Rest real loud.

Aw fuck. Chimaira just packed it in after fifteen long years. God love 'em. PJ is near tears and now we're wondering who the hell is going to soundtrack the mosh pits in the kitchen every day.

Good for them though. Family first. It's a tough biz any way you shake it.

(Actual daily post to follow after the obligatory amazing seven-album listen through. This is how we mark time.)

Fleeting.

August stayed long enough to wash off the dust, get a haircut and a shave and read Joel's report. I thought he would laugh. I thought he might roll his eyes and give a colorful curse or two but he nodded and then he kept nodding and he said it was about right but he said it softly, defensively as if I was about to lash out at him or fall apart but it just proves that they don't understand unconventional people and basically it made me stick even closer to Loch and to Ben. Loch is still having some godawful chest pain and Ben is retreating from us but not physically and I had to ask August if he could just deal with him instead, that even at my worst I have a good net here but Ben tends to fall right through it. Probably because of the huge weight difference between us. Or maybe because the net was just never designed for the types of tricks Ben does.

I don't know but they were locked in the library talking for a damn long time and when they came out they both looked spent and grim.

Sam needs to step up. He favors me. Maybe they all do because Ben doesn't give them a chance. I'm a open book. I'll sing to you my flaws and read aloud from the big book that is my fears. Ben won't say a word until he's so far gone he's lost. So maybe you're going to first fix the easier thing.

Which, okay so no, that's not it then.

Can't be.

August is gone now, on the plane that's going to bump his slender knees through Edmonton, Montreal, Halifax and into Gander. It might take him the rest of the week to get home at that rate but he wouldn't stand for me rearranging his itinerary to make things easier for him.

So I didn't. But I also didn't stand for him agreeing with Joel because I know what's wrong with me, I don't need to see it on paper, I don't need it agreed with. I don't need the confirmation that I'm some sort of enigma who has so many things wrong inside her skull they practically cancel each other out at this point. Instead I just made devilled eggs and chocolate-covered strawberries and I soaked up all of the Newfie while I could because I sincerely doubt he'll be back again this way before Christmas and then I put on my bravest face (and biggest lie) at the door when he left.

The pilgrimage back from Nevada.

(Still waiting for my money, Diabhal, if you'd put a rush on that. What? Your assistant isn't handy? She's busy, sorry. Do it yourself for once.)

I'm still mostly strung out on stress here and unable to sleep, remember things or get past the end of my nose with my list of chores. Sam redelegated my Monday for me and triaged me right through the morning. I can't seem to let go of Lochlan's hand. I don't want to take my eyes off him. The thought of ever losing anyone else to an accident or illness or anything for that matter leaves a simmering fear always on the verge of boiling over and maybe I don't do as well as I thought I did.

Ben gave up and handed me off to Sam almost too quickly. Hurry up, he must be thinking. Fix her up and then come look after me because I'm the one everyone dismisses or forgets because I never keep my shit together long enough to be counted. 

He's wrong but try telling him that.

Sam is doing well. This house is a full time job, I think. Probably Joel's job but as long as he is here to create reports and feedback on me I'm not speaking to him.

I just want to sleep. I want to have a good dream. I want to eat pizza without feeling sick and I'd like to maybe watch a really good movie without poking holes in the dialogue or the plot or the effects.

And then I heard a big Newfie walk in the front door, but only because he was yelling our names.

And I flew off the couch, and Lochlan's head snapped up because he had almost fallen asleep and he said is that August? 

And it was. Fresh and wasted from yet another goddamned Burning Man, because this guy never learns.

Breathing now.

Convalescent day with the pyrowrecknical who has a lovely raspy lilt to his voice that makes my knees buckle just splendidly. I think he totally fucked up and didn't want to admit it because he likes to be perfect even as he makes zero attempts to belong, fit in or mingle with the norms. He'll always be the outsider and that will probably be his downfall but for the next few weeks he is mine while we run the gamut of pills and x-rays and pulmonologists (?) and side effects. He hates antibiotics and steroids just make everyone mean but he has to take those too because lungs are precious things.

