Get on my level.

Matt is coming home.

I would have sent Luke to collect all of this things from his rental condo and arrange for cleaning and for the paperwork to be forwarded here but Matt said he could look after it all and would wrap everything up by the end of this week. I only let him because boundaries, I am trying to learn some.

Further to that we are spending the next few days playing musical rooms. I do that anyway but PJ so very generously offered to trade wings so that Sam and Matt could be afforded the privacy they need. Should have done this a while ago but I like to spoil PJ because he spoils me so I made sure he had a space that was just his. I'm there all the time anyway, now I just won't have to go as far.

Sam and Matt's wing was a bedroom, den, hallway and bathroom just off the front hall. Lochlan's former space, remember? Their door locked but that isn't privacy for two people. PJ's apartment, in contrast, is two bedrooms, plus a den, bathroom, full kitchen and walkout patio. Not sure he used most of it. It is the only actual living space downstairs, the rest of that floor being home to the movie theatre, Ben's studio and the biggest laundry room you ever saw. The door is lockable too and the whole basement is understandably soundproof because we're a loud family.

It's going to be perfect for Matt and Sam. They never have to come upstairs if they so choose.

(Here's where I point out that yes, I do the laundry for the whole house. Yes even Gage. Even Duncan. Even August who lives in the gatehouse/garage/whatever we call it, though I like gatehouse. I can cartwheel through the laundry room. It's very necessarily huge. I spend my life hanging up flannel shirts on a rack so they don't shrink and untwisting sheets from the dryer. And convincing whoever is in the kitchen to come downstairs and bring up the baskets pleeeeeease. It's so fun! Not.)

At least there are eight strong guys here to move furniture! At this rate they'll be switched in half an hour.

Better hide your porn collection, PJ. 

No worries, it's all on my computer now. This is the golden age of porn, Bridget. 

Duncan has magazines. 

Duncan's a retro hipster. It's a image thing for him. 

So your image is that of a tech wizard? 

Yes. Yes, I totally look like a tech wizard, don't I? 

Yeah but at least now you won't be a basement-dwelling tech wizard. I hear that's the demographic that gets picked on most. 

It is. Right behind self-important sexpot pseudo-princesses. 

Ouch, PJ. 

If the shoe fits. 

Is that a porn euphemism? 

Somewhere it is, yes. 

Okay, I don't want to see those movies. 

And I don't want to show them to you, so we're good.

Surprisingly, I'm happy PJ will be even closer to us. He's the glue, the keeper of this castle. He's my wingman. Actually I think I'm his. Though I won't be touching his computer anymore.

I'm gonna save your life.

Lying in bed this morning in our cage listening to the furnace and the rain take turns filling my broken ears with glorious noise, Lochlan conjured up memories in the dark, memories of sailing through the air to be caught by his hands, memories of falling into the net and cracking my fear-set face into a rigid smile for the crowd, recollections of people that would see us in town after the week or after they had been to a show and being surprised we were lovers, but then exclaiming that they just knew we were because we had a bond, a chemistry that was so tangible, even to the audience. No one is that good of a performer otherwise.

We would smile and pose for pictures sometimes. Mostly we would wearily grin and tell them to come back and see us again, briefly slipping into barker-lite. Briefly hawking the board with no loyalties past the paycheque. There was never a reason to let the rubes see the downsides, they just wanted the magic, the wistfulness of wondering what life is like when you actually run away and join the circus.

Who am I to tell them it's not what they expect? Who am I to burst all the bubbles you can blow? Who am I to under-romanticize the one thing that requires no help at all in being the ultimate escapist daydream shared by so many people?

It changes people. It stretches them too. I became worse for it and better for it too. I learned my true capabilities and the extent of my courage. I learned what I will and won't put up with in life. I learned who I was. Everyone is always talking of finding yourself. Join the circus. Get out while you're still alive and look in the mirror now. There. That's who you are. Shoulders back. Smile fixed. Nails caked with chalk. Cheeks caked with soot. Feet blistered and cramped. Stomach rumbling, brain expanded along with your pupils because there's always some bad shit around on your day off and scary rich men trying to buy you as a novelty for their own amusement.

Oh, wait, nevermind the 'trying' part of that analysis.

