Monsters, Inc.

Caleb doesn't like it when I write about Cole. I can talk about him all I want, in a positive light. I cannot, however, relay any memories to the page because all of them, even the good ones, are singed around the edges, sealed with fire, black with night and God forbid I disrespect someone who isn't around to defend themselves any more.

I can tell you that was the first thing out of his mouth yesterday when the elevator doors opened into his penthouse and instead of having to go look for him, I found him standing there at ease in his perfectly-pressed Hugo Boss pants and shirt, with his perfectly messed up hair and his completely affected stubble, phone in hand, anxiously awaiting my arrival but choosing to begin our day as adversaries instead of cordials.

Bad idea, Caleb. I haven't had any coffee yet.

Little monster and big monster proceed to have a ninety-second staredown and then little monster breaks it off and stalks away to the kitchen to make coffee. Screw this. I'm here to work, not be told what I can and can't write about, think about, tell.

Cole was many things to me, and I tell his life from my perspective. Caleb is free to start a blog, if he likes. Then perhaps he can talk about the kind of brother he was to Cole.

I am slamming things around and it occurs to me after fifteen minutes of looking (slam!) for the (slam!) goddamn coffee (slam!) that he hasn't said anything at all since that one sentence.

(slam!)

WHY CAN'T YOU JUST BE NICE TO ME!

I stop. I'm not sure I meant to be that loud. Maybe I did. Little monsters sometimes get really, really out of sorts. And then they blow up. My hands go up to my mouth in horror. I'm a statue. Maybe he can't see me any more. Maybe he didn't hear me. Maybe I just thought about saying it but I didn't, really.

I'm hyperventilating but my hands stay where they are. No, I said it out loud. His face. His face wouldn't look like that if I hadn't. That much I know. I am close enough that I see the bottom of his eyes begin to fill up with tears and then I watch his self-control kick in and slowly they drain again. He sets his strong jaw and checks his own expression. He's like a well-oiled composure machine and I wish I had an ounce of it to work with but I have none.

I am nice to you. I don't know very many assistants who work three months out of the year and make six figures.

He turns around and heads toward his office. My office. Our office? I can never go in there again. I'm sure the whole thing is on fire. He works comfortably in that sort of disaster arrangement. I would burn, my dress melting to my legs, shoes turning blacker still, hair breaking off in light sticks that glow before turning black as well.

Thank heavens black is my favorite color.

I pour two big mugs of steaming Mexican roast and head toward the smoke. It's billowing out under the door. I kick the door with my foot and in a beat Caleb opens it, framed in columns of crackling flames, his horns visible, sweat on his brow, tail flicking behind him. I wonder if Hugo Boss allows for a tail pocket the way they neatly sew the cuffs as to not have any fray, in a sort of pocket seam.

I swallow down my fear and enter the room, walking purposeful and slow, making sure I don't spill anything. I set one mug down on his desk and then continue on to the window and set the second mug down on my desk. Then I meet his eyes again.

I have tried to be nice to you, Bridget.

It is a soft statement. Defeated. Disappointed.

I do not buy it.

And suddenly my nerve returns. His soft unberbelly is exposed. Strike now. Do it, quick.

Bullshit, Cale.

What?

Your 'nice' is guilt that comes out when you remember what kind of man you are. So then you throw money at the problem and you feel better. When do I get to feel better? When do I get to let go of the past?

I have spent my life ensuring your comfort.

Don't even.

Do you remember when you were nine, and I was halfway through high school? I asked you what kind of job makes a lot of money. That you should tell me and then I would go and do it because I didn't know what I wanted to do and my father was pressuring me. It was almost my senior year and I had to start looking toward university and the future. Do you remember what you said?

Yes.

Yes, I know you do. You said, 'Be a lawyer, Caleb. They wear suits and drive nice cars and everyone is afraid of them'. Well, I did that, Bridget. I did it for you. I wear a suit. I drive a nice car. I make a lot of money.

And everyone's afraid of you. Congratulations.

I managed to spend the next seven and a half hours not talking to him, and then I went home. I collected my things and found my coat in the closet and stole a banana from the bunch on the counter and walked out the door, locking it behind me.

I think we are making progress.

Listen well.

I woke up cold. Alone in the bed, blankets trailing off the frame and across the floor as if they had followed Cole out the door. I stretched my hand across his pillow and it was cool, meaning he had been up for a while.

I got up and found his discarded t-shirt on the floor and put it on. It's halfway down my legs. Good enough. I walked barefoot across the wooden floor and out into the hall, the muted rain-light shining in through the windows, filtered by the trees, now almost empty of their leaves again. The floor is cold. So cold.

I reach the sun room at the end and push the door open. Cole is there, in jeans and bare feet as well, shirtless. Holding his palette in his right hand, brush underneath, studying his canvas. His dark blue eyes rise up over the top of his canvas to greet me and he smiles.

Hello, sleepyhead. Come and see.

I come around and he leaned over and kisses my forehead, hard. I am thrown off balance and I rock back on one foot before regaining my momentum.

The picture is black. At first it seems to be a series of jagged vertical streaks. Abstract. I can't make heads or tails of it. I only feel what it wants me to feel. Despair. Fear. Rage. It isn't a nice picture. It is nothing like his nice pictures, whether they be paintings or photographs.

It's you.

Really?

He traces the line in the center and suddenly I can see my nose and my lips and the soft ridge of my brow and then oh, yes, there it is, that errant lock of hair that always flips out just beside my chin.

But it is so dark.

You don't like it.

No, I like it, it's just so...

Nevermind. I'll be finished up here in a minute. Why don't you go make some coffee?

***

It's hours later, evening now and I am sitting by the wood stove, drinking wine and listening to PJ's latest tale of snowmobiling through the outskirts of the city, complete with close calls of barbed-wire and dogs off-leash. PJ can wind quite a story and I wish I could believe half of it but I know he isn't that reckless. My friends aren't, usually. Adrenaline junkies sure, but not wishers of death or certain injury

Jacob comes in very late, having missed dinner for being stuck at the airport waiting for his bags.