I can spoil him with Netflix and cuddles and music. Maybe a drive later if he gets restless (he does, endlessly) and Ben promised to entertain him tomorrow while I go grocery shopping because I'm tough and I'm resilient and lately it seems like the bad luck is offleash and running free but the horse was going to die anyway, rarely have I ever had a really good trip with Satan and frankly after so long at it the fact that Loch had a relatively mild industrial accident is almost a relief because the odds are back on his side again now, even though it will probably be next summer before he gets to give it another go and I have been summarily banned from ever doing it again for the big fire-transfer kiss finale because now suddenly it's too dangerous and he said if this had happened to me I would be dead.

Granted, that might solve as many problems as it makes, but he has a point and I'm just glad our livelihood no longer has to depend on these sorts of things. We've seen people have to leave a show due to accidents or illnesses and it was never not heartbreaking for everyone involved.

Lochlan doesn't agree with me on being glad we're out. He wanted to be a lifer but I dragged him into the real world and I bet he resents me for that even as he says he never ever would, that I have shown him the sweet parts of life as I jam down beside him into the couch and steal the remote the first chance I get. Because girl movies, for the win.

Nothing else matters (if you can't breathe).

Long day at the hospital today because we took Lochlan in around three this morning after discovering he might have aspirated kerosene from his show earlier in the evening. He was coughing constantly and couldn't seem to take a deep breath. He kept saying he was fine but he's proud like that. He said if he sat quietly he would be able to recover but then he didn't and I started panicking.

No one wants to see that ramp up so Loch agreed to be seen.

(And then all hell broke loose as we ran into unexpected legal issues and next of kin issues and we had to call in his parents. This went over well.)

He was released a couple of hours ago. Apparently the fact that he has thirty years of experience in fire breathing/eating/throwing might have saved his life, but he's being treated anyway and will have half a dozen x-rays between now and Christmas. He's taking antibiotics to help heal his lungs and he's unwilling to say he won't do it again, he'll just make sure not to do it when he is tired/distracted/pissed-off.

Scottish people can be so ornery and wonderful.

I'm glad this one is okay.

Now I need to go fall apart. I always think I'm through the hard parts of life and life keeps telling me different.

Strike one.

This trip was tough. I didn't write or say much about it. I didn't want to. He propositioned me almost hourly. I turned him down each and every time. At night I locked my door. I would not eat with him, sleep with him or spend any leisure time with him. I hardly spoke to him.

As a result, we argued near constantly when we were together because he couldn't get it through his thick evil skull that just because he snaps his fingers doesn't mean I'm going to give in.

So he said maybe he should snap my neck instead and hopefully that would get my attention.

DIDN'T WORK.

I'm still here. Well, for the moment. Reading the paper and seeing the eleventh hour teachers talks failing and it looks like no one's going back to school in three days and I'm thinking I'll be homeschooling for a bit until they do. I did it twice before, it's not that hard. But kids need their friends too and freedom from home and it's always far easier to learn from someone who isn't Mom. We'll review the curriculum and go from there. It better not take long though. Caleb is still threatening to pull them and put them in private school. The one he likes is in London.

I don't think so and so far the judges have been on my side.

Lochlan just needs one more reason to throw that ax, too. Let's not forget he is armed. Also probably more dangerous than he looks.

But since tonight is the final Saturday night of summer, we're going to cast our worries aside and have a light show with some fire throwing and some bubble-blowing (solution mixed with glow stick innards) and turn on all the tiny fairy lights and make some magic. It's not so cold and it could be the last night without rain that we're still officially on summer break to do it in.

(Well, probably not at the rate the teachers' union and the government is going but just in case, let's call it as we see it.)

I'll be in bed early though. I'm tired.

Seasonal humans.

