I want love to walk right up and bite me,
Grab a hold of me and fight me, leave me dying on the ground.
I want love to split my mouth wide open,
And cover up my ears and never let me hear a sound
I want love to forget that you offended me,
Or how you have defended me when everybody talked me down
Yeah and I want love to change my friends to enemies,
Change my friends to enemies, and show me how it's all my fault.

Last night I took a glass of wine (which I swear I don't drink any more but you see we have a tiny vineyard and there's thirty bottles of wine in the cellar, which is not actually a cellar but the space above the cabinets as you head toward the dining room proper. It was wasted space so I christened it the wine cellar) and a box of strawberries outside to hull with Jacob's old pocket knife.

His favorite one went to Henry and I keep a different one for stupid chores like sitting outside wishing he was making fun of me for so much wastage on each berry at the expense of keeping my flesh intact. Because he would never cut himself and I always do so it's easier just to buy more strawberries than I need and sacrifice fully a quarter of each one to the slice of a blade wielded quite awkwardly. I was never good with knives.

I was humming along with the song I could hear from the driveway. Lochlan is in the camper. The lamp is on inside. I can hear the song plainly which means he is busy. Probably sleeping-busy. He could sleep on a roller coaster if only I wasn't screaming. It's one of the few sounds he won't sleep through.

And wow, I've told you nothing so far, but with so many words.

Anyway, Caleb came across the driveway and sat down beside me. I stopped humming and started listening. He asked what the star was next to the moon and I answered automatically, without looking. He shook his head. Interesting, since the cloud cover is too thick and there are no stars tonight, Bridget.

I look up into his face and see disappointment.

You want to argue.

Of course not, you're holding a knife.

I'd be better equipped if I smashed the top off the wine glass and used that.

I don't doubt it. You fight like a long-haul trucker.

Nice. Thank you.

Put the knife down.

Tell me what's on your mind and I'll decide if I'm going to put the knife down.

When are you going to come and see me? I have a list of things we have to go over and it's been weeks, Bridget.

Months, actually.

I'm well aware.

Then keep waiting. Unless you just want to have a throwdown right now. You're unarmed and I am dual wielding. It'd be perfect.

Not as easy to manage your life as you thought it would be, is it?

I throw the knife in the bowl and look at him. Is there something else you need or can I have some time to myself?

He leaned in as if for a kiss, pressing his cheek against mine. I had to listen hard.

Just remember, Bridget, when all is said and done, I will be your saving grace. He pulled back briefly, long enough to plant a long kiss on my lips and then he got up and left.

I walk the fault into the cold
The fate can take your breath away
I hope you don’t open the door
To see the ghost walk through walls
I know the smoke can choke your hope
A lesson learned push comes to fall
They walk away, they walk away
(I hope you don’t) walk away

Oh, why did you take flight?

And I'm not even drunk.

The new plan tonight is to sell everything and buy a houseboat. And live on it. On the water twenty-four-seven with the lights and the breeze and the sun and the rain and the seagulls and the whales and never ever ever have to pay property taxes or utility bills again.

I would have to give away all of my shoes. And probably my dresses too and the four drawers full of lingerie and the snowglobes, four couches and my books. The pets. The cars, too. Possibly some of the boys.

I am fine with this, I like small spaces and minimalist living.

I like the sea.

(Update: two glasses of wine later, Caleb texts me that I can have the yacht whenever I want it. I said houseboat you asshole. And I can't afford any of these ones that I'm looking at anyway so no one hold your breath. Now if no one minds I have half a bottle left and I'm going outside to enjoy it on land. I can look at the water, at least.)

Forty two inches minimum height.

It's called the Round Up. Other places call it Meteor or Zero Gravity sometimes.

Here, come and stand on the edge of the world, Bridget.

He smiles and I let go of his hand as I am buckled in tightly. He gets in beside me and fastens his own restraint without help. He'll be checked nevertheless but I am always momentarily envious of his self-reliance.

When the ride begins to move I close my eyes. Within a moment I feel his hand close around mine again and then something deep inside my chest soars just like that feeling you have before you burst into tears. He squeezes my hand and calls to me, Open your eyes! You're missing it!

So I do.

We are spinning up on one end at a dizzying pace, the lights leaving trails in my eyes, the music loud, so loud it almost hurts, but in a good way. Smiles and squeals of laughter are all around me. I scream and it comes out in a high peal of sheer delight that lasts on average twenty seconds. He always laughs so hard when he counts and then again when he tells me my new high score. I can't help it. To be honest, I can't hear it and I can't control it either.

I am in Heaven and Heaven is the midway.

Absolute and foolish bravery.

Slightly defective, not what I had planned.

After dark when all of the boys were squarely on my side, I took one of the torches and lit it. I was quiet, I promise. I held it against the wooden railing of the bridge that separates me from Satan. Eventually the whole bridge went up in flames but he didn't notice, because he was busy, and then Lochlan was mad that I took the torch in the first place and didn't clean it properly afterward and he pointed out that when one burns bridges they tend to leave one on an island all alone so what's the point if you are the only one affected?

I'm not, I insist. I grab another torch and light it. Lochlan takes it again and puts it flamefirst into the water bucket. He rolls his eyes. We have to find another way, peanut.

This might work, I say, and pick up a third torch. Lochlan kicks the bucket over and tells me we can do this all night but I am wasting my energy. You know those people you just can't impress, ever? They'll stand and watch your whole act, criticizing everything, insisting the fire isn't 'real' somehow and then when you pass the hat they walk away? He's one of those people, peanut, and he's never going to change.

Oh he'll change, I say above the roar of the flames. Just you watch. I can make him change. I've just never wanted to, before now. I didn't think I had the capacity to do it, before now.

But I do.

They're going to hate it.

When things get interesting around here I haul out Lochlan's big laptop and sit on the floor in his room pretending I can use all of his exciting art programs. It keeps me busy for a little while and then you get something new to look at. Like the new header above. Shipwrecks and soliloquies is going to be the new tagline here. I used Jon Foreman's Nothing in the world could fail me now for a hell of a long time and then I switched to Marc Arcand's In all the ways I've dreamed you, I chose a song to reach you, but I am so so fickle and loathe to put any more songs up on pedestals. Essentially they are all there already anyway.

So I came up with my own line.

It seems very fitting. Shipwrecks to honor my beautiful and violent Atlantic ocean and the mess of relationships crashed upon my shores, and soliloquies because, well, that's what this blog is. A place where I can talk to myself and describe how I feel.

Hope you like the header, in any case. It's certainly not perfect and so it fits in here just fine.

Just bring me all the fairy tales and I'll point out who's who.

Whenever you're sorry
You're not in my hands
You're in some other defect hands

Hey beautiful. I turn and he is there, black wings folded, paint-spattered jeans and hands to match. Dark brown curls hiding his eyes. But he is smiling, so that's something. Rough week?

I nod slowly. I'm wanting to look for Jake but Jake is nowhere to be found. I don't come out here to talk to Cole, we have nothing left to say. I start back toward the door but suddenly he is blocking it so I stop.

You need to do something for me, okay, paper doll? You need to not make any sudden moves right now. I want you to just hold tight to Ben and don't think about anything else right now. Can you do that?

I nod again, like a child. It's akin to being hypnotized. Cole's directives have weight anyway and the wings now give him all kinds of insight into my past, present and future so he knew I was playing scenarios through my head like reel to reel tapes and he worries (GOOD) that I might do something he wouldn't want me to do.

