camper with wheels as wide as my hands and not much more.

It's also heater-less and it's ten degrees right now so if anyone needs me I'll be in the fireplace.