While I was gone Summer packed her things and went away and in her place Fall stands in boots and plaid, patiently waiting while I pack away my swelterweight belongings and haul out jeans, Docs and a cozy long sweater.

I've missed you, Bridget, he says and I smile because I technically hate hot weather. It makes me sick to my stomach. He's so handsome. If only he would stick around longer, keeping me in brightly colored leaves and hot chocolate and the soft pre-Christmas, post-Halloween glow, I might never wish for anything else.

I wish I had known you were coming, I lecture him as I rush around bringing in candles off the porch and putting away water toys and swim towels. Flipflops and summer rain jackets go up to their owner's respective closets and midweight coats and corduroy comes back. Plaid flannel is suddenly not a torture device but a damn fine fashion choice.

Beards are formally invited to grow back and grow long.

Fingers are always kissed and freezing.

Coffee is welcome around the clock, preferably with something else mixed in.

Not like we have to winterize like at the castle with the closing of doors, cordoning off of entire areas and putting up storm windows. Worrying about the ancient furnace and the remaining unprotected windows, tucking just another layer of quilts onto the beds. Finding cats in the closets, burrowed into things that fall off hangers.

No, here, Henry probably will stick to shorts until it snows, the furnace stays off until mid-October and Halloween is coats-optional.

I really love it. I love it when school goes back into session too but they're still working on that.

And I love a guy who decided the wood he cut in April wasn't actually enough after all and he's back out there at it again. But mostly not because we need wood any time soon but because it's best to face one's adversaries when one has a very sharp ax in one's hand, ready to grind.

When my feet hit the ground, Lochlan pointed at them and said, They stay there. On the ground. No more, Peanut. None of this. He doesn't need you. 

I showed him my prizes and still he was not swayed.

You belong with me, he said, and that's all he would say before he resumed making the woodpile taller than the garage. And that has a second floor. And Joel still lives there, sadly enough. I was hoping when I came back he'd be gone.

Ben said to let it all be, that Fall seems to be smoothing things out, that he is such a peacemaker where Summer makes people somewhat crazy and prone to being short-tempered and hasty. Fall, by comparison is chill.

He made me laugh, personifying it the same way I do.

Missed you, Little Bee, he said, delighted that he made me laugh right off the bat. Let's go pry the weapons out of Loch's hands and have a reunion dinner. It's going to be a busy week with birthdays, tonight is probably our only chance.

What's amazing about Vegas is that if a girl walks down the street in tears, everyone assumes that she lost a bundle gambling. Everyone offers her a few more chips, maybe dinner, a drink, a place to stay, a platitude about how it's just money, tomorrow is another day, everything is going to be okay, etc. until they realize they aren't helping and they fade out of the picture, their face blurring as the next face comes into focus but she just keeps walking and walking and thanks her Gods for kitten heels and empty credit cards and wonders if she should have a weapon so far from the busier areas because the US is different and riskier somehow and then finally he takes his sweet time showing up, telling her he didn't think she'd get that far. She reminds him that she's good at running and he accepts that because it's true.

Then he tells her to get in the car and they'll go home but when she looks inside the car she sees the devil and she doesn't want to go with him anywhere. He never shows himself to anyone else, just her and it isn't fair.

Hard to believe at one time he was one of the youngest CFOs on Bay Street.

Bridget.

He is sitting across the table tracing a steady groove into his coffee cup with his thumb. He's not looking at me. It's a dry cool morning and he is in a long sleeved white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Black pants. Hair perfectly combed but still wet. Close shave. Top two buttons undone so I can just barely see the first letter of the tattoo over his heart.

Yes? 

I sit back in my chair, cup clutched against my breastbone with both hands, one thumb looped through the handle, pretty grey dress into service again because I'm still losing weight and it's a perfect fit when I do with the matching jacket (to cover my own tattoos). No shoes. I wait for the lecture. I didn't do my chignon. I didn't bring the stupid shoes (I walk too much here so kitten heels only) and my hair is still wet because breakfast arrived and I was starving.

He takes a sip and still doesn't look at me.