This is none of your business now, Cole. I tell him softly. I watch his nostrils flare and he shakes his curls back and just for a moment he is my lizard king again, the one who force-fed me a cure for homesickness that turned out to be a sham in of itself. The one who took over, raising me from fourteen to thirty-five. No small feat, especially considering he did so with Lochlan and then Jake, too, breathing down his neck. Cole the Great and Terrible.

No sudden moves, I give in and repeat his instructions. He's so very good at this.

Good girl. That's my girl. You're doing well, munchkin.

I look at the floor.

You can do this. Just keep going. Keep yourself in check.

You're gunning for your brother to win and I don't even know the rules. I'm not the one playing games, Cole.

Doll, who is filling your head with these ideas?

He stabbed you in the back over and over again and you take his side?

He looks up and smiles under a curtain of tousled waves. Blood is thicker than saltwater.

No it isn't. I turn and walk out on him again. It's becoming part of our routine.

Dissonance and the art of knowing a little bit about everything and a whole lot about nothing.

He left the house shortly after midnight Sunday morning, basket in hand, and he stroked flat out all around the neighborhood, dressed in a tux, morning coattails flying in the dark out behind him, spats making him appear to be gliding on air. The spats obscured his inline skates from view quite nicely in the dark and the giant rabbit head mask concealed his identity completely.

He threw tiny foil-wrapped chocolate eggs everywhere, onto the grass, front walkways, flowerbeds and gazebos, and rang a tiny handbell as he went. It was just enough to spool up talk in the neighborhood, among the youngest set, that the Easter bunny was real, because they all saw the same thing when they got up to see what was making that strange sound overnight.

This year it was not Lochlan in disguise.

***

What seemed like three nights was actually only one since we flew in overnight on Thursday and then out again on Saturday evening. I am so ridiculously underslept right now I have taken to gritting my teeth as I answer what are seemingly innocuous questions disguised as blistering irritants to my very being.

Ben took me shopping when we had a little free time on Saturday afternoon. He stood and smiled benignly while I tried on impossible shoes and scandalous lingerie and dresses that I'm not sure I could wear out of our closet for their sparingness. He bought everything he liked most and as we were leaving, my hand in his, with his other hand holding all of the bags, he said all of it could only be worn for him. I stopped in my tracks and just stood there looking up at him because he's never been one for rules or quiet derision and here it all is suddenly, far from home, a familiar format to him, a foreign concept to me.

He shook his head as if to clear it, giving my hand a squeeze, changing his expression to one of silliness abruptly, suggesting a bath and some room service later in the night. I nodded, still sort of frozen when he started to walk and I fell all over myself as I was pulled along with him. Abruptly he stopped again and turned to face me, rightening me at the same time. He laughed softly, looking shy and confused and so much like the Ben I fell in love with that I melted and ran into the sidewalk grates into the subway tunnels below.

Don't...

Don't what? I am trying to keep my hair out of my lipgloss. I fail. It whips into my eyes and he takes his hands and smooths my hair down, keeping them there.

Don't let me make you feel bad for missing him.

I duck out of his hands, turn and walk fast. I want to be out of this wind.

***

We pull in just before eleven Saturday night and I stand shivering as Ben helps the driver unload our things. He makes no move to tell me to go in ahead of him and I make no move to go in on my own. I am just watching him, so at ease with suitcases and strangers and his old routines. Finally it's us and he loads my suitcase on top of his and pulls them both easily with one hand. His other hand slides around my neck, pulling me in against his shoulder. He stops me and asks if I had fun.

I nod and he smiles. Actual fun?

I start to shake my head and all the composure I held so carefully all week spills all over the front walk.

It sucked, didn't it?

Yeah. Too much work. My shaky breath makes him laugh sympathetically and he nods. I know, little bee. We'll make it up. Maybe we can plan harder with a little more time and do something later on in the spring.

I am waiting. I nod politely. We won't. Ben is a huge homebody now. And I'm not all that far behind him, except when I am strung out feverishly from cabin closeness and wanderlust. Those times the sickness is horrible and the rest of the time I am completely fine. And he is as mercurial with his monopolization of my time as he is with everything else.

Go.

Hmm?

Go see him. Tell him we're home. Peter Pan needs his Wendy.

Which one are you, Ben?

What?

If he is Peter Pan, and we already know Caleb is Captain Hook, then who are you?

I'll be Tinkerbell. Plotting to have him to myself. He wagged his tongue but instead of being funny it was sad.

I know who you are.

You do?

Yes. You're Mr. Barrie. You're the one writing this story now.

Hope clouded his brown eyes into a pale tan reflecting the sand at the bottom of the cliff.

Ben, have you read Peter Pan?

I saw the mov-

Did you read the book?

No. Why?

Their relationship is as ambiguous as all hell. One minute she is his mother, the next they argue like siblings. She loved him when she was a child but it's never fully explored. It hasn't played out properly.

He leans over and kisses my hair and shoves me away at the same time, while he whispers Exactly. His face is grim but he flashes me a dismissive smile anyway and he turns and hefts the bags up the steps. When he gets to the top, he turns back to look at me and he nods toward the garage. I turn to look and see Lochlan. He is helping New Jake with something on the bike. The worklights they have set up blind me.

I sigh loudly to highlight my own frustration and turn on my heel to head across the driveway.

“Wendy," Peter Pan continued in a voice that no woman has ever yet been able to resist, "Wendy, one girl is more use than twenty boys.”
― J.M. Barrie

Touché, Mr. Barrie. Touché.

Safely home. Kissed my babies and boys, got the hockey scores, going to shower and go to bed. Forgot how much I hate the smell of plane fuel on bare skin. More tomorrow. Oh, and Christian sent me this earlier this morning and I love it. Really I do.

XO

Pretty Boy Floyd.

So, so you think you can tell Heaven from Hell,
blue skies from pain.
Can you tell a green field from a cold steel rail?
A smile from a veil?
Do you think you can tell?
And did they get you to trade your heroes for ghosts?
Hot ashes for trees?
Hot air for a cool breeze?
Cold comfort for change?
And did you exchange a walk on part in the war for a lead role in a cage?
How I wish, how I wish you were here.
We're just two lost souls swimming in a fish bowl, year after year,
Running over the same old ground.
What have you found? The same old fears.
Wish you were here.

When I said hello he started singing and he sang the whole thing before hanging up. I was in the vestibule of an expensive restaurant and there was no free place to sit down and I wanted to go and stand behind the curtains and hide but it would have been weird so I walked outside and people fell all over themselves getting the doors open for me or I probably would have walked right into them.

I continued down the sidewalk in my too-cold dress for the weather and too-high shoes for a stroll until Ben caught up with me and tucked my arm through his and held it with his right hand and turned me, walking me back down the street until we reached the restaurant where everyone was still seated inside, oblivious to my escape. He turned me to face him and bent his head down, kissing my philtrum and scraping my nose with his fledgling stubble. He looked into my eyes and smiled a little. Only a little. His eyes weren't in it. It wasn't real.

He doesn't really want to be here either but at the same time as it's necessary, as is a private little break for the two of us right now, just two or so weeks shy of our fourth anniversary, which is some sort of record, since I am such a bad wife but most of the time he doesn't seem to mind.

Until he does.

Back Forty/Salt in the wound.

(I'll be back before you miss me.)

Throw me line if you will
My trembling hands can't hold the truth you tell

Go home, Bridget. His voice startled me from the dark. He was sitting on the stump just up from the water, tucked into the edge of the woods proper.

Why are you hiding, Lochlan?

I bet you don't listen at all, do you? He laughed but it was a harsh sound. He stood up and walked over to where I stood on the grass right beside the lake. He planted a kiss on my cheek. Sloppy. Now I smell like beer too. Yuck.

