Champagne puddles, musical trucks and five thousand miles.

I made no plans to write today but here I am, exhausted and not thinking rationally so in advance I'll apologize for being sick with a cold now from the airplane and not painting as pretty a picture as I would have liked to. But! The big but here is that I am so goddamned strong, you'll all be proud. Or totally confused. Hopefully proud at how tough little Bridget is holding up right now. Tiny fists pumping the air, I will cheer myself the hell on because I'm Kevlar, baby. Five feet tall and bulletproof. Waterproof, fireproof and indestructible.

Shhh, let's just go with it for now, while it works. Please?

The unbirthday was a resounding failure. Instead I was ambushed with Romance.

I know, surprise, surprise. Keep in mind he promised to do nothing, and instead he did everything. I was floored. I thought we had done it all. Full-spectrum romance of Jacob's caliber comes in so many hues and shades we'll never exhaust these rainbows, of that I am finally sure.

Jacob snagged his sister to come and stay with the kids under the guise of taking me out for dinner, in town in a cozy high-end restaurant. He was funny, we ordered Bellinis and cajun chicken dishes and made idle chit chat and I was so happy to have a special dinner for my birthday after expecting a non-fuss.

After dinner he took my hand and led me down along the waterfront. Okay, a walk, it's twilight, it's a beautiful rainy evening. He led me straight to the nicest hotel/spa in town and I'm thinking, oh, a manicure! Because my hands are wrecked and miserable from the winter and how lovely maybe ...and why are we checking in?

Okay, this might explain the travel case he had slung over his shoulder on our walk that I assumed contained some surprise, but I wasn't sure what. I've learned not to guess when it comes to Jacob. Brilliantly oblivious, even.

Our room was beautiful. He had me close my eyes and sit down for a few minutes. I heard water. He came back in five minutes and led me into the bathroom where he had drawn a bath for us, replete with rose petals in the water and candles he had smuggled in. He got in first and then I did and he washed my back and snuggled with me. When the water finally cooled we reluctantly got out. He wrapped me in one of those giant white fluffy robes just in time for us to hear a knock on our door. Strawberries and champagne. So decadent. We fed each other and then he toasted me, a happy birthday, of which many have passed mostly with little to no fanfare, and things would be different from now on.

It was very good champagne.

Are you sick yet?

Next would be the porn part. Please use your imagination, I'm too tired to go through it. But I do have some lovely almost-bruises from being repeatedly pulled to the edge of the bed by my ankles and Jacob is now plotting to raise our bed higher because he really liked being able to stand. He is incorrigible, and I love it.

Snort.

After round three (or maybe it was four?) he went and fetched something from his coat pocket and brought it over. A tiny box tied with a ribbon. He said that he's been looking for this for a while, since when he met me I wore a floating heart pendant that Cole had later replaced with a diamond heart and I spoke a few times of missing the floating heart, which had gotten lost on a camping trip. He even made sure the chain was shorter so as to not interfere with my diamond sliding pendant. It's beautiful.

I'm a little fuzzy on details after this point. Possibly we finished the champagne in and around the remainder of the entire night wide awake with our senses on fire. He took me to places I've never seen before, and I cannot wait to go back. Storybook lovemaking with no difficult moments.

It was a first for us.

The early morning brought a blisteringly hot shower and room-service breakfast in which we fought over the croissants and enjoyed coffee and a morning view of the sunrise over the water. We were checked out by nine and back at the cottage by ten only to find the kids had enjoyed a fun sleepover of their own, not missing us as much as I would have expected. Jacob had planned this night months ago and they knew of it and kept some complex secrets. They did very well. Henry and Ruth had presents for me to open. And then it took just about every reserve I have left to make it through the last twenty-four hours, they have been so difficult in comparison to Saturday night's ease and decadence.

Jacob didn't come back with us on the plane.

Right now as I write there are five thousand miles in between us.

He went to Newfoundland because his dad finished the truck. Do you remember Jacob's ancient Suburban? He had it shipped home to Newfie to store in the barn when we bought the Ram and instead his father rebuilt it and had it repainted and it's finally ready for Jacob to drive again. And so he is going to spend a few days with his folks and then drive the Subruban home, halfway across the country. One of those moments where you take the leap and hope everything turns out okay. We're getting very good at this.

Let's just do it. We'll be okay and when I come back we'll be better, princess.

Yes, there would have been easier ways to do it, but as soon as he gets back we're shipping the Ram to his parents as a gift. They haven't had a new vehicle in decades and so Jacob is going to surprise them. And not only do we save the extra few thousand dollars it would have taken to ship the Suburban out on top of all that, it's a break for Jacob and I. A little space where before there existed no breathing room at all.

Only barely agreed upon, honestly. This is the last thing I wanted.

So here's my peptalk:

Jacob and I have a long and lovely history of suffocating each other with our intensity, right? And the goosebumps just rose up on my arms but a week or so is a good reminder of who we are as individuals, we need to bring ourselves, our true character, our unique personalities to this marriage instead of our collective history. We're trying to stay on firm ground so that we make it. Honestly no one wanted a time-out, we prefer the endless inability to inhale deeply enough to expand our ribs, the shallow breathless existence that left us lightheaded and slightly spinny.

Who wouldn't?

We left each other on very good and difficult terms at the airport, both of us headed for different gates for different flights. Jacob wasn't afraid to fly alone, he has faith in his independence, it puts him in a good frame with which to think and function. I wasn't afraid to fly alone with the kids because we had no choice and I always do better without options. It was long, openly melancholy afternoon as we wound our way back to the flat city covered with dust, and I flew into Christian's arms for the sake of familiar ground after calling him to see if he could come and get us. Over and over I wondered how I find myself in this position, returning to a city I've never been on good terms with and yet feeling as if it is a relief to be 'home' if this is what home is, to the kids. It never will be for me. My heart is scattered across the country like broken glass.

No one believed me that Jacob and I parted on good terms, few of my friends believing he is even planning to come back. I'm sure all of them have now called him looking for reassurance, which he will offer freely. He'll be back on the 15th and they'll trust him when they see him. Christian and PJ have offered to pitch in with a little babysitting so that I can attend my sessions and they both offered to come and stay if it would help, but I think I am going to just take the time to breathe and not be crowded with well-meant affection. Expanding my ribs to see if I can find levelheadedness once again. I never had a hell of lot of common sense to begin with but what I had was just about water-tight. I've sprung holes I have to patch. I have work to do. I have a girl to heal. I have to re-establish Bridget the waterproof princess.

I can do it. I want Jacob to return to the Bridget he loves, and not the brittle one. Life should resume without the halo of frailty, without the incredible instability we're honed to a fine point. It has to. It's time.

I miss him so much it hurts. I'm not even sure I can do this. There's an overwhelming urge to call him and ask him to just fly home as quick as he possibly can. Because I have his heart here, on a chain around my neck for safekeeping and I'd like the rest of him back so I can cradle him in my arms and not feel like this.

I'm going to shut the hell up now.

Thank you for the sweet emails wishing me a good trip and a happy unbirthday. We did have a really wonderful time. I'll tell you more about it tomorrow.

Still with the Piglet nonsense and another entry for you to tear apart.

Wow, some of you aren't having a good start to the week either. And as much as I really appreciate honesty and as open a dialogue as I can maintain with everyone who emails, and I try to respond quickly, I don't feel like you're reading the words. You're picking and choosing how you're going to feel and then you skim. Skimming won't work here. So instead of seventeen emails telling me my posting wasn't up to your standards or I sound totally out of it please go back and read the parts where I tell you I haven't slept in four days, I just flew 4000 miles with two small kids and I've caught a cold, without even pointing out how I feel about Jacob not being here.

So, yeah, maybe I am out of it.

Maybe you are too. We're all rusty from a spring weekend in which we had expectations. I had one of the best and one of the most difficult weekends of my entire life and I can't do it justice today because of everything else. I have never been felled by so much pure-hearted love in all my days. I've had romance. Never on this scale. Never the desperate movie kind and Jacob keeps on breaking all the rules and I hope he keeps it up forever. I can't convey what it feels like to me to hear the things he whispers, to kiss him, to put my nose in the wonderful place where I can feel him breath on my face, to see the way his face lights up when I smile. The thorough, slightly harsh, wonderfully energetic and loving way he ruins my reputation as a lady, the things he says, out loud and out of the bluest blue that make my knees knock together.

I told you before, there's no new-love starry-eyed newlywed phase in progress here, it's simply what life with Jacob is like. It's what we do to each other. He called me an hour ago and said not being able to hold my hand or see my eyes was killing him.

Absence makes the heart grow fonder, Jake.

If my heart grew any fonder it would explode, princess.

No, I want you back in one piece.

Then I need to get on a plane. Because I miss you guys so much it's like physical pain that won't stop.

Then pretend you're on an exotic getaway.

That never felt any different, you know.

Then how did you stand it?

I wrote you letters.

What?

I wrote to you. I told you everything I did, and everything I felt. Then I would burn them and start over.

You are an endless surprise, preacher boy.

So are you, piglet. I never expected to feel this way about anyone save for God.

So I'm in good company?

The very best. Are you okay?

No, I wish you were here.

Not what I asked.

I'm okay.

Do you promise me you're really okay?

Yes. I promise. Just hurry home.

I will. Sleep well, beautiful. I'm on my way back to you.
Nope, I give up, I think. I can't make you see how this feels. I'll never be able to.

Prince of tides.

    Good morning.
    Don't cop out.

This will be your last post until Tuesday.

I will miss you, more than you know. But right now I have to be home. Home on my turf, Bridget's territory, resplendent with histories and dead husbands buried in my ocean backyard and the sun glinting on the waves. While I have the strength to have a goddamned opinion. When I come back I might be less strung out. Hopefully not this angry. Buzzy-bumblebee angry.