Everyone wants a pet freak. Absolutely everyone. It's second in daydreams only to the escape ones. If you can't run away you should lock away someone else and then you won't feel so alone.

Just ask the Devil. I'm sure that's exactly what it was like for him. Only instead of a habitat we have a whole point to be contained in.

Matt was in church when we all arrived.

They are talking right now. I'm hopeful. So hopeful.

Alphadog.

Sam cancelled my coffee date with Matt (on my behalf) and then didn't tell me in order to...

1) Make Matt look bad.
2) Waste my time.
3) Cause everyone else to jump in and cheer me up because being stood up is the worst and nobody puts Bridget in the corner! 

Wait, I mean..it's just shitty all around. It's shittier still when you've crossed a bridge and sat in traffic and it took until this morning to find out exactly who crossed a Bridge, indeed.

Why, Sam?

I need you to not get involved. 

I wasn't. He invited me. 

I don't want you to pick sides. 

This has nothing to do with picking sides. I want to support both of you and your marriage. I love you both. 

Burning building? Pick one of us.

The dog. I'm saving the dog because I'm sick of my loyalties being traded like currency. 

Wow. You're going to save a seven-year old arthritic dog?

YUP. I'll die trying. I'm leaving everything to him anyway. He never complains. 

I didn't want to complain. 

What are you hiding then?

Depends. If you're going to leave that chip on your shoulder while we talk then nevermind. 

God will absorb the chip. Start talking. 

It's my fault. 

I knew that. 

How did you know?

Sam, I've lived with you for years now. You're me with a penis. This isn't rocket science.

Now all I can picture is you with a penis. Great. 

It would be! I've said this many times! 

I'm sorry, Bridget. I didn't mean to cause so much trouble. 

Then apologize to your husband. And you owe me a coffee date!

We can go right now if you like. 

I'll get my things. 

Superzeroes.

I scrubbed the baseboards of the entire house today. And finished the windows outside that I could reach. I ran some errands. I'm still looking for shoes but I may just order online. I stitched up Lochlan's eyebrow from where Caleb sliced it open with a good right cross and the steristrips weren't doing the job of keeping the wound closed. This because I had blood in my hair this morning from his face. It stained my hair red. He laughed and said that's how he could do it. Then I will match him and Ruth.

Yes, I'm the seamstress. Even to their bodies when and if required. Told you they fight alot.

I finished a different sewing project and made some calls. I ate a muffin. I tried deep breathing and failed at calming myself. I feel like a very quiet lunatic ninety-nine percent of the time and the other one percent I am awesome.

I got stood up.

I cried for three seconds and then said fuck you too to no one in particular.

I finished the Trudeau biography.

I planted pansies all around the border of the front gardens. I ripped out all of the ivy and replaced it with big rhododendren bushes. I lugged bags of dirt without help, the only way to move them being to clutch them in both arms, close against me and tripod-walk across the lawn.

They're so heavy.

I've also been up and down to the beach a hundred times in the past day checking for signs that the fuel spill has reached us but so far we are safe. Thank God for that. If something happens to my point I'll be very angry and then I would go from nursemaid to pixie-hulk in the space of ten seconds. It wouldn't be pretty but then again neither is anyone else right this second.

A special place in hell for those who sing on repeat.

But tell me, did the wind sweep you off your feet?
Did you finally get the chance to dance along the light of day
And head back to the Milky Way?
And tell me, did Venus blow your mind?
Was it everything you wanted to find?
And did you miss me while you were looking for yourself out there?

Loch has headphones in while he washes his truck. He has been singing Drops of Jupiter at the top of his lungs on repeat for close to an hour now. The Devil has been standing directly behind Lochlan in the driveway watching him for at least twenty minutes and I don't even want to go outside for fear of what is about to go down. I just know that only one of those two is capable of being happy and content at a time but never concurrently. I know that I don't know what made them tick before I arrived in the neighborhood and tore everything apart but I know I'm the reason now.

Oh, he's starting up again anew and the Devil has crossed his arms. I sent PJ and August both heads ups. PJ said to let them kill each other and get it out of their systems and then the rest of us can get on with our lives. Then he ammended his words to please me and said he would go check in a bit.

He isn't rushing though.