He points at me. You really should go home.

Why are you drinking beer? You're not allowed yet. You have to be like twenty. I think. I don't know what I'm talking about but I know he is fourteen and too young.

Bridget, you're too uptight for an eight year old. Most kids wouldn't even notice.

You're sitting in the dark alone. Where is Caleb?

On a date or something.

Why don't you have a date? It's Saturday.

So I should be out with some girl?

Isn't that how it's done? Do you like someone?

Maybe.

Then you should ask her out.

She doesn't know I like her.

Why don't you just tell her?

Bridget, have you ever thought that you were in the wrong time and space? That something that should be easy can't be because of circumstance?

I don't know what you mean.

Nevermind. Now why don't you tell me why you're at the lake by yourself after dark. You know you can't swim alone, right?

I wasn't going to go in. Bailey is up the path at the swing and I didn't want to be there. They're smoking. It's gross.

So you decided to wander in the woods?

I'm not in the woods, I stayed on the path and came straight back to the beach.

What is the plan, then?

I have to go back and ask Bailey to take me home.

How about we go together and let her know that I can take you home.

You can't drive. You've been drinking.

We'll walk. It's nice enough. Are you warm enough?

Not actually.

Here, take my sweater. He took off his hoodie and zipped me into it, pulling the drawstrings of the hood tightly. Then he smiled at me. You look like a pixie. You look cute. Let's go.

****

And sadly, just as I start to write about last night (which wasn't all that different than that moment in 1979), Ben comes upstairs with my carpet bag and tells me I should go pack, because we have a two a.m. flight to New York to catch, a long weekend in the biggest city I have been to, unless you count Paris but that might be area rather than density and I was only there for a day anyway so it might not count if I did know what I was talking about.

But I don't. What else is new?

Lochlan does not want me to go, and so he's taken a turn from my bookmark in the big book of immaturity and gotten himself onto a good bender. A mild one, but one nonetheless and he can hang out here with New Jake and PJ and lament the sorry state of his (amazing) life all he wants while he sips all of the good (Irish) whiskey and I play Pepper Potts for another day or two and steal all of the attention from Ben, who is all business these days anyway, and then visit some of the restaurants I have read about lately, so I can make butternauts with freshly churned goat butter siphoned from a thousand cashmere pearl mountain lambs born under a waxing crescent or whatever the hell ridiculous things are written on menus now to sway the one percent.

I am hoping we can get in and out before the Russians find out I am in town. Batman assures me I am safe but I'm not in the mafia so I have no idea what their clubhouse rules are or what sort of revenge they enact past breaking knees and scaring women. And since I don't know what I'm talking about that's one of those side-worries, kind of like what if I die when my will isn't up to date? and Jesus H. Fucking Christ, Schuyler, please don't let Henry drink chocolate milk morning, noon and night for the next three days.

And PJ, please look after my Lochlan so he doesn't miss me too much. Because as I took the bag and headed upstairs to pack, Lochlan pointed at me from across the room.

Wrong time and space, peanut. That's what this is. I am the outsider. You were right.

Gold Stars (It's never going to work so here, laugh at my expense).

You land so awkwardly and never seem to learn
Still I follow you at every single turn
And I picture darker nights and longer sunny days
And hope that you will stay the same all year round

A message in the air that caught you by surprise
I sent it many years ago when I was wise
And I see you've built an army now while I have built a home
And I hope you haven't come to burn it to the ground

Just on the verge of my wanting to tear a strip from Caleb for his non-admissions of late, discovered on accident by a frustrated Lochlan (who would have rather kept silent for the rest of his life, truth be known, if only to protect me from the weirdness), the children decide to stage a coup d'état, demanding that their fathers start doing things together.

Or what? I asked. Or they start resisting everything, they tell me. Oh, and it's for your own good, Mom.

Every event features one man or the other but never both. The exception to this rule is (was?) family dinners, in which there are enough places and spaces in the house that they could both be here but never come across one another in the course of the evening. Opposite ends of the table and everything.

They both like it that way, frankly. But the kids do not and I'm sure the counselors/mediator/teachers/judge/Sam/God had something to do with this but they want us to do things as a family now. All six of us! Sorry, PJ, they mean (as) nuclear (as we can get), so step-dad, both dads, mom and both kids.

Six.

But we can't just jump into these things, because it would be weird and no fun and awkward so it's far better to warm up by having Lochlan and Caleb hang out together (Oh my God). Do things together (Jesus Murphy Christ). Ruth helpfully suggested if they could become friends maybe they wouldn't punch each other so much anymore.

So friends they will be.

(Children aren't stupid and they aren't completely unaware, but life has been softened for them in varying degrees with regard to our memories because that's the way it has to be.)

This morning I decided to get started, and take both of them (Caleb and Lochlan, not Henry and Ruth) grocery shopping. I played my insanity card, clearly. I failed to remember Caleb has his groceries delivered and has no clue about things like lists and budgets and comparison shopping, or better, waiting in line. He doesn't do pedestrian errands. Why would he? He doesn't have the need to blend in with the working class. I function as his personal assistant when I'm not busy being his torture victim/sugar baby or whatever he demands depending on the day.

(Hush, you.)

We started out on the wrong foot, too. First there was a dust-up over the fact that we were taking Lochlan's truck. Duh, Caleb. Three people and enough groceries for ten don't fit in his car or mine.

Then he expected us to go to one of the high-end markets downtown. I'm like, DUDE. We're going to Superstore. Oh, yeah. Yellow labels all the way. No-Name everything. I thought he might die from the bourgeoisie of it all, actually.

Thirdly it was cold and windy and I was looking at my car before we left (thought there was a ding but it's just dirty) and he pulled all of my hair up out of my collar and put my hood down. Lochlan counted to at least six before he came over and stuffed it all back in and pulled my hood back up. Because my ears plus a cold wind equal hurt. Not sure why. Lochlan knows that but Caleb doesn't.

And with that we're off. Once in the truck the devil frowned again because I'm wearing jeans and red Chuck Taylors and a green hoodie. He at least thought I should match. I sweetly pointed out that I do. I match Lochlan, I told him in my best elementary school voice.

(Okay, yes, fine. I'm digging now. My own grave. It's inevitable, I may as well get a head-start. Not even sure I need the full ten by three-and-a-half. Probably five by two will suffice. Three by two if you bury me in a fetal postion. Oh, look how dark I can be while choosing between President's Choice and Tetley teas. Just get it over with and kill me now.)

PJ sends me a text message saying that he can be there inside of fifteen minutes if they get into it in-store but really I should probably plan to call the cops because they could be there faster. I laugh and type back Will do without showing it to either of them.

And to their credit, they managed just fine once we were there and I could give them tasks (like children). They fetched things and compared notes on flavors and packed bags and then Caleb stood there and asked Who takes this outside? I told him You do and he just looked at me. So I said, Fine, I'll do it and then he kicked into gear and he kept looking back at me saying You can push this? To the truck? And I nod because I've been doing it for twenty years or more and he was sort of in awe of my sudden, magical brute strength and a little bit surprised at the amount of food I buy each week. He offered to pay for it but I told him that it was part of the household budget and we were fine, thanks and then he was quiet for a while. We loaded the bags into the bed of the truck and snapped the tailgate up, put the cover down and drove home.

I sat in the middle, listening with my eyes wide as they discussed the best restaurant meals in the city. Not sure that was exactly fair considering Caleb won't pay any less than forty-five dollars for an entree and Lochlan won't pay any more than fifteen, but they managed to talk the whole way home and Lochlan did not drive us off the cliff into the sea or anything.

