I feel like myself when it rains.

(My list, if you're wondering, in no particular order: Parlee/Rissers/Brackley/Chapin/Queensland and more recently Chesterman/Cannon/South Edison. Google each one with beach tacked on and you'll see where I grew my soul, and to this day I still love them more in the rain.)

Before the boys, before the midway, before the circus, before Jake, before even Lochlan and Caleb and Christian and Cole there was just me.

I was always small for my age. Always running to catch up, always teetering on my tiptoes to see everything that everyone else could squarely gaze at, always jumping up to catch the ball/get in the bed of the truck/hit the pinata/reach the box of cookies on the third shelf from the top in the pantry.

Always playing alone. I didn't like Bailey's friends. I had already moved away from Andrew and everyone else teased me because I was so small, because I couldn't read things in English, because I called things by funny names, I foundered for words constantly and because when I don't smile I look perpetually like I'm going to cry, people tended to approach me with concern and then melt away when they realized everything was fine.

Was it fine? I don't know. I was too young to decide.

When it rained I would put on my red rubber boots and my red raincoat with the plastic snaps and the giant hood and I would go out into the brook where the backyards met and I would watch the water so intently. It was never a beach day when it rained. My family only went when they could bake themselves golden and me, always red and then and only then would we come home. I craved the beach when it rained, empty and barren, the drops leaving strange patterns in the sand, seagulls muted, canteen boarded up, parking lot empty. Something I saw only on the weeks where we would move to the beach to live on vacations.

The big beaches are the best ones, with miles of sand to walk on, room for everyone, and full facilities. Outdoor showers. Fast food. Ice cream. Boardwalks and cutting sea grass, dunes to lose yourself in and sandbars for days. As a child I have walked out into the part of the world where it curves and then turned only to see tiny people on the beach and not know which ones were my sister or my dad. I didn't understand why no one came calling for me, if I was out too far, if anyone even noticed I was gone.

Where are you going? Bailey smirked when I had pointed to the empty horizon.

That's France so I'm going there. Tell them I won't be home for dinner.

I scratch my shoulder, now tender and beginning to blister and turn and keep walking. I walk until the water is up to my neck and swirling strongly around my ankles far underneath, until I begin to see darker parts where seaweed grows in plants anchored into the ocean floor, not floating randomly in where the surf meets the shore and only then do I turn back and walk a straight line back to where I started. Sometimes the water is up to my knees. Sometimes it's almost dry. Seven sandbars. Eight. Nine. Eleven. Finally I'm back to the crowds and I scan the blankets and sandcastles and sunshades and then I see my grandmother's oldest quilt, my mom stretched out reading a book, my dad maybe gone off to find food, Bailey at eleven broiling herself in dark tanning oil, the older sister doing it right. I stand there and look at them and then I ask,

What happens to the ocean when it rains?

It gets more dangerous. That's why we only come here when it's sunny. 

I take off my red rubber boots and step into the brook. I've cleared the rocks and leaves and branches to make the bottom bare but it's still muddy. It squishes up between my toes and I close my ears. The wind rustles through the trees but I can barely hear it for the burbling noise of the water as it flows down through the neighborhood to come out of the big pipe by the highway, or so I imagine because I'm not old enough to follow it to the end.

No, it's not the same.

That night at dinner my dad tells us we're moving, that he's bough a house for us in a really nice neighborhood in a different town, closer to a big city, that the street we'll be living on has lots of kids, and has a path at the end that goes through the woods to a baseball field and a park, that it's really nice.

I never stepped into the brook again.

Is it closer to the beach?

Yes. But a different beach.

I never thought to ask if the kids in the neighborhood would be nicer. Or if my family would pay attention to me if I went to far just because we lived in a new house in a new neighborhood. I never asked if we could find all the plastic fish from the little fishing rod set I had for the brook that swallowed all the pieces the first day I tried it out before we leave, just in case.

I just thought to myself, when we live in the new town, I'm going to the beach when it rains. 

Instead I met the boys and everything was vastly different after that.

Light makers, light wasters.