Why do you come here?

I believe the term is 'at gunpoint'. 

I didn't hold a gun to your head. 

The day is young. 

This makes it harder. 

And if I don't come with you my life is so much easier. 

Are you afraid of me? 

Yes.

If you were not, would things be different? 

No. 

Tell me why. 

I don't want to do this today. 

You're so hot and cold with me. 

I'm like this with everyone. Don't think you're special. 

Not what I mean. 

What do you mean? 

You're...incredibly loving and obedient and then you just shut down. 

I scowl and look out over the strip. It's tacky and filthy. Nothing ever changes here except the names on the buildings, the names on the billboards. The tourists, the prostitutes, the dealers, the mob. It's all the same. The servers all look like they sold their souls so long ago their earthly forms have all but expired, the neon glitz burning a hole right through their flesh, the promises of the next hand crippling everyone into servitude. And bachelorette parties everywhere as if Vegas is the bottom and the only way now is up.

I never had a bachelorette party. I wouldn't know.

What should I do differently then? 

Keep to the rules. 

Who are the rules for again?

He has almost rubbed the coating off his cup and he grimaces like he's in pain and then checks his expression. Come. We have a busy day. We'll get coffee again en route. 

En route to where? 

Funding meeting at ten.

I don't need to be there. 

Yes, you do. You're my right hand man. You call the shots. You tell me if we're up or down. You read them better than even I can.

That's bullshit and you know it. 

Go finish getting ready. We can fight in the car.

Judge, jury, executioner (on my way to Vegas but not for fun).

They've even got a special name for us when we work on the show. Maybe you can guess it, Bridgie. Part of the word 'carnival' is in the name. 

Lowlives. Caleb snorts to himself and opens another beer.

I frown at Caleb. I think I know what that means and it isn't nice. Lochlan touches my elbow. Think hard, Bridgie.

I am. So hard my eleven-year-old mind is ready to burst. Ummmm...carnivores? 

No less than three of them spit mouthfuls of beer into the bonfire. Christian rolls onto his side. That's the best answer I've ever heard, Bridget. He says.

I'm not sure if he's making fun of me or not. I look at Lochlan, waiting for the correct answer.

Carnies, Bridgie. Want to come be a carny with me? 

Yes, I do. 

Too bad you're too young, Caleb kills the conversation completely. I frown because he's right.

***

He had the plane stocked with Pellegrino, blueberries and lime (for him) and coconut water (for me). A glass was poured for me and I took a huge gulp and thought he had finally succeeded in poisoning me without bothering to make it taste good.

My face said it all.

What's the matter? I thought you loved the stuff. 

I don't even know what this is! Oh, it's plain. 

What do you mean?

I only like the Del Monte pineapple kind. 

I wasn't aware there were differences. 

Try it.

He takes a sip and makes a face.  I'll make a note of it.

I bet you will. 

Pardon?

Nothing.

***

What is that? 

My lucky bracelet. 

And where did you get it?

Loch made it for me. I beam with twenty-one-year-old pride.

Caleb frowns. Where did he make it? 

In the last campfire on the last show. (with a hammer and a piece of old copper wire, he engaged in a little portable blacksmithing, is what he did.)

I see. It's not something that you wear to a place like this, Bridget. 

My personal jewelry isn't up for debate, Cale.

Your attitude is. I can take you to Cartier after lunch. We'll get you a proper one. 

So I'm not good enough for Vegas suddenly? I thought it was the other way around.

He grabs my elbow and squeezes it so hard my knees go to liquid. No, I simply don't need any visual reminders that I brought a lowlife to such a high end spot. 

I yank my arm out of his hand. Should have brought someone else then.

I don't want anyone else. 

Then look at it because I'm not taking it off. 

(In the end he took it off me, pinning me down and making sure I couldn't breathe until I stopped fighting. Business as usual. I never got it back. Maybe I'll ask about it today. Maybe when he's pinning me down. Full circle and all that.)