They unloaded all of the groceries together and brought them in, taking several trips, continuing their discussion while PJ and August stood there in the front hall and stared, mouths open. I ignored all of them and opted to let them put everything away too.

When the last bag was empty, Caleb kissed my cheek and said he had to run. He said goodbye to Lochlan and then to the others and left and then Lochlan immediately said This is going to be a long spring and no sooner did I nod in his direction when a text message buzzed on my phone. It was from Caleb.

It's going to be a long spring, isn't it? He wrote. I didn't answer. It's a given. I just hope it works. It's probably the only thing we haven't tried but at the same time, you don't fix thirty-two years of bad memories overnight and at this point hope is in short supply.

As is patience.

And I'll be the first to admit I am not mature enough for this. By far.

Blurry but with clear intent.

It's cherry blossom time. The blooms are fat and heavy on the branches, low over my car. They're in my car. They're all over the front walkway, and pretty much everywhere else too. They're in the house, in Ruth's shoes. They pretty much take over until around Mother's Day and then they will dry up and disappear for another year. It makes up for a winter of...muted green clawed-back vegetation and slightly chilly temperatures and don't make me laugh, this isn't actually winter in Canada, who's pulling my leg?

I'll be cursing the track of petals through the house inside of a week because I've become all jaded and spoiled like that.

No, actually I won't. I secretly love them and still lament the fact that one of my neighbors decided to cut their trees down because they made a mess. Um, what? Seriously?

I can walk under the branches. Only the kids and I don't have to duck. Next year they probably will but I won't and then maybe I'll make a fort out there and not tell anyone where I've gone.

The petals are in PJ's beard, too. He has taken to double-checking his face every time he passes a mirror and the others keep fooling him, pointing to his face and saying You've got a little pink there, Paddy and he'll start combing through his facial hair while we laugh and laugh.

It's very pretty (no, not PJ's face, the wall of blossoming trees), and even though I am terrible with photographs and even if I wasn't, a picture could never do this justice, here. Enjoy.

(It would have at least been in focus, had Bonham not been pulling on the leash I was holding.)

Dress reversal.

Wouldn't it be so much better
If we could look at what we're seeing
Late gazes wore me down
Oh won't you see what you're doing

Gaze into passing places late at night
Gaze into welcome faces when you see no right
Gaze into your own eyes
When it's too late

This morning I stood in the driveway in my Sunday best and waited for the boys to get ready. I'm sorry, but I decided a long time ago that I was not going to go from room to room mashing down cowlicks with Brylcreem or standing on the bed behind someone trying to tie a perfect Windsor knot while looking over their shoulder into the mirror to get it right and I wasn't going to point out that the braces should match the shoes even if no one could see them under a suit jacket. It takes me long enough to get dressed as it is, checking in on the children all the while to make sure they get ready too and don't become distracted by toys/cats/each other.

Eventually I wind up here, alone, loitering in the driveway freezing my butt off, but loathe to go back inside lest someone take that as a sign to slow down. Not like it matters, we're already late and I don't want to make our appearance smack-dab in the middle of Sam's announcements because it's such a spectacle as it is when we go in. Waiting outside isn't an option, there's no room and no good time to interrupt anyway once the service begins.

Sam will invariably call upon us to join in. He has Matt save space in the first two pews on the left and I will blush furiously as all eyes watch us make our way to the front of the sanctuary. It sucks, it really does. I have to pinch the children to reset their facial expressions from bored to polite and keep Ben from whacking his way down the aisle, knocking aside handbags and errant legs. I have to pull Lochlan along, he who would rather be anywhere else but here, confined indoors and I have to fight with myself to ensure that I don't spend too much time turning Sam's efforts into Jacob-memories in my head, comparing sermons, choice of hymns, you name it.

I don't like church, okay? I just don't. I'll get on my knees at home and pray. I'll say Grace. I'll talk with Sam one on one about God but I don't want to go and sit through public services because it's hard and I feel like every last word is aimed at me. Every eye is on me. Every moment is endured, cataloged and filed away as one I will never get back and one I am supposed to process and improve upon.

But I'm still in the driveway and the longer I stand here the more I have decided I hate what I have on. I fidget against the confines of my garter belt under this very proper layered dress. I stick my index finger between my teeth and pull my gloves off one finger at a time. I unbutton another button on my bodice and give my bra a mighty shrug. I stumble in my stupid stiletto ankle boots and when I recover I walk in circles watching an eagle fly the same path far above me. I hope valiantly that he shits on my head and then I'll have a funny excuse to stay home and lounge with the heathens.

I hope Caleb comes out and makes me a better offer. We have a lot of words we need to exchange, only he's made no move to do so as of yet, rolling in late Friday evening and managing to avoid me all weekend. That won't last forever. I'll give him until midnight tonight and then if he hasn't shown his face here I will march over and confront him myself. I'm not eight anymore, thought I feel like it today, plotting to scowl through the service right up until Ben reminds me of lunch out, a promise he has already made to me. Afterward we're going to see the Olympic torch, it's being lit today and I might finally see it on fire with my own eyes. That will be amazing, especially if we come home first so I can change.

I don't know why I insist on dressing up for Sunday service. Sam wears his jeans and a plaid flannel shirt every Sunday (actually every day) without fail. That makes me smile, because Jake never would dress down unless the service was outdoors. Inside he always wore khakis or his grey dress pants and a plain white dress shirt with his ragged green corduroy coat and I...

Oh it's totally post-traumatic stress.

Hey God, if I pray really hard do you think you could fix my head? It's a total fucking mess. Kind of like my morning. Kind of like my life. Oh, on second thought, don't answer. I know what you're going to say. I used to be married to a minister, after all.

Heliopause.

(It's hard to believe we can have this kind of a strife in a world currently painted in the shades of grey and teal of deep water and the pale pinks of the cherry blossom trees. But things are going to be okay, thanks for asking. I just need to spin and ramble for a few. Ignore me, please.)

Come on, come on
Put your hands into the fire

My anchor appears to be six-foot-four with brown hair that's almost black and a history so austere he might have been in the witness protection program, at some point. The only baggage he brings to the table is an epic drive for sex and a gay little brother, who has been entirely absent and honeymooning for the past five months and if I daresay I'm happy for Daniel but I'm getting bored trying to drag PJ and Andrew shopping because they. hate. shopping.

Except for food, naturally.

And I'm not trying to digress. Hey, it's been another week of misery here while we fight through time and space looking for the upper hand only to find it means you reach the sun first and get burned beyond recognition, pushed against the surface until your screams are absorbed into the broiling plasma seven times over.

Because we have baggage. And for all the armchair and local psychiatrists pointing out that Ben is not different (because he did indeed provide swift rescue and there was no time in between and I barely waited three months and if I had any brains at all wouldn't I have not done that and I always answer something resembling Fuck off because I can't explain it) please step up now and kiss my little tiny ass.

He is not anyone else and something clicks here that makes me happy. He played his cards with great personal risk. So maybe you should admire him for his restraint with me. After all, he's the unpredictable one. A drinking problem and a temper and a life out of a suitcase brought him to me in ruins and now he is happy. Happier, anyway. By far.

He is my project boy and my savior rolled into one. He has let out so much line to watch me stray that I don't know how I find the way back but then I do: muscle memory, because the heart is a muscle and he is the way home.

But this isn't about Ben. Again, it's a digression.