Hey guys, Bridget.

Preacher. What the fuck. The pot roast was delicious. Thanks for your helping.

Don't listen to him, I saved you some. Welcome home. Come with me.

Cole watches me. His eyes are still smiling but they have turned now. Inquisitive. Baleful. I look at him and he does that beautiful move where he nods once and then tips his head to one side as if he is about to shake it, no, but then stops abruptly. I know that move so well. That move is watch yourself Bridget. Watch yourself carefully.

I ignore it like I always do. He no longer has anything. He just doesn't know it yet. My heart got on a ship and sailed far away into the open sea and he hasn't gone looking to see why it's so quiet yet. He has missed the boat. He missed the cues. He thinks he is so clever. My friends are not reckless but I am.

Once we reach the kitchen, Jacob steps to one side and I hurry to the stove, reaching in with the big mitts to collect the pan, covered with tinfoil. Everything was warming for him, just the way he likes it. I load his plate. Carrots. Potatoes. Roast beef. I ladle the broth on everything, almost gravy now anyway and then put his plate on the table. I add a smaller plate loaded with bread and butter and then I pour him a huge glass of milk and put the tea kettle on the stovetop for tea. I know it will take him around seven minutes to wolf this down and by then his tea will be perfect.

He sits down and smiles at me and then picks up his fork. There will be no talking until he is finished.

I sit down across from him and watch. Lochlan picks that moment to walk into the kitchen with his empty beer bottle. He puts it in the bin under the sink and opens the fridge, looking for another. I frown. I think he drinks too steadily. Too much. He wouldn't listen to me and so I say nothing. I don't bite the hand that feeds me.

Outwardly Cole rules this universe. He is dark and creative and a true leader. He doesn't hesitate. He doesn't question. He lives so purposefully it's sick. Driven by something even Jacob can't explain. It isn't faith, it's compulsion.

Inwardly, Lochlan still rules everything. We fly that paper airplane under the radar. So far so good. It is rare but there. Once a year, maybe less. Sometimes more. We wait until it builds and then history starts to get in the way of things like trips to the library and breathing and then we go back to the circus, just for the day and everything is okay and Lochlan has no idea what kind of monster he is up against because I don't talk about Cole.

I don't talk about Caleb either. I act cordial and familiar with Caleb because if I don't it will be worse and I am traded to him on a regular basis for bankroll and security and a different sort of preoccupation for glory, unspoken but permitted because this is how curses thrive. This is what gives evil an appetite. Because Caleb won't go away and Cole has something in him that he let out once and now he can't put it back in.

Jacob sees all of this. My eyes are a television and my soul never goes off the air at the end of the night, flickering into white noise, a steady hum and hiss on the screen. It's insatiable, broadcasting all of my secrets to him with the volume on low. I try to change the channel but the knob is stuck and broken off, glued back on and forever locked to this. I stand in front of the screen and he tilts his head around me and sees it all. The nightly news, the horror movie, the carnage filmed for our curiosities.

And Jacob has a hero complex.

My plan is to see that complex fulfilled. It will complete him and save me. Lochlan is indifferent, cold to me. He wants the part of me he always loved best but he can't deal with the insecurities and the fears and the out-loud stream of consciousness that scares grown men into total incapacitation. Caleb isn't going to save me, hell, the brothers have hung me out to dry. Once the refuge from Lochlan's avarice, just-rewards because I didn't know how else to stick it to him at the age of fourteen, they have become the regret of my young life.

Redemption is sitting across the table from me and I don't deserve it, but I'm going to go for it anyway.

Jacob pushes the plate away and takes the mug of tea that I have put on the table, perfectly steeped, a spoonful of fresh honey stirred in just to make it smooth without adding much sweet. He declines the pie but makes sure it might still be available tomorrow if he comes around.

He has watched enough television.

You done yet?

I need to check on the kids, I'll be back in a minute.

Bridget, the kids are fine. Cole is in the living room. They'll hear the kids if they need something.
Are you done yet?

I think Ben is coming home this week. Have you heard anything?

Princess. Are you done yet.

No. (It's a whisper. I'm not done. I am paralyzed because I don't actually have a steady job. I have no savings and I don't know anyone except for the boys in this flat city full of violence and dust and this endless snow-ice. Writing is a thankless low-paying piece of shit. Sure, the cheques are big. Every eighteen months. Not enough to live on and I know Jacob makes pennies. You can't feed children on pennies.)

He pushes back from the table and stands up. I rise too and we meet at one end. I smile because it's comical. I reach for the plate but he already has it and he rinses it in the sink and then puts it down and turns around.

When are you going to tell them the truth?

I shake my head. I have my own signals too, know. This is shutting down, goodnight, bye-bye.

We can protect you from him.

From THEM. My mind corrects him. My mouth says nothing. Never ever ever tell, Bridgie. Just never tell, okay? I will fix this for you, just give me time. I am listening. I listen well.

Jacob pushes past me. This is done. For tonight. He is helpless and frustrated. I have Cole and Cole is what I know and for those moments when he takes my picture and I see something beautiful framed at one of his shows and then I realize it is me, it's worth it because I don't understand how he gets these images of the girl who used to exist because she became whatever she is now. I don't understand how to unlock her from those frames under the glass where he holds her prisoner but I do know that was the girl I was supposed to be.

That's her. No question. I need to stay close to her in case there is a chance I can get her back.

We walk back into the living room and Jacob abruptly says goodbye, thanking Cole for the chance to get some supper but he's got a lot of laundry to start and he's exhausted so he's going to head up the street to his house. Jacob's house is on the other side of the next block up, a pretty little yellow house that he has owned for a year. A whole year of trying to convince me that the grass would be greener in his yard and a whole year of me pointing out that it would be suicide to try and leave Cole because standing behind Cole is someone I never ever want to be on the wrong side of.

