Circus Circus.

(Where there is that broad, sweeping warm daylight there is also narrow, cold half-light in which we exist between the fires Loch starts and the ones I put out (or maybe it's the other way around). But Lochlan isn't in this post, sorry. Ben is. Ben flew in yesterday afternoon to wear the crown and Caleb has turned back into a frog.)

We both know this ends
But what if no one knows
No one knows how to kill us in the end?
This is all you need for who you are
This is how a good man goes too far

I don't need much to show you
Only enough to control you
Bury your head inside this
And gather the darkness that finds it

I think I'll die if you deny me
Swallowed alive in eternity
Give me a way to be the agony
That knew you all along

Caleb draws his thumb across the tip of my nose, his fingers touching my ear, just enough that he and I both noticed I was holding my breath.

He bends his head down close to mine and lifts my head up at the same time until my nose bumps against his cheek. His breath is warm. He smells like bourbon and cedar and smoke.

Breathe, Bridget. 

I shake my head and swallow. His other hand comes up to cup the back of my head and I resist until it's too late. I always figure Caleb will someday just pull me off my feet, twist his hands and that will be that. If I don't get pushed off the cliff first.

This way he could just say he didn't mean to, but he broke his doll. Then he'll find another one. Or maybe not. Not like this one was mass-produced. She'll be impossible to replace. Some delicate balance of that knowledge keeps me alive, I'm sure. Or maybe I'm wrong and it keeps murder in the forefront of his mind.

Ben pushes me forward still but I lean back against him.

No, I say. Clear as day, break the mood like glass under the full moonlight.

Cole is the only one who could ever soothe your homesickness away from Loch. Use that, Bridget. You'll feel better if you just let go. Just a little. That's my baby girl.

Ben's hands release me while the others tighten slightly. Here we go, lift and snap. (Just get it over with but don't kiss me. I don't want you to kiss me, Cole.)

I put out my hands and push hard against Caleb's chest. I don't go anywhere. Neither does he.

Don't make this difficult.

Don't do it then, I whisper in his face.

He abruptly drops my head and turns away. Maybe she needs another drink, he tells Ben.

Ben runs his hands up over my shoulders and pulls me back against him firmly. He doesn't do anything else. I turn my head to the side and inhale his flannel shirt. Soap. Rain. Uncertainty. Resignation. My perfume on him. Flowerbomb. Transferred by touch.

She doesn't. And she doesn't need you either, I slur but they completely ignore me. Jesus. For good measure I yell my safe words. Gingerbread! Wenceslas! Fucking listen to me!

Ben ignores them like he always does, his fingers squeezing my shoulders, his thumb rubbing against that trigger spot. I'm like a dog, half-expecting my leg to start twitching in time with my heartbeat involuntarily as he rubs. I'm frustrated that Ben caves in so easily without even pausing to recognize my concerns. He has tunnel-vision. He's oh-so-very-easily swayed. He was told I needed him so he got on an aircraft and came to me. Only I was doing okay. I don't need him. I don't need any of this but I'm glad he's here now and I'd do anything for him.

Even that.

Caleb appears in front of me again with a glass, which he forces against my lips. When I try to resist Ben's hands tighten around me. Drink some. It'll help you relax. 

Only God can help me now. 

He smiles. Then I guess you're on your own.

Paradise, unincorporated.

(I've decided my next career will be in making amends.)

I don't want a kiss goodnight
I just want to stay here forever
I don't want to close my eyes
I just want to stay here forever

He took me dancing.

The day wore on, the champagne wore off and Caleb burst in through the door near midevening in a mood I can't even describe to you. Change. We're going out tonight. Wear something....ridiculous. 

Mmm...okay?

I picked a sequined, shimmery silver dress and stilettos with serious bondage-caliber ankle straps. He stepped back into the room ten minutes later almost matching me. Not in a silver dress and stilettos, in a casual grey shirt and darker grey pants. We're coordinated.

Don't worry, it was all a show. We're not coordinated and can't actually dance all that well but we gave it our best shot and then a slow song came on finally. At last. I suggested we pack it in. Dancing in stilettos is not a fun event. It's like never getting to the end of the wire. Always balancing.

One last dance and we'll leave, he says.

I should have realized his lies are so easily told by omission but I was drunk again and having a blast so I agreed. He held out his hands. There we go. Coordinated in arms, at least. We can't make fools of ourselves or each other moving this slowly, anyway.

He didn't say a word, he just held me and swayed with the music, a slow circle completely around three times. He smells like hotel soap and clean sweat and cotton. His hair is all messed up and the grin seems to be permanent and she sees all this and tells me I'm on my own, finding a door in my brain and opening it, walking through and closing it again. Twelve is gone, replaced by a worthy opponent. I can slay anyone in these shoes and this dress. They are weapons and I'm strong and brave and foolish and near-shitfaced.

I'm thinking all this and he's thinking about food.

So we leave and go for burgers. He doesn't even ask if I want another four hundred dollar meal, he just drives until he sees a brightly-lit sign and an ordering window and he asks me what I want.

Onion rings. And a sprite, please! He orders those and gets the same, plus a burger. Big men get hungry. I always forget and live like a bird. We find a parking spot that has a view of the strip. It's four in the morning and nothing is slowing down, though the lot is almost empty.

He holds out his burger, offering me the first bite. I take it. So good. I should have ordered one, I tell him. He tears it in two giving me half, and I'm finished before he's done chewing his first bite. I go slower with the rings. I see the door in my head open just a crack and her eyes peering through. She doesn't trust him. She doesn't know why I'm having fun. She doesn't like it and so she stuck around when I thought she was gone.

When I realize Caleb has been staring at me without moving or speaking or chewing for far too long I return his gaze.

What?

We could do this all over the world, you know. 

I nod.

Just think about it. 

I nod again. That would be cool. (I thought he meant he has more meetings and I can tag along).

I feel a sudden tension as his breath catches. Bridget-

I wipe ketchup off my face with a napkin and burp really loud and laugh, clapping my hands over my mouth. What? Sorry. Yes? Oops! Haha! Geez.

Marry me. 

In my brain she flings the door wide, her small shadow casting darkness over my mood. She shakes her head. She makes the rules. She runs the show. I make myself wait though. I wait until I can speak properly and then I change the subject.

I'm tired. I think we should go back to the hotel now. 

He sits there staring at the steering wheel for such a long time I begin to wonder if I should have taken that time to get as far away as possible from him, just in case. Finally he picks up my hand, kisses my palm and smiles grimly. You're right. Busy day tomorrow. If we're lucky we can get a couple hours of sleep. 

He starts the car and we drive back to the hotel in silence.

Lobby. Silence. Elevator. Silence. Hallway? Silence. Room. He stops and opens his mouth as if he is going to say something but he changes his mind and instead he pulls me back into his arms. I go willingly. I always have.

I'm sorry, I tell him. He's told me he's sorry a million hundred thousand times and I feel bad for hurting his heart. Their hearts. My heart. 

He pulls back and brushes my bangs out of my eyes. Well, you didn't say no, right? He starts laughing and I see his eyes glassing over but just a little. He's pretty smooth like that.

Goodnight, Diabhal. 

Goodnight, Neamhchiontach.

High and lonesome club.

I said Caleb was very busy and that I would have to work hard to catch him up because fucking hipster queen wannabe Lucas couldn't roll his tongue up long enough to actually accomplish anything useful and now...

Well, NOW I'm in Vegas and I've just ordered lunch and really I don't understand how this place can be anyone's on-purpose destination vacation because it smells like a dead hooker floating in an overflowing ashtray outside and it's full of broken dreams and hard hearts, people who only smile at you when you're cashing out with over five figures.

My Monte Cristo sandwich cost $32. I guess the cheese will have gold flakes and high hopes and come with a monogrammed paper napkin.

I don't have high hopes. I used to find this place so grown up and so exciting. Now I just find it depressing. I bet it finds me depressing too.

Batman has already threatened to put me on a plane and send me home, Lochlan was just..I don't even want to go there, and Ben probably doesn't know where I am because he hasn't picked up his messages. I'm not even working. The Devil is at a meeting. He didn't need me there. I worked on the plane and suddenly I don't need to do anymore.

I think I get it.

A knock on the door and I stand way up on my tiptoes to see through the peephole. It's room service.

Champagne? Sure. Leave the bottle. Yeah, I can pour my own. Don't think I need this glass, though.  Can you get me anything else? Sure, I could use an icepick and a steady hand and once I've forgotten my own name I'll probably enjoy myself right? Maybe take in a show. Check out the tables, right, okay. Oh, you say you have something that will let me forget my own name without the icepick lobotomy?

No, thank you, I don't think that sounds like a very good idea. Times have changed.

Devout and doubtful.

Sam finds me outdoors this morning. I'm drinking coffee, still in pajamas and one of Ben's hoodies, my headphones permanently affixed to each side of my skull. Perfect balance. I need a second pair to stuff up my nose for a center channel.