This morning I waited out the wind, pale blue sky tinged with dark grey, chipped white paint on the fence, a cold blustery wake to begin the time of summer, now, oddly the coldest day this week.

But also the longest.

The days get shorter now-

Don't say it. 

It's a fact. 

Well, it's wrong. I remember endless summer as a child. The days grew longer and longer and only heading into back-to-school did the stars come out while kick the can and bonfires on the path in the woods were still in force. But they didn't get longer as school was ending in June. They just didn't. Summer was celebrated properly and not like this, already on a downhill slide.

You didn't have a good grasp of time when you were little. 

I don't now.

It's fine. 

No it isn't. Now I feel like I've squandered all of this...light. 

He bursts out laughing. You did have a good grasp of the dramatic. 

I wonder why. 

Summer's just beginning, Bridge. This is the first day. You haven't wasted it. It's just arriving now. It's waiting for you. It's yours to spend. 

What should I do?

Anything you want. 

Let's stay up all night. 

Seriously?

No. Remember when you would tell me we were going to and then you'd tell me it was three and then five and then six and I did it so I should go to sleep now or I'd miss everything later in the day and I believed you and it was only ten-thirty?

You knew?

Of course I knew. I could always tell when you said something to protect me. Your expression would be different. 

I was just trying to keep you safe-

Like right now. There it is. That face.

Too hot.

Thirty degrees in the shade this afternoon and Caleb is standing in my parking spot in a suit, minus the jacket but with the vest and a white shirt with french cuffs he keeps shooting which makes my knees buckle just a little still, checking his watch as if I am late or something. I leave the car in the middle of the driveway. Fuck it.

Am I? Did we have plans? 

Neamhchiontach. 

Did I forget something?

Your future plans, your manners, our agreement, I can go on but suffice it to say, yes, you forgot something. 

Can we do this tomorrow maybe? 

What's the matter?

I'm hot. 

Oh, please do another naked stroll past all three houses. Those stunts are mighty impressive. 

I was covered. 

Only by your tattoos. 

Counts. 

Doesn't. 

Does. 

Bridget. 

WHAT!?

Rock and Roll Jeopardy remains the greatest quiz show of all time to me.

Got into it with August this afternoon while floating on glitter floaties, slathered in contraband sunblock and blasting acoustic gems from the playlist I made just for him.

Operator came on and he swore up and down that it was Elton John. Swore. Tried to bet me money but I wouldn't take it. Told me I was fucking with him. Listened intently and said I was totally messing with him and finally he sat back, content in my deception even as I floated and insisted that it was Jim Croce, and he needed to do his research.

Lochlan came out and August hailed him. Who's the singer?

Lochlan stopped in his tracks and listened. Jim Croce. 

For fucks sakes. 

See? I crowed from my air mattress. I don't mess around-

With Jim?

No, with music. Ever. 

How did you get such a vast knowledge of it?

Only stuff from the seventies and eighties-

Yeah, but how?

Lochlan grins. Easy. We had some really long drives from one site to the next and the radio was always on. I quizzed her constantly. Eventually she outlearned me and now I work to keep up. 

Serious?

Very. 

It's the only thing I'm good at, I venture from the middle of the pool.

Lochlan shakes his head. I beg to differ, Bridge.

Eyes wide.

I sent out a big group message shortly before one today, warning everyone to vacate the driveway/backyard/patio and pool area at three-thirty, that I was coming home and planned to head for a swim to cool off before doing anything else, that I didn't bring my suit and wasn't planning to go all the way upstairs to change first, that they could do me this favour, since Ruth was at work and Henry stays late at school on Mondays for math help since exams are coming, and coming fast.

I got back the right number of affirmatives. They're cool with it. It's only fifteen minutes, right? (That's how long it takes me to get bored in the pool alone anyway, and Lochlan said he would bring out a book so I had actual supervision.

