With the best of intentions and his invisible cape.

Trying something new, because it's been a while.

Trust.

When I hit publish yesterday morning, Ben walked into Caleb's office, holding the key card that gives access to the elevator. The card was still attached to the doorman, who didn't look very happy at all.

Ben let him go and he beat a hasty retreat. He knows Ben. I'm sure the moment he returned to the ground floor he would have called Caleb on his cellphone to warn him there was an angry giant waiting in his office but Ben didn't give him that chance. Ben looked at me and then went barging through the condo, walking right into the bathroom where Caleb was and telling him we were leaving and just stay where he was.

Caleb was too surprised to say anything, I bet.

Ben returned to the study, took my hand and asked me if I had anything else with me. I said no and he pulled me back to the elevator and outside to the waiting truck, still running. He buckled me in, locked the doors and then called Lochlan to let him know we were on the way.

He called Caleb again and told him to have my car brought home too.

We came home and he made no move to go inside. I am sitting quietly. Tears rolling.

You gotta give me some of it.

What?

This part. The hard part. Stop running to him when you feel angry about Jake. This is part of being together, Bridget. You're supposed to come to me.

You have enough to deal with.

And I would rather deal with you and help you than worry about you twenty-four hours a day. That just adds to my problems. Let me help you. Stop putting yourself in the path of a freight train.

Caleb's a train now?

When it comes to you, yes. I think it's time some things change.

That's what he said.

Caleb?

Jacob.

Ben stared at me without a word for so long I started to squirm shamefully under his attention. His face started out positively furious and then I watched as it softened. As he went from monster to lover in the space of two minutes, which was an eternity and then he finally asked.

What did Zero say, exactly?

That I have to let him go now, and that I should stay away from Caleb.

And how do you feel about that?

Well, fuck. I hate that question. That question sent me out of the truck, doors slamming, jaw clenched. Marching back to the house where I stopped, patiently waiting for Ben to catch up and unlock the front door and then once inside, I went straight for the library where I threw myself face down into the pillows on the chair.

Bridget-

I know. He's right, you're right, everybody's right.

I don't want you near Caleb anymore.

Is this an ultimatum? My Ben doesn't do ultimatums.

Yes it is and yes he does. He's just been a lot more perverted and more patient than most Bens.

My Ben isn't patient at all.

Sure he is. Your life up until now is an example of that.

So I've gotten it all wrong.

No. Not at all.

What about Lochlan?

Let me deal with everyone from now on.

You can't deal with them, Ben. If you shut them out Caleb will crush Lochlan and me, by default. Is it worth it?

I have aces in my hand too. Maybe you haven't paid attention to the game.

Why didn't you use them already? Christ, Ben, we've been to hell and back a hundred times now.

I was waiting for you, but, really, Bridget, you're taking a while and sometimes I think you take advantage and really I have had it up to here with everyone else taking their piece of you and leaving me with crumbs. They need to go find their own lives. Caleb needs a new hobby that doesn't involve terrorizing my wife and playing on her weaknesses.

You're going to take Lochlan away from me, too? I have already forgotten about Caleb. I don't need Caleb. I need Lochlan though. This is one dealbreaker I won't indulge in.

No. Just Caleb.

Good luck. If this were possible it would have already happened.

Let me fix this. Once. Just this one thing.

No, sorry. I can't risk Lochlan. And you shouldn't risk me, by default.

And you shouldn't doubt me, Bridget.

What do you mean?

Maybe I've spent the last three years planning. To be sure. Do you trust me?

I had to think about this. For a long moment. Holy fuck. I actually DO trust him.

More than anyone.

Then let me deal with Caleb. The only time you'll see him is when he picks Henry up or drops him off. Okay? I have spent so long saying nothing. I'm done, Bridge. No more.

Okay.

Can you do this, little bee?

Yes.

No more Caleb, no more Cole.

No more Caleb, Cole.

No more Jacob either, princess.

What?

Package deal.

You can't put restrictions on Jacob. I didn't sign up for this.

Yeah, well, princess, I didn't sign up to watch you hammer yourself into the ground squarely between them either.

Caleb will kill all of us. Did you warn Lochlan? Does he know?

I want you to let me handle him. If Caleb contacts you, I want you to direct him back to me. Okay?

Okay.

Nothing else, Bridge. The company will be run by the board. You don't have to touch it.

Okay, Ben.

I love you.

I love you too. What if-

There are no what ifs here. It's okay. Everything's going to be okay, bee. I've been planning this since the day I fell in love with you.

Eight years?

Three, goofy. Okay, maybe longer. And I've had it with him. It's time to move on this.

What if-

Trust me. I love you. And I love Lochlan.

Do you really, Ben?

Sadly, yes. He's pretty hot actually. (Ben grins briefly and I start choking on tears. Laughing and crying at the same time. So pretty.)

It's going to blow up in our fac-

Or it might just all end happily ever after.

You know we won't know that for forty or fifty years.

I can wait, Bridget. I've waited through worse.

What's worse than Caleb?

Jake was. Believe it or not.

Condemning the already-condemned (AKA The Devil is real).

It was pitch black and cooler than I remember the temperature of the room being when I fell asleep. I slipped down to the bottom of the bed from between my guards as they slept on and shrugged into yesterday's clothes. Buttoning my jeans I saw one guard turn over and then he pulled the quilts up over his head and the soft growl of his snore resumed. Not so much of a snore, actually, more like someone getting a cold. I frowned but kept moving.

I gingerly pulled on my warmest zippered hoodie and took off, down steps, down hallways, lighter than our room by virtue of the lack of window coverings. Down, down, deeper until I hit the stairs that turn to the right and then I was home free. At the bottom of the steps is a frozen sheet of water, once a perpetual rain puddle in the place where I land after hundreds of trips, turned to treacherous ice by the overnight drop in degrees. I keep my hand on the railing until I'm sure I'm not going to wipe out.

I made it. I turn and walk slowly down the hallway today. The ice-puddles are everywhere. I'm surprised it is so cold. My hands are numb and shaking already but I need to keep them out for balance. It's a tightrope without the fall, a line drawn between wrong and wrong.

The door is open again. I either keep a messy grief or he has been waiting hard for me. The iced dead leaves remain curled around themselves along the walls. A light wind whistles down the corridor, echoing off concrete. I feel lonely. None of the boys are here at this hour. No one can convince me this isn't real. Nobody understands why the sadness ever goes away and I never wanted to have to make this trip on a regular basis but it is expected, and the obligations to the dead outweigh the ones to the living every time. All I ever wanted was to bring him back to life and until I figure that out, everything else will have to go away.

Jacob is still sitting on the floor where I left him last. When I step through the door and look around I instinctively know he's still going to be right there, even after six weeks of not coming here.

He has his knees up with his head buried in his arms, resting on top of them. He doesn't look up.

You're hurt.

It's nothing.

WHO DID IT? He breaks out in a roar and I shrink away from him, back toward the door. He looks up finally and stands. I am small in front of him, the top of my head level with his chest. He grabs my arms and I shriek involuntarily and he drops them and meets my eyes. His are sunken, faded blue ringed in black. Betrayal floats in his irises alongside sadness and rage, each one struggling to be on top, drowning the others, taking turns pushing each other under the surface.

I am surprised at his rage.

It isn't rage. He's read my mind.

Like hell, Jacob.

I'm helpless here, princess.

There isn't anything you need to help with!

Was it Caleb because I can get to him.

He gets to you, you mean. And no, it wasn't and no it didn't happen on purpose. It was an accident.

They can't afford accidents.

They watch each other.

That only raises the stakes and puts you in danger. You can't be in that place anymore. You had enough from HIM! Jacob raises one hand to the sky and points at the darkest corner of the room where Cole lurks in frustrated silence. He isn't allowed to talk unless I give him permission.

It isn't like that.

Oh, man, you're just going in circles now. Let me go. I can't help you stuck in here.

I can't do that.

YOU HAVE TO. Keeping me here compounds all of this. You shouldn't be here. I can't do anything from here. This is insanity. Bridget, make something different. It's okay. You can visit the memories but this..this room isn't real and it's not right and it's enough already. Enough.

You don't know anything.

I know your heart, Bridget.

If you knew my heart we wouldn't be here, Jake.

I was really hoping they were strong enough. You have to try something else. Jesus, this can't be happening again.

Get off it! It isn't like that. Just STOP. I can't do this today. I have to go back.

When will you come back?

When I think I need you.

What about when I need you? Six weeks since the last time, princess.

The rage transfers from his eyes to mine and I taste the bitter thrill of victory and his helplessness surrounds me and takes all the air out of the room but I have enough left to let a little bit of the rage out.

