Oh, Benjamin.

Look out.

Shine for you.

How do you feel?
That is the question
But I forget you don't expect an easy answer
When something like a soul becomes
Initialized and folded up like paper dolls and little notes
You can't expect a bit of hope
So while you're outside looking in
Describing what you see
Remember what you're staring at is me

It was fun driving through the twilight last night, up, up, higher into the mountains to be spit out at the top, walking back through the woods, climbing over the gate and trespassing through the remnants of a fire pit to get to the edge of the world to watch the sun melt into purples and reds, bleeding into the clouds, leaving stars as a marker for morning.

Night came blissfully slowly and then it was gone before being appreciated, ripped away with terrors and dreams, reassurance and unexplainable fears. I walked a steady path around the house it seemed, maybe this is how a new phase begins, always with trying to shoehorn ourselves into a routine that seems to be the wrong size and color at first and then we get used to it, rolling up the sleeves and maybe pinning it, deciding we are okay with lavender or cream yellow or deepest ocean green. We make do and then eventually we can't have imagined it any other way.

Today is Ruth's eleventh birthday, which means she begins her twelfth year right now.

I'm not sure again how time passed me on the inside when I was slowing down to admire that sunset but it happened and I would like them to give me a restart because I'm pretty sure time has jumped the gun and there will be no cheating in this race.

This is the first no-toy birthday and it feels weird. She has chosen some pretty dresses that I went back for later, some clothes for school as well, art supplies. Endless art supplies. She has taken to disappearing with her drawings and headphones and she will lose hours and hours drawing the most intricate pictures from somewhere deep inside her mind while she listens to music and I am floored daily by how similar she is to Bridget of twelve and how she is nothing like me, so different, so unique sometimes that I have this urge to introduce myself again.

She is mine and not mine at all. She is independent, for eleven. No one gets away with anything and yet she has a tenderness about her that she guards jealousy.

She makes me proud.

She is like a sunset that never ends, impressing us with her beauty and her colors and her staggering depth. We are grateful witnesses to, and participants in her life.

Happy birthday, beautiful girl.

Extreme proposing.

(Apparently it's a sport now, and the winner is plotting triumph for quantity over quality. Because for the record? He has never had a ring present to accompany his question. NOT ONCE, LOCHLAN. Not once.)

Found on my desk shortly before I went to bed last night:

The mermaid slept in my empty bed
into the early dawn
the house was quiet, the night remained
until the sun turned on

She woke and checked the roses first
from my upstairs windowpane
greeted with a a riot of pink
a postcard picture frame

The mermaid's life has changed you see
much different than before
her house, her hair, her attitude
her heart an open door

She is the bravest soul I know
to juggle all our lives
just like old Jimmy at the show
with his axes, guns and knives

you see my girl was a midway girl
and I'd like to take her back
to walk behind the caravan
in the dusty wagon track

the memories don't fade for me
they are as clear as day
It's time to make some new ones now
She'll see, I'll lead the way.

Because the mermaid wasn't meant
to be with someone new
her soulmate was here all along
and not out of the blue.

Look, Bridge, I've made mistakes
I know I've made you cry
I've been a jerk, a thorn, a fool
but you're the apple of my eye.

The offer on the table here
remains for all to see
I will be here til the end of time
Will you marry me?

And my response:

Lochlan, I think this is enough,
You've never had it so rough
You made your advance now
Take no for an answer
and yes, here's poetic rebuff.

And his response to my response:

Fine. See you tonight, princess.

Why am I mad? He puts the same effort into this that he puts into asking me if I want one of his french fries when we go to Montgomery's. So hell no. Oh, and perhaps asking when I'm not already married or engaged might work better too but your mileage may vary.

I think I need my brain sharpened.

The dullness continues. The exhaustion continues. I sat down last evening to watch some (bad) music videos with Daniel and fell asleep instantly, prompting the house to collectively determine that I could just remain where I was and was not to be woken up under threat of much pain from Ben toward whoever dared move me, disturb me or breathe on my head.

This morning I was marginally energetic up until ten or so, long enough to deflect Schuyler's aggressive passion (or is that passive-agression?) over the fact that HE wanted to sleep with HIS boyfriend in his own bed and didn't I have enough musical beds to play a full set with already?

Ow. Sour grapes, Sky. Motherfucker.