Here's hoping.

My waves. My ocean. That one you all love but it belongs to the saltwater princess. Me. I've got your bitter right here.

After I wrote last night I went and pulled out that stupid sweater and I put it on and then I went to sleep. With the sweater. With Cole. And as fucked up as that might sound it's a pretty accurate picture of how unbelievably fucked up I feel.

    Are you crazy to want this
    Even for a while?
    We're making this shit up
    The reasons for being are easy to pay
    You can't remember the others
    They just kind of went away

And I didn't ask Jacob if we could go home for a break. I told him I was going and I told him I was taking the kids and that I didn't want to be here anymore and I asked him if he would come too, formally, as if I was looking for distance from us and I put us back into separate places in my head because otherwise I get swallowed alive.

He asked if I wanted him there. I do, and I told him we could go to the cottage he bought for me for Christmas and maybe it'll give us a chance to talk quietly while the kids look for shells in that bitch of a wind that never ceases but takes your pain with it and maybe we can come to some sort of a truce while we're there. Without counselors and without God looking over my goddamned shoulder and without Jacob being right all the time and friends with opinions and bills and phonecalls and laundry and all this goddamned nonsense. And I'm doing it on my terms, because the hearing aids aren't coming either.

I know, it's all going to be waiting when we come back.

Maybe I just won't come back.

    we're done lying for a living
    the strange days have come and you're gone
    either dead or dying
    either dead or trying to go
In my perfect world, I have a watch with no hands. Time doesn't move. The sun gives me no indications, the moon lights up on command and I have every precious moment that I might need or want. The seasons would be invited, daylight could be stored, and warmth could be conjured whilst cold is soundly rejected and Bridget could sit in her favorite spot at the edge of her world, and maybe, just maybe...

Not fall off.

One of those times when the lyrics fit you like a fucking glove.

    Just hear me out
    If it's not perfect I'll perfect it till my heart explodes
    I highly doubt
    I can make it through another of your episodes
    Lashing out
    One of the petty moves you pull before you lose control
    You wear me out
    But it's all right now

He's singing it with a bitter tongue while he restrings his guitar and I find myself afraid to go in the room in case he's in a bad mood. For Christ's sake it's Jake.

Whoever said Bridget could be fixed with time and love had no idea what we're up against.

Oh, right. That was Jake, too.

Raise your hand if you know I'm really getting kind of worried about how this trip is going to go.

One more sleep.

I refuse to dignify most of these emails. No, I'm not posting any pictures of naked me, forget it! My parents read here (I know, OH MY GOD). Sure I can write about sex but photographs are a whole different level of privacy to me. Maybe not to you, but to me. The day the minister's wife puts up her own naked pictures is the day the neighborhood revolts or worse, tilts and all the people slide out of their homes and off the edge of the horizon.

And, no I did not just admit the existence of said pictures. But this would be a great segue into a story about the year everyone decided they take Cole's life drawing course because he had a live! nude! model! Which, naturally was...me.

Pictures and drawings. Paintings too. Pick a medium, I think I have a work here in it.

Hmmm. Let's stop here and move along, shall we?

We're packed for the coast. It's the first time Jacob asked me to help him pack instead of him doing everything because I couldn't seem to move. Last time we went home I was put where ever I needed to be, clutching the box with Cole's ashes and feeling so so brittle. I didn't look up or around, I just went in a straight line. I drank too much. I fought with my family. I fought with Jacob. And I cried at the edge of the ocean.

Well, okay, I always do that now. She and I are too far apart, too often and it's so hard.

This time might be happier. No, it will be happier. Jake is taking me to meet the cottage he has transformed into my hideaway. He's taking us away so we don't have to be here during a difficult week. He's giving us all a break. Despite the risk of taking me anywhere, without medication, without Claus and Robert (whom I don't like, so I don't talk about him), without our circus safety net.

I packed my favorite sweater. Jacob frowned when he saw it, but it's a part of me. And maybe it's a 'thing' and I shouldn't be attached to things, but sometimes comfort is found in odd places. It's a sweater that used to be Cole's. A big nubby grey wool hoodie with braided ties and wooden buttons. It comes down to my knees. When I'm at the beach and it's cold it's what I wear. Jacob sees it as a attempt to hold on to something that's gone but it isn't like that. It's my sweater, it's been mine since I took it out of Cole's room when he was 18 and he said I could have it. I don't see Cole in it. I see Bridget, who is warm, and nothing more.

We're bickering, of course, over so many little things like that. We do this, before we travel, before big things. Jacob's anxiety is starting to cloud his demeanor, the fear of flying thing astounds me, coming from him. I can't fix it, and to see him with a ripple where his fabric is usually pulled strong and tight has always bothered me. He can't hypnotize himself. He can't talk himself out of this fear the way he can talk anyone else out of anything. And once we're in the air he will be fine.

My unbirthday is this week too. And I won't be here and I'm happy for that.

I just can't wait to see the cottage. Do I sound excited? No, Jacob told me I sound cautious. I know. I can't seem to exhale. The sun can't seem to come out and we can't seem to find our way past the bitter this morning. I should have run while it was early but instead we tried to take the extra hour to hold each other, awake but not awake, the beautiful in-between. No bitterness there but it crept in later.

I'm freezing. Pants might help that. Jacob's dress shirt from last night and a huge pair of wool socks and it's ten o'clock in the morning. Jacob ran the kids over to school while I started in on the laundry. I need some of it so I can finish packing the kids' bags but while it thumps through that temperamental dryer I find myself uncharacteristically impatient for something to keep my head busy.

Jacob and Sam are off doing some work this morning. Duncan is coming later as the official housesitter and yes, oh my God, if you are lucky, you'll even get an entry tomorrow because I'll be rattling around like a loose bolt waiting to go to the airport. I knew we should have booked an early morning flight because the waits are driving me nuts.

And maybe tomorrow I'll have something to say.

No, I'm serious, there are no naked pictures. No one believes me.

Because I am, as usual, completely untrustworthy.

Snort.

And again for the latecomers.

Bridget isn't on the web, guys. People regularly send me email with links to Flickr pictures labelled Bridget and Jake wondering if it's us (it isn't, most likely) or ask if I have Myspace or Facebook or other things I know little about. I did spend a couple of months flirting with Myspace but ultimately Loch took it down for me, I don't feel like I need more than this. Though if Blogger gets dodgy again, then I might reconsider a move to Wordpress or something.

But this website is definitely not me. I hope it's a line of cruise ships or fishing tackle supply and not some girl with the same nickname because well, just wow. But I have no right to be offended or upset because I didn't go and buy the domain.

But just so you know, saltwaterprincess.com isn't Bridget.

It's probably someone looking for payback in which case you'll soon see naked pictures of me there. Plus I'm offended by 'saltwater' being two words for some odd reason.

Oh, I'm kidding. No one's blackmailing me.

Of course, the day is young.

And notice I failed to deny the existence of naked pictures.

Oh dear lord.

(I'm still kidding, by the way. You have no faith in me at all, do you, internet?)

Performance tranquility.

There's something really romantic and positively magical about running uphill in the pouring rain while your husband stands at the top and yells at you repeatedly to get your shoulders down, already. Christ.

Jacob is a perfectionist in the few sports he does enjoy. He's really loving running again. I'm less of a technical, more of a cathartic runner. Sometimes I care nothing for form, keeping track or training, I just run until I've left my worries behind. This is why I run each day, because I can't get away from them.

Halfway up the hill I dropped my hands to my knees and stopped dead and yelled for him to fuck off. And he laughed and told me to hurry up. What a sweetheart.

I keep telling him I'm going to take him out and lose him one of these days and he tells me I have to be able to pass him in order to do that. We trash-talk to each other so much when we run you'd think we were bitter rivals instead of husband and wife.

Then we come home and share a hot shower and forget we were ever exasperated. Because...eh, hot showers when you've come home soaked to the bone and freezing cold are the best things ever.

Today's blessing is a well-anchored towel rack. But I'm not telling you why.

Snort.

Drive-thru girl.

In an effort not to be outdone by Loch, I present to you Duncan, your friendly neighborhood Irish Beat Poet. At first I laughed, but it's really freaking cool:

    Down dusty roads choked with cars
    a ribbon edged in black
    traces the path your life has taken
    like the map of your soul's travels

    This path is marked with milestones
    names and symbols you come
    to recognize easily
    before you are old enough to read

    Which hunger are you filling, drive-thru girl?

    Sometimes there's a passenger
    slouched in the backseat
    His name is deadly homesickness
    and you wish he would go

    Sometimes he likes to go away
    while you take your repast.
    food your mouth knows, your brain remembers
    You feel less alone.

    Littered beside the dusty road
    like abandoned boxes
    like empty houses
    the drive-thrus tempt your hunger

    Which hunger are you filling, drive-thru girl?

    Sliding glass smeared with fingerprints
    dirty dollar bills exchanged
    a crumpled bag is handed out
    and you are on your way

    The window a link to your past
    the road ahead a map of your future
    your blood sugar a reluctant hostage
    in your quest for miles before dark.

    And once you have left
    and eaten your fare
    your belly is quiet, your thoughts are spare
    and you know, in five hundred miles you'll do it again.

    What hunger was that that you were filling again, drive-thru girl?

Woozles.

What's with the Piglet nickname again?

I like it, it suits you.

Gee, thanks alot.

Well, not only is Piglet Pooh's best friend and constant companion, but we have to work together to capture all of your woozles and heffalumps.

Oh, I see. Pooh?

Yes, Piglet?

Nothing, I just wanted to be sure of you.

Man, you know more of these quotes than I do, princess.

Oh, thank heavens. I thought you forgot my real name.