Yeah, well, what about when I needed you, Jacob? Where in the hell were you then?

I shocked myself and stumbled backwards, away from him, away from the sudden realization that I'm not magical and keeping him here isn't doing anything for me but reminding me that I am ordinary and useless, that I can't bring him back to life but I can't keep him here.

This isn't working only instead of being sad, I am so angry. Angry at everyone. Angry at myself. Angry at Jacob, who was elevated to angel-status up until this moment. Sainted. An innocent. A victim of my emotional tides and my insatiable need for things no single human being can fulfill and no group of human beings can surmount peacefully.

Hence the injury, as I was pulled violently between them like a rag doll, the threat of my arms ripping away and my stuffing coming out a sure eventuality until the breathless, silent terror on my face halted a moment that never should have happened. They both let go and I careened off one, colliding with the other at a hundred miles an hour. Their arms came back up to catch me but it was too late, their expressions admitting how startled they were at how incredibly out of control we have all become.

My tears and pain did nothing to dilute the treachery and I realized we never place a limit on their selfishness, allowing their predatory instincts to continue unabated, until I became their victim instead of their prize.

Jacob's voice cuts back in, gently now.

Bridget, stay and we can figure this out.

I need to go. They're waiting.

I can help you if you let me out.

I'll think about it, I lie.

I turn and run, stupid fucking door almost tripping me again. Instead of heading back to the stairs, I run in the other direction, toward the endless dark. Toward hell.

The doorman lets me in, aware that I am not dressed properly for visiting, aware that my hair is not combed and I have car keys and nothing else. Aware that I am shaking like a leaf and he reaches in close and presses the elevator buttons for me to give the code that will spit me out on Caleb's floor and then he looks at me questioningly as I shrink away from him, a silent inquiry as to whether or not I am okay.

I dismiss it without responding and close my eyes as doors close and the elevator rises.

When the doors open again, the Devil is waiting, pulling my hands into his fire. They are still ice-cold. He is smart enough not to touch more than just my hands. He tells me he has to get ready for the day and I should wait in the safety of his office, that I could read on his laptop or whatever I wanted to do, really.

That he won't be long.

All of this is a mistake.

Sillies.

This is what we come up lying in bed being goofy on a Saturday morning. Today is going to be an everything BEN day.

So:

We'll have eggs BENedict for breakfast.
Maybe sit on a BENch.
We'll be BENevolent.
We'll say hello to our BENefactors,
Let's do things for our own BENefit.
We'll BENd over backwards to have some fun,
and not get eaten by BENgal tigers.

I'm sure there will be more.

He requested one particular song and I couldn't do it for him. The piano is situated in the glass corner. All windows, the rain just pouring down the glass and I wondered why he was twisting screws this morning and then I saw why. Earrings on the kitchen counter.

Someone I know?

Sophie.

Nice.

I stopped trying to play altogether, getting up abruptly. I thought I saw a flash of amusement cross Caleb's face but it was gone as quickly as it arrived and replaced with what I could only place as guilt or maybe sadness, even. He maintained convention even as I managed to knock over the bench but John jumped a thousand feet from his place at the island reading the paper, having been asked to stick around for an hour in order to take me home. John reacted. Further proof that Caleb isn't human, though he can be prone to devastating emotion. Maybe he just learned that from me along the way.

He asked if I needed anything, a question so loaded with innuendo I broke into a sweat.

I was tempted to ask him for juice in a glass bottle so I could break it off at the neck and jab it into Caleb's wretched, inhuman soul, putting it out of misery for good, but I resisted and said nothing, hands beginning to flutter. I shoved them behind my back.

Would you like to talk about why you're so unsettled today, princess?

No. (There's no way he doesn't understand how I feel about her.)

Good then, because we have quite a bit to accomplish today.

I don't want to be here when she comes back.

What?

I just told you. I don't want to see Sophie.

You won't. I sent her home this morning. I'll courier the earrings out later.

So why did she come here?

She had a meeting and so we went for dinner. Bridget, what is wrong with you?

Nothing.

Is she a rival?

What? No? She can have you if that's what you mean.

Something isn't right with you.

She just..

What is it, doll?

We really need to get some work done. The children will be out soon.

He paused and smiled gently at me, leaving the smile in thin air, bending his head over the stack of invoices between us. Subject closed. A molecule of grace and a reprieve, in spite of his attempt to feign polite ignorance. My feelings about Sophie are none of anyone's business, Caleb included. Hell, BEN included. I can't explain it and so I just don't.

I just don't want Jacob's ex-wife to enter into my life in any way, shape or form, in person or in passing mention. Is that too much to ask? I came to that conclusion last time I saw her and I'm fine with my decision. And you all know how forgiving and permissive I am, so this didn't come easily. Don't make it any harder than it has to be.

I can't write with him breathing down my neck. Wait til I get home again.

They never tell you truth is subjective
They only tell you not to lie
They never tell you there's strength in vulnerability
They only tell you not to cry

But I've been living underground
Sleeping on the way
And finding something else to say
Is like walking on the freeway

They never tell you you don't need to be ashamed
They only tell you to deny
So is it true that only good girls go to heaven?
They only sell you what you buy

Elephants with strawberry blonde curls.

Oh fuck me. Lochlan got my head stuck on Journey again. It's going to be years before I shake this. Just like last time.

He's a very simple guy. He requires blue jeans, t-shirts, a handful of bands: Pink Floyd, Journey, Kansas, Allman Brothers and a couple others, coffee, smokes, a Wacom tablet for painting, his camera, his small but beloved princess and his motorcycles too.

I think that's all he needs. We're on the fence with the beer. Long story maybe not for today.

But I found out this morning his phone alarm is that Journey song and maybe I didn't find out this morning because it's been stuck in my head for a few weeks so I must have heard it in my sleep.

They always played it on the Ferris wheel.

You could curse Lochlan forever for being stuck in the past. You could tell me I'm the ticking time bomb and that he could be the soulmate based on what you've read and you could condemn him for the near-evil that he brings oh so quietly and you could revile him for his bottomless cold logic which isn't nearly as cold or as logical as it seems when you realize it comes from a place of total insecurity and you could fear for his perpetual fever dream state which always leads me to wonder if spontaneous combustion will be his fate some day.

Or you could just let it go, like we do. Leave it alone. Pretend it isn't there because you can't do anything about it anyway. Neither can we.

A thirst for potassium chlorate.

(One of the few requests I can actually grant. Thanks to those of you who asked for this story.)

I met Lochlan three weeks after moving to the neighborhood my parents still live in to this day. I was newly eight years old and we had moved around the Maritimes three or four times by then, summering in Shediac and Cape Cod equally, breathing in sand, exhaling salt air. Settling near Halifax because my father worked there and it was close to my grandparents, who lived down along the south shore of Nova Scotia.

(If I didn't spend my early childhood on the beach, I have spent it in the car, or rather standing beside it on the shoulder of every Eastern coastal highway you can name, dry-heaving because I can't sit in the backseat of a car. I still can't, to this day and Gravol is Bridget's very own roofie cocktail.

Out like a light for days.

Is that a tangent? I'm sorry.)

Anyway, the night I met Lochlan was the night he made his best-ever shot on goal (for a thirteen-year-old boy), knocking me down with the practice ball they were using for street hockey. They were playing a quick pick-up game, sons versus fathers in the waning light of a hot July night during the neighborhood block party. The bonfire licked at the sky at the end of the street just off the pavement where the road turned to forest and the path to the ball field began.

Up until I hit the ground I had been on the sort of high only an Elementary-school student jacked up on ice cream and excitement can manage and I never heard him yell a warning, though afterward I am told his thirteen-year-old voice broke spectacularly and he was teased for the rest of the summer, until that other kid showed up for Junior High with high-water pants on and Lochlan was left mercifully alone, having enjoyed a complete deepening of his voice at that point in late puberty that meant he was well and truly ensconced in teenagehood now and had little use for some kid in grade three.

But for reasons that remain a mystery to me, we were instant friends. He picked me up off the pavement and felt my head gingerly and apologized profusely. By then all of the dads were present, and all the other boys too. He told them he would take me to his kitchen to get an ice pack and they could continue the game without him. He put his arm around my shoulders and pointed out his house and we walked slowly in the dark as kids ran by with sparklers (oh, how I wanted one!) and bubbles and frosted cans of rootbeer and Dr. Pepper and hotdogs with grubby, blackened buns and the last dregs of relish from the jar.

Once in his kitchen, Lochlan promptly forgot about the ice, instead telling me I had cool hair. I was sitting on my long hair, perched on the bar stool by the counter. He poured a couple of glasses of cream soda for us and asked me if I had eaten at the barbecue. I had a hamburger, I told him and he nodded. Good.