I guess August is still asleep. I would be too if anyone would let me.

I'm not budging right now to go and try and sort them out. Sam finally fell asleep after what seemed to be a two-hour exhausting session about grief and change and moving forward and by the end we didn't know if I was the counsellor or he was. We both got a lot out and made some space for fresh pain or fresh joy or whatever the heck it is that rushes in with a whoosh when there is room.

I haven't seen Sam cry like that before. But I told him once he fell asleep that I would keep watch over him and maybe he can heal from the inside out. Of course it isn't depression when he sleeps, it's renewal. Whatever, Baby Preacher. Just get some rest for once. I smoothed his curls down with my hand and kissed the top of his head but he is too far gone now to appreciate my efforts to soothe him.

I don't think Matt is coming back. I'm having coffee with him downtown tomorrow. He said he has some things he needs to say (it's not me, it's you, no doubt) and frankly I have some things to say too.

I've been thinking a lot about the things I want to say while I sit here and watch life through the glass. This week seems like it's been all about jumping hurdles and clearing out cobwebs and it's exciting and also terrifying, as always.

Ambush romance, Bridget-style.

(Told you Monday was better off waning.)

Alone with this vision
Alone with this sound
Alone in my dreams
I carry around

I will not take from you and you will not owe
I will protect you from the fire below
It’s not in my mind
It’s here at my side
Go tell the world that I am alive

Been a while, Bumblebee, he says as he pours sparkling water into my glass. There is a blanket held down by four big rocks and on it I have laid out a feast that I brought from the top of the cliff. In stages. It took FOREVER, especially to roll the rocks over to anchor the quilt.

We have cheese and crackers and caviar and potato salad and roast beef. French bread. Chocolate cake. Cookies too.

I light the lanterns that I brought too, shoving candles hastily behind the little glass doors before they're blown out.  The wind is light tonight. It's getting dark. It's mild out but I even brought extra blankets in case we get cold.

The tide tries to reach us but it won't. We're just above the high water mark on the dry sand where the larger rocks eat the beach for dinner. The seagulls are calling. The sun is going down and I am stalling.

Just have to wait for one more thing, Benny.

He sits back against a log and picks up his glass and smiles. I watch him and sip my own water and then I hear a yell.

And there's Loch coming across the beach. Wearing a really nice shirt. And a tie. He's got a cooler bag over his shoulder and a big goofy grin on his face. Matched only by the one on Ben's face when they see each other.

In the cooler there are steamed vegetables, salmon, plates and cutlery and a thermos of tea. And the radio, as per my instructions to PJ and Lochlan didn't know what he was bringing until just now.  He sits down to unpack the bag and hands me the radio. I find a quiet station and leave the music on low, propped on top of the two logs to the side.

Ben takes a plate and asks me what I would like. I point to things and he ladles out a little of each. Too much food. I take my plate and sit and wait for them to fill their plates and glasses too and then I make a toast. They have their glasses ready.

To love. I could only hope to give you both a memory like some of the ones you have given me. To more of this and less strife. To a better life. To loving without limits. To life. To the here and now. 

To love. Ben says.

Here and now, echoes Loch.

They both look touched. I'm going to cry and choke on my potato salad. I can't eat. I don't know what I'm thinking. Too nervous. Too anxious for everything to be perfect. To a casual observer it's a picnic dinner. To me it's everything I can never give back to them because they won't let me and this was a huge operation to try and surprise them.

Loch is wearing a tie. If I were standing, my knees would be jello. I left a card for him with his instructions on the dresser. Meet me on the beach. Dress nice. PJ will give you what you need to bring.

I brought Ben with me down to the beach on my last trip with supplies. He took the bottle from me, tucking it under his arm. What are you up to, Little Bee?

This. This is what I was up to.

But Ben hasn't stopped staring at me like I'm the most fascinating thing he has ever seen and I don't want him to ever stop but at the same time I'm staring back because I hardly ever get to see him anymore. He works too much. He refuses to take breaks sometimes even when he is supposed to. He smiles so big and there's an epic Pacific sunset going on right behind us and I don't plan to turn around because looking at him is better.

He finally stops and looks at my plate. Eat something, Bee. Loch nods. He's missing the sunset too. Gosh. I have it all right here.