When I got home I parked the car and took off my shoes, kicking them toward the side door. Tights were next. Jesus Christ, who invented these things? I stepped through the gate and untied my apron that I forgot to take off before I left work, and flung it on the steps going up to the patio doors. Then I put my bag down on the chair closest to me and my name tag I unpinned and put beside it. Then I headed across to the pool, unzipping my dress, pulling it off as I went. I let it fall to the grass and by the time I reached the pool deck my camisole and underwear were fifty yards behind me. I sank into the shallow end and walked until only my nose and eyes were above the surface. Then I closed my eyes and exhaled.

So much cooler in here. They turned the heater off. I may not come out for dinner.

Also, fuckers told me they'd all be gone but I encountered every last one of them on my walk of fame. Every. last. one.

Jesus hostage.

Lochlan and I are lying in bed this morning, sun beaming in, windows wide, the sounds of distant lawn mowers and closer birds filling our ears. Lochlan stretches laugidly, like a cat.

What if we skipped church?

Then Sam would be lonely. 

What if we kidnapped him and kept him here too?

Then who would do the service? 

His co-rev. 

On short notice?

He suddenly got very sick.

Hmm. Better check with him. 

Go find him. Lochlan smiles a wicked, wicked smile.

You'd do anything to get out of church. (I said the same thing on the midway when Sunday prayers came around under the mess tent and it was mandatory if you wanted your paycheque that week and still he bristled.)

Go on. 

I head down the hall, down the steps and to the right into Sam's part of the house, knocking softly.

Come in. I step inside and Sam is in his den tying his tie. Help? He lifts his chin and puts his hands down.

I take the tie and slide it off him from around his neck. Then I tie it around his hands, making him my captive.

What are you doing? 

Making you our prisoner. You'll have to call your office. 

He grins. Grab my phone, Bridge.

Amends.

One of the hammocks is now officially a double-wide, and I went out this morning with my blanket, coffee in a travel mug and a book hoping to snooze in the shade for an hour or so, before the world gets noisy, busy and fast.

Sam was already there, a slim stainless mug of tea with a lid in one hand, Jacob's bible and a notebook in his lap.

Oh, sorry. I see I have to take a number?

It's a double, Bridge. I'll move over.

No, it's fine.

How long do you plan on avoiding me for? We've talked about this but you're still giving me the cold shoulder.

Sorry. I'm just trying to figure things out.

Let me help you.

Oh, that was a Jake remark. My heart caves in and I step closer to the hammock. His face lights up and he moves to make room. I climb on and he drops the bible and notebook and mug to the grass and puts his arm around my shoulder. I use his chest as a pillow, listening for the mild heartbeat, the open spirituality coursing through his thin frame and I remember that he isn't the enemy, he's the protege, and Jake wanted us to support each other.

We're walking conflicts of interest, objects of desire and forbidden fruit to each other, though. I don't think Jacob meant for that to happen, surely but I enjoy the thumps of Sam's heart and the righteousness of his soul nonetheless. As much as he has kept me in a certain place emotionally, he's also...well, kept me in a certain place emotionally so instead of being stunted by grief I can live almost around it. Even as I keep sliding backwards and he throws himself into the hole to catch me. If I'm not going to get very far with it he'll keep me company there.

I close my eyes and forget my coffee, my book, my Jake. I take a deep breath and I'm asleep. I guess that's the opposite of a cold shoulder, a warm heart. I know I have one, things just get hard sometimes.

White is lime, believe it or not.

The difference between me and everyone else? They'll offer you their forgiveness and I'll give you my grace.

That difference is bigger than just you or me. It's how things are.

PJ put on the new Orange Goblin album and came over to where I stood at the sink, daydreaming, looking out over the ocean while I mindlessly scrubbed water bottles. He put his chin down on my shoulder and asked if he could take over.

It's fine. I'm almost finished. 

What can I do to make this week up to you? 

He already failed to notice he doesn't even need forgiveness. It's already done, we've all moved on.

Have some ice cream with me, with a catch. 

I have to be naked?

You wish. No, the catch is that we don't actually have any ice cream so you'll need to go buy some.