After a few minutes I asked if we could go back to the party. I was hoping there would be some sparklers left and I had precious minutes remaining in my wild night of summer freedom. I wasn't about to waste those opportunities. Besides. All boys were always nice to me to show Bailey how awesome they were. I was sure he would be no different.

Lochlan nodded and we left, leaving his house unlocked as people did back in 1979 and he walked me back down to the end of the street and the bonfire, where most of the adults and children had gathered to watch the flames and roast marshmallows. He said goodbye and repeated his apology for hitting me with the ball and then he stuck his hands in the front pockets of his jeans and walked away back toward the boys, who were still enjoying their pick-up game even though it was too dark to find their sticks, let alone the nets.

I burned four marshmallows beyond recognition, ate seven raw ones, and then started to become hypnotized by the flames when Lochlan returned and called me away from the log where I had been perched. I went to him and he produced a lighter and a single sparkler, which he lit and handed to me.

Didn't want you to miss anything, he said.

He lit a sparkler for me every night for the remainder of that summer. Every now and then we'll buy a package for no reason at all and light them and the nostalgia hits all at once, just like a hockey ball to the back of one's head. If you aren't careful it will knock you right over.

Every now and then I have this urge to tell him to stop being so loud.

You know what's really cool? When I miss Ben during the day I can just put on some of his music and then his voice is reverberating through the entire house, with feeling.

Kind of like when he's home, except with a remote control handy for volume control.

Snort.

Everyone has disappeared back to their lives today so that means I'm back to being really organized, and having six premium plus crackers for lunch every day because I do not have any lunch dates.

Well, that part kind of sucks, actually.

I think he would have chosen to be Peter Pan but that one is already taken so I made him Mr. Grin instead.

So how do you deal with it?

Simple, Dollface. I assess risk for a living. So I make sure to minimize the risk factors by living well and consciously.

But you already do all that.

Exactly. That's why no one wanted you to worry.

Do you hear ticking?

Careful, princess, or we'll change your nickname to Captain Hook.

And that was it. With Caleb, it's very easy to gauge when a subject is now closed. I will be able to look back on that moment in around sixty years, if I remember anything at all, and realize he would never bring it up again. Maybe this is just one of the things you come to know after knowing someone for thirty years. Maybe I am simply delusional and we'll do this every morning and I will fret and wring until I know he didn't just check out in the middle of the night until I hear from him each day. Maybe I won't be able to contain him in the concrete room with the others, hell, I'm always stunned to find Cole still there because Cole is virtually unstoppable. Maybe the death-part changes things like that. Maybe I can gain the upper hand with Caleb when he's dead too.

But I doubt it.

His voice cuts into my reverie. He is smiling at me and my blood freezes in my veins.

I can't see you ever NOT being the princess.

Oh. I check my expression and brush past him. We have a well-timed appointment in court this morning with our mediator for a quick check-in or I wouldn't be dressed up. Instead I could be adjusting my black cloud, terrorizing New-Jake and Dalton or out breakfasting with Lochlan, who chose to start his Monday morning at the diner in the village with the children, because if you can have an adventure on a Monday morning, then you should. (Also: Bridget hardly ever buys bacon anymore because she is becoming the cholesterol fairy.)

So is it a bone of contention that Ben chose to construct the home studio but will still be coming in town most of the time to work?

Maybe. I don't know yet.

Distractions, princess.

Right.

It's okay. You feel the same way when you're writing.

I'm well aware of that.

But you hoped differently.

Maybe. Can we please talk about something else?

What would you like to talk about this morning?

How quickly will we be finished this meeting?

All business today? I can't interest you in lunch?

Not today. The children are home, remember?

I remember, but I also figured that since they're in good hands you might be more receptive to an invitation.

I don't think so. But thank you.

Maybe next week.

Maybe. I let him have the hope.

And with that, we're off. A united front with the best interests of the children at heart. I think the court will be pleased to see this for a change. You know, while it lasts.

Expected vocations.

Here at the home for orphaned rock stars, wayward artists, those afflicted by romantic Tourettes, sideshow freaks and vaguely clingy but perfectly capable, newly-minted moguls, we have dreams too, you know.

Just because we didn't run the gamut of promising to get in shape, lose weight, spend less, live greener or eat locally or whatever is on those magical lists doesn't mean we don't already do those things, it just means we're decided the disheartening approach of beginning fresh only to abandon efforts and subsequently feeling bad about that isn't the way we want to do things anymore.

Besides, I have another new career. Well, not new, I've just decided to go pro.

Collecting beach glass, full time.

It fits in very well with my other mind-bendingly nonpareil occupations of being the company figurehead (bolted on the front like on a ship, no less), simple affection extractor, wrangler of personal black rain clouds and oh, writing.

So there you have it. Freak show indeed. I think I like the sea glass one the best, because it involves being able to hear the water and absolutely nothing else. It's permission to be silent as long as I stand on sand (Bridget's decompression platform, highly top-secret material, you see), and it's showing off, because I'm really good at it, coming home with damp, sandy pocketfuls. Weighed down.

I clink when I walk into the house now, you can hear me coming a mile away.

So far so good.

The part where I'm supposed to make restitution.

Resolutions. Absolutions. Those things we say and we promise ourselves all of it is going to be different.

Aside from a few very specific things I want to look after anyway (and will), I'm going to do something quite out of the ordinary (which I don't think I've ever been in anyway) and not make any resolutions at all.

None. Not a one. Zip. Zero. Go away, thank you.

I'm not feeling nostalgic and sentimental. I didn't hear Auld Lang Syne this year. I haven't managed to wrap my head around a new date to write on cheques and field trip forms and so I will slip into the new year gradually, quietly, when everyone is looking the other way. I'll hold my breath and slip in the back, taking the last empty seat on what will undoubtedly be another year of ups and downs, ins and outs, highs and lows. This is what life is, is it not?

Well, then, there you have it.

Besides, I have a birthday approaching in the spring and it's one of those largish ones that ends in a zero and I'm still wrapping my brain around this news, only the paper doesn't quite fit and I can get it folded over both sides but it doesn't meet in the middle and so I need to find more paper before I can do it properly.

A new year indeed.

So far so good. The changing of the guard with the company will mean little over all. As I said before, it's a t crossed, an i dotted and nothing more and I'm calmer today. I'm a little more rested today too, and it's sunny and cool outside and we have great big plans today and so I'm not going to open dark boxes or worry about shadows or fret and wring today. I'm going to go run in the sand and search for some beach glass and maybe spend the day smiling.

Like flies (Here, while I'm getting ready for my night).

The company is mine now. Well, mine technically. Outwardly (thankfully) nothing will change. And this hits just in time for year-end which is handy. Really. Get it done before 2011 and he did, a rather important step in this renewed effort to be sure that the things you plan for after you're gone are precisely what you intended.

I hate living like this, but we do.

I stared at Caleb's face for the better part of twelve hours, through the night. We had our war, waged across the marble island of his condo while he shouted and pleaded and I looked for knives to throw and heads to roll. Bowling for psychotic sister-in-laws, outrage for how good they all are at keeping secrets that should never have been kept and spilling ones that have no business seeing the light of day but it keeps leaking in around the edges and we're all fucked and now bad luck is coming to take us away.

Caleb has been trying to head that off with some just-in-case business decisions that I can agree to but on the other hand what happens when I'm not near my wits and flying by the tips of my tights instead? What happens when the sideshow rolls back in and the logic packs up and leaves, terrified of clowns, even more afraid of acrobats and jugglers and their big stupid generous hearts?

I guess we will cross that Bridget when we see her next.

In the meantime we'll do everything we can to protect our collective demons and their big stupid fully genetically defective, faulty hearts. Because sometimes more than good looks and violent romance runs in the family.

Sometimes medical advances prove to be too telling and infarctions leave behind telltale signs that they have paid you a visit and your days might be numbered and they might not and it changes absolutely everything, like it has for Caleb now, and no one wanted to tell me.

Just like death, only it's like you still have something left. Something serious and important and all of it makes the past pale in comparison with the future, which rests with an eleven-year-old girl and a nine-year-old boy now.

And God help us if any of us ever fucking forget that again.

Got it.

I can read. It's TONIGHT. Jesus. I possibly need some live-in lawyers to go with everyone else in the house. I can't get the lawyers by tonight. ARGHHHH.

Like a shepherd but with lawyers instead of sheepies.

This is getting difficult. This, in particular.

Another meeting tomorrow. Warning that this isn't over. Would someone please just tell me why he has to make taking every single breath I can so fucking DIFFICULT?