It isn't princ-

Oh, yes it is.

Okay, Bridget the Saltwater Piglet.

Take that back!

No way, baby girl. I am the giver of nicknames.

Um.....

Yes?

You'll pay for this, Jacob.

Can't come up with anything?

Nope. I got nothing.

Record smashed.

Jacob was home in time to offer to take us out for dinner with his characteristic wry smile at our argument. We had sort of made up on the phone but when he came home things were still a bit tense. Over dinner we worked out our remaining issues on the subject that caused our turmoil and then came home to get the kids in bed and warm up to each other. We called it a night at 9:30 and went to bed hand in hand.

And I swear I don't pick fights for this reason, but I would, in a heartbeat. Epic make-up sex.

Last night in his hurry to touch, Jacob managed to rip five buttons off my shirt, one off my skirt and two off his Levi 501s. I'm not sure how he managed that feat considering how tough those buttons are but he did it. It was a new record for us.

We didn't care much about the buttons. He gathered me up into his arms and into his lap and then turned me inside out and pushed me so far into the bed I had to talk him into slowing down. He's proving me wrong on so many levels it's positively joyful.

Afterwards I was lying across the foot of the bed watching him pick buttons up off the floor by candlelight, and I told him I loved him.

He laughed and stopped his button-hunt and sat down beside me on the edge of the bed, and he ran his hand down my back and rubbed the back of my thigh and said,

You drive me right up the wall, piglet, and I love you so very, very much.

Rebobinage.

Why are you here reading about me? It's a beautiful spring day and we should all be outside. I'm headed there now with a fresh cup of coffee and I'm going to try to reel in my crazy head and salvage the day. Because what's worse than going to bed angry is waking up still angry and then going off to spend the day angry and Bridget at home wishing she could learn to shut her mouth but it's hard when her feet are in it and everything spills out. I'm learning there's a fine, most unwelcome line between being able to share your darkest fears with your best friend and not alienating your husband in the process. Especially when they are one in the same.

Friday love letters.

Here, a post stolen directly from Jacob's newest journal, a pretty coffee-brown moleskin number I bought for him and in return he had to let me post entry number one, written three days ago, in which he explains the upcoming trip.

Sorry, I have nothing to add to this, walking with knees this weak is so much harder than I once hoped it might be.

    Tuesday, April 24, 2007

    I expected in my lifetime to find someone I would be comfortable with. I would love a girl and in return she would love me too. I would always have a date to the movies. I would have a permanent dinner and travel partner. I would end each night lying beside someone who knew me well and someone I cared for greatly. Bridget is none of those things. She took my definition of marriage, of love itself and turned it inside out. She's the walking epitome of what it means to be in love. She falls asleep on my shoulder at the movies, every time. It's as if the dark room and the loud music signifies a rest for her little head. It's hard to get her to eat, she'd rather sit and watch me and talk. We haven't traveled much. I hope I can change that. Mostly at night I fall asleep not just beside Bridget but holding her so close in my arms that we breathe in unison. I become a cage around her, a human shield to keep her safe so that she can sleep, defender of her life against her nightmares and terrors. It isn't the comfort of being beside someone. It's the outpouring of emotions from within that have humbled me. I never expected to find such depth and breadth in love. I never expected to want to spend every moment-waking or asleep-with another person. She's like fire contained within her skin. She embodies every aspect of life in her beauty, in her lust for what she loves, her honest love for me, it defies measurement-it could bring down a mountain, a kingdom even. When I wake up in the morning I feel her skin in my hands, when I open my eyes I look into hers and my throat catches and I can do nothing except pause and let love overwhelm me. I say my thanks to God for her very presence in my life but this is more than I could have hoped for. I tell her I love her but it's never enough. "I love you." is not descriptive or encompassing enough for what I feel for my wife. She is the world-she is my world. When she chose me I expected to find a balance, to have a partner but coming up for air is a task I'd rather not undertake at this time. It's too beautiful being here with her, consumed by these feelings. I am a lucky man. If Bridget woke up tomorrow, changed her mind, crushed my heart and took me for everything I had to give her I would still love her forever. My heart is at her mercy, as is my soul. I'm taking her home next week. She needs a break, needs to get away and breathe some sea breezes and let the salt soak into her skin and claim her invisible crown that waits for her afloat in the waves, weaving seaweed through her hair and trying to hide the scales of her mermaid fin. When she has all that she can hold I'll bring her back and we'll continue on. She's doing very well and it's a good time for good things. Someday I'll learn how to hold the ocean in my hands and give it to her on my knees but until that day comes I must be content to take her to the very edge and see that smile that I only see when she's up to her knees in the saltwater and she turns to thank me without saying a word. She can't because it won't come out. I try to say it for her and then I can't speak. We smile at each other in silence because life is perfect now with my princess.
Two peas, one pod. One very sentimental pod.

And Jacob, honey, one more thing. Paragraphs, they are your friends.

(Edit: Since re-reading it a hundred times I've come to the conclusion that this was an extra-special entry heavy on the sweet because he knew I would share it. He's wicked that way, and I am a little slow on the draw. Not like I care much, the part about him learning to hold the ocean in his hands to give to me on his knees? That kind of thing is what makes him tick. Hopefully he'll figure out how to pull it off.)

More, because it's here.

I don't talk about therapy much anymore, do I? It's too hard. It's an increasingly productive rhythm now. I'm a very good patient when I try. When I don't try I'm a holy terror but I've been trying and it shows.

But I still don't think I'll talk about it for a bit. It seems to work better when I don't. My apologies, for those who come to pick my carcass.

Instead I'm going to bore you and feed the sweet people, the ones who care about me. You know who you are.

Jacob asked me to sing Landslide while he played it late last night after everyone left. Never mind that some nights the guitar comes to bed with him because he likes to lie down and play it with his back against the headboard and fiddle with new tunings and new songs.

Landslide.

I love that song. I used to think it was about an adult who suddenly realized she was an adult. Making her life her own.

    I took my love and I took it down
    Climbed a mountain and turned around
    And I saw my reflection in the snow-covered hills
    Until the landslide brought it down
    Oh, mirror in the sky -What is love?
    Can the child within my heart rise above?
    Can I sail through the changing ocean tides
    Can I handle the seasons of my life?
    Well I've been afraid of changing
    because I've built my life around you
    But time makes you bolder, even children get older
    And I'm getting older too
    So, take my love take it down
    Climb a mountain and turn around
    and if you see my reflection in the snow-covered hills
    well the landslide will bring it down
    The landslide will bring it down

And woog. Another epiphany, just like that.

Hi. I'm Bridget. Nice to meet me, slowpoke.

Rainstorming.

Let's begin with a wax and end with an epiphany, shall we?

Lying in the hammock reading existentialist prose this morning in the vague darkness of a rainy day, drinking strong tea, a firm shadow on the floor beneath me where previously one would glimpse only a fleeting wisp of movement and light. Birdy Nam Nam reverberates from the stereo, packing sound into every nook and cranny in the whole house and spilling out around the edges, under windowsills and through rippled glass only to be cut off by the roar of the rain.

And so there are no lyrics today, but the next lapdance will be Escape. I never heard a song more in need of Stoli and a strobe light. At least that's what Jacob had to say about it.

A new chapter has begun in this novel.

Redefined lives, new boundaries and fresh hopes. New routines, renewed faith and an ache of experiences passed like tests in grade school.

I keep telling myself this over and over again. I keep breaking out into spontaneous smiles. I haven't done it in such a long time that Jacob has spent much of recent history on his knees praying his thanks,

One life lived and one more to go, on the cusp I tingle with anticipation, expectations I won't make in favor of just...seeing what happens. Just like the sunrise disintegrates into day only to be reborn in fire and fury at twilight. The stars push their way to the forefront of the sky's stage to silence us with awe.

I am a star, and I will light the way to the moon, my angel boy. To the moon.

I've got an Air Canada itinerary in my hands. But it isn't for the moon. It's for the coast. If the moon had a coast, I would be there, believe me. I'll talk about the trip shortly, but not today. Today I got a very short and distant email from Ben thanking me for not castrating him with my words here. I have no use for that. No, honestly had I written that entry the day after he cut me loose it might have been vastly different. You can tell when I'm not rational through what I write, and you can tell when the edge has been taken off what I'm saying. We seem to have returned to our adult ways, adult reactions and adult expectations. People come and go. Sometimes friendships are irreparably broken, like marriages, like homes, and like hearts.

It's life. It happens. Bridget's learning to roll with it, instead of being steamrolled by it.

There's nothing left to steamroll, maybe. No, probably not. The good news is I am good. Hearing aids, check. Medication-free, check. Rested, check. No longer grieving, check. No longer scared, check. No longer afraid to say things are good for fear of jinxing myself or appearing to pretend.

Bridget's not pretending nothing anymore.

She's also lost her ability to form sentences this morning. Blame it on an epic back massage in the big hammock. Blame it on naming tropical fish after impressionist painters and late night dim sum for eight. Blame it on bad weather clearing up a dusty fleeting city-spring and a very lovely dead tree in the backyard that I'm loathe to see cut down because it likes me. Or rather, I like it. It's dark and ugly in a sea of fresh green life. I named it Bridget's emo tree.

Snort.

No mind, Jacob promised I could have my giant angel statue where the tree used to be. The one Cole wouldn't go for.

Poetic justice, baby. Cole didn't want any life-sized angels in my sightlines. And now that's all I see.

And I ran today.

It was a short run, but a good one nonetheless.

Can't you tell?

Olive blush.

I'm sure it was well-meant.

On the other hand, I still think it was a bit rude.