Cole says anytime, and reminds Jacob that when he travels I am like a lost puppy. I defer and say that I love having everyone safe at home, and remind Cole that Ben will be back this week. Cole confirms, he has spoken to him already.

Before you go, did you want to see the latest? Cole throws it down like a challenge. Jacob nods and they disappear up to the studio. I hear their voices drop because the children's bedrooms are on that floor.

PJ asks if he can have preacher's slice of pie and I admonish him, placating him with cookies instead. The pie will keep one more day for Jacob. If not, PJ can have it tomorrow. PJ's arms go up in a mock victory celebration.

Cole and Jake are coming back down the stairs. Cole is explaining the new blackest Bridget-painting to Jacob and Jacob is cautiously congratulating him on getting his latest inspiration out, astutely skirting the subject matter entirely. Cole is famous for having huge, painful artistic blocks in which he will stand there holding the brush while the black clouds roil into view all around him and he won't be able to put the brush to the canvas. For months. Those times are dark indeed.

Cole is thrilled that Jacob understands him, and sees him out. I call a goodbye and Jake returns it.

He is gone.

I know the painting will give him nightmares. I'll be having them too. And then maybe I will sleep.

Goofnight indeed.

Okay, so the wine had a bit more of an effect than I would have liked. Though I think they liked it. Hard to fight back when you can't recall your argument.

And in any case, I slept. All night. God love me, I didn't wake up even once, though apparently it wasn't for lack of trying.

This morning I am formatting the media card on my Blackberry because I KEEP PULLING IT OFF THE USB CORD WITHOUT EJECTING. (This never happened with a Windows laptop. Also, Bridget really needs to learn to remember things.)

And I have cleaned all the carpets. With the big carpet steamer-thingie. It is amazing. Everything smells good! Like flowers. Mondays find the princess efficient. Seriously dull even.

Oh, but I have news!

The movie theater inside my house appears to be shaping up quickly now that Ben is back into a regular routine (almost! almost.) They have taken down the paintings I had up. The entire north wall now appears to be a 200-inch screen. I've never seen a movie on a screen that large without paying eight dollars a person and having to sacrifice my shoes when I stick to the floor.

My theater is fully carpeted and plush. It seats enough people to put most theaters to shame and last night we watched Clash of the Titans (again because! so good!) and made pasta and opened a little bit of wine and had the most relaxing evening ever. Ben has a list of things to pick up (like a new receiver and other assorted technological things that I didn't understand a word of) so that, as he explained it, the kids can play the Xbox on it too, Bridget. Because I was all like "It's done? we're ready to roll? Cool." and they all said "Hell, no, we're just getting started."

We're going to get silver screen paint, and velvet curtains, plus blackout curtains for the window. We're going to get a big old-fashioned popcorn popper and build a snack bar. The Tiki/African theme will remain, everything in browns, wooden masks on the walls, etc. etc. I'm pretty sure I blathered on about this room when we moved in. I just never expected it to be THIS awesome.

I'll post pictures when it's done but presently it looks like Best Buy threw up a bunch of hardware and cables in the middle of the floor. Oh and nothing is actually hooked up anymore because Ben took it all apart again to attempt to explain to me why it wasn't ready.

I'm just. Well, I'm a simple girl and really the first VCR arrived in my life at the age of what, fourteen? and I've been charming people to make my movies play ever since.

Snort.

And yes, it's a movie theater. Not a room with a TV. Full projection. The entire wall. I said the house was big. It's bigger than that even. Oh my God, the rumors are true. I sold my soul for square footage.

And after seeing Clash that big, I'm not sorry.

(The BlackBerry is fixed! All hail copy & paste. Thank you Lochlan.)

alrtightpresent. I am!

Oh hello. I'm sorry, I can't type right now. It's rainign and the power keeps going out and the wine keeps going and they're setting u the home theater which is pretyy cool ineven though I don't like spending money all that much really. It's okay though. It rains ALOT.

BEnw as home all weekend and he never let go of me. That I like and it's worth more than meony. Hes awesome. :) goofnight?

Restoration.

It was a lovely rainy day to wake up slow, walk the dog while I was still in pajamas and then climb back into my warm bed with the big sleepy guy still wedged firmly in the middle and drift off again in his arms, only to wake a few hours later to my surprise. I made coffee, croissants, and hugs for breakfast and we lingered forever before deciding to go for a drive. Sometimes it's nice to just get away for the day.

So we did and now we are home early and winding down from a day that involved having no commitments at all save for the one we made to each other. I'm off now to make tea with honey and probably fall asleep on Ben's shoulder while we watch a movie.

Tomorrow I am hoping for more of the same.

Is it Friday yet?

Here's a ramble. People seem to get concerned when I don't really post much.

I am drinking reheated eleven-hour-old coffee (I passed a coffee shop no less than nine times today), listening to Seventh Void cut with High Holy Days and Bif Naked and thinking to make spaghetti for dinner, possibly pizza if no one wants a heavy meal. I'd like a large glass of wine and a deep breath, for today brought the most energy I have had in four weeks.

Routine is a fickle sort of relief. We're barely back into the school year and I find myself thoroughly annoyed by everything from lunches that come back uneaten to last minute party invitations and Other Parents, in general.

Sigh. I am working furiously on being less judgmental. I am losing the battle.

In other news, the grapes are gone. Yes, all of them. There's a black squirrel who was here all last week treating the vineyard as his own personal farm market. We did get to try the grapes and they were wonderful and next year step number one will be installing netting over the top of the arbor to keep out the critters.

I still have the tomatoes to look forward to. And the oranges too. And the dahlias are coming back, the roses never stop blooming and all I have to do is look out the windows and I am smiling because everything is so beautiful.