Thanks. I'll be waiting for the answer. I think I AM the answer but whatever, I'd like to hear it from him.

My last Christmas present finally made it!

*(This is not the day's post. Just give me a few hours to absorb Eastern Hymns for Western Shores. It's that awesome. Also Bro-Am tee!!! Squee!)

Musical dirt worship.

Do you know why all staircases descend to the right? So that knights could fight with their swords in their right hands, their dominant, strong hands, while coming down the steps, defending, and infiltrators would be forced to fight with their left. A decided disadvantage.

Oddly enough, both subjects today are left-handed. And hippies, not knights.

The boys are loading up trucks right now. There's a little shift going on in the household. August is moving into Dalton's place, citing a need for more mirror time (this is not even a joke, jerkfaces, August has (okay, had) his own bathroom).

Dalton is moving into my house. In a sense I am trading one friend of Jake's for another. Even though I don't have to give August up, it just won't be the same.

There are a combination of issues that led to this. Beginning with the fact that Dalton isn't used to housing prices here (with a long history of issues related to that subject, frankly) and was on the verge of giving up a six-month investment because he's in a little over his head and refuses help or basic budgeting lessons.

Throw in a little bit of stubbornness on my part and August and I have butted heads a lot lately. He is supposed to easily separate his professional and personal life and he isn't having much luck because he lives with his charges and really I can corrupt him faster than I can hang up the phone. He's as easily charmed as Jacob always was. And he's enough like Jacob that I get to remain mired in some sort of paralysis between the present and the past and that's an unhealthy place for me. When I feel fragile I can just go tuck myself under his arm as he reads and he's the closest living, breathing ringer to Jake there ever was. Right down to the Newfie accent. The mannerisms and the unintentional enthusiastic volume sometimes makes me jump right out of my skin.

But it's okay. It was sort of a surprise that he lived here at all and I have a feeling I got to him during a moment of weakness and now I have gotten to him during a moment of strength and he's standing up to me, taking an opportunity to help fix something important while gaining a little space for himself in the process.

I get to spend the late winter/early spring teaching Dalton the basics of money management, like why paying your mortgage and electric bills before you go shopping for new amps is a good thing. I really hope he's ready for this. I can be intrusive, interruptive and incorrigible.

He says he's totally ready. We shall see now, won't we?

Shack wacky.

I'm very out of sorts today, though Ben has been eyeing me particularly hungrily since I came downstairs dressed and ready to conquer whatever the hell it is I'm supposed to be doing today. I used my new Philosophy vanilla birthday cake shower gel and I smell so delicious you might find me in the corner later gnawing my own arms off after consuming my delicious knees first.

It's that good, yes. I've tried the other ones, this one seems heads above the rest in boy-popularity.

Lochlan is singing Lucky Man (The Verve, not Emerson, Lake and Palmer though on some days, you might be surprised.)and he won't stop and it's sort of beginning to seep into my brain and really I just need a little fresh air (because I ADORE the song) and maybe it's time the Christmas tree was removed because it makes me a little claustrophobic even though the house is huge and I can get away from it and I don't really know...I'm sure it's just cabin fever. Everyone is still too sick to go very far, however.

Some of you have sent in some ridiculously awesome suggestions too, regarding last evening's request for requests. Thank you. Look for them in the coming days because otherwise I will be out in the orchard in the pouring rain imploding. And smelling really good while I do.

Water wings.

If I owe you any stories, I may have forgotten. You can email me at saltwater princess at gmail dot com and I will do my best to post some catch-up entries. Sometimes I wade too deep into my own words and I dip underneath the rope that divides the swimming area from the drowning area and frankly I'm not sure what possessed me to come to the beach today anyway. It's not even warm out.

Lost my place. Long evening. Not sure what you WANT to read so why don't you just tell me.

For once. While I am open to writing for you, as opposed to writing for myself.

Thanks. :)

Christmas cravings.

The candy canes begin as a lark and quickly because weapons, bitten off and sucked to sharp points, crushed against bone and splinted into glittery mint fragments all over the bed. Pieces stick against my shoulders, in my hair, between my fingers. He is dusted with tiny shards. He is the most exquisite broken glass.

It hurts so much but I am loathe to give up first. Not a chance. I smiled and grit my teeth and he grabs a handful of my hair, pulling my face up, crushing a handful of candy canes with his fist, pouring them into my mouth and nose. I shake my head and lick my lips. I am sticky all over. I can't breathe. I fight for air, pinned down, feeling him eating the crushed pieces off my collarbone. I spread my hands out and try and push the remaining canes off the bed, succeeding only in moving them around, making a candy-cane angel where I lie.

He laughs and finds one last cane still intact, licking it, tracing my lips, leaving behind a cool tingle that distracts me. He holds it out for me to take and I suck on it, I am the queen of lethal Christmas cheer. I am the sugar queen. And he is my minty vampire with one cane hooked in each side of his mouth. Fangs made of peppermint.

I start laughing and it's too late. I'm going to be bitten by the monster of Christmas present and there's absolutely nothing I can do.

Oh darn.

tra·di·tion: \trə-di-shən\

Definition of TRADITION: A form of relaxation in which the entire household uses the holiday as great excuse to sleep in, stay in pajamas for the entire day, play with presents endlessly, catch up on laundry, claim leftovers (cake is mine, as always) and engage in low-level, inactive past times like watching things, reading things, listening to things and seeking each other out to have low conversations in quiet spaces.

I might even find the energy to light a candle or two but I doubt it.

Maybe later.

Light bulb.

We are full of turkey, stuffing, chocolate marquise and wine and still laughing after seeing Despicable Me.

The marvel of enjoying a bright Christmas day with temperatures hovering around ten degrees is such an incredible novelty I may never live it down. As does watching Ben expertly carve turkeys like it's something he does every damn day and now listening to Lochlan as he edits the pictures he took today.

Last night I listened to the boys sing for the candlelit service. Every blessing in my life has a name. Every gift I have ever received has a different combination of eye and hair colors, a different voice and a different hug methodology. They are my gifts.

I have been kissed and hugged and spoiled thoroughly. I have been coddled, in generous amounts of help with dinner, and I have been deceitful, in that I spent much of the day with a massive raging fever, unwilling to admit defeat because dammit, it's our first Christmas here and it was going to be perfect no matter what.

It was.

Will you read us a bedtime story?

No.

Pretty please?

The physical appearance of the please makes no difference.

Merry Christmas to you. XOX

"The torture of a bad conscience is the hell of a living soul." ~John Calvin

I went outside to cool off for a moment and found him standing on my verandah, leaning up against the siding, looking out into the woods. One hand was in his coat pocket, the other was wrapped around the handle of a large paper shopping bag, stuffed with wrapped presents. I didn't wrap these ones and I was sure I looked after everything. He already dropped off the presents for the children and I. We always exchange something. Besides vitriol, remembrance and bodily fluids, I mean.

What are you doing?

Stopping in to say hello.

We're heading out in an hour, Caleb.

I know. I just thought I would pop in, I won't stay though. You're having a busy day. I just needed to see you. Just for a minute.

Ben's Superman hearing led him outside and he pulled the door behind him.

Caleb.

Benjamin.

What brings you here today?

He changed demeanor before my very eyes.

I'm headed to a few functions tonight but I wanted to drop off a few things I had set aside. I don't have much time so I'll leave these with you. He passed the bag to Ben and shook his hand. Merry Christmas, brother.

You're not coming to church this evening?

We'll see. I'll do my best.

Fair enough. Ben took the bag and retreated back inside to a raucous amount of noise.

Don't, please.

Don't what?

Don't acknowledge my shortcomings, princess.

I had no intention of doing so.

You know, Bridget, they're very lucky. You're a gift. You know that?

I'm just trying to do the best I can.

I don't make things easy for you.

No, you don't.

It can't be helped.

Sure it could. And maybe you would be happier too.

If I made things easier?

Yes.

If you did that I'd be alone. I don't want that.

You wouldn't be. You have everything to offer someone.

Except my heart.

It was never my heart you were after, you just wanted to take what Lochlan had. How does jealousy grow into this?

I didn't count on you.

He whispers the last word and I know our conversation is over. He's not going to give me the satisfaction of seeing him break. Not today. He moves in and wraps his arms around me tightly, kissing my temple, squeezing me hard against him. His coat is rough and I lift my chin up. He presses his head against mine.

Merry Christmas, Bridget. I am in awe of the beautiful woman you have become, in spite of all of us.

I shake my head. I want to fight but he won't. Instead he kisses me full on the lips.

See you tomorrow.