Jacob took me to the Olive Garden for lunch today and just as we sat down a woman breezed to our table and picked up a lock of my hair and put her hand on Jacob's head, running her fingers through his hair (which made him cringe and made me laugh and cringe too) and began to loudly ask if our hair colors were natural (they are) and if I had extensions (I don't) and how bloody glorious our hair was and how lucky we were because people wished for hair like ours. Were we Scandinavian? (no, Irish) Did we know we would be great in TV commercials? (um, what?) She wouldn't let us answer a single question.

Lovely. Very complimentary. Nice even, that she commented instead of just staring.

But right in the middle of a private moment to cause a scene in front of a restaurant full of people at three hundred decibels? Unusual, to say the least.

Jacob politely thanked her and wished her a good lunch and she finally, mercilessly left us and we both struggled not to do the eye-rolling thing and be gracious, because the whole white-blonde straight shiny flippy wavy hair is a golden gift people wish for, and they were still staring. I could feel it.

Then Jacob grinned wickedly at me, winked and spoke very loudly.

Do you think we should have told her that we're both blonde all over?

And once again I spent an entire meal trying, and failing, to eat without laughing, choking and generally making a bigger spectacle of us than we already were. Next time I'm just going to save myself the effort and crawl under the table to hide.

And yeah, now everybody knows! May as well put it on the internet as well.

Dear God. I needed to be cheered up but seriously.

Don't make me prove it.

Today is heavy on the Salt. And fucked. Up.

I used to sit in the park with Ben, his head in my lap and I would stroke his hair and sing him Veruca Salt songs. It was our quiet time, downtime, when everything got loud and busy we would usually happen upon each other somewhere slightly removed from the fray and embrace it together because he was a quiet wild man. Perverted as all get out, but quiet nonetheless. We had a lot in common and were so close at one time. So close.

    Take me away, I know
    I could use the rest.
    I wanna clear up this mess.
    I need a few days with my good sense.
    I need a few good days.
    Benjamin, no. Benjamin, no.
    where did you go?

    When you were falling from my tree, I was not scared.
    I thought you'd meet me back up there.
    It never dawned on me you were home free.
    It never dawned on me, no.
    Benjamin, no. Benjamin, no.
    where did you go?

    You said that I could tie you down
    Take me away, I know
    I could use the rest.

He beat me to the finish line and it still smarts, and I am sad. It's been a week.

Ben is moving in with his girlfriend, they're doing well, having been together for what, twelve weeks? Maybe sixteen. They're doing great, and life is good for Ben again. He seems to have found his direction, more importantly he seems to have found love.

Most of the guys eventually forgave him for his indiscretions concerning me, as I did and encouraged them to, he and Jacob were even hanging out a little bit together, probably a mutual parasitic relationship in which Ben could utilize Jacob's uncharacteristic expertise at motorcycle repair and his brawn for moving furniture and Jacob, well, Jacob could keep an eye on Ben.

Because Jacob forgives so easily sometimes, as very good people often do, but don't fool yourself into thinking he ever forgets anything. He never trusted Ben one hundred percent. I did. I still do.

Ben has even brought his girlfriend over a few times for some group dinners and she is wonderful, sweet and has him wrapped. She's so beautiful, dark hair and eyes and skin, tall and graceful, with a wardrobe from a magazine and a flair for putting the guys in their places. She's everything I am not
On the basis of doing everything he can to make his relationship work, Ben requested a private meeting, just me and him, no chaperones, no husbands or well-meaning friends. He was barely granted it, Jacob conceding to letting him close the porch door so we could have a private conversation while he and the other guys were out back having a beer. Of course, I didn't know that Jacob knew the reason behind the meeting, but Ben was smart enough to think ahead so that I would once again have support around me right when I fell. And I'm sorry, but everyone other than Jacob is going to find out here because for once in my life I haven't talked about it at all.

Ben told me he wouldn't be coming around anymore. Ever. Including group activities, if I was going to be present he would skip it. In order for him to give his relationship a fighting chance, he doesn't want to be distracted. He doesn't want my presence in his life because I make him have doubts, I make his mind wander and I make it difficult for him to concentrate on the one he should be with.

Nothing was ever the same between Ben and I when I left Cole. He tried to find his own common ground and be friends with both of us, and he remained close when Cole died and he no longer had to choose who to call first. We stumbled and he went as nuts as I did, understandably, it was a stressful period. There were a lot of dumb moves made by everyone, we all reeled. It wasn't just about me. Things came out during that time period that knocked everyone flat. Ben caused a lot of problems but he helped make a lot of things better.

Maybe I should have written more about the good things Ben did.

I won't even forget some of the memories between us, the times he took up the cause of Cole being a family man and tore a strip off of Loch the night that Loch and Cole drove all night after drinking and Loch wrapped the car around a tree. Ben couldn't believe he could be so stupid to put Cole, a husband, a father in that amount of peril. Uncharacteristic, Ben's driven like that idiotically often in the past and we all gave him hell, but he said, no way, this is Bridget's husband you're taking chances with. They've got kids. I heard Ben's voice echoing in my ears that night long after the police came and removed him from the emergency room for causing a disturbance, he was so far into Loch's face Loch pressed the button for assistance. Luckily, Cole walked away with few scratches and Loch's result was over fifty stitches and a DUI charge.

Ben spending hours with then four-year old Ruthie and two-year old Henry making ice cream from scratch because he said it would blow their tiny little minds. It didn't work but they had a blast. They proceeded to waste a lot of time doing that for the next three summers and never got a decent batch.

Approximately twelve hundred fistfights in front of my eyes because Ben always left his corner swinging at some perceived atrocity, whether he was in hockey gear or not, whether it was his fight or not. He had everyone's back. He was all heart.

And Ben taking time off work to help look after me and the kids and Jacob, who was struggling to keep it all together under a massive workload and a life-altering spring, a wounded and threatened girlfriend, two children who were suddenly his sole responsibility and a best friend turned worst enemy. I remember one morning about three or four days afterward I was struggling to get into a sweater with my sling on and I was so frustrated I had started to cry and Ben went and got one of Jacob's big zip-up fleece sweaters and he put it on me over everything and zipped it up and even left my hair inside the collar like I like it and he sat with me for hours, bored out of his mind while I stared out the window in shock. He made dumb jokes and gently forced me outside for walks as soon as I was ready and he dropped everything to help out until I was healed. He stole every sprig of lilac bloom he could find off the neighbors' trees because he knew they cheered me up. He did intimate things he had no business doing in life but things that caregivers do every day when someone is hurt or unable and I marvelled at his objectivity. It was the one time he skipped the jokes and was serious. I met a version of Ben last May that I didn't know before.

He was one of my favorite people and now he's kissed me off, written me out of his life in favor of a different one, probably a calmer one, one that is full of love without tension, and without history weighing down the days. Friendship without pain. Breathing without coveting Bridget. Moving on already.

I can't blame him, but I'm allowing it to hurt. I bet it felt good for him. I wrote him out more than one over the past year out of necessity and maybe payback makes it okay. I know this isn't a temporary exclusion, it's permanent and it involves Jacob too. Ben has asked that I include him in the long-distance email updates I send out when the kids reach certain milestones and so I added his address to that group and removed it from everything else. His number is gone from my phone, all of his books, DVDs and orphaned sports gear have been collected and returned.

Unlike everyone else who has drifted or moved away, Ben didn't tell me that if I ever needed anything to call him, he knows that role has been filled many times over. He told me he would always love me but now it was time for him to go and find his own new untainted happiness, just for him, and that I fucked him up hard, and he wished that he had never met me.

I can see what you're saying
But I don't hear you at all.

It wasn't a gracious exit and it was intended to cause pain. It did, some of what he said being positively unprintable in his need to twist until I bled.

I didn't cry until he was gone. And then I think I cried for the rest of that day and some of the next.

It was a predictable finish to a fucked-up friendship and though we found each other a few times, it still hurts to lose a friend. It hurts a whole hell of a lot. I did love him. I think I always will.

Now everyone in my world is going to nod and proclaim that this is good, that Ben and I were so bad for each other (yeah, at one point our nickname was the toxic twins and we liked it.) and should have gone our separate ways a long time ago. I don't have a lot of friends, and I can't make new ones, for I don't know quite how to keep them at arms length. It's becoming a trend, can't you see it?

I always hold just a little too tight, just a little too long. It wasn't Ben, it was Bridget.

It's me.

    Decembers all alone and he's calling me on the phone
    But he sounds so cold
    He says he loves me so
    But how would I ever know?
    Certain words grow old
    Its a vicious kind of catch
    It sides me blind now
    I'm out of my mind
    I want to scream
    Don't you want to be happy with me?

    I'm afraid if you don't come around soon
    I'll turn sadder than you ever were
    And you'll learn loneliness is worse

I will always love you, Ben.

Ledded coffee.

Hallo. Short and sweet entry, just like your Bridget. Ah, but I am not yours. Or am I?

    Tangerine, tangerine
    Living reflection from a dream
    I was her love, she was my queen
    And now a thousand years between

Hi! I'm positive. I really am. I have fresh Sumatra beans here to grind, some cake in the fridge, a Monday off from life and a list of house projects a mile long and my thighs ache this morning and I don't have to tell you about that because if you were here with me much of the weekend catching up on my entries you already know why.

Perverts. I love you, seriously.

I think sometimes Jacob lets me take life out on him there, or he uses good, crazy sex to distract me from everything else. It keeps me in my dreamworld and makes it easier to gloss when Bridget needs to gloss over . I can't delve too deeply into feeling blue about things that will conspire to pull me right down off my high. I really can't.

Not now.

I also have long bangs cut again and the world's cutest camouflage pants on and I swear to God I'm not fourteen, in fact I'm almost two weeks away from turning 36. Holy fucking shit.

What princesses dream about.