I can fix that. Ever the hero, he grabs his keys and wallet from his room and heads out. I hear his jeep disappear and he is replaced with Duncan, who also wants to help with the dishes and feels awful that their laugh was at my expense.

He, too, chooses to hope for grace but doesn't expect it.

It must be earned, then. Or maybe bought. Coerced?

I'm finished here in a moment and PJ is off buying ice cream. Maybe you can scrub the bathrooms on this floor for me so we can get outside faster? 

Done. He disappears.

I take my time on the last few bits of dishes and one by one they come to lie prone at my feet to repent for their sins. I assign each one a chore that I had on my list and they're off and running.

All of them. By the end of the list I was inventing chores I had no intention of doing this year.

Dust the fishing rods for me?

Can you reorganize the books by color in the library? I just want to see what it looks like.

I don't want the red tictacs mixed with the white and blue ones. Can you make them into layers in the container?

Seriously, Bridge? Gage has his suspicions on the final, most ridiculous request and I'm almost made.

It's on the list. I implore with wide eyes.

And off he goes. To rearrange my fucking ice pop tictacs. I swear to God they would do anything for me. And they obviously do. That's why this grace is easy.

That's why grace is dangerous.

Eventually, with everything done for the day I take my grace and drown it in a fresh cup of coffee that I take outside to enjoy the sun. It's been a while since I've seen her and I needed a day off anyway.

Perfect.

That isn't grace, Bridget. Sam has me. The jig is up.

Yes, I know it isn't. Just let me have this payback. It's fun.
 

Not as I do.

Well, you know, you're never gonna change my mind
Doesn't it seem like a waste of time?
You know I'm always gonna cross that line
And I'll keep telling you, it takes all kinds

One more ripple in a big flat world
Find a little shelter, baby girl
One more ditty from the lost and found
One more step and we all fall down

In light of our discussions (which involved a lot of yelling, some tears and some glorious child-Bridget foot stomping, let me tell you), I have made an agreement with the devil and I have since struck out the offending parts of the previous post.

He pointed out I never listen.

He might be right.

I'll tell you the rest tomorrow. He is still sort of yelling. I'm still not listening.

‽ (Creating monsters).

Well, if they're going to read it, they deserve this.

Last night it started with PJ. A simple message to my phone, one character.

‽

It was supposed to be a joke, this interrobang. But as word spread of how clever it was, and how maybe the Devil has shorthand messages for booty calls or whatever they're naming it today (interrobang? SERIOUSLY. My God.) and they should make light of it by spamming my phone with that symbol.

All. fucking. day.

By the time I finished my shift my phone's battery was at 34% thanks to all of these messages, all containing the same symbol. A surprise/questioning symbol to replace the simple question Caleb had posed in our shorthard text language that is succinct, discreet. Subtle. Easy after all these years. Heck, I've had a smart phone for almost a decade. We're evolving.

What they don't realize is what they're making fun of is relentless pressure from my monster, a man who first touched me when he was already a man and I was still a child and it involved threats, a locked door, a scared little girl and a weapon and I don't know how many people are playing along but we are evolving, just into what I don't have the answer for. He's making amends, we're trying to figure out our relationship. I do all that out loud. He wants it to be more than it is, I struggle very much with my feelings for him. I could shut him down but I don't, I know. I know it's Stockholm syndrome. I know something isn't right with my relationships, particularly boundaries. I am addicted to things and people I shouldn't be. I fear things I shouldn't fear and am brave in the face of things I should run screaming from. I'm..all fucked up. I know this.

And so them making light of this relentless pressure, even as it seems like a simple text message (trust me, from Caleb nothing is ever simple) is actually a huge pile-on, a lack of support, a feeling that makes me want to cry since it's so heartless but I know they don't mean it like that. Sometimes the jokes cut in a little and make me bleed. Sometimes the testosterone-culture and camaraderie of the Collective and the fact that they're all on the same page leaves me out in the cold a little. Separated. Removed.

They aren't trying to be mean, it just comes out that way.

I'm sure of it.

"Love is the most selfish of all the passions." -Alexandre Dumas.