I need a lobotomy too. Still, I mean.

Grieve-Right strips, he says. Bridget, you're far too clever to be doing paperwork for the Devil. 

You used to say he isn't the Devil, that the Devil was no longer a tangible form, if he exists at all. 

Then I moved here. 

Then you moved here and now you see.

I wish you would talk to me about him some time, Bridget.

Another day, Samwise. My hands are shaking now so I grip the coffee cup like it's death. I don't need you to be a keeper here, you know that right?

I'll do whatever I can to help you. And I think you should finish the letters. Soon. Not because I want to cause you any more pain but because I actually think they could help. 

Then you've read them. 

No. Jake told me about some of them. 

And you didn't stop to ask yourself why he was doing that, Sam? Not even once? I close my eyes tightly. I didn't mean to accuse Sam of things no one could have predicted in a million years but yet I just did.

I feel his hand slide around my neck. He kisses the top of my head and lets go again.

After an endless silence I open my eyes again but Sam is gone. I know he'll be back without hard feelings. His bible is resting on the concrete beside my chair, the bible that used to belong to Jake that I gave to Sam, who continues Jacob's long habit of making tiny notes in the margins, sticking post-it notes on important pages and using photographs as bookmarks. It's no longer a bible, it's a time machine. When I lift it up to my lap it opens on a picture of me and the children, and when I take the picture out this is the highlighted verse on the page:

1 Corinthians 10:13  No temptation has overtaken you that is not common to man. God is faithful, and he will not let you be tempted beyond your ability, but with the temptation he will also provide the way of escape, that you may be able to endure it.

In the margin, in Jacob's handwriting it says <B, as if maybe he wanted me to take this passage and remember it, find comfort in it, or maybe it was his proof that I am the Devil on earth. If you tilt your head to the right and look at my initial it's actually the symbol for a broken heart and I don't know if that was intentional or if my lobotomy is going to be this slow and painful until it's complete.

I'll ask Sam when I return his bible to him after work. Because I'm a glutton for punishment and so is he.

The very definition of funny and sad.

Apparently I slipped and I'm in trouble with everyone, though they're having trouble being mad at me since I look like I've been in a prizefight today, the explanation for which is the dumbest one you will ever hear.

I tried a Breathe-Right strip last night after complaints that my congested self kept certain people awake. Once I managed to pry the fucking thing off in the shower this morning it left a lovely bruise under each eye. It's just wonderful. And I still was noisy so it was all for nothing.

And I don't own concealer so I get to own this look today. Why don't I? You ask. Easy, I answer.

I tossed everything but my Diorshow mascara (waterproof, I'M NOT A TOTAL IDIOT) and my Dior Addict lipstick (Incognito for day, Bellissima for night). That's it. Fuck the rest. JESUS. Life is too short for all this fucking crap and I'm too old to figure out primer/spackle/highlighter/contour/blush/eyeshadow/liner/settingspray/bronzer/magicwands/goodlighting.

I mean, get a grip. It's a face, not a craft project. 

So the trouble I'm in is for agreeing to help Caleb, who doesn't need my help but wants it and I willingly spoil him without knowing exactly why. Stockholm syndrome. Masochistic tendencies. I don't know. It depends on who you ask.

Maybe I just have trouble being mad at him, because he looks like Cole.  And I was going to make a very bad joke here about soon not having to work for Caleb to make some extra money after I become the rich inventor of Grieve-Right strips that you affix to your broken heart every night to help you sleep but then they'd probably all just call in reinforcements and medicate me and I still have a ton of work to do today.

Maligning magnates, making mischief, marking Mondays, missing ministers....er...argh..

And I looked to see that it was she
Just some abandoned little crook like me
Adieu, adieu, and fare thee well
This was the ending, please

Oh, whoa...
I was attached on bended knee
But I declined my leave

But who could blame
A fraction of her being?
She is cheesy, she is scrawny
With her uncanny styling
I'm teasing, she is pleasing
She just has no wit

I'm singing as I pull blackberry vines. You know the neat thing about blackberries is the birds bring me the seeds and then I spend several hours a week pulling the plants out. The birds get food, I get strength training. Some of these vines go five feet into the ground. If you don't pull them out they take over. It looked weird last summer when I had blackberries and roses together. The grapevines are starting to sprout at last too, and soon I'll be run off my feet with yard work, which I couldn't keep up with if I tried but I'm anxious to be as stubborn as possible teaching myself to use the electric trimmer (I've got the lawn mower down pat now) and not allowing anyone to help. So there are deep grooves along the edges of the property where I removed the long bits of grass and the short bits and everything else too so I'll just plant some grass seed and water it well, okay? Shhhhh.

Then we'll check the trees that will produce three, maybe five tiny salty, dented rotten apples if any at all and the lilac which isn't doing anything at all yet except doubling in width and it ate a blooming something-or-other that was beside it and is now under it. My green thumb is possibly out of control.

On the upside the roses always look beautiful.

Lochlan is laughing at my choice of song (but nothing else, trust me, crabby crabby boy) but there are so few songs that I like to sing that fit a warm sunny day like this one, that I can actually hit all the notes, remember all the words and not drive everyone batshit in the process. Because earlier today I spooled up some Fleetwood Mac and was reprimanded with several of my nicknames in varying degrees of caution, from at least a half dozen different boys.

I got frustrated and I finally asked the nearest person (Caleb) if he had any requests.

He looked up, annoyed. Whatever you like, Bridge.

Ah. I see. He is bent out of shape today because Luke was unceremoniously dismissed this morning after pulling out his phone once too often, taking a picture of a painting Caleb has in his living room, posting it on Instagram and having the nerve to say since he can't take pictures of the hot boss's girlfriend (what. the. He didn't say the boss's hot girlfriend. Oh, you thought I was surprised at the girlfriend part? Ha, we'll just save that for another day now, shall we?) that he can take a photo of a painting of her.

No...no, sweetheart, you actually can't.

Caleb took the phone from him, deleted every photo of me, the house, and everything else that didn't belong to Luke and told him he better learn a thing or two about discretion or the only job he will ever have will be the kind that pays ten dollars an hour and certainly doesn't involve anything worth instagramming, if he is still able to afford a phone at all.

 I think Luke gets it now. Some lessons you have to learn the hard way.

And I actually called the agency on Caleb's behalf because I'm not sure which one of us was more angry at that point and Caleb decided to take the day off after that. Some Mondays just don't start even when you pull and pull on the rope. Sometimes the rope just comes off the reel, and with nothing to turn the crankshaft, well, you're just fucked. So it's a short week already because he's already said several times that this is the worst week for this to happen, that he has a trip scheduled for Thursday.

And so...Caleb has promised me a thousand dollars an hour to get him up to date because I didn't realize how much work there was. I'm thinking Luke did NOTHING except openly gape while he was here. That won't happen again.

So tomorrow I'll put on one of those 'too tight for the amount of chocolate cake I have had in the past two days' dresses and go and see how long I can stretch out my workday! Maybe by the end of the week I'll have enough to replace my car, and he'll have had time to find a replacement assistant.

Somewhere right now, I'm sure Jasper is breathing a sigh of relief at not having to deal with Luke again.  I should have taken my cues from him but damn, he's such a sullen bastard all the time.But maybe it's in the job description. Only those who are truly petulant can be effective at managing people of this caliber. Or maybe I'm just wishing Jasper was easier to deal with because I'm already dreading tomorrow. No amount of ridiculous pay in the world will make that go away.

Unless..

Unless I start instagramming every fucking thing I do. Which, well last time I did that they shut me down, they just couldn't send me back because there was nowhere to send me to.

Today is my birthday and here's what we did:

Permanent brain damage (paint fumes and sugar).

Apples don't fall far away from their trees, especially when it comes to being weird on purpose. We're cleaning up from lunch, talking about books, talking to Henry about The Outsiders. I read it when I was a kid, Ruth read it last year, Henry will read it next year. Lochlan walked in and caught the end of the conversation and he asked Ruth if she was a Greaser or a Soc.

She smiled and said, Neither. I'm a wizard.

***

Caleb stares down at me at I struggle to keep my hair out of my lipgloss. This would be easier if it were longer and I could tie it back sufficiently, of course but my hair grows slowly, probably because my body puts so much effort into quiet resignation and anxiousness. Everything else suffers. Especially the teeny-tiny chignon I barely pulled off today.

Look at your freckles. 

Mmm. 

I love them. 

Great. 

Tomorrow is a big day.

Mmmhmmm.

I see you and Benjamin made amends. 

Yes. 

You know what's interesting to me is how hard you work to chase those who are far too broken to be of much use, let alone help to you and then you completely deny me and the fact that our inner demons play so well together. 

He reaches out to touch my face and I flinch and take a step backward, only there's no more dock, only water and he grabs me before I fall.