I nod. He is coming for the morning, because we put Henry first. Henry wants his dad there, then his dad's going to be there. Only Henry doesn't know yet. It's a surprise. I can be a grownup.

I can be generous.

I can be really freaking late for dinner. It's an hours drive. Goodnight. Merry Christmas.

Because he's incorrigible, here are Ben's jokes for the night.

How do you know when there's a snowman in your bed?

You wake up wet.

***

What do vampires put on their turkey at Christmas?

Grave-y!

***

What does Dracula write on his Christmas cards?

"Best vicious of the season."

Princess flu bug.

I sat down with toast this morning and Lochlan slipped my wedding ring back on my finger without a word. He smiled, kissed the top of my head and Ben said Good Morning to him and poured him a cup of coffee.

Civility in the face of extreme weirdness always makes me so incredibly grateful.

I am burning up. A thousand degrees and my shoulders, knees and fingers ache and I'm loathe to admit that I think I have the flu even though I know I do. Everyone has taken their turn. Even Ben had one hell of a headache and was grumpy the past couple of days and he hardly ever gets sick. Henry is feeling better after struggling all week. Hopefully it's a fast-moving one because I have plans. Lots of plans that don't include curling up in the centre of my giant bed to ride out the worst of it.

I will blame Schuyler. He kisses goddamned near everybody. I'm going to start replacing his toothpaste with antibacterial hand sanitizer.

On that note, goodnight. Can't do it.

Christmas bonus (AKA pay the lady).

Ben leaves the front door and returns to the table with another envelope. This one is a pale pearl gold with a paper snowflake affixed to the flap. He puts it on the table in front of me and I don't need to see my name neatly printed on the front in Caleb's handwriting to know that it's from him. The color is new, however and so I raise my eyes from the envelope to meet Ben's face.

He nods. Ben just looks tired. Tired but beginning to relax and beginning to run out of patience and I'm not allowed out of his reach for the rest of my life, he says. I only wish he were serious.

I open it. Inside is a cheque for seven hundred and fifty dollars with a note on the memo line that says 'bonus'. A post-it note attached says 'Is this better?'

I stifle a laugh. The formality of this, what I asked for instead of the unwelcome entire legacy of our blended, dysfunctional family makes me feel vaguely silly. But the fact that Caleb wrote it out and had it delivered anyway after I asked for a fair amount based on the work I did for the company means I must be doing something right.

Small victories. Even as he surgically removes the rest of my dignity with his patented incision-free technique.

He pushed his head against mine. He's warm. I am cold on the inside, blood running over sheets of crackling thin ice, breaking with every breath. His hand drops from my head to my hand and he pulls it up between us and slides off my ring. I argue softly but he ignores me. His eyes are flashing, pupils dilated. He puts my ring in his pocket and I watch it disappear. It's a rule I don't subscribe to but I understand.

He bends his head down again and kisses my ear. I lift my chin up and rest it against his shoulder as his arms tighten around me. I whisper things under my breath and he responds with light squeezes. He can hear me. I cannot hear myself. I pull him in against me and he responds by pushing me down, his weight the only leverage he will need. His hands are feeling for the zipper on the side of my dress while his lips crush against mine, biting. Breathing me in. It's dark but our eyes are not adjusting. He gives up and reaches for the hem instead, pulling it up, shoving the fabric out of his way. The dress is between us, the beading digging into his flesh, straps pinning my arms down. He grabs the worst one with his hand and pulls until it rips away and I protest and he immediately covers my mouth. Silence is easier. I am lifted up and pulled in close against the uncanny warmth of his skin. All business now, we aren't going to give away anything here. We aren't going to bow to the whims of the shadows standing nearby, cuff links glinting in the pitch-black night.

His hand comes down from my mouth as he finds his way home and it wraps around my throat. I am helpless now, clinging to the waves of euphoria. It's an eternity. I know that he is close and he presses his head down against mine again and I am already turning blue, clawing for precious air with no strength, held captive with no means to save myself and all I can do is wait for rescue. I am three lifetimes ago and I can hear the calliope and his curls are in my mouth and his breath is hot against my shoulders and finally he lets go and he never fails to land a kiss on my shoulder as he pulls me up. I come back to life.

He whispers loudly that the shadows will fade. He takes his time. Checking to be sure he left no marks. Checking to be sure he left no feelings of afraid or of sad for Bridget to trip over or fall into. Telling himself it's all going to be okay because she can't hear him. He doesn't dare speak any louder.

While I slept on my ring was taken. When at last the shadows stopped watching I lost my mind.

Goddammit.

Don't come here. Don't come here. Don't come here.

Voted most expressive, much to her dismay.

I can hear the furnace humming quietly, probably because the cold air return is on the wall behind my desk. I can hear the ticking of the dishwasher as it warms the plates, because my desk is in a nook just off the kitchen. I hear a dog barking on a nearby street and Bonham is holding guard by the front door waiting for Ben and the children, who have gone shopping. I am supposed to be wrapping presents while they're gone but clearly I am not.

Today was a little rockier to begin. Not sure if we stayed up too late or it was just excess tension to blow off but we all started off on the wrong foot and I got very frustrated with some things that don't work and made a tearful plea for Ben to quit the mood swings and just fix everything please because I am tired of the pressure.

He is. Working away at it as we speak.

He waited a while to see what I would do but I don't have the capacity for patience anymore, I will go at it the hard way until I just can't manage it anymore and I reach that point where it's fucking stupid and pointless and no more.

There aren't enough hours in the day to fix things and yet there are enough hours to mess things up and break everything and become so frustrated I can't stop the hot tears that ruin my mascara and everyone's smiles in one go. I can't help it, it's been like this for a long time and it takes forever to come out of and really I'm laughing at the same time because it's ridiculous. I am blessed. The complaints would be welcome issues anywhere else and yet I have insurance against anything that goes wrong, so then when it does it will be the end of the world because that's precisely what I insured against, correct?

If only life worked that way, princess.

It should. I've earned it.

Sorry, baby. It isn't possible. It's called life.

Everyone makes it look easy.

They're better actors, that's all. Maybe your gift is that you give people permission to be honest and feel comfortable because you come to them with your heart on your sleeve and your guard already down.

I want to be an actor. Everyone can marvel at my perfection and the ease with which I live.

This is met with long, raucous laughter. I am annoyed.

Stop it, Jake.

I can't help it. You have the most fascinating thought-process.

I don't think it belongs to me, I must have picked it up along the way. I don't know how it works and therefore I can't control it. It's not mine.

It's the honesty, that's all. You never had a poker face.

Then that will be my resolution for the new year.

To learn to lie? That isn't a very good resolution, Bridget.

What would you suggest then?

Start writing again. Do the things that make you YOU.

Too hard.

You think learning the art of deception will be easier?

Works for everyone else.

Oh, Bridget, give up now. You'll never be anyone else.

My loss?

Your gain.

And you say my thoughts are strange.

Duck hunt.

(You always pick up the ones with the S and yet you're getting the L prize. Every fucking time. How are you doing that, exactly?)

Oh, Internet, seriously. Just stop it. You're wrong on so many levels it isn't funny. It's a freaking song. It wasn't meant for you, as I said right before I left it here.

But here, since one of my resolutions is to stop starting. Stop telling you things and then leaving you hanging with no resolution. The secret buried in the corn field? It's not a body so knock it off. The buried part is FIGURATIVE. Sheesh. I'm not very smart and I can figure out how to write about it, surely you can manage the comprehension part.

To retain my crown of intellect today I'll tell you where I spent last evening. Cruising the harbour on the yacht with Caleb. Because really, one whose life is in danger should always get on a boat with those who want to see her dead, or some such golden rule like so. He met us at the marina and began the evening with a toast, with small glasses of Stoli, neat, to finally having the chance to spend a little time together.

We had our toast, Ben drank to nothing, not even opening his vitamin water that Caleb keeps stocked for him and then they walked up to the bridge and I went out on deck to watch the open ocean, taking the bottle of Stoli with me.

Two hours later I had finished it. Sadly it was only half full when I began. Just enough to give me a lick of courage and a terribly adorable case of the hiccups and when the boys came back down I was wrapped in a blanket staring at the lights of the harbor, almost-crying and hiccuping. I'm telling you, you can't take me anywhere.

Ben told me that he made it very clear to Caleb why we didn't attend the party (right in front of him! He is learning!) and then asked me what I wanted to do now. He always asks, in case you think otherwise. Not because he's a pushover (he isn't) but for reasons that really are none of your business. You think it's easy for him? Jesus CHRIST. You know nothing.