(He also said "Never fear quarrels but seek hazardous adventures instead" and I love that one too.)
 
Caleb was gracious about the whole thing, sending me a single character text shortly after I got home last night, my legs aching, my heart somewhat heavy at the thought of a night torn between the Devil and and the brown eyes of my dreams.

?

I didn't respond, an action that told Caleb everything he needed to know.

Ben was unrepentant, with a hungry eye towards gifting me a crazy night, though I was maybe too tired to reciprocate in the way I would have liked. I just know at some point, when I was sitting in his lap, my arms tight around his neck, either holding on for dear life or just climbing back down from the moon, I rested my head against his shoulder and he stopped short in the dark, pulling me in close and just holding me.

That was what I needed. That, and the orange juice he brought upstairs beforehand because it's the little things.

Actually, it's the big things too.

(Snort.)

At some point Lochlan slid his arms around me from beside us and we made a Bridget-sandwich and I closed my eyes and reached up to stop some invisible hand of time.

Just for a moment.

Just for this moment.

Lochlan's head comes to rest against mine and he whispers that he loves me. I think he's weirdly grateful to be in the space he's supposed to be in, maybe weirdly grateful I didn't take Ben's plans and run with them.

I mean, sometimes I do. Last night honestly I just wanted Ben and Lochlan to be in the same place at the same time. I never see Ben and he's supposed to be our third wheel, so without him around much we drag on one rim and it takes forever to get anywhere.

He promises to fix that. I don't know if he says that to be kind or he just forgets he has a family but I have his promises filed away just in case I need to pull them out and remind him.

Today I spent a hell of a lot of time leaning against the counter. Trying to batch my trips around the diner. Trying to not hurt so fucking much. I think I failed but it was more than worth it.

Not on your life. Or mine. Or even his, for that matter.

Today's visitor at the diner was Benjamin, a big surprise since he's not all that fond of going out in public, but he is a fan of having coffee with me and so he arrived just in time for my break, baseball cap making him look like he did when I met him, when we were in our twenties and full of shit and didn't have a fucking care in the world. Now here we are having our coffee with the weight of the world forcing our heads under the surface of the liquid gold in order to see us drown for it. This is the price for these minor crimes. Life continuing on.

The miles since those days leave a wake in the surface of the cups. I notice. I don't know if he does. Maybe he's already drowning. I would save him but he never lets me.

He likes to leave me in the dark.

I watch him. Watch his hands as they cover mine, watch him drink his coffee, brown eyes peering at me over the rim of his cup.

I think I hate coffee, now, Benjamin.

You don't. And I have a plan for tonight if you're up for it. 

Oh, really?

Sure. Caleb asked if we wanted to join him.

I don't-

Sure, you do. (Oh. He isn't listening.)

I gotta go back to work. See you at home. 

I'll be waiting for you, Bee.

Our house, completed.

I was stuck for time yesterday and didn't get to finish. The reason I was telling you about the house and all the changes was because we hosted a (very) large dinner last evening to thank the architects and contractors and crew for their work, their discretion (haven't found any social media yet from the inside of my house or pictures of Ben at home online yet and somehow I don't think I will) and their patience with what was a multimonth project with a couple of starts and stops and a few tiny turf wars and a lot of hard feelings, soothed over with cooler heads and lots of money, as these things are.

We did a barbecue with salads to make it easy, though I'm sure all of the people who arrived were surprised at the lack of alcohol. Instead we had large pitchers of lemonade and iced tea. There was a giant chocolate cake that had THANK YOU written in white icing and all the chicken wings and ribs they could eat.

And they did and everyone was gone by nine. That's the best part. And we had everything cleaned up by eleven, mostly because both Ransom and Emmett stayed to clean, so I had time to make some tea and thank them both for the little touches. Like putting up yards and yards of pastel rainbow bunting, and multicolored fairy lights. For the tiny dumbwaiter system on the steps down to the beach so I don't have to try and navigate the steps with my hands full of seaglass treasures. For the nonslip treads on those stairs and the reinforced railings and pilings.