Right. So, anyway...

Today we managed to stock the house with groceries in anticipation of the long (and boring) weekend. Ben is now down to single-digit days remaining on this project and I have officially lost my mind again missing him but aside from waiting and planning and organizing back to school and birthdays that will be deferred and other significant days that may fall completely under the radar, there isn't a whole hell of a lot I can do except work on getting better. I think I am. Slowly. Like molasses. Like lava. All of you can outrun me with your legs duct-taped together, starting from quicksand.

Maybe by the time Ben is finished I will be all better.

Maybe this is purgatory and I am dead after all. It would make sense, judging by the quality of music videos these days.

(The company rocks though. Dead Ben is awesomely depraved. Exactly what I hope for in the present AND in the afterlife, vampire-boy.)

Much ado about OJ.

Oh, you sillies.

*I* am the butler.

At least at home. It's become a running joke. Ben and I take turns fetching juice late at night. We really adored having a butler when we stayed in New York but none of the guys here will go for it so we split the job in half.

Please.

My silver spoons are not in my mouth, they're all in a drawer, bent by Jacob, straightened by Ben. I may call myself a princess but most of that is simply wishful thinking.

The lot of you, on the other hand, well, let's just say thanks. You're learning. Instead of a hard time about sleeping in Lochlan's bed, you all wanted to know if I actually had a butler here at the new house.

Seriously, wow.

We're making progress.

Circumvention and the safekeepers.

Frail and dry
I could lose it all
But I cannot recall
It's all wrong
Don't cry
Clear away this hate
And we can start to make it alright
So fly away
And leave it behind
Return someday
With red in your eyes

I see you
Cause you won't get out of my way
I hear you
Cause you won't quit screaming my name
I feel you
Cause you won't stop touching my skin
I need you
They're coming to take you away

He left me pinned to his needs for hours last night, held fast against escape. Protests went unanswered. Struggle was met with force. I reached down and grabbed his hair, pulling it. My legs gave out. I kept reaching down until I could pull on his jaw and then he came up and kissed me and pushed me down again.

I was not allowed up until he was satisfied that I had writhed hard enough, until I was completely exhausted. Until I was desecrated completely.

Stick a fork in me, Benjamin, I am so done.

I'll stick something else in you, princess.

Pushed back down, this time on my face. I am not complaining.

Really considering Ben is as sick as I am I don't know where he finds the energy for everything. I thought I was on the fast boat to dreamland last night when he pulled me against his chest in the bathtub but then he abruptly pulled the stopper and let the water drain out. We were zonked and falling asleep against each other.

I was wrong and I'm now missing a few extra hours of sleep to prove it. I just wish I was operating at one hundred percent instead of twenty-five. For myself and for Ben's own pleasure.

The butler brought the best-tasting orange juice we have ever had. Over alternating sips I asked Ben what he said (or did) to Caleb.

Nothing for you to worry about.

He smiled and took a sip of the juice. And then he set the glass down on my bedside table and kissed my forehead and I was out. Dreamless, citrus sleep, oh how I love you.

However the sleep dissolves before I am ready for it to and another day begins with dead silence from the glass cage, and louder silence from Lochlan and Ben. Ben is away before the sun comes up, in true vampire fashion and I take my blanket and wander down to Lochlan's wing and climb into his feverish and empty bed to try and sleep for another hour even though he is gone as well. The house is so quiet and I drift away into a light slumber, this time filled with disturbing, violent dreams. I sit up suddenly, the blanket tangled all around me so tightly I feel trapped.

I think about calling Caleb. Just to see if he is alright. But I don't and I won't. Ben said not to worry about it and I'm going to trust him. I call Lochlan instead.

What did he do?

Bridget? What's wrong?

What did Ben do to Caleb?

Go to sleep, Bridget. It's five-thirty in the morning. Why don't you go down to my bed and snooze for a while. At least until sunrise.

Okay.

Promise?

I'm there already, Loch.

I'm happy to hear that. Now, sleep, princess.

Psychic relay.

He asked me to bring his car back and then requested that I come up to his condo for a moment so that he could have a word. I've been waiting for twenty minutes, picking at the hem on my skirt. My sleeves are too long and my fingertips are barely visible but that's fine because it's cold in here, not just because of Caleb's mood. He finally walks in and takes my arm, moving me to his office chair from the comfortable chair at my little wrought iron desk by the window because he wants to pace and yell and accuse and be dramatic but it's okay, I have left already.