Last night's two a.m. awakening included Jacob kissing my neck until I moaned softly and rolled away from him, far off in a dream in which we were having a picnic by the medieval ruins of a castle I didn't recognize. He was picking forget-me-nots for me and wearing a cape.

I didn't say it was logical. But my God, it was so romantic.

When I finally tore myself away from my conjured image, Jacob whispered that it was thundering outside and raining again. He was kissing me, down into the hollow of my throat and then all the way back out again to the back of my shoulder. His rough but warm hands slid up my arms and found their rest under my ears as his lips found my eyelashes.

He loves sleepy sex, I can barely wake up let alone make requests we both know he'll rarely, if ever grant. And I went to heaven anyway, where coincidentally it was crashing with thunder and lightning too. Funny how that works.

And then he disappeared, just like the Jacob who was wearing the cape and I lay in the dim candlelight drifting in and out of sleep once more, my sore limbs and fingertips tingling, throbbing from his touch.

I found the caped version of my husband in my sleep again and we resumed our picnic, clinking glasses in a toast. So...realistic. Neat. Another kiss landed on my forehead and I opened my eyes with so much effort. There was the Jacob with no cape but the clinking of glasses was real. A middle-of-the-night picnic with warm chocolate cake and glasses of pineapple juice, on a tray in the middle of our bed. On our best dishes. Which are the same dishes we use every day because they're new but give me allowance for my fantasy.

Warm cake at four in the morning is a luxury that all princesses require, so much so that it comes before sleep. And unclothed princes with muscles in places you wouldn't expect to see muscles is also required in as much that the prince is the icing himself.

God bless men who climb, for they are the best-looking naked men around and have stamina that can't be matched.

And God bless cake for tasting so good, night or day.

And God bless pretty little Bridget, who deserves this at long last. Though we all know she would have settled for the cape and the imaginary picnic with nary a complaint.

Gentle evil (all shades of blonde).

 I promise you
    I will treat you well
    My sweet angel
    So help me, Jesus

I'll admit, watching Jacob walk around the house with Possum Kingdom stuck in his head, singing such sinister lyrics kind of has me liking today. I'll blame Guitar Hero. Or maybe I'll thank it. He is so sexy.

This morning I was woken up at two a.m. and he said listen. It was raining. He went and opened the window all the way up and we sat wrapped in a sheet together in the dark moonless night and listened to the drops fall through the tree branches and watched the curtains billow up like smoke coiling from a just blown out candle. It was magical. I couldn't fall asleep once the rain ebbed a little and I didn't have to, instead choosing to succumb to Jake's strong arms and insistent mouth, as he pushed me back down and pulled my hips up effortlessly into his lap and eventually I drowned out the rain with the sound of our ragged breathing filling my ears. It's very hard to catch your breath when you're upside-down.

In any event, we are doing nothing today. Nothing including pouring out the rest of Thursday nights' Stoli. Rather wasteful if you ask me but no one did so there you go.

I promised him a long walk this afternoon and he has promised a roaring fire and some cake tonight. And in between there will be some kite-flying and grocery shopping and not listening to people who tell me I am corrupting him after all. Jealousy does funny things to my friends. They turn into jerks.

And I haven't corrupted him. No sir, not me. Fragile Miss Bridget wouldn't hurt a fly. So says the gentle giant, who might, but not on purpose.

Trust (you belong to me).

(Oh God, don't read today.)

It's my problem and so I had to drop it. And now I'm confused because he picked it up again. And no one is going to understand very much of this entry. It isn't for you. It's for me.

    Down to the earth I fell
    With dripping wings
    Heavy things won't fly
    And the sky might catch on fire
    And burn the axis of the world
    That's why I prefer a sunless sky
    To the glittering and stinging in my eyes

Last night Jacob checked the kids, made sure everyone was asleep and then locked down the house and then he locked us in our room with the bottle of Stoli. I know how it sounds but it's not what it sounds like. It's a safe place to blow off steam, and to get a true barometer with no facades on my part. A personal one, just for Jacob.

Three things:

1-I have no tolerance anymore. Two shots and I was typing badly and had to stop working, even though I only sat down for a moment to dicker with a new idea. Two more shots upstairs and the world was my best friend. I'll give you anything.

2-When I'm drinking, I have no inhibitions (see #1). If you have wronged me you'll hear about it. If I have concerns, you'll hear about it. If I have needs, oh, man, you'll hear about it.

3-Alcohol no longer dulls my emotions, pain or any other ones. That was the one he's been waiting for. And he got it.

It's been a while since I wrote about our sex life. Don't cringe, okay, it's been one of the most difficult aspects of our relationship. We've run the gamut of therapy, experimentation, hell, humiliated each other and become so disillusioned we had resigned ourselves to one way only (his) and nothing more and god forbid Bridget asks for anything that's forbidden lest the spell be broken and he walks away from me.

I gave up under duress. Some things he would acquiesce to, but the majority of it has gone and it's never coming back and I'm forced to just let it go and it hasn't been easy. I meant to share it, I did. The continuation of Jacob's efforts that began that weekend he drank too much. An odyssey begun in earnest. He tried and we failed.

And last night was a test for Bridget. A test to see if when I was three sheets into the atmosphere would I rebel and fall back on my old habits, my brutal little demands that he can't stand for?

I'm not so sure anymore if Bridget's demons are stronger than Jacob's angels. He may have extended my faith to the point where I never thought it would stretch so far and I have succeeded in slightly corrupting him. Over the years I developed my own fetishes. Being held down, being restrained. My submissiveness. It has a charm all it's own. Jacob was more than reluctant to go there, but at the same time always thoroughly intrigued by it. He's a wildly adventurous, enthusiastic adrenaline junkie every place but one. Or he was anyway. He isn't quite so wild and I'm glad, honestly. I just wish my head would fall in line.

We've had arguments at four in the morning in which I have backed him right up off the bed and out the door with my tiny, desperate requests of him, we've had professional help, we've tried everything. I'm freaky, I have an abundance of energy for crazy vaguely violent sex. I instigated it in the first place with Cole as a way to turn something that was violent into something that was okay, something I could live with. I turned it and then surprised myself by liking it and I won't apologize for saying that because it's me.

Sort of like how a piece of chocolate cake is really really yummy but then ice it and it's heaven. Okay, now throw some very sweet sprinkles on the top and it's the most decadent treat you have ever had. That's me. I want the sprinkles when Jacob thought the icing was perfect. Don't misunderstand me, he's insane, incredibly gifted, patient, energetic and a lot more creative than I ever expected. Just not as sick and depraved as I want him to be consistently.

He's still worried I'm going to get hurt somehow. He's worried he's going to turn into Cole and wreck everything. The fragility with which I exist in his head knows no bounds, and so he reiterated how much safer I'll be if he's in full control of our experiences, based on our striking size differences (his 6'4" to my 5'0"). Better slow than sorry, he said, hating every moment of it, if only for a moment. My twisted brain heard full control, stopped listening after that and smiled very wide.

Trust me, just trust me, princess.

Last night I went with it. I didn't do anything he wasn't comfortable with and I didn't ask him to do anything I know he won't. And as soon as I let go of the past he stopped being so goddamned perfect and let loose on me.

I passed the test.

He said the hell with it and held me down and stopped being so gentle and then when we were finished he kissed me again, checking me all over for injuries.

And then Jacob smiled and drank his first shot and said,

You belong to me.
Because it's not perfect until it's ruined. Kind of like Bridget. He passed the test right there and then.

And then my head exploded.

Oh shit, there IS Stoli after all, becuase he is not as sweet and innocent as he appears. I kne wit.

This is my 'something better to do.'

Snapshot. Because Loch keeps bugging me to post more daily-type stuff. Right now Nina Gordon is serenading us with her beauty, Jacob is contemplating dinner ingredients with his head bent down into the freezer, which is almost empty anyway, as I need a lot of groceries but I never go until Saturdays anyhow.

There's no cake and no Stoli. I am now medication-free and cleared to drive again. I will not be going to buy alcohol with that freedom, in fact, I'll probably use that freedom to drag my butt to Home Depot for the three millionth time this year.

I'm doing well. I should be cleaning a few rooms upstairs. We're shifting some stuff. Jacob has decided he wants us to live in the summer bedroom. I don't blame him, it's the nicest room in the whole house. A sunny alcove slightly removed from the rest of the house with windows on three sides of the room and lovingly freshly painted in white and dark green. It's a romantic room. The door is tiny. I don't see how he'll fit our bed in that room but he told me to leave it to him. He has to duck to go in. On second thought I don't see how he'll fit in there on a regular basis.

How did we spend today? Working on the house. Being funny. Sitting in the sun. Making tandem grilled cheese at lunch and ignoring the phone. Walking the kids back and forth and a morning rescue in which I ran down to the river and was in too much pain to run back. I couldn't walk back, actually so I phoned my pace car for backup. That would be Jacob in his truck (with lots of scolding because I shouldn't be running until I have another checkup to make sure my ribs have healed).

Did I tell you his truck is leaving us? Another day I will.

Did I tell you he is the most stubborn man on the planet? Tomorrow, then. Which means porn.

And for Chase, who asked twice and seems impatient:

BR: Bridget Rebekah.
RB: Ruth Bailey (for my favorite sister.)
HJ: Henry Jacob (on purpose.)
JTF: Jacob Thomas Finnian. (Tell no one. He HATES it. Shhhhhhhh!)

And no, I am not over his new tattoo yet. I still can't believe it or him half the time.

Forever man.

    How many times must I say I love you
    Before you finally understand?
    Won't you be my forever woman?
    I'll try to be your forever man,
    Try to be your forever man.