 For furnishing our balcony as a place we can actually use, with a large umbrella and comfortable chaises and a rug. And plants. And more lights.

There are never enough lights. 

For fixing all of the shelves in the library that were straining under the weight of all of our books and albums.

For fixing all of the broken, previously slammed doors.

For better locks. For biometric security, which is new but fun and is easier than changing locks constantly as people lose keys (later found in out of season jacket pockets or under beds). I like thumbprint scanning. It's a riot. Especially since mine hardly works since my fingers are always so dry, cracked and split.

For the smart home control that means when I walk into a room or closet or open a cupboard lights come on! But better yet, MUSIC PLAYS.

For the suggestion of Roombas. Which are hilarious but great. I spend half my  life vacuuming white carpets in the softer areas of the house. I won't be anymore. This little round thing will fire itself up at preconfigured times and do it for me.

For the larger laundry room, now with a second washer and dryer set.

For the beautiful bookcase built-ins and hand-built bible stand in Sam's room.

For the bars in the bathroom tubs and showers. Because safety first (and sex, second, though you know me, I'm not going to say safety first if sex is on the list, right?)

For everything.

Mostly for their patience with me as I refused to engage while also trying to run everything. Changing paint colors after the paint had been purchased (it's okay, I ate the cost and donated the paint). Refusing their attempts to be kind as I thought they were trying to be forward.

I can't imagine these kinds of jobs are easy ones, as you invade someone's home with the intent on improvement and you're battling safety in familiarity. You're battling comfort. You're fighting for change.

But as I said and continue to say, they were very well compensated for their efforts and we will have them back again as required for further updates or to fix more broken, previously slammed doors.

(They also quite discreetly reinforced the walls that seem to get the most abuse, aka boys thrown into which include the one at the top of the kitchen stairs and the front hall to the left of the door.)

They thanked us for the project. I'm pretty sure they can both retire now. Everything is finally signed off on. Everything is done. Caleb wrote the last cheque. The lawyers have read it all over and the value of the updates have put the house into a assessement bracket I never thought I would see in my lifetime. Pretty sure Lochlan was rendered speechless at the value talks and still I don't take a single nail, board or bunting string for granted, the same way I don't take any of my boys for granted.

I'm so glad it's finished.

It looks beautiful. Maybe I'll post some photos. Maybe not.

Our house.

Staring at the fire
For hours and hours while I listen to you
Play your love songs all night long
For me, only for me

Come to me now
And rest your head for just five minutes
Everything is done

Jake would have loved this place. So many nooks and beautiful spaces, both inside and out in which to reflect, spend time, write, paint, think or just listen to music, like I am today, tucked into the new great room, which thankfully is in the same place as the old one, just framed in better with built-in seating around three walls, the fireplace built up with bookshelves (and now two-sided so you can see right through!) and window frames so wide you can lie on them easily. They put in stone archways and better hardwood flooring. Better lighting. More drawers. More storage. More definition to the rooms. Everything is painted white (again) or soft grey-blue. The kitchen is more usable now, with a bigger booth in the breakfast nook, a larger stone island I keep whacking my knees on with room for eight stools instead of the four we usually had before and we now have a huge eight burner stove with three ovens and a fridge that has two side-by-side doors and holds half the local grocery store. A vertical freezer stands beside it and now we have ice cream for months. The kitchen flows much better overall. It's really nice.

The steps for the entry from the driveway were opened up and I have a pantry now that is a true butler's pantry with appliance garages and cold storage too. Because of that the formal dining room is now opened up and a full wall of windows put in. We have a new table that seats sixteen and it's not bolted to the floor anymore. Between that and the glass wall I'm a little nervous.

The changes make things a little more functional for the size of the family living here. They also extended the porch so it wraps right around to the backyard on the right side of the house and has room for a full complement of seating instead of three chairs only. They made a proper front walk with landscaping and there's a gazebo now in the former wasteland between our side yard and Daniel and Schuyler's, with a path leading from our front steps to it and then from it to Daniel's. A fairytale gazebo, Victorian iron and glass with a dome roof. It reminds me of my old glass writing room at the top of the castle.