Why do you write these things, Bridget?

It's what I have. I am trying to be strong but I have that thick-throated feeling when I'm just about to cry, it's inevitable and I'm embarrassed by it.

I gave you everything.

No, what you've done is pay to ease your guilt.

You need to stop.

I ignore him. In my head I'm running down the steps to Jacob. I'm running carefully, trying to concentrate so that I don't slip. Slowest race ever.

Caleb grabs a handful of my hair in his fist and yanks my head around so that I am staring right at him. My eyes swim into focus with fear in them and he smiles. Oh, I see. Pay attention.

Will you stop, Bridget?

He says it softly, kindly almost. Save for the fact that he is hurting me I would have been moved.

I can't shake my head so I match his tone, equally soft. The smallest voice I have.

No. We've had this conversation before. May I go now, please?

He continues to hold my head along with my attention while he slides the scissors off the desk with his other hand. They are good scissors. Sharpened twice a year. He brings them up close and I close my eyes.

I hear them open and close and I'm not dead. He lets go and I open my eyes.

And then I understand perfectly.

Handfuls of my hair are landing on the desk. On the floor. I no longer care if I'm careful or not, I'm running down the steps now, sliding along the banister, feet almost off the ground. Don't touch me. Don't touch me. Don't touch me.

But he keeps taking hold of huge handfuls and cutting and cutting until my hair is close around my face and then he throws the scissors and they bounce off the wall and clatter to the floor. He has tears streaming down his face as he looks at me and then walks out, slamming his office door. I reach up and touch my head. My hair, my crowning glory of blonde that was almost back to my waist is now chin-length. I look like I did when I was young, when I cut my hair briefly for a change. Cole was the change. I cut it for him. I never cut it again until after Jacob and even then that turned out to be a big mistake and I was back to my mermaid hair as fast as it would grow.

And now it's gone.

I shove away from the desk and the chair smashes to the floor as I run after him. I don't catch up with him until he is almost through the living room at the balcony doors. I land both fists against his back as I call him a coward for running away.

He turns around and I am looking in a mirror, matched tear for tear. Helpless, frustrated rage written all over our faces. He is in shock.

Suddenly I laugh. I didn't expect to but I seem to have all the power. Hold on to it, princess. I put my hands up and touch my hair. It's close to my head. I bet I look like I did as he remembers me best. Helpless and young.

They're going to kill you.

I'm already dead, Bridget.

WHY DOES EVERYBODY KEEP SAYING THAT??

Because we want to be the ones you love, and because it's the only thing Jake and Cole have in common.

My eyes flash to the sky beyond his shoulder and he turns and throws the bolt on the door, weirdly so, as if I was going to be able to get past him somehow and climb up over the railing and drop to the street below with the high end stores and strange faces.

You don't know me. Don't act like you can do things and not pay for them.

That's just it, Bridget, I can. I've been a monster forever and you let me get away with it. Long before the fallout with Lochlan, long before Cole became your favorite monster. You changed and it's all my fault. I do the work and they reap the benefits. I take the risks and they get the rewards. What the fuck is this? I live in fucking fear but I can't help myself. You won't help yourself. We're all sick. All of us.

You're delusional if you think you've ever gotten away with anything. Look around, Caleb! What do you have?!

I have you. I have Henry. I--My God. Look what I did to you.

You don't have us. You have nothing. Remember that when you feel the need to keep being the monster. Just remember what it got you. You ruined your perfect life and you took mine with you. So everything you have is an overcompensation for everything you wanted and drove away.

It's not over, princess.

It was over before it started. You saw to that quite nicely.

Why are you bringing up the past suddenly? I thought we were over that. You had crafted a lovely tale of absentia for your own brain to swallow, it seemed. Lying to yourself is always a nice comfort against the ugliness of truth isn't it?

I don't know, you tell me.

We belong together, Bridget.

Like hell we do. You can pretend all you want, Caleb but the truth remains and eventually I'll tell it. Just keep pushing me and see where we end up.

You've had some good times with me, Bridget.