My head is still playing the stupid song and I ask to go home. Caleb's eyes go black because he was hoping we would stay. I don't want to stay. I don't want to be here at all. I want to know what they have to talk about that takes two hours when Ben appeared twenty fucking years after most of our secrets were fixed into place. Don't be friends. Don't get along. Jesus Christ, don't ever align yourself with this man because all he's ever wanted to do is ruin my fucking life, Ben.

Truth serum, after a fashion. Why Caleb prefers other means of bringing me down.

That's not what I want, princess.

I meet Caleb's eyes.

Oh, I know what you want. And you think you have it but what you have is a fucking FRACTION of what he gets. I am poking my finger into Ben's chest. I think I've actually broken my finger against Ben's chest. It isn't the same, you know. It's like two percent out of a thousand. And it will never be any more than that. I laugh and it's cut off by another fucking hiccup.

I think maybe you'd better take her home, Caleb says to Ben. He's going to pretend the poison barbs aren't hitting him and I'm going to keep throwing them until someone stops me or I run out.

You're such a monster.

Goodnight, Bridget.

I really wanted to spit in his direction but I don't believe I know how. I settled for gracefully ignoring him. Okay, ungracefully. Stilettos + boarding ramp + dock + hiccups + disappointed ex-brother-in-law times Stoli divided by my resolve to leave before he changes his mind and keeps us for the night. It happens, sometimes. Beginning under the guise of working through my feelings and ending with me pinned to the floor and then dropping right through it into a world where he couldn't touch me if he tried.

He can't stand for being ignored. He follows us down the ramp and asks Ben for just a moment of my time, alone. Ben makes that face at him, that beautiful, angry face that pretty much answers the question, and so Caleb settles for a public exchange.

We'll talk later in the week, princess. Translation: I didn't get my revenge for you not showing up to the party I threw for you. Also: WANT.

Maybe. I love how he pretends that I have all the power when it comes to this stuff. I have now slipped out of his hands precisely twice in less than forty-eight hours. It's not going to be pretty when he blocks the next escape. Sure I hold all the power. And the moment I let go of that, I will lose someone else that I love very, very dearly (besides Ben). Caleb knows I'm not going to do that and therefore he will exploit me until the day I die. The one you should feel sorry for here is Ben, since the rest of us made our beds and he did nothing wrong. How incredibly amazing he is to put up with this in the first place. To want in when in seems to be a slow train to hell and back and we can never ever disembark.

Glad he's strong enough. I still don't think I am.

Journey (like the bat signal only slightly faster).

I have five minutes to myself on this boat and wi-fi only until he finds out and cuts me off. Tethering for the win, asshole.

Highway run
Into the midnight sun
Wheels go round and round
You're on my mind
Restless hearts
Sleep alone tonight
Sending all my love
Along the wire

They say that the road
Ain't no place to start a family
Right down the line
It's been you and me
And loving a music man
Ain't always what it's supposed to be
Oh, girl, you stand by me
I'm forever yours
Faithfully

Circus life
Under the big top world
We all need the clowns
To make us smile
Through space and time
Always another show
Wondering where I am
Lost without you

And being apart
Ain't easy on this love affair
Two strangers learn to fall in love again
I get the joy of rediscovering you
Oh, girl, you stand by me
I'm forever yours
Faithfully

Another review from someone whose favorite movie is 28 Days Later.

(So take everything I say with a grain of salt. You know how my tastes run.)

Today I am in much better condition than yesterday and it's raining and dreary so it is movie review day! We snuck out before lunch for the earliest Tron: Legacy viewing of the day .

I am so glad we did. I had skimmed a few headlines and tweets about it, mostly from people who didn't enjoy it, so I reserved my curiosity like I always do and went to see it without having read any actual reviews. I mean, what in the hell is a movie review? It's a subjective opinion. Just like for fine art and music. Who goes to see something or stays home, or likes one band or one artist but not another based on a reviewers opinion? I would sooner shoot you in the face than let you tell me you can't or won't make up your own damned mind.

With that, here's my review. Haha.

I enjoyed the hell out of it, frankly. What a wild ride. The characters had chemistry, the plot was succinct and easy to follow. The nostalgia boot of the eighties arcade lifestyle hit me in the ass, and I thought Jeff Bridges as himself stole the show. He delivered a few lines that made me tear up even. The lightbike scenes were thrilling and the music (all Daft Punk) and the visual effects were stunning, making for some serious sensory overload. I loved the skies (look behind things). The story wasn't overly complicated so your average Joe can follow it without actually needing to see the original 1982 Tron (which is good because I slept through it last year sometime, not having seen it as a child)

So if I could keep track of what was going on, anyone could have, but no one will be bored by it either. It moves along smoothly and the action is fairly fast-paced. I did think Olivia Wilde's character was simple to the point of seeming to be gratuitous but then I figured out why. Duh. Except for the whole lounging in front of the fireplace scene..that was just freaking dumb. Sit up, for heaven's sakes. It was all sex kitten where it wasn't called for and really distracted me, as did Sam's one-off I'm so cool, I can outcool everyone lines in the 'real world'. He was cooler when he didn't try so hard, you know?

And damn. The best part. Cillian Murphy. I've had a thing for him mostly since I first laid eyes on him (in that most perfect zombie movie for ALL ETERNITY) and I had no idea he was going to be in this and it's only for one scene but it was worth it. I found out a few moments ago that he does indeed remain uncredited but he's impossible to miss. So hot.

Anyway, if you were ever a fan of the first one or like highly visual movies that leave you biting your lip and hanging on to the arms of your theater seat, go see Tron: Legacy.

Cold comfort.

We are supposed to be at Caleb's Christmas party downtown but here I sit in my purple striped pajama pants and a threadbare white t-shirt instead of the plum satin cocktail dress that is still laid out on the bed upstairs.

Ben did not make our excuses on my behalf, no one did, we simply didn't show. Ben wants to be home, wants to be with me and the children and live quietly for a while and I have one of those headaches, the ones that I won't admit to until the last moment, the ones that will see me shutting down completely in a few more minutes and curling up into a ball to withstand the night. Ignoring the angry text messages and voice mails. Caleb will be outraged. He can wait.

These headaches are the ones Lochlan would wish away for me, letting me sip brandy mixed in juice to numb the hurt, packing bags of ice around me so I could sleep, staying awake to wring out a cold towel to rest against my forehead. Always reassuring me my head was not going to explode. I was not going to die. I would be okay the next day. I would wrap my arms around his neck and hold on for dear life against the pain.

And bullshit, I would tell him through tears. How do you know it won't explode? I was afraid of that pain, because I don't feel pain like normal people, so if I can feel it, it must be very very bad.

Lochlan said the same reminders tonight, as Ben gently yelled at me to go to bed already, that there's no honor in suffering by trying to stay awake.

He's right. I'm going.

Now with extra noodles.

Ben took me out today for some shopping, and then a little more shopping, and then some window shopping. We went to the ever-popular ramen place that I fell in love with when I got here, for their deliriously good akaoni with bean sprouts, and then we did a little more shopping before finally getting the Christmas tree and bringing it to the school to pick up the kids.

Ben's so unconventional. I would tell you how unconventional but I'm pretty sure you can figure it out. He's awesome like that.

Sadly, I was on Robson Street a mere two hours before Katie Holmes went shopping there. I would have loved to have met her. Ben made some comment about how he would love to eat her. You can take that any way you want, just remember, he eats everything. He's already taken a bite of the Christmas tree.

He said it was delicious.

Caught in the crossfire of childhood and stardom.

Well you wore out your welcome with random precision,
Rode on the steel breeze.
Come on you raver, you seer of visions,
Come on you painter, you piper, you prisoner, and shine!

The whisper-war this afternoon was quashed by Lochlan, who leveled a stunning reminder to Caleb that it was just fine if Ruthie wanted to wear her favorite uh..very casual shirt to her Christmas concert. She's almost twelve. She needs to make decisions like this. She needs to be considered for input into her own life.

Snort.

I will be DAMNED if I let Lochlan and Caleb spend the next thirty years debating every single thing she ever does but it was nice to see one of them refuse to take it any further, opting to not engage in negative energy. Especially today.

I love hearing the children sing and dance their way through performances. I love the fact that they've made new, close friends and have fun at their new school. It's a safe place. It's a good place. Ruth played with the school band as well, so we were treated to multiple performances and both Ruth and Henry came home exhausted and elated.

I love to watch Caleb's face as he goes in expecting to add more fuel to his private-boarding-school fire and comes away with a renewed understanding of just how perfect it is for the children here because this school was chosen carefully. So carefully that the house was an afterthought, a stroke of pure luck as we chose to do things backwards on purpose.

So far so good, hey?