An aside first off, yesterday Jacob left on a vague errand and came home in time to take me out for a quick coffee so that I wouldn't fall asleep during the movie.  He came home empty-handed and made some reference to seeing a friend about a long-overdue project. He needs irons in the fire to keep busy, it makes him happy. I salvaged yesterday with help, I'm okay. I'm always okay now.

It wasn't until we were home from the movie that was so bad it was funny and PJ had been dispatched with the rest of the chicken pot pie that I had made for him that we were getting ready for bed and I discovered the nature of Jacob's errand. He unbuttoned his favorite flannel shirt and there was a white bandage on his chest, right over his heart.

I was staring at it. I knew what it was. He followed my eyes and looked down.

Oh, right. I completely forgot.

You didn't.

Of course I did.
He went into the bathroom and took a quick shower and came back without the bandage but with my name tattooed on his flesh. He already has a BR on his back, in his angel wings, along with his own JTF, Ruth's RB and Henry's HJ initials plus the baby we lost, already named, but this...this said Bridget. Right there clear as day on the front of his body.

It's bad luck, Jacob.

No, princess. It's statement of fact. My heart belongs to you. It has nothing to do with us, it's just the way things are, the way things have been, since the night we met. You control the speed of my heartbeats. Did you know that?

I'm forever grateful he turned out to be this romantic. Oh you have no idea. He is marked with my name. He's mine. All mine. It goes both ways, I am his.

Thank you God.

A year ago today, I jumped. I bent my knees very low and summoned every ounce of power and courage I could muster and I jumped

I didn't have a clue where I would land. I couldn't see. There was no firm ledge, no guaranteed soft fall, no promises of anything, contrary to popular belief.

I didn't know what would happen to my kids, my finances, my house or my heart. I didn't know if jumping would really make me happy or just give me something new to think about. I hoped that it would save my life.

Jumping out of a burning building, off a crumbling ledge, or across a crack in the ice as it widens is almost like being pushed. If you don't jump, you know you'll die standing still. It's a fear and a relief all mixed up together and it makes you feel like you're going to throw up. I can touch myself all over today and know that I made it. I'm in one piece, more or less. My battle scars seem invisible, my war wounds are fading, my heart is mending, my soul feels full.

I still smile hugely every time I see him. I miss him when he goes to the other room, I yearn for him when he's not within reaching distance, I want for nothing now.

It was like landing in a giant pillow. And I didn't have to fear for my life because in the instant that I jumped, I was spared, flaming skirt hem and all. And I could say the same for him, so let's reverse it for a moment. He stood on the edge of a cliff, below the flaming building, on the safe side of the iceberg that was breaking away and he opened his arms wide.

He stood on his faith and held his arms up and waited, not knowing what he would catch, if he could hold it, or what it would be. He caught the girl with the flaming skirt and a broken heart, two children who needed to be protected at all costs, and a solid and square hundred year old Victorian house. He also caught the ire and judgement of his very best friends in the process and he put his own heart and his own soul on the line, with the patience of Job and the shoulders of Atlas.

He saved my life. He put me down and touched me all over and he knew that I made it, with few scars and invisible wounds and a heart as brittle as a snowflake and a wide open emotional playground inside my head. But his soul is full now, he's helping to heal me, he's getting to know me. And he loves what he sees. He still smiles wide when he sees me, he misses me when I brush my teeth and thinks of me while he walks or drives.

He became a giant soft landing, a human resounding buffer zone, a collective force built into one man designed to withstand flaming broken-hearted girls seeking refuge.

We fell together, maybe, in a way. Yes.

One year later I thank God that for once I felt reckless and desperate and scared enough to make the leap even though it seemed scarier than standing still. At least with Cole I knew what to expect. I knew that we were provided for and he hurt me privately so the kids were safe and we were still a nuclear family. Cole had his sterling reputation as an artist, we lived a dream on the outside and for so long that imaginary dream was a security blanket I wasn't going to give up.

Until faced with a choice. Lose Jacob forever or blindly jump into the arms of a friend, knowing full well he was a Good Man but otherwise not getting any guarantees. I like guarantees. I like warranties and extended service plans and insurance and when I do something I want it to be forever. And I never told you that I knew damn well he would always rescue me but I was never sure if he could love me forever, if he was cut out for a long term life with me because he is a runner, an impulsive, adventurous guy or if I was a challenge for him, his faith and his curiosity. The moment I landed, however, I think I knew.

Jacob is my forever man.

I used to turn up my nose at people who joked about their 'starter' marriages, or people who seemingly divorced without having tried hard enough.But then again I still scoff at people who insist that opposite-sex best friends can be just friends, without tension of any kind. Because if there is one thing that did change drastically during the past year, it would be our friendship. Once consummated legitimately everything changed and the laid-back friend I could cuddle with became so intense, a formal protector/judge taking over where the hands-off little-input friend left off. Jacob took the power he was given and wielded it with enthusiasm and it was so difficult for us to both become used to how that felt. To say that it didn't swell his ego and bring a confidence to all aspects of his life would be underestimating his weaknesses. He can't let go of me. Ever.

I love it.

I am his weakness but in my love he finds his strength. I belong to him now and I am not strong enough to stand on my own but when I stand beside him I can do anything.

Such is my life, the way I want it. With Jacob.

A whole year behind us now and a hundred left to go.

Brief moments now.

I had a brief few moments late this afternoon in that I thought I was losing it, ever so fleetingly. Life got overwhelming, just enough for the panic to begin. Will the backyard ever be finished, can I ask my folks not to come out for a visit this year, how many parents will be supervising Ruth's friend's birthday party this weekend, why do I never want to cook or eat, can we afford to spend a little extra on some building materials, what am I so afraid of all the time and oh my God, could I please just drive myself to the store and buy one bottle of Stoli?

I can work myself into a lather over so little. You would see me and nod your head in agreement, yes, she's a mess.

The biggest question of all, why is the affection never enough? I could eat Jacob alive, I can spend entire days and whole nights in those arms and the moment he lets go I am lost, cold, feeling abandoned and cast aside. He had to run out for a couple of hours just now, before dinner and the moment he was gone I felt alone in the world, going through my motions, struggling to just learn how the fuck to be alone. I am never alone. Ever. I never have been. I love to be by myself in the house but if there is no one else in the house then I can't handle it.

It's an irrational fear, losing Jacob is. I have been asked to face it, embrace it and plan for it, by my doctor, because my doctor doesn't believe that any amount of need placed on Jacob is healthy.

I never said it was healthy. Not once. I know what it is. I know how devastating it could become and I know simply that it can't be fixed.

I also know that I have a date tonight thanks to PJ who is flexing a little counselling muscle of his own and declaring that a two-hour distraction in the form of coffee and a movie is just what Bridget needs to reign her fears back in and keep the demons away so that Jacob and I can enjoy this momentous week of ours without the bottom falling out like it always seems to. He offered to babysit yet again. He's adorable.

We're ignoring the lack of medication, ignoring the absence of my cathartic running that I desperately need and ignoring all ghosts and cogs in the machinery of our life right now and just living moment by moment.

Some of them are just tougher than others.

But it's being fixed as we speak. And I lean heavily in the meantime. And hope. Because it's better than it used to be.

Bye, I'm headed to change. I'm looking forward to our time tonight, out in the stars and the cool spring air.

I'm breathing.

Odds and evens.

Today is a day so special I woke up early and went and got the champagne, and woke Jacob up with a glass and a toast, but he was awake anyway. He always wakes up when I stir in the mornings.

A toast to us. To him.

Today is the very last day of year one. Our first year together as a couple. As a couple of I-don't-know-whats, but a couple nonetheless. The final, three hundred and sixty fifth day of a long, arduous, perilous trip around the moon with detours to heaven a good six hundred times and back again. A journey of epic proportions in which I think my heart was dropped and picked up and broken and stitched and glued back together so many times I am a human mosaic from the inside out.

A year in which I tried to destroy my best friend and yet he is still here and as strong as ever and hopeful and full of his goofy faith-branded goodness that keeps him going even as I'm pulling so hard on the brakes I have permanent burns on my fingers and heels from digging in.

A year in which I was threatened, pushed and goaded past every insurmountable obstacle that sprang up one after the other and when I screamed for a break he simply set his mouth and pushed me more. If you think I am so hard on him just know that I rarely talk about how hard he is on me.

A year that saw a tiny bloom on a plant long left for dead flourish and expand until it outshone everything else in the garden. Our love, long denied, allowed to fly free like a bird and oh my fuck, have we ever soared. Sometimes we crash and burn and we pick ourselves up or we pick each other up and keep going.

I am the most perfect and the most imperfect human bean alive.

And I am loved.

And I love. Still. In spite of life I fell so hard in love I expected to shatter when I hit bottom. I'm still falling though and it won't stop.

So hard it floors me. Daily. And I've come to write about fights and awkward times and difficult moments and yet at the end of almost every single one of those three hundred and sixty five nights, give or take a couple of hospital stays, a business trip or two and some really stupid arguments I have fallen asleep in Jacob's arms, safe and warm and lucky and well aware that he is the one I want to spend the rest of my life with and I'm glad I get to live with him. And so crushed that I have ever hurt him, made him sad, made him angry or made him regret his choices. I write the trouble that I am for him as penance sometimes.

He maintains he wouldn't have it any other way, that despite the hardships this year has held, despite the ups and downs and the heartache and the pain when he looks at me he is filled with joy, with hope and with gratitude, but most of all with love.

Big love, he says, for his little Bridget. And through most of the past decade, everything aside, he says he is happy, because he got exactly what he wished for, so hard for so long.

Me.

But he is not the lucky one. I am.

We're spending this final day of our first year together, like we spend all our days now, hand in hand. In arms. In love.

I know. God, Bridget, the cheese! Enough.

Oh you think there's excitement today, just you wait until tomorrow.