Sure, only because the one thing you've ever taught me that I can talk about out loud is that I can use you for my own sick games too. I don't have to worry about destroying my boys, I'll just use you instead, and then you go away when I'm finished. Because you mean nothing.

I can see him crumbling now. It isn't calculated for maximum advantage, it isn't staged, it's real and I don't want to do this anymore.

I'm going. You can see Ben later and explain this shit and clean up your own mess.

He nodded. I have the control again. We hand it off like a baton. I nod and I'm out of there. I walk outside into the evening breeze to John in the Rolls and I wish for my scarf because my neck is freezing. John's eyebrows go up when he sees me and I ask him if he can stop at one of the salons nearby and he does and I come home with a perfectly cute tapered bob and a new scarf too.

I had planned to tell them it was just a whim but then I remembered that feeling of terror as Caleb picked up the scissors and so I will condemn him instead. But he's right. I hardly even mean it and at the end of the day after death, history, cash and love pay out their dividends a haircut is not that big of a fucking deal.

I am still, though. Sadly. The hopes I had when I was eighteen fade quickly now. Like the last rays of sunlight as we drive back up the coast. I am practicing my explanations in my head to soften it already and I'll never know why I protect him from them but I do.

Ripple.

I stole a sip from his beer as I watched him dive off the diving board. The sun was so bright already and it was only seven-thirty in the morning. I was sitting on the edge of the pool in my pale blue string bikini making circles in the water with my feet. It isn't all that warm yet and I have shrugged into his jean jacket. I'm not sure I like Arizona all that much. I read a book set here once. It was about death.

I stick my legs out straight and evaluate my knees. Carpet-burned from being forced to the floor in this two-dollar an hour motel, they sting from the chlorine. I pour beer over them and dump the rest in the pool. I throw the bottle in too. I don't care about anything this morning other than waiting until Caleb is asleep tonight so that I can take all of the money from his wallet and hitchhike to the airport and go home. If I can find my passport, that is. Flying without it and looking younger than my full eighteen years never seems to go over well.

He doesn't have this problem. He's twenty-six and finished law school early and now he's moving on to a new degree because his plan is to rule the world, or at least retire a self-made millionaire at fifty. No one has any doubts that he will succeed either, and that's what makes this trip so hard to swallow. That he blatantly asked Cole if I could be borrowed for a weekend and Cole said yes and will take whatever payout Caleb gives him for my use and we'll all pretend we just get along great and the minute I get home I will go back to pretending Caleb doesn't exist.

He swims to me and places the beer bottle on the edge of the pool. He frowns and reaches up to pull me into the water, jacket and all.

I was at the deep end and I don't want to swim so I wrap my arms around his shoulders. He smells like soap and chlorine and sun. I place my lips against his neck and rest my head. His arms go around me. He's a good swimmer. I could fall asleep here. I'm not afraid of him. It's been six years and I have grown accustomed to the change in brothers. Like the change of the seasons.

He puts his head down against my cheek and hums. I don't know what he's humming. I am tone deaf.

Fall is coming. That's what I think about instead of his song. Fall is coming and it will be cold soon and I will trade my bikinis and sundresses and boots for jeans and sweaters and I will always run up to you and unzip your jacket and throw myself into it and sometimes you can zip it up again over me and I'm trapped walking backwards with you but eventually you will let me go.

Eventually, he will let me go.

Probably later this year when he gets busy with his new job and his life as a lawyer. Kind of like growing up finally and then he'll leave us alone. I start college soon. I'll be busy. Cole is very busy working already. Yeah, I'll just bide my time. It's been six years. It won't be much longer.

Viral princess.

I did my best, it wasn't much
I couldn't feel, so I tried to touch
I've told the truth, I didn't come to fool you
And even though it all went wrong
I'll stand before the Lord of Song
With nothing on my tongue but Hallelujah

Every singer, including mine, should be forced to cover Hallelujah the way Jeff Buckley covers Hallelujah.

His voice is like someone put Freddie Mercury and Nick Drake in a blender and cut it with a cup of heaven.

And I am back from the dead, I think. Yesterday I crashed hard after lunch but thanks to the fact that I seem to be indestructible I couldn't seem to stay down.