Speaking of backwards, Ben is off for the holidays and taking his own monstrously beautiful time to decompress. We spent a good hour at the post office today, attempting to fit all of the boxes my family sent into the car. Three tries, it took.

You would drive a tiny car around over a big truck if your gas cost $1.36 a litre as well, and frankly my trunk is a little crowded for winter. I have a shovel, a snow brush/scraper, jumper cables, kitty litter, granola bars, bungee cords, the big x-jack for actually changing a tire, over the stupid j-shaped thing that came with the car, and the cloth bags I use for grocery shopping, since I mostly forget them unless I keep them in the car.

Did I mention my car is tiny? Who cares? It has almost three hundred horsepower and really you're still marveling that people might willingly pay that for gas, aren't you?

I figured. It's okay.

Anyway, we dropped off the boxes and went back out and had lunch at KFC. For some reason vacation=chicken to Ben or maybe it's just comfort/reward food so since he's mentioned it three times in three weeks, off we went today. I had a big crunch sandwich and almost had to spend the afternoon trying to fit MYSELF into the car. If you don't know the big crunch story then I should probably tell it. When I was pregnant with Ruth I lived on big crunch sandwiches, mostly because they were one of the very few food items I could keep down. (Here is not the part where I do not tell you how many pounds I gained during that pregnancy because dear lord no one needs to hear that, now, do they?)

Let's just say it all turned out fine. I watched my little girl and my little boy (a worse pregnancy by FAR, made better only by orange juice) sing their guts out this afternoon and I figure the children got all of their talent from the chickens and the oranges because they put the rest of us to shame.

Soulbound.

I spent a long time outrunning Caleb. Life is a lot easier this way, alright? I have no need to censor yesterday's post about Batman offering to make my life 'easier' because it's been done by everyone (except the one who counts) a hundred times over and nothing ever changes. It can't be done. Besides. He is Henry's father. Henry has lost enough.

I am waiting for the day when Lochlan finally realizes he is fifteen years out of the circus and rejoins reality and fixes this. He's not going to, though. I've waited so long I know it now and the three of us are stuck like this until we die. Not the way I hoped to spend my grown-up years, if they ever begin, but good enough that with some effort and a lot of frantic peacemaking, it's tolerable.

In other words, money won't fix this. Change won't fix this and death certainly didn't fix it. It's just the way things are.

In other news, I just figured out how to pay the bills that come in from crossing bridges here on the lower mainland without leaving the house or giving anyone my credit card number. And I'm making fudge. Which is stupidly easy and prohibitively expensive all at once. I suspect once PJ finds out there won't be anything left but maybe it will deflect them from my mom's annual Christmas cookie tin, which is waiting for me at the post office.

Dead lines.

But just tonight I won’t leave
I’ll lie and you’ll believe
Just tonight I will see
It’s all because of me

Batman was thoroughly amused when I ducked into this little hole-in-the-wall exclusive grocery market on our shopping trip.

I held the can high when I came out. Cranberry jelly at last! We'll need a little bit, just a taste, with turkey or it isn't Christmas. And I've been looking everywhere. Sadly it didn't fit in my handbag, so he had to carry it until we bought something else and could put it in a bag. He looked ridiculous contemplating the Breitlings holding a can of preserves. Or at least the clerk thought so.

(We didn't buy any watches.)

Batman flew up to see what was going on with Caleb and also to help me shop for Ben, which I'm not going to say much about because Ben will read it. So we walked and shopped and talked and he prodded and poked my brain and asked his ridiculously blunt questions. I'm used to it, he talks a lot like Lochlan most of the time, there is never any attempt made at grace or tact, the questions are shot at me like bullets and my armor deflects all but the biggest one. That one goes right between the eyes.

Why, Bridget?

I don't know.

He paused and looked back at me, shaking his head. I am never less than one hundred percent honest with him. I don't ask him to call. I don't invite him to visit, I don't ask for or need the annual envelope that assures him of my discretion, as if I would give him anything less, and I have no need for his influence. He gives it freely. He cares. We're become friends.

Maybe you can find out.

Maybe.

He doesn't talk to me about the right things.

I'm aware.

He picked up a sterling silver bauble and frowned at it, showing me. I nodded and said he should take it home. To his family. He bought it for his Christmas tree while I picked up reflective ornaments and studied the girl in the concrete room. He startled me out of my examination with a hand on the small of my back and I jumped a hundred feet into the air, catching my coat on a sharp cloud, hanging by a thread before dropping gently back to the ground, falling in step with him as he hurried down the sidewalk with purpose.

Bridget. I can end this. Is that what you want?

I had lost track of what he was talking about. End our visits? End Christmas shopping? End impromptu brunches at overpriced restaurants?

End what?

Caleb playing these fucking mind games with you. You want it to stop, you say so.

I choked on my breath in the middle of the sidewalk, stopping only to be jostled by people trying to pass. Batman grabbed my elbow and pulled me out of the traffic.

Look, if you want it to stop, I can do that, but you can't play games either. You can't spend time with him. Only Henry can. You won't work for him anymore. You won't be ruled or punished by him but you can't want him either.

He isn't Cole. He will never be Cole and that's a damn good thing because one monster in your life is enough and Caleb tries but he falls short. Only he seems to keep you coming back. So I'm going to give you a little time to think about this and I'll contact you when I come back up in a few weeks. Either you cut him out of your life as much as possible under the circumstances or you admit that you're playing his game and we stop worrying about you where he is concerned. Does that work?

Yes. I am nodding slowly. I am twelve and overwhelmed with information and I just want the talking to stop. I want the concern to stay. I want everything and I don't want to feel guilty for it. But then I see myself in the shop window and I am not twelve. I'm in my thirties and I have a brain and a nice coat and expensive shoes and men are stopping to stare at me on the sidewalk and I'm giving my power away to someone who's taking this for granted and he can't control me anymore because I'm NOT TWELVE.

But my voice betrays me, just like it always does. Heart, in pieces, ruling over mind. I become twelve when I can no longer process horror, hunger or true love.

Batman has just become the babysitter. He sees this in my eyes, and he takes my hand and leads me back to the car.

Just under three weeks, Bridget. Let's meet again then and see how things are. At New Years.

I nod.

You're going to have a terrific holiday, Bridget. I can feel it.

I nod again and he stops trying. It's too late. This girl is gone in a blur of cranberries and adjuration.

Princess footnotes.

Benjamin wants me to point out why we haven't found a tree yet.

How about this one, bee?

It's too fat.

Too fat?

Yes, the branches. I don't want a Douglas fir.

Okay, what about this one?

Too fat.

It's a Fraser.

No, too fat around. It's wide. It will take up too much room.

This one?

Too pale.

What?

Has to be dark green. It's not dark enough.

This one?

Dry. Look at the needles that come off when I touch it.

So fresh, narrow, dark and small needle length.

Right.

Okay, here. This is the one. A Noble fir. Perfect height and everything.

No, that's too skinny. Like pretentious designer skinny. I want homey.

Okay. Bridget?

Yes?

Do you like any of these?

I'll know when I see it. What's your hurry?

Christmas is less than two weeks away.

Oh, you're right. Then we should probably pick one.

Yeah. Okay so which one?

Can we check that other place first? I'd really hate to get one of these and find out the ones at the other lot were perfect.

Does it really matter?

Yes. Christmas has got to be perfect.

Why?

Because last year was so hard.

His eyes filled up and he looked away for a minute. Then he spoke, clearly struggling to keep control.

We'll find one during the week, okay princess? It will be the perfect one. I think we're too tired tonight anyway. Let's go home.

He gave me a kiss on the forehead, not saying another word about how badly I need everything to be right for a while. He's the best Christmas present a girl could ask for.

Naughty or Nice.

(Thirteen days til Christmas! Hope we find a tree soon, and the hiding place for the cranberry jelly in this city.)

In my bid to retain my title as most irreverent pop-culture consumer alive, I finally saw Inception this weekend. Or rather, Ben poked me repeatedly to keep me awake while we concentrated very hard on keeping track of what was going on.

It was incredibly good. Sort of a blend of The Matrix, Flatliners and Paycheck, actually. Not "picture of the year" (as I have read so many people wax enthusiastically) by my standards but entertaining and very thought-provoking. Tom Hardy? Wow. He's slightly hot, isn't he?

In other news, we finally unlocked the Hockey Game without a Fight achievement in life, or rather Ben and Lochlan did, since I just watch. This could be because Caleb sent his regrets, but I won't call it a miracle until they finish the season peacefully and without incident.

Santa is watching, you know. Maybe that's the secret. Have the big man keep an eye on them and they will always be on their best.