We were caught in a monsoon today and I'm getting smarter. When I left the house I grabbed the children's umbrellas because the sky looked...well, it looked heavy somehow.

I was right.

My weather-telling skills are so rusty after eight years of tornadoes and blizzards and no coasts but they're coming back nonetheless, slowly and with feeling.

Last week sometime Proud usurped Breath as my favorite song ever. It was inevitable, really. Just like I can pretend to like tea but I'd rather have coffee any day, even if it's ancient. Actually I think I'd prefer a steady diet of Jack Daniels but those days are long over so coffee it is.

I need to have some serious fun. We are overdue.

I need fresher coffee.

Ha! I have found a new way to distract Ben while he plays Warcraft.

I'm playing King Diamond Christmas tunes.

At full volume.

Let me be your monster.

Articulate, humanesque nightmares are the worst ones.

(Stop and take that breath and relax, loosening your grip on life for just a second. Taste that. Freedom from anxiety seasoned with a hint of rest. Now go away. This is not yours. This will be served to someone already character-free, someone who doesn't even realize they don't deserve this unencumbered existence. That fucker isn't aware of how good they have it, they only know life as a bubble of sunshine and ignorance, breezy winds and plans best made. Did I just catch you trying to take another deep breath? Give it back. You're flammable.

Look, here's a leak. Put out your flames here. Yes, I understand you hate them. Familiar is the tension, the low-level hysteria put aside only long enough to concentrate on something specific and then you pull your finger out of the hole and the stream begins anew. You're up to your waist and you can't swim. The water is thick with indecision and cloudy with hope and fear. It's undrinkable, unswimmable and unstoppable too. It covered your freedom easily and now it's working on your courage. With enough time, erosion will begin and there will be no turning back. Run, Bridget, run!

I can't. I'm still unable to take a very deep breath. My knees are positively shot and I don't know which way is safe. I can run straight to the sea but then I am trapped because I am not a strong swimmer. I am trapped because I am not a strong person. Take the fear. I DON'T WANT IT. Take my indecision too. Leave me the fuck alone already. I have been through enough.)

Sitting with his sleeves rolled up, tie loosened, hair perfectly tousled, six o'clock shadows playing across his face, Caleb frowned at me and rested his head on one hand, balanced against his temple in a painful display of exhaustion. He is slouched way down in the low library chair with his eyes closed and his left hand balancing a brandy glass in mid-air. It has been empty for almost thirty minutes but he's still cupping it between his fingers, warming invisible liquid gold. Maybe he wants me to refill it but I make no move to do so.

You look beautiful.

It will grow. I put my hand up to my neck, self-conscious.

Don't do that. He frowns. Don't even be uncomfortable with the way you look. Jesus, Bridget. You're beautiful. Uncannily so. You always have been.

His words are sweet poison to me. I'm not willing to listen to him extol my virtues when he didn't leave me with any at all. I'm not willing to listen to him editorialize my life from his perspective of obsession.

What does Henry need?

We don't co-parent in any sort of organized fashion. Caleb provides for the children in any way that I request. It's that simple. He also provides a pure representation of Cole, because it's not as if I can take the children to the concrete room where I keep the Cole-angel. They would be frightened. Caleb offers a Cole that they remember well. Kind. Fun. Permissive but consistent. His only request is access to them. Time with them. Time with me. Play nice, Bridget and it will all be okay.

It's okay, that isn't sinister or anything. Cole said it to me every night. Now it just sounds funny. I stopped playing nice years ago, as you can see.

I take my brandy up and swallow the contents of my glass in one gulp. It burns and I grab the windowsill. I gasp and choke and Caleb is there rubbing my back as if you can dislodge certain death with massage and I want to tell him not to touch me anymore but I can't breathe. I cough hard and then I wave my hands at him and thrust the glass toward him and leave the room.

Water. I need water.

I get a glass at the sink and stand there, drinking it slowly. Staring at my reflection in the kitchen windows because no one closed the blinds and I can't reach them but it's okay because the only person who watches me from that one place on the road is the one sitting in my library now drinking all of Jacob's ancient, valuable brandy that I didn't know what to do with so I packed it and it came with me.

I hear voices.

August and Ben are sitting out on the patio with forbidden cigarettes and herbal tea. I can hear the tones but not the words proper. They had a splendid argument when I returned from the airport with August because no one else gets a vacation but somehow August is able to disappear for ten days even though presently is a high stress time for the company. How is this possible? The world doesn't stop for hippie festivals and desert-worshipping but somehow he did it anyway because August puts life ahead of living. Lucky for us. He keeps his head on straight and his universe relaxed and then he can be a good friend and confidant and in-house social miracle worker here because Ben won't let anyone else do it and here Ben is strung out on overtime and his eyes are bleary and he has just enough strength at night to come home, eat a big dinner, play an hour of warcraft and ravage me completely before falling asleep and waking up again too soon and it's heartbreaking and maybe, just maybe he doesn't need to know that August came back renewed and reborn, smiling from ear to ear.

They made up just as fast. August is made from a patience we have never encountered before. He had Ben placated quickly and they retreated for some stream of consciousness that will see Ben psychologically propped up for another little just to get him through the end of this workload and then we get to breathe for a minute or two, watched by the others for any hairline cracks in the facade. Never mind that we have repeatedly presented ourselves to be examined with staples holding big ragged segments together, duct-taped limbs and reinforced organs, fibreglass spray and plaster dust in our hair. We hold hands and stand there grinning like stupid fools.

Hairline cracks, Ben? Do you see any hairline cracks?

Nope, princess, can't say that I do.

Guess we're good for now.

Yup. Guess we are. Can we go now?

Eleven is standing still.

This morning I was summarily dismissed at the door to the school. It's the first day back today.

Uh, mom, you can go now.

I can walk you to your class, make sure everything is cool.

It's okay. We'll see you later. Bye.