I can anticipate your every move. 

Calculate, or even engineer, you mean. 

If only to shed some light on things you can't see that are so obvious, Princess. 

You're definitely a Soc and I'm a Greaser.

What?

***


I finished painting the movie theatre room. All of it. By myself. Rage moved the furniture but exhaustion couldn't put it back so I have to wait for the boys to do it. I have weird pains on my triceps and quadriceps from standing on the second-to-the-top rung of the step ladder so that I could lean against it and cut in along the ceiling. I used a chocolate brown shade and it looks rich and warm, like a cave.

All week long the boys made jokes about me remodeling the Man Cave and I didn't break their hearts and remind them it's my favorite room too, nor did I bother pointing out that the term 'Man Cave' makes me think they mean vagina, though I suppose with some of the boys I might be a little off with regards to that one...
 

Armistice and amphigory.

Almost two weeks since we got home, mere days left in the countdown to my birthday and we have hardly seen each other. He would say he was busy, and besides, I gave you Lochlan, and I would say that he's not too busy to make an effort and that they are not interchangeable. They are different. Opposites. Required.

But then I see his eyes appear over the top of my book last night. Melted chocolate. Scalded caramel. Roasted coffee bean.

Bumblebee. He says without inflection and I keep on reading. God, what a little bitch. What a hurting, miserable, self-conscious little wounded animal.

He tries again. Bee-Git. Beeootiful. Beef-stricken-unicorns? His eyebrows go up and I laugh out loud but keep reading.

He takes a deep breath and starts talking and I pretend I'm not listening but I hear every word as he details his promises quietly, humbly, carelessly. Promises that are meant to soothe temporarily but not to keep. Things he wishes he could achieve but can't, ways he wished he was but isn't. And then he gets to the end and instead of stopping he decides to wrap it all up in a bow of blame, saying if he thought I actually needed him he would be here but since I have others, he's not feeling bad in the least.

Wait..what?

I am so surprised I drop my book to my lap and frown at him. Do I know you? I ask, with a completely confused expression.

It's enough.

FUCK, he yells. Oh, that's nice. Heavy footsteps sound on the stairs within seconds and he goes out into the hall and tells whoever came up to check that it's okay. We're fine. He's just frustrated.

Huh. So am I.

He comes back in and sits in front of me again. He takes my book, turning down the page and drops it on the floor. Then he takes my hands and pulls them up to his lips. He closes his eyes.

I'm not good at having to answer to someone. 

It's been five years. You were never this bad before. 

I figure you don't need me. Then I compound it by figuring you're not interested when I come home, even. Then I make it ten times worse by burying myself in more work to offset all those feelings. 

Well that's dumb. 

Tell me about it. It's a self-fulfilling prophecy. 

God, I hate those. 

Me too. It's my worst nightmare and it's probably inevitable. 

No it isn't. 

You write such sweet things about Loch. 

I distract myself.

You miss me. 

So bad, Tucker. 

Our eyes are all glass, no focus now.

Hey, you remembered who I was! 

Fancy that! Why did you come up anyway? I thought you wouldn't be home until hours from now. 

Then suddenly his face morphs back into the elastic psycho I know and love. I heard there was a rock star up here sans pants and I figure there's only room for one of those in this house. 

Oh my God. Ben. Hahaha, please don't tell me you didn't wear any-

Then he dropped his pants. And he's right. There's only room for one of those, because it's huge.

The parts of me that aren't total mush are metal.

I have tickets to Black Sabbath.

Maybe I can lure the beast out with these.

Without a shine? Blasphemy. He has several!

Oh, well, Lochlan has informed me that he thought I was screaming on the Ferris wheel because he was such a rock star.

Which..

Here's the thing. From the time I was a very little girl I just assumed that Lochlan was positively magical. So he didn't actually have to do anything to impress me. I figured he could do everything already.

But don't tell him that, because rock stars have the BIGGEST EGOS AROUND.

Oh, look. Here's Ben now, speaking of ghosts egos rock stars. I'll have to make this short. I'm also so high right now. Paint fumes. Jesus. I saw you today.

In other news, Sam and Matt (just Matt, thanks, he keeps correcting me and does not like to be called Matthew. Okay. I get it. Sort of. Okay, no, not really. Matt is what's by the front door. And the back door. And the dumb nail polish they sell at Sephora that isn't shiny so it looks like you've already ruined your manicure) are just about all moved in and all awkward grins and excited goofiness! They're ADORABLE.

PJ is complaining that the 'girls' on the point almost outnumber the boys now.

I smile at him completely unsympathetically. Not if I can help it. 

God, Bridget. You're impossible. 

No, I'm a rock star, dammit. Just like everybody else!

Okay, got it, Bridget. Don't get your panties in a bunch. 

I'm not wearing any. Also, I need an aspirin.

As clear as the sun in the summer sky: the formative song series begins.

Toward the end of the night when I got tired (and it was already long past my usual bedtime) Loch would switch to running easy rides, usually the Ferris wheel. I would sit in one of the cars and go around and around and around. My favorite part was when it ran forward and I would come over the top and get that feeling of falling. I would see Lochlan and he would either make faces at me or sing along with whatever song was playing. I would laugh. I made myself note that this, THIS was my life and everything was perfect.

I still haven't learned to not scream when it comes down. 

By the time the summer was over it was a well-entrenched habit and I've probably spent more time on a Ferris wheel than I have on the ground, truth be told.

My favorite, best, most amazing memory is the time I came over the top and Lochlan wasn't there. But on the next round he was, holding a tiny bouquet of wildflowers out to me, belting out the chorus of More Than a Feeling. I grinned and then I screamed when I fell.

I only saw him sing one line before I was pulled under the wheel and up around again.

I begin dreaming

He has that line tattooed on his hand. He never tells anyone why, though. Now you know. He used to sing all the time and then he stopped. He stopped for a very long time, and now he finally sings again.

Kill it. Kill it with sugar.

This does not need any words because it's cake. Mini-cake. Early-birthday-cake. Piglet-cake. Cake for a Piglet. Three syllables, Pigalet, if you have a very thick accent. Nom nom nom.

Everything in writing/The heartkeeper.

Today I was handed a large manila envelope. Oh. Legal business.

Inside, a half plea/half threat not to type any further into the past, in exchange for reverting back to the proposal conditions that I agreed to originally and not whatever Caleb had detailed in the unread contents of the envelope Lochlan burned.

Amazing what it takes to keep Caleb under control.

Amazing what it takes to keep me there.

And tucked between the pages of my order to Fleece & Insist was another fucking dark grey envelope! The nerve! I was so pissed I opened it on the spot.

Wish I hadn't. It's so easy to have to comply and so difficult to be asked to consider.

Headlights and homophones.

Lock.

Loch.

So much for gentle lions gathering the sheep
All I wanted was something safe
Show me your ungrateful tyrants
I'll point out the mirror, point to you
This is where forever gets us, immoral wishes and oblivion
I can't stay
I don't need the conflagration
I don't need the hate and I don't need you

The more time I spend with Caleb, the harder it is to keep him out of my dreams at night.

Sadly he is always twenty years old to my sleeping brain, and I am always terrified. Last night I woke up and I was pounding Lochlan with my fists, telling him to let go. Keening at him with a noise I can't hear and one that he never wants to hear again.

I don't look forward to the dark any more than Loch does. He is having a rough night too. He drags me in close until I am pressed hard against his skin, my face resting against his shoulder. He pulls us up and sits with his arms around me, his back against the headboard. His lips bump against mine. He whispers things but I don't know what they are. I can't even hear them well enough to tell which language he's using. I wrap my arms around his neck and hold on tight but he never lets me get more than a hair's breadth away from him. It's excruciatingly slow and hard and amazing. Physical comfort drags psychological peace behind it heavily, stubbornly. Thankfully.

Eventually we lie back down and he whips the covers back up over us. He nestles in behind me, his lips on the back on my neck, his sweet foreign words forgotten in a haze of weariness. I am drifting back to the memories, in spite of being safe, wedged in the middle of the big bed between hearts, arms in a tug of sleep, trying to see who can appear to care the most without even being conscious and all of it completely worthless against what my mind will find in the night.

I don't know what it was but I think my actions triggered something that made the Devil almost unobtrusively snap. I had opened the door, we were having a conversation. I was enjoying being taller, for once, since he was standing in the grass outside the door and I was only one step down into the camper doorwell, holding the handle with my left hand and the doorframe with my right. He was smiling. He was a little bit drunk. Not too much, just enough to be a little more charming and handsome than usual. It wasn't until he asked how long Lochlan was going to be gone that a bead of panic shot right through my skull and I shut the door, locking it in the same motion. He was surprised. Stunned, I think. An eternity passed and I held my breath, staring at the lock. Staring at the clock. Calculating the strength of a cheap aluminum latch against the minutes left before Lochlan would be back at the camper. I didn't have time.