You see, this house is our solar system and Lochlan is the sun. And everything revolves around him. He exudes heat and flame and serves as the anchor point around which the boys revolve. They are the planets. I am the dwarf planet, Pluto, running to catch up and keep up, catching a ride on Neptune, coasting through the milky way, slow to count orbits in terms of years because I keep falling off. I'm only eight. I can't keep up with them, they're all thirteen, fourteen or older. Come to think of it, I have no business being here at all, but here I am.

Saving them all.

Ben is Jupiter. Sometimes I can leapfrog over the other planets to spin in beside him and then I am dropped out once again. He can't help it, Jupiter is locked in place and too big to move quickly. Pluto has no business here. This is grownup space.

And the sun is so fickle, but without it we would die. The hierarchy in this house is such that we are bound to revolve around each other and the dynamics are such that sometimes we travel smoothly for ever and then there will be upheaval and change. And the boys are somewhat like me in that they will be easygoing and take so much and then suddenly the tipping points are everywhere and we are getting stabbed, arrows through the crust of my not-quite-a-planet-after-all, spinning me away on a different axis. Personalities are different and our situation is unique after all.

I don't know of any other commune that revolves around a singular female. I don't know of any other plural relationships that have a lifelong history behind them. And I don't know if we're doing it right, frankly. If you ask the experts they will wonder aloud why we haven't simply disintegrated years ago, ending in a brutal double-murder-suicide that would make a brief horrific read in the paper only to be followed by a scramble for the ticket to check the lottery numbers underneath.

What can I say? I suppose it works because it's not a gimmick or an experiment, it's our lives, and we take those very seriously.

Lochlan has made a couple of really good and terrible attempts to seek exclusivity and I hesitated to even confess that I heard him properly. Sometimes he relaxes enough to allow things to be as they are and sometimes he develops a sharp angle, gunning for his own leapfrog, all the way down the line of planets until he drops out of the system to where Pluto floats in the Kuiper belt just outside the range of normal consciousness.

He wanted me to come and live with him. Again. In an airstream by the sea. We would fish and busk and watch the stars and pick up from 1985, where we last left off (if you don't count those summers on the freakshow in my twenties but we're not going to go there tonight). This plan was further cemented this week as he revealed the remainder of the manifesto explaining why he is the way he is. If you knew him you would understand the reasoning he can dispense in his sleep. The stupid bulletproof prudence that has always left me with his hand on top of my head while I made such mad efforts to jump up and down and see the world. By Tuesday he was cocksure my misery was simply based on the fact that I would have to let Ben down. Boomerang, back to the show for the little freak planet and her tightrope, wound on a spool, too heavy to carry a planet on by far.

Instead my tears were for Lochlan's preemptive disappointment, and hell, even Caleb felt safe enough to return because perhaps nothing will change except that even more of my dreamlike, fantastical childhood can be explained in better detail now. Mostly to me, for I was the youngest and the things children remember are not always what transpires. Sometimes it is better than what we recall and sometimes it is worse.

Lochlan looked at me this morning and I grimaced and finally returned his gaze and he gave me a small tight smile, telling me See, peanut? I told you it would change nothing. Only his voice cracked on the you part and then he had to catch his breath and he tried to cover it with a cough but that didn't really work and I pretended I missed it anyway. I threw my arms around him and pressed my head underneath his chin, where you have been able to find me pretty much anytime since 1979, and I nodded because I didn't know what else to do.

Juggling is hard. Saving is too.

Five feet tall and freakishly intimidating, apparently.

My next tattoo will say something like Breaking hearts since 1979 or something fuckingly similar to that. I swear.

Close the door before it's late
We were born to love and hate
Turn it down for our own sake
We do no wrong
You fill your ears with every note
Direction seems the only hope
Its crowded, let's create now
We do no wrong

Common sense protects us
Everything affects us
To the outside light it's paradise
To the outside light it's paradise

In the dark there is no jury.

I put my arms up around his neck as he pulls me in close. Ben lifts me up for a kiss but it doesn't have an ending and I do not have purchase anymore. I slide back down and he laughs briefly but his eyes are serious. He lets go of me and pulls my shirt up instead. Over my head, my hair trailing out of it slowly until I have a pale halo of static spilling over my shoulders. I frown and he smiles again and goes to work on the button on my jeans. He reaches back up and shoves me down and pulls the jeans off my legs inside out, dropping everything on the floor. He follows by reaching over his head and grabbing his shirt between the shoulder blades, pulling it over his head in one motion. He's standing in the candlelight in just his jeans staring at me. I'm not even wearing the good lingerie today, instead stuck in what I threw on this morning so I could get to my day. Plain white underwear. No bra. He smiles. No giftwrap, just real, he says.

I laugh but it comes out tired and forced. Ben-

He leans down and puts his hand over my mouth and puts his own mouth against my ear. We're not going to talk. Not tonight. He pushes me down and hooks his fingers under the sides of my underwear and pulls them down. I stretch my neck to see out the window from here as he finishes taking everything off both of us and then there are no excuses anymore.

He pulls me up into his arms and I cry out. There is no tenderness either. I latch on to his neck and am rewarded with razor burn and teeth. I push at him and he says sorry breathlessly as he unlocks his mouth from my bottom lip. I can't breathe. He pauses in the dark and then lets go, dropping me onto my stomach on the duvet. He puts one hand on my hip and the other wraps into my hair, his forearm locked against the back of my head. I am helpless now and he is rewarded with total compliance, total silence. He's rewarded with whatever he wants and that is simple:

Me.

In the morning the sun comes up and blinds me, searing my closed eyelids as I remain in the dark a while longer feeling his hands slide all over, feeling muscle ache compete with muscle memory, lifting one shaking arm to run my fingers through his hair as he turns me back over finally, his brown eyes six inches from my green ones as I open them finally.

He smiles. Good? It's our thing. We do reviews.

Better than good. I grin and melt his face with my morning breath. I don't know where that came from, it's not like we slept at any time during the night.

I love your sweet little cries. He kisses me again. I wonder if he's going to take me for another round and I don't think I could take him when he stops abruptly and stares at me. This is a whole different look and I put my hands up to hold his face.

What?

You're going to go to him, aren't you? Now that you understand what happened and why he was so frozen.

Ben, I-

Could I ask for just a yes or no? It's kind of killing me inside, Bridget, and I need to know. A man should be told when he's about to lose everything.

Tears sting my eyes suddenly at the thought of Ben equating me with everything and I shake my head. No. I'm not leaving you.

He bursts forth with a shaky sigh. Okay then.

You thought I would leave you?

Everyone thinks you're headed that way.

Since when do you care what everyone thinks?

Since robot boy unleashed his excuses.

Excuses?

Reasons, whatever. Since he played his trump card. What do I have to counter with?

You don't have to bring anything to the table. I'm not leaving you, Ben.

He looked into my eyes and I stared right back and he reached out and pulled me in close until there was no space in between. This is where I will remain. If you were the one person hoping differently then I'm sorry but I'm a chickenshit and I can't say it to your face.

Mechanical.

I could kneel against him, and take his face in my hands. His pale blue eyes were always washed out and tired, crinkled into a big smile for me, always for me, attention rapt as long as I needed him.

Don't, okay?

There's something not right about him. He's a robot. I mean, come on, princess, there's practical, there's efficient, indomitable, but he goes above and beyond. What is he doing?

Trying to take care of me, of everything.

He doesn't need to take care of you. Jacob's face is guarded now, defensive.

He still tries.

Why, Bridget? Just tell me why.

Maybe he's atoning for the past. I press my hands against his cheeks and he covers my hands with his and pulls them back down. He pulls me down into his arms. But he's not a robot. He's just...pragmatic. I didn't give him such an easy time when we were on the road.