The door closed in my face and I was left out in the rain. It's okay. I ran home, hopped in the car and went shopping, only being pulled back out of the reverie (of not having the mopey twins taking forever to get down an aisle because they have to pick everything up) by a call from the school.

Mrs. Reilly? Ruth said you didn't know that it was only a half-day today. Pickup is at 11:30.

Well, damn. I thought I had hours left. I thought I had a lifetime left.

I was greeted with big hugs and almost knocked down outside the front doors.

We missed you, mom! Mom, can you carry my backpack? It's heavy. (it was empty).

Ha. They're only half-grown! So there. I still have time left.

Fine.

Lochlan is where I learned that birthdays were to be dreaded and then pointedly endured and it took Jacob the better part of three years to teach me differently. Just as I began to get excited about them again for the first time since I was in the single digits he was gone and birthdays revert back to an odd sort of industrial-emotional obstacle that I'm never sure I fully clear.

I would try harder to deflect Lochlan's opinions on things but it's so hard. Too hard. Once we were back home from his birthday dinner and I had the kids safely in bed I returned to him. He pulled me into the bathroom where he proceeded to roughly scrub the remainder of the sharpie marker off my fingers from Saturday and then he steered me back into the den.

He passes me his library card.

What is this?

The privilege of borrowing, princess.

I have one. I try to pass it back but he just hammers his index finger on it to grind his point home, a hole through the plastic, straight on through to the other side, baby.

Life is a library card, Bridget. You borrow emotions, events, experiences and then you put them back on the shelf for someone else. All of it is temporary. Life is borrowing love, breath, joy. Then we're done.

Don't, Lochlan.

Why the hell not? I'm in love with a fucking library book! I can check you out but you're a bestseller so I can't renew! Fuck your fucking allegories, princess. And fuck Benjamin too! I was here first!

I'm going to go. I'm not doing this tonight.

You're not alone. Why would you care?

I have been alone.

Yeah, for a whole hour. Maybe less.

What do you know? You've NEVER been there when I needed you.

Yeah, well then maybe I'm not worth it. Get the fuck out.

How much did you drink tonight?

CLEARLY NOT ENOUGH. It hurts. It fucking hurts so bad and it never goes away.

You made the call.

I know. Don't you think I know that, Bridget? What I don't know is how to make you forgive me. How to make you mine again. I've watched every one of them home in on you and then take you from me and I don't know how to stop this. Once and for all. I just want it to stop. How do I make it stop?

Go to sleep, Lochlan. You need it.

Yeah. Goodnight, library card. Check you out tomorrow.

Goodnight, Lochlan.

Like my pun?

No, not really.

You should stay, Bridgie. I just wish you would stay. I miss you. God, I miss you so much.

I am already gone. I close the door quietly so that it doesn't click. I'm sure he is asleep before I make it down the hall.

Anything to make you smile
You are the ever-living ghost of what once was
I never want to hear you say
That you'd be better off
Or you liked it that way

But no one is ever gonna love you more than I do
No one's gonna love you more than I do

Written across my knuckles in Caleb's neatly printed script with a sharpie from his big wooden desk in the other room.

OBLIVION

I'm wondering if it will last through a few more showers so I don't forget, ironically. Maybe if it washes off soon I'll have it written again on my forehead instead because that's what they read when they look at me. Forgets everything. The slights, the betrayals, the violence, the struggle.

(Forget history, forget the present and forget about the future, for now, baby.

Live in your sweet circus fugue and everything will be okay. Life is a big-top cotton-candy bubble for you, the outside can't touch you, the inside won't stop, and you can make as many rules as you like and paint them, numbered on a huge wooden board that you prop up by the entrance and we'll read it and then serve to ignore or break every last one.

For you.

Because that's the way you wanted it. Your needs are like the tide, always shifting. In and out. Aquamarine dreams, froth disguised as rapid eye movement, twitching, aching limbs from paddling against the current. Scattered, random waves.)

He watched us last night because Ben allowed nothing more, the correction for changing my appearance without permission, reparations for scaring me so badly and yet staying away is something I can't seem to accomplish at all and so I am brought, vaguely tranquilized on wine and unsteady. Undressed, given a marker and license to let go of my thoughts on their flesh, assent to print blame should I want to, or make promises to be tattooed. I remember distinctly writing I wish you were Cole down Caleb's muscled left arm. I remember writing don't leave me on Ben's impossibly-broad back where he would never find the conscious of my self. I remember nothing more than landing in the soft sheets after that, Ben's arms around me, the way I like life best. I no longer held the marker. The lights of the city were the last thing I saw.

I turn over and gaze out the window. I am upside down, facing the windows and therefore, the water. Ben sleeps easily beside me, rightside up. Caleb is nowhere to be found. I trace the letters on my fingers and turn my hands palms up. I love you is written on each one in my own handwriting. I am surprised by that, and pleased.

It is a first.

Grace in Ben's dark.

Ben's head pushes against mine. A subtle nudge. I turn and his lips cross the bridge of my nose. He whispers something but I miss it because his hands are over my ears. The kiss takes my breath away and doesn't return it. I'm drowning in his life, in his hands.

Closer still, his arms keep me against him. It's pitch black. I can't see, can't hear. Oh God, I can't breathe you are so heavy Ben and then suddenly an exquisite agony comes over me. When I cry out the weight lifts and his hand covers my mouth.

Shhhh, it's okay. It's okay. It's okay.

It isn't. I am pushing him away, bracing myself against him, uselessly blocking his advance and he moves right through me, no obstacles, no hesitations. I am clawing at air and skin now, pulling his fingers away from my mouth, scraping his shoulders all to hell and still he is close and tight against me, always reassuring, always unapologetic, rougher than he knows, fighting me, pulling my limbs in until I am powerless, shut down.