Burning up with a fever, I did two loads of laundry (Lying down in between, seriously) and then I cried for Ben to come home early a little, and then I made lunches for today, and then Ben started to yell from downtown to go to bed already and I couldn't because he wasn't home yet so Ruth made tuna sandwiches for dinner with veggies for herself and Henry and Ben walked through the door at seven and I was a mess.

A complete and utter mess, weak and fevered to a crisp. Martyred. Fine, you win, Bridget, you're so tough, now go the hell to bed.

He got me into bed and brought me my beloved orange juice and opened all the windows and I was out. I remember asking about the bugs on my legs and why they were in flames and I also was very fucking pissed off about not getting any dinner (I think he had Captain Crunch. Seriously.) but I couldn't eat anything anyway and eventually the burning went away a little and I woke up to a thunderstorm crashing and I very unsteadily went to the bathroom and then crashed back into the bed and eventually morning came and the fever was gone and the bugs were gone but I feel as fragile as a ghost today.

I wish Ben was home. He always knows exactly what to do and then I feel better.

* * * * * *

The doctor has been and gone. He thinks it's mononucleosis. Lovely. His recommendation? Sleep, Bridget. More than you have been. He also cautioned me not to sleep during the day at all because it would disrupt my sleep at night eventually. So I can thumb my nose at everyone who keeps telling me to take a nap when all it ever seems to do is make things worse.

So there.

Thumbthumbthumb.

*cough*

I will also work on the martyr part. Thankfully it's only an issue once or twice a year. A TANK, I tell you, I'm a tank.

Athenaeum.

The center of my house is where the front door is. There is a circle room with a vaulted ceiling and windows all the way around. From the circle with the big round table and the orchids you can hang a right, which takes you into the great room/kitchen area with the insanely huge fireplace and also eventually to the stairs that go up. That way is toward the water, and overlooks the ocean and the driveway is underneath if you are tall enough to look down toward the ground under the window. There is a counter around the kitchen windows so sadly I can't see the driveway, since it runs beside the house and then around and back up.

If you hang a left from the foyer you can either head downstairs to the lair of Daniel and Schuyler (I wouldn't recommend it, they like their privacy) or you can step through the big double doors into my library. The library faces the woods, and is on the front of the house so you look through the verandah and then beyond and it means the verandah is far removed from the action, so to speak and a bit quieter than spending time down on the patio in full view of the people in the kitchen or great room or being on the balcony upstairs which is visible for miles. (Jesus, the whole world knows when I'm out there. It seems to be my widow's walk.)

In any case, these words are about my library. Not about the extended modern sprawl of this gigantic house.

This library is done. Solid and finished in a way my rickety shelving against plaster and old drafty windows and rickety desk were not, in our old house. This room is temperature-sealed. New windows that open at knee level to provide a breeze but continue on to the ceiling to paint a picture of a rain forest that sometimes invites a deer or bear or hummingbird. The windows continue around two walls, so the other two are floor to ceiling shelves, finished in a California-colonial style which I can't quite wrap my brain around. Soft grey walls. Dark wood floors with the white plushie area rug on top for softness. Bright lamps for reading and two white leather chairs. The books are packed into those shelves and stacked on the floor for good measure. There is a tower on the table threatening to collapse and more behind the door so you can't open it all the way.

It is soundproof as well.

Which means even though Ben has a studio downstairs, many many times a week you'll see him strolling up from the depths of the house strumming his guitar and disappearing into the library to see 'how it sounds'. It always sounds good, Benjamin but this is the quiet room.

He laughs.

It's only quiet if I need to show a card to get in, bee.

That can be arranged.

This is not my pantry, though. It is too pretty. Too bright. Too full of words to quiet my head. Cans of soup and bags of pasta quiet my head. Counting Keebler elves. Staring at the Honor Shelf and the competition as I see invisible words crashing into one another in the air in front of me does nothing but spool me up.

I have tried. I made it a comfortable room. I love the rug. I love the chairs. I love the big pillows on the floor. (Thank you, IKEA, I love you most.) I love the lamps and the windows and the odd California-style lack of baseboards and trim too but what I really love is that the kids can be found draped all over the place reading too. That they are starting to pick and choose from the big book collection and venturing away slightly from English Roses and Diary of a Wimpy Kid. I hope they can do their homework in there on the floor or have long phone conversations stuffed into a chair without disruption and I hope that when the rain comes in the winter that I'll be able to hear it on the windows if I sit very still.