But if he wasn't always that way then what changed?

Everything. My mood darkens. I don't want to talk about it.

I can't help you help him, if that's what you want to do, princess, if you don't tell me why he's this way.

I don't know why he acts the way he does. I think he's just still trying to provide stability and be my guardian even though I'm an adult now.

Not to him, you're not.

I know.

It irks the shit right out of me.

Jake, don't.

And you always cut the conversation off without telling me anything. I'm just supposed to accept that he's going to come into my house and lavish affection on my wife and it's not supposed to bother me because he's a robot in every other facet of his existence? Does that sound right to you?

Yes.

Then I would venture a guess that you're remembering history as a child would and maybe there is more to it because adults always see things differently.

Maybe you're right. I don't know how else I can remember it.

That's just it, Bridge. You can't. And you don't have to keep secrets for him or for anyone else.

I'm going to go up and draw I think. I stand up and he wraps his arms around my legs and presses the side of his head against my belly. It gurgles. Always hungry.

Jacob laughs. How about we make some food instead? He is easy, jovial, but all through the construction of our midnight deli sandwiches he kept looking at me, waiting to give him all the answers that would help him to understand what makes Lochlan tick. And I was helpless in my ignorance. Had I said anything it would have been all wrong anyway.

I took a bite of the sandwich instead, and let a mouthful of food be what kept me from blowing everything wide open.

And the edge of the world has forgot
Every second inside has been lost
For a moment a lesson was learned
When the eyes of the people were shut

The wind is freezing. When I take off my helmet it floods into my ears and eyes, cutting off all sound and making it hard to see. My eyes are already burning and red. My nose is running and red. My hair is uncombed, tangled, remnants of a ruined braid still evident and my legs shake like jello after what was a marathon ride on the Sunbeam, borrowed from New-Jake who took one look at me and ran after Lochlan asking him if it was such a good idea and maybe I should stay in but Lochlan shot him one of those looks and he fell silent.

It was sort of the theme of the day, for I haven't said more than a few words in days, mostly content to speak to the children and otherwise punish everyone else in sight.

I've been coughing. I haven't slept. Lochlan put his hand up to my face and he said things that made me want to cry that much harder for their tenderness. He said things that were encouraging and he said things would be different and I believe him because we're at the bottom again. There's nowhere to go but up. Onward and upward, as Jake would say, only Jake saw Lochlan as a threat and he saw things I didn't want to acknowledge and everything sometimes makes so much sense it makes you miss the fugue in which you were content to admit you didn't know what was going on at all, because it's so much easier to live without confirmation, without proof.

Caleb saw me coming a mile away and booked a flight out. Needed a break. He was just about to head home and he got a heads up from someone and never came back. I had an email from him late last night. He was going to visit some colleagues who have a place in CA that he can use. Might be back next week or the week after. Good time now that the March break travel has lightened up considerably and he was free to go. Nothing else.

He's running from me because he knows how angry I am. And he knows damn well I can wait him out. He has to come back sometime, sometime being within the range of his legal obligations to Henry, spelled out clearly in our custody arrangements.

It's just a matter of time.

And I can wait him out. I have a lot of things to think about in the meantime. A lot of things that keep me up at night now. Things I'm not going to itemize today, since every time I stop and start to think about things my eyes fill up and I drown.

What happens when you underestimate a pyrokinetic? This.

You can find it anywhere under the sun
You can find it in your heart if you look hard
You can know your way around and be lonely
You can tear us all apart and be on your way
You can tear us all apart
Be on your way

The air begins to feel a little colder
The air begins to show a little time
The air begins to know what you are thinking
The air can see the trouble in your eyes
So tell nobody you're on your own
And find somebody to take you home
To take you home

I hear the side door open. Three little beeps give him away. Footsteps echo down the hall, up the steps and into the kitchen.

He has his coffee cup and is covered with the light rain that is falling outside. Back to routine today, including the usual weather. Lochlan stands up from the table and greets Caleb with a nod. I am determined to ignore both of them. I finally found a way to spin the past that makes sense to my heart but I don't like it one bit. Only Lochlan gets a pass, as usual, as I tried to tell you about something nice he did for me without it being just a consequence of his already-planned behavior. Remember, he is logical to a fault. If there is no reason to do something, it isn't done. If it doesn't make sense, it's removed. If it can't be explained it won't exist.

Caleb nods in return. I look up in time to see that movement but he is staring at me. Target acquired. He passes around the island to where I sit and stands beside me. I hold his gaze.

How close are you going to get, Bridget?

To...what? The cliff? I give him the most innocent face of all and I watch his features quarrel with his brain. His mind is angry. His heart is open. It's when his heart closes that you have to watch out. See, in the thirty-two years they have been falling in love with me I have been learning everything about them, too. I can sort them by mannerisms and choice of words. Had his movements been any slower coming up those stairs, I would have run.

It's not the time to coy. I need to know if you plan to make things difficult in our custody arrangement.

What are you talking about?

He looks down as if he is exasperated in trying to reason with a small child.

Bridget-

She's not going to do that. Henry needs his father. Bridget is aware of that. Lochlan speaks from across the room without looking up. He has returned to his chair, he is painting on his tablet. I nod, obediently. Caleb looks more pained at the fact that I am Lochlan's puppet than he did when he thought I might rat him out.

He turns and walks back out, back down the steps, door opens, door closes and there is total silence in the house again.

Why don't you let me fuck with his head, Locket? It's the only entertainment I have today.

Because it could have easily been me in his position.

But it's not.

Close enough. Shitty post, by the way. You have a gift for making me out to be the biggest asshole that ever lived.

You don't care what people feel about you.

What about how it makes me feel?

You were there. None of it should come as a surprise.

Remembering things hurts. You know that? You're not the only one who finds nostalgia agonizing. You have no idea how hard it was to let you go so that he would leave you alone.

And with that he opened a door in the floor and I fell through it.

You what?

Fucking Christ. Nevermind.

What did you do, Lochlan?

You were already in the middle of it or I would never have believed the things he was capable of.

I thought it was us against him. That we fooled him. Instead you were fooling me?

I was protecting you.

At what cost?

As it turns out, it cost me everything.

He threatened you to keep us apart. What in the fuck-

No, he threatened YOU, Bridget. Only he demonstrated the damage he could do up front and if you think I was going to risk you after that because I thought he might be bluffing then you don't know me as well you think you do.

I don't think I know you at all. Why didn't you tell me?

You wouldn't have left me if I had.

I didn't leave you.

Right. Exactly. The only way to keep you safe was to push you away and then make a game of it, that we were only pretending to be apart so we could stick together and ruin him. I just didn't tell you everything. I'm sorry.

You're...sorry?

I'm sorry. But it changes nothing. (Logical to a fault. This never ends.)

Oh my fuck. It changes everything, don't you see that? And what changed now?

What do you mean?

You're back. You're here. But I'm still alive. He didn't hurt me. Well, much.

He can't now. You're all grown up. You're the mother of his child. Besides, the damage is done. He kept us apart to the point where you blame us equally for everything and moved on. You did exactly what you were supposed to do in life. Maybe we are both proud of you after all. We ruined each other but you're okay. That's the most important thing.

I'm okay? DO I SEEM OKAY TO YOU?

You have a life, you're in love. You survived us. All of us.

You really believed that he would hurt me so you agreed to leave? You trusted him to leave me alone when you weren't there?

No, Bridget, he SHOWED Me that he could hurt you. I didn't have a choice.