Suddenly there is air again. I am on the other side, free to move, the ache is gone, the power returns. Suddenly every single hint of movement is bringing waves of a drug that I am addicted to, gratified for those small moments before the thirst returns, mortified when it returns worse than ever. We are matched move for move, depravities accepted, welcomed. His hands slide up my leg and I am crushed again as he muffles my cries, cradling my head in his hands, kissing me. Giving up on his pretense of gruffness and might, overcome with a tender quiet that surprises us in a way the violence does not, strung out on rage to feel anything at all makes for a derivative joy when we reach that impossible place where rage is not required. Through, not around. A welcome struggle to keep our love visceral, to not change what we have, what this is.

I am lifted into the air and brought back down, fresh blinding pain presented in a spectacle of devotion, my tiny piece of air ripped away on the downswing, a conscious effort to relax every muscle, the circus girl who knows how to fall.

His love is the shield and his history the sword that cuts so deeply the wounds cauterize before the blade has been drawn through. I am covered with scars and choking behind the grasp of his hand. I'm lost in his psychological landscape with no map to guide me through his hot and cold emotional display, ruined by the sweet tenderness that remains behind his brutality.

Every inch is then examined for injury, every hair on my head kissed, every inch of my flesh stroked and tested for bruising. Proclaimed good enough, his hand returns to my mouth and his intent to my soul as he travels the rest of the night fighting my slumber as a human antidote for Bridget's nightmare fuel.

This darkness does not belong to the devil to exploit. This darkness is our own.

Oh, Benjamin.

Look out.

Shine for you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She makes me proud.

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

Happy birthday, beautiful girl.

Extreme proposing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And my response:

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

And his response to my response:

Fine. See you tonight, princess.

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

I think I need my brain sharpened.

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

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

Ow. Sour grapes, Sky. Motherfucker.

Right. So, anyway...

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

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

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

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

Much ado about OJ.

Oh, you sillies.

*I* am the butler.

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

Please.

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

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

Seriously, wow.

We're making progress.

Circumvention and the safekeepers.

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

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

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

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

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

I'll stick something else in you, princess.

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

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

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

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

Nothing for you to worry about.

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

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

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

What did he do?

Bridget? What's wrong?

What did Ben do to Caleb?

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

Okay.

Promise?

I'm there already, Loch.

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

Psychic relay.

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

Why do you write these things, Bridget?

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

I gave you everything.

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

You need to stop.

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

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

Will you stop, Bridget?

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

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

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

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

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

And then I understand perfectly.

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

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

And now it's gone.

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

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

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

They're going to kill you.

I'm already dead, Bridget.

WHY DOES EVERYBODY KEEP SAYING THAT??

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It's not over, princess.

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

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

I don't know, you tell me.

We belong together, Bridget.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ripple.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Eventually, he will let me go.

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

Viral princess.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * * *

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

So there.

Thumbthumbthumb.

*cough*

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

Athenaeum.

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

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

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

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

It is soundproof as well.

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

He laughs.

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

That can be arranged.

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

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

Human curiosities

When sleep came, I fell for it. Down, down, head over heels, clawing at thin air, bicycling knees to try and tread the wind.

I landed softly but I didn't know it.

Ben holds on as long as he can but it's inevitable, expected. And then he is holding a shell, the vessel of the soul that has escaped to a makeshift dreamland through some attempt by God to atone for all of the things I have been through.

In my dream I am never too cold or too hot. I'm never hungry and I never covet anything. I am never afraid. Dreams come from heaven, I know that now. Or maybe they are designed to give us a taste of heaven in order to not be overwhelmed later in life, should we be given that reward.

Huh. I must tell this to Caleb when he comes back so he knows what he'll be missing.

In my dreams Ben never leaves and I never have to wake up until I have slept for days. Food arrives via the butler and everything we do is a whim. Music plays at the perfect volume, the perfect song audible but not overwhelming, my soundtrack following me down the road. Life is a circus. My own perfect circus, and that is my secret.

I open my bag and Coney Island is inside. So I put one foot in and then the other and I pull up the handles and in a singsong voice I say:

We're here.

I'm standing in front of the gates and the sun is just beginning to rise. It isn't cold here. The seagulls are competing with my song, goddammit, I'm going to have to speak to someone about that. I straighten the hem on my dress and tuck my hair behind my ears. Time to get to work.

I see Ben at the far end of the dock. He is watching the sea and waiting for me. Too far away to call to, and too far away to walk to, even and so I break into a run. I can't hear my footfalls but I can hear the metal clang of shutters as the boardwalk comes to life. Once the sun breaks free of the horizon it seems as it it calls out to everyone to shake off their own dreams and join us in this skewed reality where tolerance and cash are the only focus, and illusion is the means.

It's like the midway only less family-friendly and sometimes more sinister but I know I am safe. There is no dread. There's no 'careful' here. There are no places I need to be warned to avoid. I am no longer that fresh-scrubbed ruined twelve-year-old girl pulling cotton candy out of her hair and counting the seven twenty-dollar bills at the end of a good week. It's my dream and Caleb can't find me here.

This is the big leagues and I fit in only by virtue of pretty with not nearly enough tattoos and my rampant disregard for public appraisal unless it's of the appreciative kind. Ben fits in because he can make a scary face. That is all. He refuses to swallow fire and we've decided being sawed into pieces is overrated and agonizing.

Freaks. As is.

I reach him at last. His tattoos have been drawn into his pockets as he turns to smile at me.

You made it.

Why do I always start out at the opposite end from you?

I don't know, princess, but it doesn't take us long to regroup.

Weird.

Maybe that's part of the theme of your dream.

You're right. I bet that's exactly what it is.

Are you ready?

Yes. Let's go.

I reach up high into the air and grab the zipper pull, swinging my legs up over the edge until I am sitting on the ledge high above the pier now. The sun is a huge ball of warm, an orange I can taste, tinged with a purple I can feel. The tangible sunrise is a parting gift I am eager to learn how to extract, but not today.