Through the door Caleb tells me I'm making a mistake, that he's not dangerous. That I don't have to be afraid of him. That everything is okay, I can come out and we'll light a fire and have some chips or something and wait for Lochlan.

Twelve-year-olds are one trusting, naive bunch. Besides, he tells me to grab a sweater, it's getting cooler now that it's dark. Monsters never look out for your well-being. right?

My renewed confidence makes me profoundly foolish. If only I had known when I opened that door that I would spend the rest of my life being chased by memories that are capable of catching me before I can even begin to run, I wouldn't have opened it at all.

Aloe and copper pennies.

Last night I watched as Lochlan set the envelope on fire without it having been opened first. I watched the joy and concern flicker in his eyes in time with the flames.

Last night I sat patiently on the bathroom counter as he cut my bangs. I watched the determined set of his mouth as he worked to get them straight, not too short, just touching my bottom eyelashes. Once they hit the bottom of my nose he gets irritated and anxious to keep me twelve. Keep me innocent. Bangs aren't innocent, they are hiding places but he does it anyway.

Last night I feel asleep in his arms, curled away from him toward the cool flesh of a dreaming Benjamin. Loch put his forehead down against the back of my neck, pressed my back against his chest and wrapped his hands around my kneecaps, same as ever. We sleep as if we are jumping into water. Tandem rope swings. Childhood escape.

Last night I realized history is not a hazy catalogue of memories but a list of tasks you must complete over and over again until you get it right. Our memories are our closest efforts, our almosts, our good-enough-for-nows. Pretty sure there's a reason half my life has passed and he is still making it easier for me to see, easier for me to sleep and easier for me to live.

He is what I need to get right, I think. He's burning down the bad parts one by one while I keep touching the fire, like a child, because it's mesmerizing, hypnotic and warm.

Like you, he says. Just like you.

Fifty shades of gay.

Maybe I can make them take their shirts off and fight to the death.

That would be something. But then Luke might break a nail and Jasper would become rumpled. God forbid, we can't have broken nails and rumpled girls. That's my department.

And you're wondering who these people even are.

Jasper is Batman's assistant. He does all of Batman's dirty work, except for the Epic Mafiaesque Gun Battles and Forties-style Gentleman Fistfights (Batman does his own stunts). Jasper does things like make phone calls and deliver notes and schedule meal reservations, real estate agents and flights. He picks up dry cleaning and fresh coffee beans. He warns me when Batman is in a bad mood even though personally I think Jasper truly and honestly hates my guts.

Luke is brand-new. He's still in his wrapping, this one. He's a temp, functioning as Caleb's personal assistant this week because I refuse to show up anymore and Caleb can't do all of the 'ridiculous' (his words) parts of life like running errands and keeping organized by himself anymore. Luke will need to free his hands from that plastic and peel off his price tag so he can get to work already but no, he is standing there scowling handsomely at Jasper, who also hates Caleb but has to drop off some papers because business paths still cross just enough keep 'em tight, keep 'em close.

I think it's Jasper. He doesn't seem to get along with anyone. I'm trying to play his tough angle off the fact that maybe he has a chip on his shoulder because he can't open that closet door far enough to express his love for his boss.

Because, dude. We've all been there. Batman's a catch with a capital B.

But I think Luke might have lost a bet to even get to this place where he will file Caleb's bank statements for hours on end and answer the phone that never rings because Caleb forgets and just uses his personal phone for work. That or the pay was so good and the proximity to greatness so ridiculous that maybe we should all have our guard up? The agency is very professional, the people are vetted, so they are used to working for money and for fame and for washed up bullshitters who used to be someone relevant but at the same time I don't think Luke is old enough to know what discretion even means, let alone how to wield it. Twice now I've warned him if he Instagrams one more facet of my life I'm going to eat his phone. 

Caleb called me down to ask if I would just show Luke where everything is and then Jasper showed up and it's like a reluctant secretary party suddenly.

I sweetly ask Caleb if I will be paid for my time as well and he smiles that goofy, trying-not-to-laugh smile that he uses when he wants to disarm someone completely (IT WORKS. EVERY. DAMN. TIME.) and he says that he was just thinking of that, handing me a pewter envelope.

He's like a pornographic process server. Luke wants to know what it is. Oh my God this kid is so green and curious he's practically growing moss. I ignore his adorableness and address his new boss. Jasper leaves without even saying goodbye. JUST like Batman always does.

I think we've met your quota for this quarter, Boss. 

In with the invitation is an updated print-out of my new terms and conditions. 

Don't I get to approve them before you just arbitrarily make changes? 

No, Bridget, you do not.

So what does this mean, exactly? 

You're the legendary reader of fine print. I'm sure you'll have time to go over everything sufficiently before we meet. 

What if I don't?

Then I guess, my dear Princess, you will be in for a surprise. He turns and leaves the room, pulling his ringing phone out of his pocket and putting it to his ear. I stare at his back. I don't even..I don't even know what he's up to now.

Luke comes up and stands beside me, watching admiring his physique as Caleb walks down the hall. He looks down at me excitedly. So, are you guys ACTUALLY royalty?

Oh, I remember the heavily sedated posts. He doesn't.

(If these posts make you uncomfortable, then I don't know what to tell you. I'm not a whole lot better, there's just many more days between me and the hard parts. Or something. Thanks for keeping up with everything though. It must be frustrating to be a reader of my words. Almost as frustrating as it must be to be one of my friends.)

I've been figured out, haha. The air isn't air, it's anxiety and everyone else has a helmet on into which oxygen is pumped to keep them motivated, alive and calm. Relaxed even. My helmet is broken. I'm getting no air, just pure anxiety. My blood anxiety levels are so high I've gone past the toxic range and into mutation mode. As in, I'm probably going to grow limbs out of my brain any second now. I hope they can type. And run.

Gee, that's a great description of me. If it wasn't so spot-on I'd be really pissed at New Jake for telling me it at all.

He tells me all of this as we drink forbidden afternoon coffee and he gets to be the victim of my mental load out.

This is what happens when you're a soft, friendly face who says How are you really doing, Bridget?

You get tears and the hiding of the little streaked face and blubbery sweet lies that everything is fine and then it falls apart faster than I can stick the pieces back on, licking the backs, hating the taste but determined to hold my shit together so they don't think I can't handle life.

I can handle anything.

Except when I can't.

But the other thing I can't handle is everyone standing there looking down at me with that awful mixture of adoration and sympathy. Like, yeah, you're so tough, little girl. I'd be dead by now. 

Yes, I know.

I'm trying to find the silver linings but my playbook is missing. Ben probably ate it on his way to work.

Cue more sympathy, since I knew what I was getting into but it still sucks. Especially since he's not really working, he's avoiding, which is different but he insists it's the same.

Oh, okay. Gotcha, Tucker. Carry on.

New Jake has been dispatched to try and deal with the worst of the fears today. Mostly because my panic over Sam moving in has reached a fever pitch. Because my panic over Ben's crushing, omnipresent absence is destroying me. Because my panic over Caleb and Lochlan's three-decade tug of war never gives me a moment's peace.

So it's panic. Maybe I have a panic disorder. It's so pretty. Put it in the bouquet with the other mental flowers and I will leave them on display in the front hall so everyone who comes into the house will know that I am loved.

And neurotic as all hell.

They do make some mild pills for this sort of thing, Bridget. 

(Right. Even my allergy pills, taken so sporadically I don't know why I bother, turn me into a living, breathing...brick.) Jake. You're new, right?

Relative to the others, yes. 

Ask them what pills do for me and then come up with something else, okay?

Science has advanced. There's probably something better by now. 

If Science was sitting on a risk-free emotional lobotomy for me all this time and never said anything, well, then, I'm never talking to Science again. 

This is why you don't take pills, isn't it?

What do you mean?

You're weird and wonderful this way. Maybe that's why no one pushes you. They like you all fucked up and jittery and hilarious and creative.

Yup, that's it. Hey, did I ask you if you were new yet?

Yes. 

And you answered me, right?

I tried to. 

Okay then just stop now. I can't take anymore. And please take Science with you, the bastard.

Bridget-

Helmet is full, can't hear you. Bye.

Love you, Bridget.  I just want to help you. I love it when you smile. You're so pretty.

Okay, you can stay.

Least talented soul on the point, I swear.

This is embarrassing. My parents are home from the Cape and so I asked my mom to take a picture of the painting for me. The one described in this post less than a week ago.

You people don't deserve me. Hell, clearly the entire ART WORLD does not deserve me.

Please be kind. I was fourteen! Times have changed.

Yeesh, here already.

Would you just LOOK at those waves crashing on the shore. I was just there too and it looks nothing like that.

Cold confessions.