On purpose, Lochlan says softly.

The backyard patio is now covered with a fully-retractable electric roof and new seating. Gone are the big hard wooden Adirondack and mismatched zero-gravity chairs, instead cushioned chairs and couches and a rug and all of it is rainproof. The heaters are no longer the portable kind, instead there is full outdoor climate control at different points. The telescope platform and the pool area are both finished, the latter where the big round clamshell loungers are straight across to the outdoor kitchen is cohesive and gorgeously finished with stone archways that continue the design from our kitchen. The sauna looks like it belongs, finally. As well they put skylights in the stables and in our library, which now also features triple glass doors that open away to have garden access to the tiny grotto from inside.

 August has a large deck now with patio doors from his back hallway and better stairs to the loft with landings and landscaping. As well Duncan and Dalton have new glass slide-away patio doors to open up their suite into the backyard and a covered patio now thanks to the new extended porch above their ground-level walk-out.

(I did not get my spiral staircase. Everyone still asks where I would have put it and I don't have an answer but I still want one. Don't ask questions.)

I think I like the kitchen best now with it's new blend of soft pastels and stone. It's cozy. It's homey and it looks more like a warm family place to spend time rather than a cold modern west-coast McMansion.

Emmett and Ransom and their teams did a great job considering the scale of this project. I can admit that. It's more likely now that I find the bulk of the house's occupants in the common areas instead of tucked away in their personal spaces. That's the part I like best. I don't have to go digging for friends. They're all over the place. It's less of a house now and more of a home.

Everyone has demons. I'm in love with mine.

(Edit: I did indeed mention the night with Dalton SIX fucking months ago. There hasn't been another one since. Leave me alone.)

Today I can't breathe for the petrichor, the oppressive humidity, the mood of his house. Caleb sleeps uneasily, restlessly around me while I listen to music on my headphones and study his face.

It's the face I see in nightmares. Eighty percent Cole and the other twenty something else. Kindness tinged with sadism. Vulnerability tainted with absolute power. Age blended with an unwelcome, new immortality. I would have been fine had he been the one to go, oddly but of course he didn't.

(I would have been fine had he left that night at the camper when I was ten years old instead of coming inside behind me and locking the door.)

(I would have been fine.)

The music is old Switchfoot in my ears. Beautiful heartfelt Jesus-rock, soft and honest, open and worn inside out. The way Jacob preached. The way I like it. It's just there. It (and I) don't try to convince people. I don't attempt to sway them. I just do my own thing and I don't fear or fret their judgement. God's the only judge anyway, by my reckoning.

The music is too loud and I don't hear him, zoning out briefly on a staggering bridge and snapping back when he squeezes that same elbow his brother bent the wrong way when he realized Jacob took his family. I don't think I did much right in my life but I'll never ever regret leaving Cole for Jake. Even though it resulted in not one but two bottomless absences. I wouldn't do it differently. Today, anyway.

Neamhchiontach. Cole's eyes but not the same blue and my heart thumps. Flight. I choose flight. Wait. No, I can't do that. Jacob did that and he never came back.
What are you listening to?

Learning to breathe. 

Is it working? Is that a self-help podcast?

No. I refuse to engage past what I need.

Bridget, talk to me. 

I turn away without throwing him the bone of a word he so desperately wants.

Please, Neamhchiontach. 

You can't control everything all the time. Not even me anymore. 

While you're learning to breathe, I'm learning that lesson about control every moment. 

You're not learning it fast enough. Some days I still hate you.

He wasn't the only person asking that this be addressed.

Another breakfast with Joel, at a new place this time. In the wee early-morning hours before I started work so I had time to make butternauts up and down my plate, an army called to order, marching to the beats of my drummer. My drummer was Cole. He's gone now, he's in hell where he belongs. Someday Caleb's going to join him there. I won't be going there though, my crimes are so small you can hold them in one hand, and are thoroughly forgivable if you only knew me.

All of me, I mean.