I blamed you. I went to him.

I know. This kills me. Everything went wrong, Bridget. All of it.

Get out. I need to think.

Bridget, I-

GET OUT.

PJ picked that moment to walk into the kitchen. What's going on?

Lochlan looked at him, then at me and stormed out. I turned to PJ in tears. You know the part in the movie where the one doing the double-crossing gets double-crossed? This is that part.

This isn't a movie, Bridget.

It sure feels like it.

Back fire.

His eyes were bright. I told you, it's a surprise.

Is it safe?

I am suspicious these days and that makes Lochlan sad. Instead of spending our days working for extra money to get through the lean times between towns toward the beginning of autumn, we are preparing to go home at the end of this run. Usually we would stay on for another few weeks, almost right up until school but things have changed. I tremble in my sleep. I have black circles under my eyes. I am afraid when he leaves the camper and I hold my breath until he comes back. He has shifted all of his energy into keeping me distracted.

You're going to love it. That's all I want to tell you so that I don't ruin this.

He turns into the field abruptly. We are on an unmarked dirt road off the highway, rutted and pocked with holes. We bump along forever, jarring our teeth against our skulls, rocking deliriously as the truck shifts and heaves over the bumps, falling into the dips and highlighting a total lack of remaining suspension.

Finally he says There! He leans over and presses his head against mine and points his finger out in front so that I can follow it.

There is an upright piano in the center of a field of lavender.

I gasp. My first thought is he engineered this, only Lochlan doesn't have a piano and he hasn't left me alone for weeks now and this has clearly been here for a while. He lies anyway. I didn't do this, Bridge. I heard about it on the line.

He keeps driving until we are closer and then he turns the truck off and I am out the door, running straight through the tall flowers until I reach out and put my hands on the top.

It's real.

I bring my hands up to my face and then drop them to run my fingers across the weathered cover. I don't dare open it. Maybe it's empty. Who leaves a piano in a field? It's from the forties, says the faded remnant of the maker's dated signature.

Play for me.

He opens the cover to reveal yellowed, cracked keys. They are ruined but intact. I reach out and press middle C. Clear as a bell. Someone has tuned this. This is no accident. I smile breathlessly, ducking under to see if there are pedals. Yes. He tests other keys and laughs. This is amazing, isn't it?

Look at this. Can you imagine playing outdoors, Locket?

No. I can't. You should show me.

He smiles and winks. He totally engineered this. I'm sure he thinks I am dying. I've said twelve words in three weeks, up until now. I don't eat. I'm becoming a ghost. His insistence that the show go on (someday he will run the show, I'm sure) rings of comfort in times of great difficulty. (Through them, you will be entertained, Bridget and that will help you forget.)

But it didn't help, it just kills more time. That's why we're leaving early this year, with a promise to be back next summer. Hopefully by then I will understand what has happened because as it stands now, I don't. I only know that I became collateral damage in a war between Lochlan and Caleb. Everything will be different now. Everything is different now.

Dutifully I play the beginning of Fur Elise and a smile lights up his face.

Keep going! I wish I brought a camera.

I shift gears and give him a little of Heart and Soul and he grins and slides me down the bench, pushing in next to me. We used to play that song on the piano at my house once I taught him how. I play bits and pieces of a few more songs. I feel happy suddenly.

I like this, Bridget. It sounds so poignant.

What does that mean?

Touching. Special. Intense. Like you.

I shake my head.

Yes, you. Keep playing. We have to be back at four.

You go. I'll be staying here.

I can't do that, Bridget. Oh, here we go.

You don't get to decide. I hold my tiny patch of dusty, sun-baked ground.

Yes, I do.

You don't own me. I'm staying.

He looks up to check the time, using the sun. I'm a little bit sure he isn't human, he's good at too many things and even completely sure of his doubt, if you can believe it. He squints through his curls and then looks back at me. He does own me. He has the temporary paperwork to prove it but he doesn't say that. Instead he scolds me gently. Half-father, half-lover, it's no wonder we were doomed to fail.

We're leaving in fifteen minutes. Play until then and we'll come back tomorrow.

I sit and stare at him. We won't be back. Tomorrow has no free time scheduled. His touching plan has backfired and now he's taking this small bit of happiness away the moment I get my hands on it.

Did you do this just to hurt me then?

Jesus, Bridget, no. I did it to make you happy. To give you a little break.

But we have to leave and I'm not ready!

How long did you want to stay then?

I don't know.

You don't want to go back at all, do you?

No.

If we leave the show you go home, peanut. I won't be there when you have nightmares.

I burst into tears. I am twelve years old, I don't know why I have to make these decisions. I don't want to be at the show anymore but I want to stay with Lochlan. You are my home. Maybe we can figure something out. Maybe we can just run away and find a place to live.

And do what to make ends meet?

Hustle, Locket.

He laughs and it breaks the tension. I am encouraged.

We could do it, Lochlan. We'd probably be okay.

He shakes his head. We wouldn't be okay. But do you see? He walks away and comes back, kissing me hard on the cheek. This is why I love you, Bridget. Your dreams. You live inside a perfect world you created in your head. Your dreams are real.

I shiver when he turns around. Gosh, I hope they aren't. Every dream sees the big bad wolf coming for me. Lochlan steps in front of me and is eaten first. When Caleb takes off the wolf's head and licks his lips I start screaming and wake myself up. When my eyes open again Lochlan has set the piano on fire with his mind and is walking away. I run after him yelling his name above the roar of the flames and he stops and waits for me. He keeps saying he's sorry but I don't know what for.

Devoted.

I have been sitting on the floor, my back resting against the side of the bed. He sleeps easily, tangled in sheets and contentment. I sip red wine from a big goblet and eat Cracker Jacks out of the box. Once, a thousand years ago when I was eight I told Caleb I wanted to find a compass at the bottom of a box. He still buys boxes of Jacks for me to keep the hope alive, and still I have that hope that when I find that stupid compass I will know the way home.

I grow tired of the candy and shake the remainder of the contents out on the floor. At the bottom is a paper pouch. I open it and find a sticker of an Irish flag. I peel it off and stick it on my forehead.

Diabhal, I say under my breath.

His sleepy, gentle hand traces my hair.

Neamhchiontach, he whispers back.

The broken tellurion.

And I will be good at making bad
And I'll light the way for the fucking mad
I will defeat what I'm heading for
And I will be here for evermore

I close my eyes. So hard to stay awake this afternoon.

Then what happened?

He taught himself to eat fire.

Why?

He wasn't scary enough.

Caleb stifles a laugh. No, the other part.

If you were going to breathe fire he would consume it, just to show that he could overcome you. Or overpower you. I forget which.

And then what happened?

I tried to balance all of you at once on my tightrope.

The low one with the blindfold while he threw the flaming hoops up and you'd jump through them?

Yes.

Were you scared?

No. If you trust the person responsible for your safety, then there is no fear. Besides, it's nothing compared to the highwire.

But you are afraid of me, Bridget.

Do the math, please.

Why don't you trust me?

You've used everyone you've ever met, yourself included. Self-sabotage is such an amazing redemption, I couldn't find any more suitable penance for you if I tried.

He puts his head down against my shoulder and pushes against it.

I don't think I ended up too bad off.

Is that proper grammar?

I have no idea, I'm a lawyer, not a writer.

He laughs and drinks Dom straight from the bottle. We have been in bed for two days, celebrating his call to the bar. Well, that and he loaned Cole a whole bunch of money and Caleb decided the interest was due up front. The interest being in me.

Am I a capital gain or a dividend, then?