One week left until Sam and Matt are supposed to be moving into Lochlan's old set of rooms and I have cold feet. They must be contagious. Everything is ready for them. We even painted. The only problem is the thought of Sam having completely unrestricted access to the part of my brain that I tend to keep from him. The insane, fucked-up part. The self-doubting, miserable part that he probably can see anyway, looking right through my soul and out the other side with his magical god-glasses fixed in place.

But still. What if someone starts a fight? What if he and Matt hate it here? What if he decides maybe I'm even more fucked up than he remembers and calls in the heavyweights?

Jake did. Sam remembers that well. And I've had a hell of a free pass over the last five or six years in refusing to talk to anyone formally because I like my fuckedupedness just fine the way it is. Well, I don't but they didn't help much as it was. Sam helps. If I can talk to Sam I do okay mostly.

Mostly.

***

This morning over breakfast at the boathouse (Dad's turn), Henry suggested that it would be really cool if maybe I married Caleb too and then we could all be a big family like, for REAL.

(For the record we've explained repeatedly to Henry that Lochlan isn't actually legally married to anyone. It's symbolic. It's okay, I didn't really get that at eleven either.)

Before I could say anything or even get my chin up off the floor Caleb swooped in and grinned at Henry, telling him that it wouldn't work, because if he married me, he would want me all for himself and everyone else would have to be left out.

Henry, without missing a beat or even pausing to think, said that it wouldn't work then because Lochlan and mommy have been in love like FOREVER and that can't be undone so nevermind.

The look on Caleb's face was worth it. So, so worth it.

Slowly I told Henry we're a family regardless, while Caleb glowered at me from the other side of the table. It was awesome.

(No, I don't coach Henry to devastate his father. Shit happens. Kids know more than you think they do, always.)

***

For those asking, Lochlan is doing just fine. For a fire-breathing red-headed Scottish psychopath, I mean.

No, he wasn't very happy at all that Ben took me on a little trip.

Yes, he was very happy when I came back.

But apparently before we left he and Ben had an entirely different conversation than what I was led to believe and of course no one will elaborate. I'm getting nowhere.

When we came home, Ben went right back to work (as in, so fast I had to unpack his things for him) and Lochlan cleared his schedule so we could velcro (not my word, PJ has coined my ability to stick on people until they peel me off) for a while and yet he's not talking much. He did say he's mad that I have such a huge allegiance to someone who isn't here all that much.

And of course, I thought he meant Jake and just made things THAT. MUCH. BETTER.

Fml.

(Stop sending me emails telling me you wish you had my problems. No, you fucking don't wish for this. Trust me.)

Rapid apple movement.

Consider this
Consider this, the hint of the century
Consider this, the slip
That brought me to my knees, failed
What if all these fantasies come
Flailing around
Now I've said too much

Pretty sure that Caleb left this on the stereo on purpose when he went into the other room to take a call.

Yup, pretty sure.

He already lit into me early on about how ridiculous this whole thing is.

What thing? I asked. Because I didn't sleep and I have no idea if he means the weather, the election or my master plan to turn the backyard into a huge vegetable garden.

This thing where Ben uses Lochlan and I and our collective history as a justification to keep you for himself.

Do we need to do this today?

Yes, maybe we fucking well should!

Then the phone rang so I had all kinds of time to process the swearing, the yelling and the pure unchecked frustration from someone who usually has his shit together better than the rest of us.

Just not today.

***

You said a bad word! 

I can if I want. I'm an adult now. I'm Eighteen. I bet you're not allowed to swear yet, right, Bridget?

No not yet. Dad says when I'm eighteen I can say whatever I want. 

Good idea. But if you don't want me to swear around you, I won't. I mean, you're only nine. You don't need to hear ugly words yet. 

It's not that the words are ugly. I think they're kind of funny. But when you say them you sound so mean, Caleb.

Then I won't use them around you. 

I shrug and continue trying to eat the candy apple that he brought me. I can't get my mouth open wide enough to get any of it and my face is covered with sticky red syrup.

Do you want me to cut that up for you? 

Yes, please. 

It's going to be strange when you grow up, Bridget. If you think about it, you're exactly half my age but someday you'll be closer in years to me. Like when I'm fifty, you'll be forty-one so we'll be almost the same. 

You probably won't be around when you're that old. You'll forget you knew me. Thank you, I tell him as he passes me a slice of apple carefully, since his pocket knife is in the same hand.

You never know but I won't forget you. Maybe we'll still hang out. 

That would be neat. I could cut your fruit for you because you'll be really old and have dentures or something. 

Fuck, I hope not. Oh, sorry. I forgot to say something nicer. 

Say fudge! 

Fudge it is. Though it's going to sound weird in a minute when Loch gets here and I tell him to fudge off. 

Then just leave him alone already! You guys fight over EVERYTHING. 

No, just one thing. 

What is it?

Someday you'll figure it out. When you're older. 

Edward and Bella AKA Matt and Sam (says the brat in her Team Jacob shirt. ROTFL.)

(I think something's wrong with me. I'm never this cheerful. Like, EVER.)

The only thing we know for sure is the song we're using.

Tell me! 

A Thousand Years. 

Fuck off, Samuel. 

I'm serious. 

The song from...Twilight? 

Yes. 

But you're not vampires and you haven't loved each other for a thousand years. 

We have vampire friends. Does that count?

Maybe. What about the time frame? We're not talking about a little padding to round it off, you haven't even been together for a thousand weeks.

A thousand days?

Nope. Well, maybe by the time you actually have a WEDDING, Sam. What a great song. I'm going to cry when you walk down the aisle. I will anyway but if you play this it will be my full-on ugly cry.

Maybe I'll be waiting instead. I told you we haven't figured any of this out yet. 

Oh, I have. You're the girl. 

Should I wear a dress then?

Only if you really want to Twilight this bitch to death. 

I don't think I'm up for that. I get hives just thinking about planning a wedding again. 

Why? 

Too many details. 

That's what friends are for, to help with the little things. 

So far you've trashed my song choices, told me I'm the girl in this relationship and suggested we theme the whole wedding to match a movie you hated. I don't think so, Bridge.

I didn't hate the movie! 

What part didn't you hate?

The theme song. Haven't you been paying attention? I freaking LOVE that song. So you'd better hurry up and get married or I will and use it before you can. 

Who would you marry this time?

Myself, because I'm that awesome. 

Well, someone woke up on the right side of the bed this morning. 

That's because I'm ALWAYS the girl, Sam.

Hide your fantasies.

Since I never push cake away, as mentioned last week, I have found the ACTUAL first two signs of the apocalypse.

1. The Leafs made the playoffs. (I won around eight hundred dollars in bets from that right there, PAY UP, BOYS!)

2. Jerry Cantrell CUT HIS HAIR. Which just...oh my God. What if the next time I see him I don't recognize him? Some things just should not change. Someone hold me.

If there's a third sign today, I don't want to know. Yes, I realize Stone Temple Pilots fired Scott, I kept hoping that if I refused to acknowledge it, they might take him back, kiss it better, make things right. It hasn't happened BUT IT WILL. Eventually right? Not like they haven't done this a couple of times before.

Guess who's home?

My very first scenic oil-painting attempt was in 1985. Cole was painting on the patio of his parents house and I was sacked out inside (out of the sun) clicking around the cable channels and I stopped on an episode of The Joy of Painting.

Ironic.

I watched all twenty minutes of it and then I stood up. Fuck it, I thought. I can do that.

So I went out and asked Cole if I could do a painting too. He thought that was great. Seventeen and fourteen painting together. I turned my easel around so he couldn't see it and demanded all of the bright colors. He pointed to the paint and asked if I needed any help.

I didn't. Of course.

I was finished in an hour, thanks to Bob Ross's epic shortcuts. Fan brush dipped in semicircles on the canvas? Great palm tree leaves. I used a big fat brush to blend, blend, blend until my rainbow sky was perfect. And then I turned my canvas around to proudly show Cole my tropical beach painting.

He lied and said it was amazing. I thought it was amazing too until I took a painting workshop a few years later and then came back and thought, what an abomination!

Lochlan had a whole different view. He thinks every little thing I think, draw or write is an unspoken wish that should be picked, harvested as soon as possible, fulfilled. All signs are true. She needs something, he thinks. Every damned time.

You want to go somewhere warm when you grow up? No more cold, east-coast rainy foggy seashores?

No, I'd rather be at a cold seashore with lots to see and do than lie on a beach somewhere under a cliche palm tree soaking up the rays. SO boring.

That abomination now hangs in the laundry room of my parent's house in Halifax. My mom thinks it's 'cheerful'. I'm going to have to ask her to take a picture of it so I can show you.

And that brings me to my next point, because unlike most days, I have one.

Ben does not like to do 'things' when he is not working. He is happy lying...under a cliche palm tree soaking up the rays.

Boring. Gah.