I open my eyes and Ben is wrapped around me, sleeping deeply, his thumb resting on my philtrum and the rest of his hand wrapped around my head.

We are sleeping on a bed of twenty-dollar bills and all I can smell is cotton candy and decay.

Last night Ben and I sat outside in the freezing cold on the verandah, a candle burning on the rustic little table that I refused to paint and finally it has achieved the weathered grey I adore. His tea grew cold and my red wine grew warm as we ignored our drinks in favor of watching the wind and the moon, his hands clutching the blanket closed that we were sharing. I was tucked down in his arms, his chin on my head, his legs making for more warmth than I could have asked for around mine.

I was listening for Jacob's big windchimes but I can't hear them over the roar of the ocean. I hate to have to ask Ben to move them closer to the house again, because he's already done it twice, but I think I will. What is the point of a noise if it can't be heard?

Eventually I stopped trying to hear them and settled back against his chest and his head came forward beside mine, He kissed my cheek and pressed his ear against mine, rocking me slowly.

I closed my eyes.

Right.

Now.

This.

Clear as day he whispers in my ear. I hear him every single time.

I love you, Bridget.

I love you too, Ben. Forgive me.

Just let it be, little bee.

Which part?

All of it, for now. You're in my arms. I'm not going to think about anything else right now.

Yeah.

This is what I live for.

Me too.

He pulled back and looked down at me.

Really?

I nodded.

I thought you would have said something about my huge dick.

It was on the tip of my tongue.

You know, princess, there are so many places I could take that statement but for the sake of this beautiful night I'll just let it go.

Okay.

For now.

Yup.

But later, I-

Benjamin.

Yeah?

Shush.

Okay.

Confirmation bias.

(Firstly. If you don't understand polyandry, for the love of God, find another blog to read. I don't need any more emails telling me how fucking provocative I am.)

I went for a long bike ride with Lochlan last night. He got a new suit of body armor for his motorcycle and when he came down the hall fully suited up and carrying his helmet I had one of those moments where I'm just like wow. Just wow. It makes him look tall. Which he is anyway to me at 5'9" but this makes him look taller. All-black suit. It turned his hair to dark strawberry. He had it cut last week and all of his curls are gone.

We drove for hours, it seemed. We stopped in at the market and had fish and chips. Up the mountain. Up to the tinder-dry ski hills on the unsafe highway where one false move losing the edge of the road and you will plunge to your death straight down. We picked fights and took some pictures. Back down. Too fast.

We saw an owl. At once, the weirdest and the coolest thing ever.


We picked another fight and it resulted in Lochlan leaving me standing by the water and driving off. He was back five minutes later, parking his bike and striding over to me, grabbing my hand and pulling me back with him. I opted not to speak for the rest of the trip lest I get abandoned somewhere now that it was getting dark.

(Though, really it's been twenty years since he actually didn't come back for me. I have such fond memories of walking home in the middle of the night, back to the camper/cottage/house. Really I do.)

We arrived back home and I passed him my helmet and entered the house. It seemed so warm and inviting after being outside. Lights on everywhere.

Ben was sitting at the counter. Reading. He put his arms out and I flew into them as he stood up. Lochlan didn't say anything. I felt Ben nod and then he released me and turned me back to face Lochlan. Permission.

Let's sort this out, princess. I had no intentions of ruining this day.

Yeah.

I followed Lochlan upstairs. He shut the door behind me and locked it and then walked away down the hall. I followed. Another door, another lock. I'm amused. He's going to make it difficult for me to walk away from him now. That's funny because he's the one who always walks away. I stand my ground and fight.

Inside of this door he walks right over and kisses me. Hard. So hard I am forced back against the wall. Inside of a minute we are tearing at the layers of clothing keeping us apart. He is kissing my forehead. My cheeks. My lips. My shoulders.

I give him a shove backwards and he brings me with him, throwing me down onto the bed where he pulls the rest of my things off and then takes off everything too. He is flushed. Aroused. Gentler now. He pulls me up into his arms and we are cuddled in the center of his bed. He pulls the blanket up around me because everything in Lochlan's life is super heated and he lifts me up and brings me back down and I almost cry out but I bite his shoulder instead. He just holds me tighter. He is moving us, gently, quietly. That perfect dance. He leans me way back and follows and he is against me now, picking up speed, wrapping his arms tight around me, burying his face against the pillow, against my temple, his breath so loud in my ear. Our legs are tangled.

His hand moves to the back of my head and I am pressed against his chest as he raises himself up slightly. He won't make it hurt, he won't make it violent, ever but what he does do is make sure neither one of us is left wanting anything. His other hand is holding him up and I reach up and pull him back down to me. Slower now, forever now. The urgency has been dealt with, everything else remains. And the memories that keep us apart come crowding back in, extinguishing the moment.

(Just stay like this and everything is okay and tomorrow we will go and play at the beach and then at tent call we'll go work and then we'll steal dinner and maybe eat in bed. And then make love all night and sleep on the sand all day. Pretty please? And no fighting. I don't like it when we fight, Lochlan.)

He is slowing to a crawl now and the second-guess has commenced. His hands come up, cradling my head. His lips find mine. When we kiss our eyes are wide open.

My God, Bridget. I can't give you back to him.

It's a whisper and I have to ignore it. I know that. I have to pretend I didn't hear it and he will pretend he never said it. It's the other flaw in our beings. We can't get along and we can't be apart. I don't know what to do, this is the only answer I have.

I push him away and climb off his bed and brush past him to go to the shower. He reaches for me but I have already walked away from him.

In moments I am drowning myself under the hot spray. Not washing, just standing there. He joins me and begins to wash my hair. He washes my body, scrubs every inch of my skin, gets on his knees to wash the backs of my legs, my knees, my toes. He stands up and rinses me, holding me back under the stream. Holding me close. He puts his head down against mine and the water pours over us. We stay like this for a very long time. Finally he drops his arms from me and opens the door. I am pushed out and he closes the door again. He does not come out.