    Section chief: Are you damaged?

    Condor: Damaged. No.

I don't know what I was, but I know I wasn't mad.

Therapy this morning was helpful to the point of being an overpriced gentle reminder that not everyone in the world is on my timetable, nor do people share my opinions on things, and might possibly make up their own minds.

Lord only knows, if you don't shove and push Bridget very hard sometimes, she won't get out of her own way. Maybe I needed this. Maybe this signifies our sugar-line in a more concrete fashion. After all, this life is not about just me, and it's not about Jacob. It's about all four of us, and Ruth and Henry's happiness is a blessing on all counts. They're my troopers. They come before my bullshit.

Besides, no one cares how I feel outside of this bubble. The world is turning. I think today a lot of people wish it would turn backward so that they could prevent, or save or have just one more blessed minute. I read the news. My problems, real or perceived, are so small.

The best part from the morning was Jacob's thumb again, resting on the back of my neck and tracing my tattoo like it was a rail. After the first fifteen minutes it became raw and painful but he continued to do it for the entire two hours and I endured it because I liked it. It gave me something to focus on besides the reaction my rather uncharacteristic one-word responses were evoking from Claus and from Jacob.

After lunch Jacob and I headed out with work gloves and rakes and tackled the front yard together. We haven't had a nice word for each other for the better part of a day and a half, as I am a legendary non-talker when I'm thinking and he likes to give people as much room as possible to put their thoughts together without infringing on their private ruminations. He waits for me to speak, and I wait for him to give up and get pissed off and walk out.

He won't do it now. He knows me so well. And I push him right back because that's what we do and since we're aware then it's still healthy. I just love the gentle bonks on my head to remind me that I'm not special. Even though I am. He talks out both sides of his gorgeous mouth and I know he's dealing platitudes until something sticks and I start talking.

And I did.

Halfway through putting a pile of leaves into the wheelbarrow, I threw the rake down and started in. He stood patiently in the middle of the front yard with his hands crossed on the top of his rake handle and paid close attention while I let it all out. My anger, my betrayal, my fear, my remorse, my trepidation and he only interrupted once to remind me so gently just to breathe while I prattled on and on.

Because secretly he loves playing therapist to me, and he loves it when I erupt with chaotic verbal onslaughts after saying so little for three days. I think sometimes he remembers that as long as I'm talking I'm okay.

When I was done I took a very deep shaky breath and squeezed my eyes shut, waiting for an equally cutting tirade to begin. Jacob has a gift for that and he's so much better at it than I am.

After a minute a handful of leaves landed on my head and I opened my eyes narrowly to see him grinning at me.

Are you done, princess?

Yes, I think so.

Good, I'd like to take you out for lunch and it's always a nicer time when we're on speaking terms, don't you think?

He took us out for soup and sandwiches, which was relaxed, and then we took Ruth back to school late and we came home to put away the yard tools and rest for a bit. I still had laundry to do and breakfast dishes to wash and Jacob pitched in without prompting. We made short work of the chores and then he turned and leaned on the doorframe and untied his shoes. He took them off and headed for the porch to leave them out there but then he stopped and gazed at me. His look stopped me in my tracks, it was a rare self-conscious, almost doubtful expression without a hint of Jacob's usual self-assurance.

It is better, though, isn't it? Life? Us?

Yes. So much better, Jacob.

Then trust me. Please, Bridget? Can you do that for once in your life?

I do.

No, you don't. But you should. Because I would do anything for you. And for the kids.

I know you would.

Then please, just trust me. Trust us.
I nodded, because my voice was drowned in the tears that came out of nowhere. And a new gift I've discovered: I can make him cry too. Sometimes too easily. He wiped at his eyes with his sleeve and for the first time since I met him didn't instantly regain his composure as if nothing had ever happened. He just let the rest of his tears roll down his face and he nodded back at me.

Good, then. Because you have no idea how much I love you.

I do.

No, you don't.

Are you trying to start an argument?

Maybe. We seem to resolve a lot of things when we take the gloves off.

We could resolve even more if we took our clothes off.

Can I get a raincheck on that?

What?

At least until the kids are in bed?

Oh, I suppose that would help. Oh and Jake?

Yeah, princess?

I love you. More than you know.

Some days you have really no idea how happy I am to hear that, princess. Today is one of those days.

When honesty is completely unwelcome.

How do I feel?

I don't like it.

So, yes, honestly it was something I would have wished for maybe as Ruth was leaving for university or when Henry gets married someday, that they would have taken Jacob aside as almost-adults and asked him if it was okay. I know I have wished so hard in the past that he would have turned out to be Henry's father but that was for his comfort, not mine.

No, in true impulsive fashion that they have now learned from all three of their parents, it's throw yourself headlong into it and see what happens.

It's too soon. He hasn't been dead for a year and they've switched alliances and it's so okay by everyone I can't even breathe. It's fine, it's normal, they're young enough to be resilient yet old enough to understand the gravity of a word.

Jacob is so happy who in the hell am I to say it isn't right? Or that it's too soon for me? Who am I to deny him any more of anything?

Oh no. Now, now, he has it all.

And it's like Cole never existed except for in Bridget's pretty little crazy head and that...that's fucking weird. And different. And slightly unbearable.

I feel guilty. But it has nothing to do with me, and I have to pluck a resiliency out of thin air that doesn't even belong to me, because I am not seven years old.

I may as well be. Because I feel like a total unappreciative brat for even thinking this, let alone saying it out loud for all to hear. You all want the fucking barometer? Here you go. Come figure me out now.

Sometimes they are ready but I am not.

    I sail to the moon
    I spoke too soon
    And how much did it cost
    I was dropped from the moonbeam
    And sailed on shooting stars
    Maybe you'll be president
    But know right from wrong
    Or in the flood you'll build an Ark
    And sail us to the moon

It's been 275 days since her father died, and Ruth was out yesterday afternoon jumping in puddles with triumphant glee, soaked to her ears, covered with mud. Wearing green wellies, a yellow raincoat and carrying her ladybug umbrella aloft, Ruth was heralding spring all by herself on the sidewalk in front of the house while I sat on the front steps with all three doors behind me into the house wide open to welcome the warmer air after the rain. Warmer being six degrees, and so we wore sweaters buttoned up tight against the chill.

Jacob was beside me on the steps frowning into his paperwork and scribbling lines and lines of writing, stopping every now and again to ask me if I was cold enough yet or more softly, if I wanted a new hot cup of coffee or some toast. He's spent most of the past week and a half sitting next to me and stroking my hair or holding my hand tightly in his, things he does perpetually anyway, with his new customary touch of concern, a dash of extra patience and more than a little sympathy and regret. When I tell him I'm fine and I can still do just about all the boring things myself he lets an edge of pride round out his expression, because physically I am tougher than you would expect. I heal fast, and I rarely slow down for long.

I'm just about one hundred percent again.

Physically anyhow.

Some of Ruth's friends from school came by and she came in to ask if they could stay for a quick tea party and I went to get a towel when I saw her coming and by the time I got to the top of the staircase, she was running in through the porch trying to get Jake's attention.

Only she wasn't yelling Jake! Jake!

She was yelling Dad.

And oddly I could feel his smile before I even saw it.

You couldn't miss it. It was a thousand-watt beam coming straight from his heart.

Road warrior.

When I was a child I endured very long car drives. I traveled hundreds of miles every few months and just about every major holiday to visit one set of grandparents or the other, both sets living in a different province from my third to my seventh year.

I have vivid memories, not of the visits themselves but of the backseat of the 1972 Olds Vista Cruiser that we drove in. I was the typical youngest, mostly ignored until I was howling, running after everyone to catch up. Whatever part of my life up until age seven that I didn't spend on the beach or in the ocean was spent sitting in the backseat of this station wagon that was the sickliest shade of green ever. Avocado. The only shade of green I don't enjoy to the fullest. The inside was tan vinyl.

I would be sunburned and overtired, keyed-up and wide-eyed, hanging over the front headrest looking at my dad's balding spot or my mom's perfectly sprayed twiggy haircut and chewing on the stick from a lollipop long-finished. My hair was in an unruly ponytail, my white t-shirt and red shorts stained from grass and chocolate and coca cola. I stood and watched the glint of cars as they appeared on the opposite hill and marveled at the mirage made when the sun broiled the pavement on the flat straightaways. I talked nonstop but no one listened until at some point my father would yell at me to be quiet.

Soon I would become dizzy and nauseous and my mother would pass back a chewable motion sickness tablet and tell me to sit down. This was long before seatbelt laws. I would sit back down and poke my fingers out the top of my window, left open a crack for fresh air. The wind rushing past the window would freeze my fingers into tiny icicles, and then I would put them against my hot forehead and relish the cold. The car always smelled like stale Easter candy and potato chips and eventually I would panic and ask my father to pull over. Once I had been sick I would usually sleep for the rest of the trip, only to be rudely awakened by Bailey pulling on my arms and yelling at me to Bridgie, get up, we're here! Bailey never got car sick. I hated her for that.

For some reason the drives back home were always magical in comparison. There was something special about being out in the dark, up past my bedtime, far from home. Wrapped in a too-big handmedown sweatshirt and more sunburned I would take my place in the car behind my father and sit watching closely between the seats as headlights appeared on the road in front of us, drivers blinking their highbeams off when they saw our lights approaching. I would have a sticky face, a sore belly from all the extra treats that long-distance grandparents ply on their grandchildren, and be clutching Blythe, the doll that I dragged around for most of the seventies. My hair would be a wild halo of tangles around my face, in my eyes, in my mouth, with very little left in the ponytail. I smelled like sweat and candy.