I got into it, got rested up for a whole two days before getting restless with a capital B. I was wiggly, fidgety, disruptive and distressed. I would have climbed the walls if they had been made of actual building materials instead of hard woven grass. I would have gone for a walk if only there was somewhere to go outside of the circle of sand. I would have gone for a drive but we were boated here from a larger island with an airport. I contemplated making a big SOS in the sand for a plane to take me away but then I realized I didn't really want to leave Big Ben the Sloth behind so I finally went for a swim.

Ben was dripping off the edge of the hammock, asleep in the sun. I sprayed him down with Sunblock 3000000 before I changed into my suit. Then on my way past him a second time I opted to cover him with three towels instead. He's not awake. I don't have the heart to wake him up, I don't get to see him much when he's doing nothing. Come to think of it most of the time if he's not doing something he's asleep.

The water was cold comfort. Not only was it freezing but growing up the boys left me with an incredible fear of what's under the surface. I have difficulty being in deep water because of the Loch Ness monster...which I will leave to your imagine but it's REAL and it has red hair and it can hold its breath for an eternity, or what seems like an eternity to a perpetual child so nevermind. Adding to all this baggage,  I'm not supposed to swim alone because I also have a gift for being unable to gauge how tired I'll be for the swim back.

Since I can't outswim my frustrations I come back into shore. I march as fast as I can up to the cottage (which takes about fifteen minutes in deep sand and I look like a graceless walrus doing it, thanks) to find that Ben is awake! He is inside the master bedroom pulling our things out and packing our bags.

Which..what?

Hey! I tell him. (Maybe we can do something?! Hey let's do stuff. Wanna snorkel? We should snorkel. Wanna slow dance? Maybe we should eat first. Let's play cards. My brain is doing that but my mouth is all cool and just says Hey.)

Fucking mouth. Traitor.

You don't have to say it. Our time is up anyway. 

What do you mean? (For once I'm waiting for him to talk. Like, completely.)

Three things. I have to get back to work, I am acutely aware that removing you from Lochlan for any more than a couple of days is dangerous for all involved, and yes, I've been around long enough to know the story of the tropical beach painting and precisely how you feel about languishing under a palm tree for much more than a couple of days. I just...I just needed a few days with you. Alone. Somewhere sunny for once because jesus, living in the rain forest is tough, bee. 

I shrink down to thimble size, drowning in a tiny instant sea of guilt and remorse at high tide. I don't even know if he can hear me from down here but I try anyway.

I'm sorry, Benny. 

He turns and smiles at me, picking me up between his thumb and his forefinger. Don't be, baby. I know the drill and I got what I wanted and you got some sleep and we crossed off a bucket list item and it's good. Okay? Relax. Besides, we can fight on the plane the whole way home if you want or we can just watch movies again. 

(Because NO. The plane is stocked with Tim Burton movies and just NO.)

I think I'll take a boat home, Ben.

But what about the leviathans and sea monsters and giant-

FINE! FINE! I'll go on the plane! Just no more Dark Shadows. 

Sweeney Todd?

Fuck, no, Ben! 

Frankenweenie?

Well....maybe.

(For those wondering about the bucket list item, it was not renting a private island. It was having sex in a hammock in broad daylight. So there. Yeah yeah, hi mom.)

Sober/sunburned/submissive.

So we had all of the alcohol removed, asked if we could just plan to eat al fresco for the rest of our time here, every meal,  traded bad jokes with the staff (who are AMAZING) and spend all of our time melting into the hammock. It's gigantic. Ben got up once and I was flung up over the clouds and caught on the way back down, that's how big it is.

They're going to have to burn it when we leave.

We've almost made up too. Almost. I see it on the horizon anyway. So in honor of not planning to waste another second away from that hammock, away from him, here's a rare repost, from my archives that I took down when I had grand plans to stop writing the blog. I'm still here. Still writing. Enjoy. Maybe see you tomorrow. Maybe another repost. Muhahahaha. It's cheesy and amazingly naive, given the circumstances but you can read it anyway. If I could change the past I certainly wouldn't start with revisions of my writing.

Sunday, April 20, 2008
To hold.

If there's one thing about me that you know for sure, it's that I only skip a day of posting when I am away. So, sorry, but I was away yesterday.

Getting married.

I got married, Internet. I married Ben. Sigh. Do you want to know what he said that changed my mind? He told me this:

Maybe you would feel less like his if you were mine.

He told me that the night he came home to find me sitting on the floor in the front hall covered in ashes and sobbing my heart out, and it's a sentence that I couldn't argue with if I tried. I don't want to try.

I haven't slept since forever. I haven't stopped smiling. I...I don't even know where to begin or how to explain or why I feel as if I need to continually justify this rather Elizabeth-Tayloresque turn my life seems to have taken.

A third husband, and all before I am even forty years old? Ben will be forty this December and for the record I am soon going to be a blisteringly ancient thirty-seven. Thirty-seven. Told I don't look a day over twenty-six. Do I believe them? Not on your life.

We started with prenuptial agreements and promises, through most of last week. Priorities. Me finding out that Ben started a trust fund in the children's names and they're wealthy because he didn't know what else to do with his money. And he can't touch my future earnings and I cannot touch his. We're just keeping things the way they are. His lawyers are paranoid, mine are not hopeful but we laughed anyway, after I found out he is way wealthier than I thought he was, and I have far more money than I did the last time we traded financial secrets, which would have been sometime long before I paid off his motorcycle and then to retaliate he put the money back in my account.

The ceremony took place last evening out by the creek on Nolan's farm, near picnic rock where Ben proposed. The children were there. The guys were all there. The woods were full of love and support and we recited our simple vows to Sam and cried a whole bunch and maintained a sort of incredulous joy that leaves me tearful even now.

We ate and drank and danced and cried and laughed and it was the most wonderful night ever. He...he's amazing. Giving and generous and caring and vulnerable to a fault. But instead of bringing out the worst in each other somehow we've managed to harvest the best. None of it is difficult or painful or unreal. All of it is beautiful. He's real. He's alive, he is healthy, he's forthright and passionate about the little things. He doesn't want to fix me, doesn't care if I am weak, he just wants to be with me.

He slipped his giant silver ring on my finger because he didn't have rings and told me I had to give it back, that we'd get real ones. I had to clench my fist all night to keep from losing it and when he noticed, he said we would go out and get them today. After lunch.

He asked if there was anything special he was supposed to know about being a husband. I told him I require a large glass of orange juice every night around eleven and he reminded me he said husband, not butler. I reminded him he said he would be the butler.

We've said a lot of words recently, we've dug deep and dug in hard, and a lot of that is so private I'm not writing about it, just know that we are very serious and this is very important and it wasn't a whim, in spite of our pretenses to make it appear to be one.

Ben is surprised at how this feels, far more wonderful than he ever thought it would, coming from someone who always viewed marriage as 'just a piece of paper'. It's never just a piece of paper. It's supposed to be a lifetime commitment to another person, through thick and thin, something we already have. Now we have the paper to prove it, that's all, a formal promise of commitment. A plan for a future together. No matter what.

He said he finally did the right thing. I said me, too. I'm not taking his last name and he's not adopting the kids until they are ready to have a say in the decision, though he is more than willing right now. We aren't moving very fast at all, despite what it seems.

He seems brave enough to be the man of this house, though sometimes he is as fragile as I am and I wonder how he ever wanted to be with me. He says he always wanted to be with me, that he was always vaguely sad that I didn't feel the same way before. I let him in on a little secret. I did, and quite often. I just never let it find the light of day, I never said anything. There's a ease to being with him that has never existed with anyone else. He's Ben and no one else is.

When I told Ben that he walked out of the room. Too cool to cry in front of Loch, I think. He came back and brought me with him to hold.

Everything's going to be okay.

Yeah...cheeeeeeeseballs.

A bitter half-decade and a private island with wi-fi.

I had all sorts of plans to post yesterday but then Ben did that thing where he walks in and says How would you like to...

And then I'm given fifteen minutes to pack, organize who's in charge of the children (Caleb, Loch or PJ depending on who has the most work so PJ hahaha) and have to round everyone up, hug them all and then I'm boarding a teeny-tiny plane and pretending I'm famous.

Which makes Ben laugh and laugh but really the only coping mechanism one has in these situations is all-out ham. Also squee! Because blue water!! Sunshine!!

Besides, he doesn't get it, he's not a mere mortal like the rest of us. Trips for him are shoving 5 black t-shirts into a bag and having someone wait on his every whim for months on end. Plan ahead? This guy? Never!

I'm not complaining. I'm in a place where I can exist in a string bikini.

(And sunblock 100 1000. We sparkle!)

But at this rate the best coping mechanism will soon be Xanax because it was a rough flight and a long day so instead of posting last night I got smashed at dinner and went lights out.

Because I CAN.

MAYBE HE LIKES IT.