I dry myself quickly, put my clothes back on, and go back to plant a single kiss on the shower door. Lochlan is facing the wall now, his hands up above his head in a defeated stance. I know he has cranked the hot water up to the maximum now and the steam clouds are billowing out.

I turn on the switch for the fan and I close the door on my way out.

I don't hear him when he says I love you. I never do.

Saturday morning car tunes.

I'm not the only one who sees them
I'm not the only one they keep up at night
I'm not the only one not sleeping
I'm not the only one who's dreaming out loud
Dreaming out

Caleb was by this morning already, bringing fresh croissants and good news and his car! for me to use! He is leaving town for a couple of weeks, planning to return before school begins and more importantly, before Ruth's eleventh birthday.

Don't presume that my choice to keep him close has anything to do with Lochlan or Ben. This is not like that. This is a whole different thing and it could be called coercion or extortion or something but I like to just minimize that and make everybody happy and also it makes missing Cole less prevalent somehow in that he's right here, half the time.

(If I could get August to wear more flannel and spend less time tying his hair back I could have Jake too in some regard but whatever! Let's not go there! It's a beautiful Saturday and Ben is off for the weekend but having worked almost around the clock for the past twelve days straight somehow I see him sleeping all day long, possibly opening an eye around two or three o'clock to swallow a hamburger whole and going right back to sleep.)

I don't know why I'm explaining things to you anyway. Drama comes and drama goes and we keep it to a low simmer and we're incredibly refined. Trust me. In a perfectly-tousled hair and bright eyes kind of way. With money now. So our problems apparently are your reality television show.

Caleb is heading east to attend a few meetings in Toronto and then he'll stop in Montreal to see (ARGHHHHHHHHHHHHH) Sophie, and then he'll continue on to Nova Scotia to spend a week with his folks. I sent along my best from us even though I talk to them regularly. I was invited to go, seeing as how Pepper Potts may be making a return appearance and if anyone needs an assistant, it is Satan by far, but I declined because um, no. No trips with him. I don't what the fuck he is thinking. Yes, dear, stay in my life so we all don't go down in flames forever but no, I'm not going on vacations with you.

If push comes to shove I can make things miserable for him too. One of the small comforts of being tortured for so long by the same person is that eventually you discover the little things that drive them mad and you can use them as weapons. It keeps the devil at arms length. And it keeps Bridget safe.

Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go whisper disgusting things involving Krispy Kreme donuts into my husband's ear and maybe he'll get up and take me out for a second breakfast. He can drive.

In stitches here tonight
We are ripping the seams out
I'm pushing hard to tear it loose
In stitches here tonight
We are ripping the seams
There's something missing
Chilled and lonely in between

Today's musical accompaniment can be found here. Enjoy.

Beauty, undismayed.

Anything to make you smile
You are the ever-living ghost of what once was
I never want to hear you say
That you'd be better off
Or you liked it that way
But no one is ever gonna love you more than I do
No one's gonna love you more than I do

He is still drunk and I'm losing patience.

Amazing how someone can be so perfect and then within a half a bottle he is all mess. I am sitting on the steps again and Lochlan is sitting, rather, laying in the chair, his legs splayed out because there isn't a cooperative muscle in his body right now, including his tongue.

He has Band of Horses on repeat and I want to hasten my hearing loss to the point of total silence because it hurts to listen to him humming no one's going to love you more than I do.

It hurts because I have stuck to my guns with the stubbornness of a child but when I look in the mirror I see a little old woman who has been to hell and back so many times she has an elevator named after her.

He still sees that child, and we still carry the burden of our history like a cross, dead weight keeping us from the future. He is horrified by what I have been through but powerless to change it, so he folds himself inward and he continues on his button-down perfectionist way, with clean, unsmudged glasses and his strawberry blonde beard that I have loved since forever that he never shaves off anymore because he sees my protests when the others do and he wants the upper hand. He gives others the shit jobs of giving me bad news and dealing with the less good parts because he didn't want me to project my feelings onto him and it backfired, oh, hell did it ever backfire on him.

So now to make himself look even better in everyone's eyes he's going to spend the weekend lit up like the fourth of July, which goes against his whole better-than-you stance to Ben, but at the same time Lochlan can turn his alcoholism on and off at will. Ben cannot so it's just another thumb of Lochlan's nose.

And in return Ben points out every chance he gets that I married him, that I am his wife, and I made my choice.

But did she?

Lochlan lets the question slide out of his mouth as a challenge and Ben is forced to drop it based on the fact that he was biggest proponent of this new joint venture. Since Bridget doesn't have security anymore, give her whatever she needs so if that means being able to go to anyone she wants for comfort, affection, advice or straight-up hardcore sex then let's do this thing.

Like any red-blooded man, Ben agreed to that. He thought, well, everyone thought that I would marry Lochlan next. That I would just go back to him and Ben figured if he still had access to me that some is always better than nothing at all.

And whoops, I married Ben instead so all of the sudden the roles are reversed and to Lochlan some of me is better than none at all and Ben is all she picked me! Shut this down! Because all of the sudden instead of getting a piece of the action you are loaning out your wife and hoping she comes back to you with her loyalties intact, knowing it's a risk, just like getting out of bed in the morning. He has struggled with that. I have too. I thought they were all insane and that this was the worst idea ever. I thought how dare they objectify me like this, how dare they turn me into a time share, a possession to be fought over.

Then I got over myself. And you should too.

Lose your uptightedness and be free. The world needs more love. The world also needs more vodka but I am almost out.

Thankfully.

I am off to spend some much needed alone-time with Ben. I have not seen him much today.

Goodnight, Lochlan.

Goodnight, Bridgie. Who was it who said "Remembering is only a new form of suffering"?

Baudelaire, Lochlan.

Oh yeah, Baudelaire. I should have known.

Yeah, you should have.