The plate swims on the other side of my tears and the sea roars in waves washing over my soul and I never ever ever want to go a minute further in life. We can stop right here, freeze it like this. They both look so happy. Just please, just this one thing right here.

Nobody pinch me, I whisper.

They can't hear it.

That's okay.

If it's okay with you, I'm just going to go ahead and slide into Tuesday.

This force is in love with you
It wants you safe
It wants you well
This force knows what you can do
And what you can make
With your tattered shell

Faith in your device
So quiet and precise
Just when, not how
You can feel it now
Deep beneath the light
A spark will now ignite
And you will see me now
This is our world now

Dreaming of omelets and angels today. Cold to a fault. Frustrated with being sick and feeling weak and achey and dizzy. Not in the mood for anything it seems and yet life demands that I sit up and pay attention when I just want to fight it, push it away and crawl under the covers in order to sleep for a year.

Sam calls that depression. I just call it Monday.

I don't know how to fix this frustration. Wait to get better? Go easy? Naw. I was changing beds all morning and hauling weeds all afternoon. I daresay I made a hint of progress on both fronts and can do it all again in a week. Invisible chores. Like cleaning windows and the tops of cupboards. All the things no one sees but appreciates like mad the second they lapse. Bah, humbug.

Bah Mondays.

They should be stricken from the record.

I'm going to go put on wool socks and a big fuzzy grey sweater and try and thaw Lochlan, who won't thaw at all but is gentle and sweet even if he's mad. I can't say I blame him but he agreed to this and it's working so why fuck with a good arrangement? Why not just stay away from the Devil? Why eat angels when you can eat eggs instead? Why be sick when you could be better? Why be awake when I could just sleep and then my brain wouldn't forge a mutiny on me at the start of each brand new week?

Wouldn't I love to have the answers, but the questions aren't even real.

Here is patheos. Happy Easter.

Caleb's hands were warm and strong as he pulled my face up to his. I warn him but he never cares. I want him but that wouldn't matter. I love him and hate him with equal force.

Diabhal. Don't.

I know you miss Cole, Neamhchiontach. Take your time. 

But I struggle like a bee in a spider's web before he forces me still. Straight-ahead affection is so uncharacteristic of him, I want to soak it up like a sponge. Usually he's too rough, bordering on violent. He won't let me face him, won't let me move, won't kiss me or hold me. He bites. He twists me until I cry and then he is satisfied that he's exhausted all of me. So when he takes his time and he's sweet it throws me off my game of defense. Even though I'm still not sure precisely which way this is going to go.

Then I decide it's not going to go and I stop.

He puts his head down all the way until the top of it is against my collarbone (the one his brother broke in half when he threw me at a wall) and he pleads for me. I am half out of my clothes, he is so warm. What's the harm? I think as he liquifies my resolve.

(Oh. Dumb girl. There's so much harm and it's not just to you.)

His hands tighten against my skin and he starts whispering in Gaelic. A mile a minute. I can't catch all the words, I'm chasing them but they're getting away and I'm running slower and slower down this dark road and I just want a way out. I want a map. I need a ride, dammit.

And then it strikes me. He's praying.

(The boys were once Irish Catholic. Before one became a psycho and the other, the Devil himself.)

(Oh, he's praying hard and I am trapped still in his web and I'll never get out. Shalom, Shalob.)

Oh my Diabhal. You can't just wish for things. Or people. Or ask God to give you anything you haven't earned. It doesn't matter what words you say. I should know. I tried them all.

Spoiler.

Yes, that's exactly what it looked like:

Two rows of teary-eyed men and one drowny-eyed lady at the movie theatre when the lights came up at the end of Furious Seven.

I wasn't sure I was up to going, it's two hours and seventeen minutes and I have a blistering headache from the antibiotics but I'm glad I saw it. I forgot about how sick I felt as I held my breath through some of the craziest action scenes (the BUS! JESUS!) and then..well, and then when that white car peels off I lost my shit.

It was fun. Dwayne Johnson and Jason Statham had far too much screen time. Lucas Black had a whopping one-minute cameo. Michelle Rodriguez finally had a whole bunch of screen just like in old times!

But Paul.

Man.

He lit up the screen like a celluloid heartbeat and he will be missed.