And...maybe I'm still drunk this morning come to think of it. I don't even know what time it is. I don't care. We're having a little getaway, just me and Ben. This trip is to mark five years married to the biggest doofus on the planet (his words. For me.)

Five years!

Jesus.

I'm guessing later there will be a medal-presentation ceremony. He glared at me and told me they'll be giving him his medal first, because they are handed out in order of suffering.

Or dickishness, I said.

He laughed and told me that's what this trip is. A chance to make up for things because things have not been great and we are horrible and difficult and completely brutally honest with each other in a way that somehow makes the glue hold when the seams stretch. As far apart as we can get we're alike in ways that really freak me out and make me glad for him because in spite of his ridiculous view of life, he's good for me. Grounding. Safe. Sobering.

Okay well sometimes he's sobering but NOT RIGHT NOW because champagne! I have it.

(And he's been on the phone for half an hour. Working, with apologies. So yeah, I'll finish his champagne too because I told the staff we were dry and still they brought it 'in case we changed our minds'. Good plan! I'll deal with them when I finish this glass. Maybe.)

Charlie, you were right.

(I seem to have a reprieve from the hives of late, and therefore the allergy pills. Those pills leave me fumbling for words with which to even greet my boys so hurry, let's write while we still can.)

Lochlan didn't appreciate my turn as businesswoman yesterday. I was hoping to miss him as I came home, planning to change quickly and then track him down to show him I was still in one piece, though Caleb opted to suffer me through a two-hour lunch at a place that wanted to serve every course as a teaspoon of this or that with a dribble of contrast on a plate so large I found it comical by the third course and annoying by the fifth. I was called Mrs. C____ the whole morning too and he never corrected them even once.

I did, every single time.

The morning was too long.

So when we got home and Mike opened the door for me to exit, Lochlan was standing right there, having spent the last half-hour cleaning up the bikes and scooters for the kids, waiting, visibly. He was polishing his tools up to put away and he nodded at Mike, scowled at Caleb and then attempted to put on his 'it's okay' face for me as he took in my outfit, my white leather pencil skirt and black lace fitted sleeveless top with the white matching jacket. Black ankle boots, black bag. Crimson lipstick worn off. Hair straight. Lochlan lies and tells me I look nice when I know he wants to tell me I look like an alien and I point out I will change real quick and make him some lunch.

He mutters Not quick enough and goes back to tightening the seat on Ruth's bike. It keeps creeping down but I know his good arm isn't strong enough anymore and he's too proud to ask one of the others to do it for him.

I return in eight minutes flat and his mood improves considerably. My ripped jeans, eight years in, a navy blue t-shirt with the Beatles on the front, ponytail, no makeup, pink converse.

There she is, he says and smiles. For real this time.

I think I'm done here anyway, he says as he hits the button for the garage door and ducks out as it closes. You don't have to make me lunch, I can handle it. 

I look at his filthy hands. By the time you clean up, I'll have it ready, I tell him. Really I want to say Let me do it. Let me make this up to you.

When he comes back, still with dirty hands because it won't come off and it never did, I have two grilled cheese sandwiches and a bowl of sugared blueberries out for him. Coffee. He eats it so fast I don't get time to sit with him and then he asks me to consider the fact that whatever payday we'll get from the Devil might not be worth living in hell.

I think of my thousand-dollar leather skirt I didn't pay for versus standing in the rain trying to run a con to get a free meal and I wonder if he's right.

I hate it here too, I admit and Lochlan breaks into little pieces, all over the floor.

We're all going to die, all of us, what a circus! That alone should make us love each other but it doesn't. We are terrorized and flattened by trivialities, we are eaten up by nothing.
                ~Charles Bukowski

Bored meetings. No time.

And then I found out how hard it is to really change.
Even hell can get comfy once you've settled in.
I just wanted the numb inside me to leave.
No matter how fucked you get, there's always hell when you come back down.
The funny thing is all I ever wanted I already had.
There's glimpses of heaven in everything.
In the friends that I have, the music I make, the love that I feel.
I just had to start again.

I'm having coffee outside this morning and making notes. It's cool but I already stole John's hoodie that he left in our house yesterday, finding it looped over the back of my dining room chair, forgotten in his jovial dinner-drunk that he gets because over the years those of us left unscathed by addiction are pathetic lightweights and it makes me nothing but thrilled. A beer and a half and he loves everyone and forgets all his stuff. Then he goes home across the lawn and goes to bed.

Proper, good.

Besides, it's a Lamb of God hoodie, one of the hundred-dollar ones from the Metallica tour of 2009 that we saw. Should I keep it? I would except it's down to my knees.

Caleb is frowning at my attire. Sorry, I didn't think to be outside on my own patio that I needed to do much more than make sure I was dressed. Who cares what I'm in?

He does.

Besides the hoodie I have a black tank top. pink plaid flannel pajama shorts on and Ugg boots. Just because they were by the door. I wouldn't leave the grounds in them on anything but when it's too chilly for bare feet they work well.

Do you want to get ready?

I'm unemployed.

Yes but you're still required to attend the meetings. 

Whyeeeeeeeee?

Because I gave you everything, remember? Now you have to keep a tight ship. Plus you employ a lot of people who are depending on you for their own living and I don't accept you letting them down. 

They would not mind if I appeared in my pajamas to approve funds. Besides you're there running the ship anyway. Don't think we all can't see that.

It's respect, Bridget.

Take my name off everything.

I can't do that. Only you can at this point.

I hate you.

I have cake at my house.

I love you.

I'll be back to pick you in up twenty minutes. We can make up the time on the road. 

Why doesn't everyone come here? Why do we always have to go downtown?

Never mix work and home.

Even though you do it daily. Pot-kettle much?

At this rate if you don't start putting a little effort into it, I'm going to put you in a pot.

I hate y-

Cake.

Nevermind.

On eating Ptichye Moloko with my fingers.

• Lochlan started to make noises today indicating he might be suffering from abject normalcy. This is rarely something that goes away on its own and accounts for just about every rash or impulsive decision I have ever made, save for two.
• I paired my hearing aids with my phone. Just because. I also paired the cookie jar and the vacuum cleaner with the phone for fun. I don't even know what that means, save for the fact that if I did do it correctly, this will mark the first time ever that I spelled vacuum the right way in print so that completely negates the whole concept of hearing my phone calls from inside my head. What..we're not even going to GO there tonight.
• I spent the dinner hour with Caleb and the kids ignoring pasta in favor of Jenga. I did not win even once. Caleb finally told me this is what life would be like but also with more designer garb and transcontinental trips thrown in, more staff and less angst. More evil too? I asked quite innocently and he frowned and got up to put away the dishes. 
• I went home to have dessert with Ben, who thought we should share only I was like CHOCOLATE GIVE IT ALL TO MEEEEEE and refused to give him any and he pretended he wasn't hungry but I knew better. I ate it all. I feel terrible about that. Sort of. Okay, no. It was delicious.
• I learned Robax Platinum and generic Loratadine tablet are together the OTC equivalent of six margaritas quite by accident when I forgot I took an allergy pill and popped a muscle relaxant before bed last night (because boys and tired...body parts and NEVERMIND) All was well until I got up around three to go to the bathroom and almost keeled right into the fireplace.
• I know all the words to our entire Mastodon collection (which is slightly incomplete at five albums worth, I believe). They tested me. No, no, Mastodon didn't, Corey and PJ did. I think I passed. They looked a little surprised. They told Ben and he was all Pshaw, no way and then he quizzed me and now he's walking around all spooked and weird. Because first the chocolate and now this and he can only be thinking Who are you and what have you done with my bumblebee?

The bearded girl.

They left this morning. I said goodbye, they cried when they hugged the kids and me and Caleb, and they made a few completely on point cracks about Neverland and also the joke that never gets old about when Ben will stop growing already.

All of the boys were gracious. It's tough to see our parents getting older, suddenly needing naps smack in the middle of the afternoon (oh, wait, nevermind) and doing bizarre things like ordering chocolate cake at a restaurant and then eating one bite.

If I ever reach the stage where I eat one bite of cake and push the rest away, it will be heralded as the first sign of the apocalypse, and you'd better take cover.

In other news, today is the annual Haircut and Shaving of the Beard day for most of the boys.

I hate it. Like them wild. They tell me since I don't have a beard I don't know how uncomfortable it gets when the weather warms up.

I point out that the weather never actually changes here, and that if I had a beard I would never EVER cut it, and instead I would adorn it with colorful beads and tiny braids and maybe a resident mountain beard-goat or two to frolic within it and keep it under control but otherwise I would spend my days tripping over it, swinging from it and generally using it as a broom. As clothes. As a blonde security blanket.

(I would hide cake in it too. But not just slices. Whole ones.)

This is where forever gets us (four more hours).