What are you talking about? He laughs and takes another drink. I daresay he isn't really paying attention to the words anymore, whether they are used correctly in a sentence or not.

I have given up keeping everyone straight at this point. I am in my mid-twenties and they all think they're so smart, double-crossing one another. Lochlan has spent the better part of a decade telling people I am too much work and therefore he was finished forever ago, only he never actually went away. I pilfer time with him from Cole as a respite for the time I am forced to spend with Caleb.

Only I have come to a place where I only act like I hate what Cole does because it is my absolution too.

I get up and go outside and curl up in the lounge chair on the balcony. It's thirty degrees in the sun. Beautiful. Caleb follows me out and readjusts the umbrella so that I am in full shade. I frown and he just says you burn.

I do. I burn. I burn for everything.

The heat and the exhaustion and the champagne put me to sleep in seconds and I pull the sheet up around my shoulders and let it happen.

When I wake up it is late afternoon, twenty years later and the sunny day has turned overcast. I frown at the sky while my stomach growls. My mouth tastes like cotton batting and my head hurts so I go inside to get an aspirin and some juice. When I step inside I hear him on the phone.
He sounds frustrated. He's talking in his Secrets voice. Quietly. Adamantly.

I go away for a few years and I've been fighting my way back in ever since. He does the same thing but then picks up right where he left off without acknowledgement of the absence on her part. He conducts his life expecting her to just be there for him and she IS. He doesn't notice husbands or time, for that matter. Every time there is great difficulty he vanishes, deals with it and then he comes back strong, ready to take over again. I think it's that distance that keeps him grounded so he can help her cope after the fact but she blames him for abandonment and that's what keeps her doubting him, to my credit. But they are one soul divided down the middle. That I know for certain.

The devil is counting his roster. We have denied him whole numbers. Part of me smiles at the description. One soul. Two bodies. Part of me cries because he is still obsessed with both of us, moreso than I hoped. How many casualties will there be from those who try to break this bond? The more success that is gained, the higher the price that is paid. They have learned nothing from Cole or from Jacob. After all.

Who is the devil now? I'll give you a hint. She's standing wrapped in a sheet, listening at the door and she looks as if she couldn't harm a fly. Caleb walks out of the room abruptly, tucking his phone into his shirt pocket. He is dressed. He is leaving. He turns and smiles at me (a lie) and kisses my cheek gently.

An investment, Bridget. That's what you are.

And he walks out the door.

Smoking is only cool if you do it ironically.

This is what Duncan says when I come out with a lemonade for him. The temperature cracked a balmy eight degrees today, we are celebrating. He holds up his cigarette in offering to me and I shake my head.

Are you a hipster now, Duncan?

Possibly. Though you make me seem more like Hunter S. Thompson when you write about me.

Oh holy shit, you're a blog reader. It's even worse than I suspected.

Ben walks out onto the steps. What's worse? That Dunk's a hipster now?

No, a blog-reader. Ben, get the children. I think we can escape in the night. Leave everything behind.

Do...do blog readers take children?

I don't know but it's creepy.

Yay. Duncan becomes the creepy one for once. Ben jumps into the air and claps his hands, his voice a frighteningly funny falsetto.

At least I don't eat my wife's makeup all fucking day long, Frankie. Duncan lands a punch against Ben's arm as he comes down to the patio. Ben picks up Duncan's lemonade and drinks it all. He gets down with his hands on Duncan's shoulders and says, That's not all I eat, baby and runs his hands through Duncan's hair.

Duncan swats him away as I shake with laughter. I'm trying not to egg them on.

Seriously. What's wrong with hipsters now, Bridget?

Their pants. They look like they hurt. So tight. On dudes, no less.

You're just jealous because they don't make skinny jeans small enough for you, babe.

She'd never be in them for long anyway, Ben says and puts the glass upside down on Duncan's head and licks the side of his face. Duncan swats it off and asks Ben if he's ever serious. Like, ever.

Not anymore, I keep my emotions underground, man. Ben says it somberly and I can't hold my giggles in any longer. I crack up laughing out loud. It feels good.

Elusive character(istics).

The coughing started almost immediately, uncontrollably. I covered my mouth with both hands. Lochlan put his hand on my back and waited patiently. Then he handed me his bottle of pop and told me to drink it. I drank some and started coughing again. He thumped my back twice, gently and then rubbed it hard. I twisted away from him.

So the second I look away you decide to try cigarettes for the first time?

No, I was...choking. Ate a peanut. I look down. Such a bad liar.

My hair is burning. It gives me away. He uses his hands to put it out. It smokes. Just the one lock that was still sitting in the ashtray that I dropped the cigarette on when I began to cough.

Nice, Bridget. Light yourself on fire trying to sneak a drag. I love the smell of burning hair. He makes a funny face at me. His features are goofy, elastic.

Sorry. (Said between fits of coughing and laughing)

Nine is too young to smoke, okay?

When did you start?

This year. He laughs. But I only have one a week. Sometimes. He leans back and hooks his hands into his pockets, assuming a casual stance. He instantly becomes the coolest teenager I know. He was anyway. I cough again.

Drink some more and don't ever do that again. I will show you how to do it right in five years.

Five years?

Yes. When you're as old as I am now. Fifteen.

***

The day I turned fifteen, I walked to Lochlan's. I had stolen a cigarette from Cole's pack the night before and hidden it in the case with my sunglasses. I knocked on the door and Lochlan opened it and said Happy Birthday, peanut! He reached out and pulled me into his arms. He remains by far the most affectionate of all the boys even though we've been broken up for almost a year and I go out with Cole now. But Cole is too busy being insane. Lochlan grounds me. He always has time for me even though if you ask him he will point out all of my flaws and no one can argue with that. It doesn't bother me much since I know he's lying. It will bother me in a few years but not right now. Little has changed for us, honestly.

He kisses my forehead hard and tells me he just woke up.

Perfect timing. I want to learn to smoke, Locket. I pull out the case and hold up the cigarette.

What? No, Bridget.

You promised. I drop between us like a divide. It rests up against the other promises that will take the rest of our lives to play out.

I did, didn't I? But you've been smoking here and there, what am I supposed to teach you exactly?

How to like it.

If you don't like it don't do it.

But I want to look cool!

You do. He stands there and smiles and breaks my cigarette in two. I frown at his expression. I don't understand what they see. Maybe it's the vantage point. I stopped growing at twelve and can't see the world from up where they can. Lochlan kept growing and is way taller now at eighteen. The view up there must be better somehow.

***

He is standing outside on the patio, one hand jammed into his pocket for warmth, shoulders hunched, shivering slightly. It hasn't been a warm March here. He takes a drag as I hand him his coffee and says thanks.

How is quitting going?

He holds it out, offering me a drag. I decline. Cigarettes give me massive headaches. That and I am no longer determined to look cool. I don't think I ever managed it a day in my life so I'll settle for just looking unusual and hopefully still pretty.

As well as ever. One a week or so. He frowns comically which makes me laugh out loud. He is forty-six and a half. He will never change.

Still want to learn to look cool? He asks as he exhales away from me, out the side of his smile.

Yes! Maybe I do still want to learn to pull it off after all.

Okay stand there...relax your shoulders, Bridget. Geez, you stand so tightly. Don't ever try and juggle.

I loosen up and wait.

Now smile...

I smile and wait some more.

There you go. You got it. He winks at me, puts out his cigarette and turns to go inside. I watch him until he disappears and then I see this girl standing in the reflection of the glass doors. She does look cool. Must be the smiling. I hardly ever do it, unless ordered to, or tricked.