I would just watch the lights and listen to the songs on the radio. Deep Purple, Journey, Kansas, The Eagles, Heart, Elton John, Creedence, Gordon Lightfoot, Fleetwood Mac, and I would sing along in my tiny little voice that I couldn't hear but no one else could either. Somewhere around the bay I would nod off at last and then wake up only as my father would miscalculate when he carried me into the house and bump his head on my doorframe as he tried to put me to bed without waking me up.

Those nights I would dream of floating lights set to music, a never-ending trip home.

I still don't like very long drives but I sit up front now and play all those same songs. That helps, at least a little.

Soothing Saturdays.

I'm sitting on the patio right now in the warm early morning sun drinking coffee and working a little bit while Jacob and Henry go up and down the driveway. Over and over and over. Jacob is teaching Henry how to balance on two wheels, having taken the training wheels off earlier this morning. I can tell which heartbeat he hesitates in before he lets go of the back of the bike seat, and I hear the pride and love in his voice as he calls out reinforcement and encouragement once Henry pedals out of reach.

Then he runs to catch up because every time Henry stops he falls off.

Jacob has always been incredibly involved with the kids, from before their births, if you could believe that, as I was gently steered from unhealthy cravings for wonderful things like cheeseburgers and onion rings to salads and wholewheat sandwiches when he would take me out for lunch. He was their surrogate father when Cole worked himself invisible for the past seven years and he was their champion when it seemed like everyone else was busy. I was never sure how Jacob managed to maintain such a presence in our lives when he spread himself so sparing with work commitments and everything else but he did, and he was consistent except and even when he traveled, with postcards, calls and souvenirs.

It is yet one more sign to me that he was meant to be ours.

Happy sparklies.

Yes! Drive is on the stereo. I love Incubus.

    It's driven me beforrrre,
    and it seems to have a faaaaint,
    haunting mass appeal.
    But lately I, am beginning to find that IIII
    should be the one behind the wheel.


Anything to get Down with the Sickness out of my head, because I love Disturbed more. Jake cracks up every time I sing it.

Especially the beginning.

Oh-ah-ah-ah-ah! Oh! Oh! Will you give it to me?

In my really Scary Voice. Yeah. Bridget's hardcore.

I am so using that song for my next lap dance. Whenever the hell I can manage it.

Sugar high.

Last night after we returned home from Claus, Jacob walked inside, went straight in through the kitchen to the pantry and got the big 10-pound bag of sugar, to represent sand, because we're far from our familiar beaches, and drawing lines in the sand to mark boundaries and starting off points is a long-standing tradition we have. He came back outside and poured the whole thing on the walkway at the bottom of the steps. He then drew a line across the middle with his finger and held his hand out for me to take. I took it and we walked solemnly over that line. A grand gestures that makes his point perfectly.

The line is drawn here and there will be no steps back now, okay, princess?

Okay, Jake.

We're going to be fine.

I know we are.

Why?

Because we want it.

How bad?

So, so bad, Jake.

Yeah, princess. So bad.
By now we're whispering to each other, heads together and standing in the backyard beside this pile of sugar like it was the great divide and we had somehow survived a border war.

Maybe we did.

He stared at it for around three or four minutes and then shook his head at it and said ants and then went and got out the hose. I guess we'll be growing sweetgrass this year.

Should be fun.

    Stood on the corner for a while
    To wait for the wind to blow down on me
    Hoping it takes with it my old ways
    And brings some brand new look upon me
    Oh it's taking so long I could be wrong, I could be ready
    Oh but if I take my heart's advice
    I should assume it's still unsteady
    I am in repair
    I am in repair

Jacob just read my entry and said to me,

Thank you for finally posting a completely unromantic and graceless memory. Otherwise people might think we're perfect.

Oh honey. I don't think there's any danger of that.

Torch songs.

So what do you think?

It's beautiful! Who does it belong to?

Me.

You're joking, right?

No, I bought it. Because you made fun of my tiny apartment.

Oh my god. Seriously, Jacob.

I am serious, Bridget.

Wow. Then you did really well. I didn't think you had any money.

Well I don't anymore.

I was standing on the polished wood floor of a living room that had a wall that was all windows. The windows overlooked the ocean, straight out, facing east so there was no land as far as your eyes could see on the horizon. It wasn't a huge house, two tiny bedrooms, a bathroom and a great room that was a kitchen with a breakfast bar and the huge living room. He paid for the view and the beachfrontage, I think and the fact that it had a roof was just the icing on the cake.

We had an awkward, tension-filled dinner one night. Back in 1999 once the shock of death wore off and my pregnancy advanced and we settled in as fledgling best friends, Jacob knew I spent my nights alone and he invited me to dinner, he said he wanted to cook for me.

Jacob is not a legendary chef by any means, but I relished his company and so I agreed and he offered to pick me up from work and bring me over to his apartment for dinner and then drive me home afterward.

At 5 pm I left work and he was there. Standing by the door with his truck parked a bit of the way up the hill. He took my bag and extended his arm and we walked to the truck. He opened the door for me and made nice small talk on the way back out of the city.

He reminded me where he lived and mentioned he was looking for a house closer to the south shore, maybe on the water, because he grew up on the water in Newfoundland.

I smiled and told him I loved the beach. I lived for the beach, for the ocean. It was my comfort.

Surprisingly it turned out that he lived about 10 minutes past where I did, along the harbour. I was on his way back and forth to the university.

He introduced me to his tiny apartment, cluttered with stacks of books and CDs. He owned a desk, a table, a bed and a stereo, wedged into two tiny rooms with a bathroom and a kitchen somehow built out of no space at all. When he was standing there was no room for me to stand beside him. He hung up my coat and put the satchel by the door and pulled a chair out from the table for me.

He smiled and asked if I was thirsty. I said I was and he pulled a pitcher of lemonade from the fridge. The pitcher still had the sticker on the outside and I could see his hands shaking as he poured.

Why are you nervous?

Am I?

You're positively quivering.

Been a while since I had a da-friend over for a meal.

Ah.

Tell me about things, Bridget.

Okay. My new friend is weirdly nervous around me and he shouldn't be, because I'm having a nice time.

Aw, geez, Bridge. Tell me how you really feel.

Are you psychoanalyzing me?

No, are you?

Of course not. My expertise is in financial affairs.

Maybe I should let you do my taxes.

I'd be happy to.

Would you like to help with dinner? I could use a pot-stirrer.

Oh, I've been called that before, let me get it.

He started cracking jokes while he sawed up the bread to butter it and I dutifully stirred pots of pasta and sauce. I laughed, I was wide awake, I wasn't mourning anymore, he was like a breath of fresh air. There was barely room for both of us to stand and yet we did, and we ignored the overwhelming tension between us, a connection I still can't adequately describe. Every time my hand moved to the left I would bump elbows with him. When he laughed I could feel his breath on my hair. It sent shivers right through me.

We ate slowly and talked for hours. Before I knew it I was almost falling asleep on my plate and Jacob smiled and suggested we call it a night. We both stood up and cracked heads. I winced. He asked me if I was okay and then he rubbed my head and stopped cold, as if we both realized at once that it was not right to be so close and yet we were, albeit with hesitation.

You're a big guy, you need a bigger place.

That's why I invited you over now, before your belly starts to get in our way.

Oh, so it's me.

No, I'm teasing, Bridge.

So why did you really invite me over?

I hate to eat alone.

Oh, okay.

And because you eat alone.

So?

That's sad.

That's life. Sometimes couples work opposite hours.
He handed me my coat and helped me into it and I stuck my arm through the sleeve and accidentally punched him square in the chest. He laughed.

Maybe you should come to my place for dinner next time.

No, I don't think Cole would want that.

Well, this room is going to be too tiny soon. I can't fasten my skirts anymore.

How do you keep them up?

I have hips now.

So I need a bigger place if I want to keep having dinner with you?

Yeah, I think so.

Then maybe I'll find something you might like, right on the beach if that's what you like most.

I thought he was kidding, to humor me. We didn't say much on the drive back to the apartment I shared with Cole. I felt a little strange about his intensity and I think he realized it had become a bit awkward. When he walked me to my door he said that maybe sometime we could do it again, and he kissed my hand and squeezed it and then left when I went inside. I was aware that he had backed off significantly from when we were at his place but I was slightly relieved because when he gets intense I always felt like I was unable to control my attraction to him.

I knew I was falling. Falling hard.

We chatted superficially on the phone a few times a week and met for coffee each Friday for the next two months and then one evening he called and asked me if I wanted to go for a drive. I did, and so he picked me up and we drove for 30 minutes down the shore to this beautiful house.

I still couldn't believe he now owned this view.

So, do you want to go down and see my beach?

Sure, let's go.

He took my hand and I followed him down the steps off the deck and onto the sand. There were torches lit and stuck in the sand and a blanket spread on the sand with a picnic basket. A radio playing songs I don't even remember now, and how often does that ever happen?

He looked at me in the twilight and asked me if this was enough room for us to have dinner.

Oh wow.

He made peanut butter and jelly. He said because it keeps well and he needed something that did for his surprise. And lemonade in bottles because he said he knew I liked it last time. And it seemed like that moment when we both acknowledged the intensity of our friendship and gave up trying to fight it everything changed again and the electricity that had charged the air before quieted down just enough so that we found a comfortable place somewhere past best friends and on to surrogate spouses, permanent company, sought comfort.

It still remains the best peanut butter and jelly sandwich I ever had. He maintains the best part was the tiny bit of peanut butter he kissed off the corner of my mouth before we left to drive back to the city.

Sometimes I miss that house, sometimes he does too, but he said it was infused with a frustration after I would leave that made him grow to resent it and so it becomes just another part of our forbidden history and that's why he bought the cottage instead. So we could have our view back, and our beach picnics back, with no painful memories stuck in the sand like torches on a warm spring evening.