Haha. Are you kidding? If only things were that simple.

Big fat drops of circumscription.

Another day, another rain warning. A sub-tropical system. My only goal is to get the Christmas tree and get it set up before the deluge hits. The sound of it on the roof is so lovely though. I daresay we're not going to get that white Christmas (though there are a few snowflakes listed in the advanced forecast).

Oh....well, darn it.

Snort.

In other news, I held my ground against Caleb, who has now tried just about everything (short of telling the truth) to get me to assume control of the company. I'm doing okay with that. I don't really want to talk about it. It makes Lochlan tense, Ben is terribly suspicious and guarded and Caleb is confused by my inability to take him for his word.

Makes me wonder where he's been all these years.

Every single moment has been a trap, every word a lie and every time I let my guard down I wind up falling into a black hole and I've been doing so much better lately. The company runs well as is. My household runs well. My affairs of the heart seem smooth, presently. And he wants to fuck that up with a power shift and a whole lot of changes and some sort of underhanded, devious stunt to make good on his earlier offer. Leave Ben for me and I'll give you anything.

See? See?

He's not that bright I guess. If I wanted to be with him, I would have chosen him. He's lucky he's gets what he does, because the more he pulls stunts like this, the more afraid I become and the less interested I become in spending any time with him at all. I have a house full of perfectly good men, I don't need whatever he's offering.

Maybe he'll read this and stop. Maybe pigs will fly, the sky will fall and hell will freeze over. Probably not. Pigs need to evolve with wings first, the sky isn't going anywhere and hell is pretty damned warm.

Well, it is.

I have to go. Another long day of beautiful rain, even more beautiful boys and a whole lot of phonecalls to ignore lies ahead of me. Hopefully procurement of a Christmas tree too.

My Christmas 'bonus' was sent back a little while ago. It will be there at the front desk when Caleb picks up his mail.

As much as the whole Pepper Potts thing is fun and all, Caleb has no business dropping this in my lap, playing whatever game it is that he's playing, raising the stakes until I can no longer see them, let alone reach them, and getting to me since he can't go after the boys as obstacles in his way anymore because they won't allow it.

(Wow, I've become Lochlan's ventriloquist dummy. Who would have thunk it? Just picture him talking in my voice or something.)

I will wait for Caleb's own facial expression (inevitable disappointment, but with class and possibly french cuffs) and perhaps he can come up with an actual reasonable bonus for me so I can have that little thrill of some extra cash in my pocket instead of this wedge that he tried to drive between me and the boys or whatever trick it is that he's up to. Fuck the excuses and the imaginary white flags. I really should know better by now.

Occam's Bridget.

(Hi. New? Well, just remember when I'm very confused I have even more words than usual.)

He made salmon and scrambled eggs, coffee, English muffins and screwdrivers. I wondered how I was going to eat all of it when mornings find me mainlining a sixteen-ounce coffee and little else until I am fully awake. I was aware that my hairpins were far too tight, digging into my neck from a low chignon but he seemed pleased that I am beginning to look like myself again. I find that so interesting seeing as how the haircut was his spontaneous freakout and he has since removed the scissors, purchasing a better, downright dangerous letter opener and a set of box cutters to replace them.

Caleb invited me for a business breakfast, an annual tradition in which he sets holiday bonus amounts on an individual basis, and I lobby him upward, fairly detailing each person's contribution from a wider perspective, taking into account work ethic, hours spent and a host of other factors (including the budget). Today's was more difficult, after a year of the boys working for themselves and each other, with calculations that found me standing up and reaching over to grasp the pen from his shirt pocket so I could scribble notes on the palm of my hand. He frowned, going to fetch a notebook from the desk.

By the time we'd arrived at a concrete set of numbers the table was covered with balled-up pages from the notebook with my teenage block-print postmodern penmanship scribbled over everything. My champagne and orange juice remained untouched. Warm. Caleb finished it while he cleaned away the dishes. I had already taken over his computer to begin to input the figures, feeling tiny, swallowed up by his giant monolith of a desk.

And then he told me we had reservations for lunch and would I please go wash off all of the writing on my hands? Remember the facial expressions I have? I bet this one was epic, a blend of what the fuck and how dare you drag my day out any longer. The numbers on the screen were swimming. Ben and I managed a whole four hours of sleep last night. And where in the hell did I put my coffee tumbler?

I waited and waited for him to be ready, too. He was reapplying his evil on a quick call and finally he covered the phone and told me to go downstairs and John would walk me to the restaurant and he would be along in minutes.

My grand plan was just to have lunch with John instead and freeze Caleb out, only I wasn't about to let John in on my plan until we arrived and then I approached the host to let him know half the party had arrived (the little half) and was led to a beautiful little table in the corner, by the window. John wisely declined to join me. I waited, watching the rain bathe the glass in sheets of bright misery and wonder how I wound up here, in a place where I can admire the greenery and wear an unlined raincoat in the middle of December.

My admiration of the trees was cut short with Caleb's arrival. Or rather, I finally noticed he was standing there watching me. I smiled (whoops, he grows on me sometimes, like moss or it's the brainwashing. You choose.) and he sat down across from me. Without opening the menu he ordered for both of us (mushroom soup for me, baked halibut for himself), asking that the kitchen put a rush on it.

Then the interruptions ceased and we found ourselves without witnesses and without a looming workload once again. We never do well in these predicaments. It always seems to end badly.

He reached into his suit jacket breast pocket, pulling out an envelope which he placed on the table in front of me.

What is this?

Your bonus, princess.

I didn't bring any profit to the company this year.

You keep everything together. If it falls apart there's no company to be had. You have earned it. And there's something else.

What do you mean? What else?

Do you want your pictures?

What pictures? (I am not playing coy with him, don't misunderstand. There are Cole's pictures, and then there are Caleb's pictures. One set makes me sad, the other blackens my mail, if you get my drift.)

Cole's portrait studies of you, plus the ones I took.

What will I have to do to get them?

His whole face fell. The monster in the mirror, only aware of the true magnitude of his wickedness when the helpless twelve-year old points it out.

I'll bring them over on the weekend. They'll have to be couriered in from Toronto or I would do it sooner, Bridget.

What do you want for them? I'm repeating myself because if there's a catch, I don't want it.

Nothing. I didn't know how badly you wanted them. I was simply making sure Cole's work was properly archived and cataloged and I figured you didn't want to deal with it. You were sort of destructive with his things, except for the items you kept for me. Did I ever tell you how much I appreciated that? Well, I did, and if I can return the favor then I'd like to. And as a show of good faith, I will give you the other ones.

Why didn't you give them to me when I asked, Caleb? I've asked you a thousand times for those photos.

I didn't want you to be rash and destroy them. Cole's work is the children's legacy. Somehow I think you won't ruin anything now.

What makes you think that?

You seem different somehow. And I don't want to ruin anything for you.

Different?

Yes. In a good way. You seem calmer. More focused. Happier, almost. It's a contagious happy, and I forgot how incredibly good it makes me feel. All of us, actually. Not just me.

I am suspicious. Those photos are incredible leverage. There's no way in hell he's going to give them up so easily.

And...

Oh, here we go.

You chose wisely. You chose interestingly. Ben was everyone's longshot, but he definitely makes you happiest. But he also doesn't cut you off from Lochlan, from the others, from me. That says a lot. That means a lot. So maybe this is for him, too.

You like him.

I always have.

Any love for Lochlan?

No. Not today, princess. On that note, I'll have John take you home. You can let them know I'm giving the photos back because you asked me too. They'll be suspicious, Bridge, but time will show them I'm less of a monster as time goes by. I'm getting older. I have a son who is beginning to become a man in his own right, I have no desire to make his mother unhappy.

A kiss on my forehead, a quick, strong hold and he was gone. I turned to look for John and he was right there. I never understand how Caleb does that.

He was right about the reactions.

Ben lifted his eyebrows right to the top of his head when I told him about my lunch. Lochlan was all words and outrage and mistrust to the point where Ben had to shout over him to get him to stop for just a minute.

While they continued the debate over Caleb's intentions right through dinner preparations, the meal itself and cleanup, I retired to my bedroom to change out of the dress and into my pajama bottoms and one of Ben's t-shirts. I won't be up late tonight, I'm exhausted. It was only then that I remembered the envelope with my Christmas bonus in my handbag. I figured it was a token amount, maybe enough for a very good haircut or a keychain from Chanel. Maybe even enough for a weekend pass for Whistler.

I slit the envelope with my thumb, giving myself a paper cut. Where is the eight-inch-long razor-sharp letter opener when I need it?

Oh no.

He gave me everything. All of it.

Controlling interest.