His magic camera captured me, defects and all. Some exquisite fading, fragile beauty like crumpled paper, smoothed flat too many times to pass for new, ribbon so badly frayed it has taken on a whole new texture but good enough to giftwrap and hope that the small details would be overlooked in all the excitement.

If he were still alive today, I wonder if Cole's pictures would look like the ones Andrew takes of me on his phone while we wait for the others to get ready to go?


Cole's parents are here and I'm losing my mind.

I should say Caleb's parents, I suppose, since it's not like Cole is here to show them a good time. Cole's in a box in the ocean on the other side of the country. As far as possible from me but a safe place too, one I adore. So I sort of did him a favor.

The hardest part is watching them correct themselves when they apply the father title. Sentences to their grandchild(ren) begin with Your father would have been so proud to...I mean, this is terrific.. and I turn around and roll my eyes at myself because this is so much harder than I thought it would be.

It's easier to go to them.

Ruth and Lochlan want nothing to do with the charade of playing roles, of making things easy. Caleb tried to insist on something to Ruth and she turned around and shouted You aren't my father! and walked out of the room, leaving a silence behind that I cut into slices and passed around, making sure everyone knew there were seconds if they didn't have enough the first time. Then Henry wanted to go too because anything Ruth is doing is always more fun than hanging out with adults, unless they are PJ or Ben who aren't adults exactly but very oversized little boys.

So I let him go, and Caleb unleashed a controlled quiet fury at me that almost knocked me down.

But I can play this game too and I turned the whole thing around with my own charm, which I don't exhibit much anymore because then everyone screams unfair and manipulative and also: intoxicating.

I would love to be intoxicated right now but that would be a Very Bad Idea and I think we've had enough bad ideas for one week life.

I wasn't going to mention they were here. It's not as if they're staying on the point (they're not, they're in complete swankiness  at a downtown hotel so they can shop while they're here) and really I try not to write about people who haven't given me express permission to do so.

Except for Loch, Caleb, Ben and all the important people in my life. I write about them anyway because if I didn't all you would get would be a daily outfit of the day from Duncan or Dalton (jeans, button-down plaid shirt, cigarettes and beards every. single. day.) or transcripts of alternate Wednesdays when Danny and Schuy cook, throw dance parties or fight and make up.

I don't think that would be much of a fun blog.

They leave tomorrow morning so this is the last big evening together, complete with a family dinner planned at one of the few remaining restaurants downtown that hasn't banned us for food/fist fights and can hold nineteen people on very short notice.

Not many left.

(I mean restaurants, not fights.)

The funny part is this time Cole's mom looked at me for a few moments and instead of the usual You really should have married Caleb wistfulness she usually buries me under, she said I always knew you and Lochlan were two peas in a pod. I'm glad you're back together. 

Thank you.

We're perpetuating a thin farce here, trying to go for normalcy when instead we should just fly the freak flag high and cop to the polyamorous/carny/monsters/musicians/communal freakshow we're really running. Normal never existed. Normal is the fantasy I made up in my brain when the daydreams came true and I had nothing left to wish for.

You're incredibly special to all of them. 

I nod. They're all incredible men, Cole and Caleb included. 

Thank you. 

For what? (Ripping out both of your son's hearts? Perpetuating the fraud of fatherhood on someone who turned out not to be a father at all? Ruining their lives? Standing here pretending neither one of them was/is a monster?)

For seeing that Caleb is not alone. I know he doesn't deserve it sometimes but it's gracious of you to include him in your lives. I know it can't be easy.

(UNDERSTATEMENT.)

I wouldn't shut him out of Henry's life or mine for that matter. He's family. 

That's as much as I can hope for. And I have two beautiful grandchildren. It's everything I could want. 

How do you do that? 

Do what, dear?

Manage to be so thankful for what you have instead of fixated on what you've lost?

Drowning in sorrow isn't going to bring Cole back. Or Jacob, for that matter. You can't fix what's behind you. You can only see what's in front of you. And right now in front of me I see a beautiful girl struggling to please everybody but forgetting the most important person of all. 

Who?

You, Bridget.

Bridget and the midnight vulgaritics.

(Title stolen from one of Henry's favorite books as a toddler. Matthew and the Midnight Tow Truck. He refused to donate it to the school's book sale this week. I can't say I blame him, it's a rollicking read.)

Ben was game to sing last night.

He sang the song to me while he removed my clothing, one button at a time. Sliding satin over skin, smoothing words over hurt feelings, burying our argument in a melody torn from his throat in time with his heartbeat.

He lifted me up by my elbows, pulling me against him, keeping me there. When he ran out of words he used kisses instead. Ben's kisses are like clouds. Stormy and fierce one minute, soft and breathtaking the next. His affection is like the weather. You're either freezing, never to be warm again or you're so warm you wish you would just melt down into the grass and dissolve, hating yourself for wishing it was cold again.

Ben, I- Oh, there goes the hand again. Fine, cover my mouth, I can wait.

Oh, except I'll forget what I wanted to fight about because.

This.

Feels.

So.

Good.

Oh my GOD. The only way it would be better would be if there was cake.

***

Hours later he tries to turn me over for more. My elbows, knees and eyelids weigh a thousand pounds now, but I'm up for whatever he can throw at me.

Instead he changes his mind, collapsing against me. Too tired. Have to sleep.

You can sleep when you're dead, Jake. 

He lifts his head up and looks at me. I can't even check the alarm on my face. I've never done that before. Called someone by the wrong name by accident anyway. I've done it on purpose many times.

Is that why you're with me? Because I'm as big as he was? A physical replacement?

Actually you're bigger. I can't help it. It's four in the morning and my emotions have been right inside the top edge of my skin for hours. I start laughing. Ben is a license to breathe and remember that life is supposed to be fun. So why we struggle so hard most of the time I don't understand at all.

He takes a minute to process all that information and then opts for grace.

I knew that, he grins and winks at me in the dark.

I don't want to know how. 

Easy. You didn't whistle when you walked until after I fucked you.

Classy, Tucker. 

I know. You're lucky on all counts, aren't you?

Nova's glow.

The sea, well, she was very pleased that I sang Castle of Glass to her, headphones on. I can't hear myself sing as it is but I think I did okay. When I turned around three of the boys were standing there and they clapped.

I don't know why they didn't harmonize with my most recent relentless brain-train track.

Fuck.

Trust fun.

Do you feel the chill,
Clawing at the back of your neck?
I start to spill.
Did you really think that you could fix me?
They'll sell your bones for another roll.
We'll sharpen your teeth.
Tell yourself that it's just business.

Sometime in the night, Ben finally appears. At some point he must have decided absence was easier than comfort and he lied and said he had a deadline. Schuyler hung up on him, I was told. He waited until another midnight hour had passed and then he sat down on the side of the bed and ran his fingers across my forehead. He leaned down and kissed my cheek and said he was sorry. That he should have kept a closer eye. That he gets caught up in his work. He slides his hand over my mouth so I can't respond. Like everyone in this house, Ben would prefer to live in the daydream of his choosing, and any deviation from that will burst his bubble. So I say nothing and eventually his hand leaves my mouth and I drift back into a dreamless, empty crash of a sleep. He's not there when I wake up.

***

I'm still foggy today, exhausted and dehydrated. PJ has already driven the children to school in the pouring rain. I don't think I remember how to drive anyway.

Lochlan is still yelling. He shoved a bowl of Lucky Charms and milk under my chin this morning and asked me how I felt. When I started to answer he just blurts out,

He could have killed you. Mixing drugs and alcohol! Jesus CHRIST! What if you had overdosed! What if you died!

I pushed the bowl of cereal back. These aren't questions. He's yelling at the wrong person.

If he wants to kill me, he won't do it with drugs. I stare at Loch until he clues in slowly around the perimeters of his outrage. It takes the flames out of his fire. Fear shuts him down instead of waking him up.

I asked the Devil to kill me once before.

He came pretty close.

***

The men come with the new patio doors. They are custom-made, a rush order. I'm not willing to board up the wall waiting for something to be ordered from some other place. One of them sees a framed item on the wall and reads the plaque underneath it. He asks if Ben is home, could he get a picture maybe? I tell him I don't know. He proceeds to walk around the room pointing out what a fan he is, stopping at the desk where my writings are. I ask him not to touch anything, please. He reddens and returns to working on getting the doors installed. As I leave the room he apologizes, but for what I don't know. Curiosity doesn't require an apology from a stranger but I accept it anyway.

***

I watch the rain from the dock. Caleb holds an umbrella over me. He is still surprised at the uproar his actions made in resolving my abrupt freakout.

I turn to him. You can't understand why they're angry. 

No, frankly. I can't. 

Then next time skip the Ativan or whatever it was and just ask PJ or whoever's home to see that I am just...restrained appropriately.

I feel more comfortable watching over you myself. He smiles softly. And it wasn't Ativan.

That's why they're angry, Diabhal. 

Because I can manage your needs? Because I love you?

Yes.