Joel wants to. I see him angling from a thousand yards, talking up a storm from way back there, making sure everything is 'on the table' and that we're being 'completely honest with each other' as he attempts to rearrange my brain a little more permanently than Sam can. Joel is both a blessing and a curse as he has so much skill as a psychoanalyst but so little skill as a professional. I could have enjoyed the sexual tension with him for the rest of my life but he fucked up so hard. I wasn't in a place to choose him when I came home from the hospital way back when so he chose for me and that was a really dumb idea that ended his career and most of the trust he had built over the course of it.

But he became (or remains?) a friend and he still has years and years of education and training over the rest, and so sometimes I trust him, and sometimes (like today) I see his curiosity and I burn it to the ground.

He wants to know where Dalton stands. Dalton, my under-the-radar flyer, my Casey Affleck lookalike, my sweet sweet hippie friend. Teflon Jesus. TJ. Duncan's brother and the heartbreaker of the west coast all the way from Brevig to Baja.

I don't think you want to hear about him. 

You alluded to something in your writings but never quantified it. 

Right. 

Why is that? 

Privacy? I don't know. I got busy. Not every encounter I have gets catalogued. 

Some do. Repeatedly.

I lean forward. And a lot never get mentioned at all. 

So what happened with Dalton? 

Joel's curiosity is a hole he's about to fall into. I have a gift for making people feel welcomed, feel loved but at the same time I can make you feel so uncomfortable you'll spontaneously self-immolate.

I took a breath and told him in great detail. Detail so complicated and elaborate Joel put his cup down and never picked it up again. I told him about how Lochlan, Dalton and I were sprawled out on the sectional in the theatre room watching something and at some point I drifted off to sleep (as I do) and I woke up to Dalton sliding my pajama pants down off my hips, putting his head down against my thighs, pinning me there happily, sleepily until sleep became the last thing on my mind. He wound me out so hard I couldn't breathe and then (and only then) did he look at Lochlan for permission. Then he took us both by the hand down the hall to his room. We stayed the night, in which he continued whatever mission he had to make sure that I wasn't left wanting for anything,  fulfilled ten times over and very graphically now relayed to Joel who is sinking into his collar, wishing he hadn't asked, titillating curiosity having now given way to graphic shock.

I kept talking. The servers stopped coming over. I had to go and find someone so we could pay the bill. And then finally we're in Joel's car.

Anything else you want to know? 

Joel just shook his head numbly. Pretty sure there's nothing left to say even if he hadn't asked. What's your end game now?

Same as always. Soothing the savage beast that lives inside my skull with almost zero healthy skill in knowing exactly how to do it. 

Is it working? He breathes.

Of course not. 

But you stop sometimes.

Love is distracting-

Ah, good-

So is war, Joel. We pulls up beside my restaurant and I get out. Thanks for breakfast. 

When we last saw our hero-

Caleb knocked softly on the side door around nine. I would have missed it save for the fact that I was there making tea with honey for Ben. I only had the stove light and the fairy lights on, the house is locked up for the night otherwise, everyone having scattered to the wind. Lochlan is downstairs talking with Ben while they wait for me.

(Dalton and Duncan so graciously made dinner last evening while I burned off the end of my buzz. Once I had a full meal in me I felt like myself again. They barbecued the chicken breasts and laid them over fettuccine with spinach, garlic and tomatoes. It was amazing.)

Bridget.

My name is used. It's a peace offering. It takes me by surprise and keeps me there. Cale. I mirror his formality. It must be for an important reason.

Is Lochlan nearby?

Of course. 

I didn't mean it the way you think. I meant I'd like to speak with him. 

Go find him. He's down with Ben. 

You sure?

Yes. I nod to the kettle I'm waiting on.

Caleb heads downstairs. I relock the side door in case he stays but before I finish organizing a tray they all come upstairs.

Caleb crosses to me, planting a hard kiss on my forehead. Sweet dreams, Neamhchiontach. He lets himself out and for a third time tonight, I lock the door. I look at Lochlan but he is poker-faced. Ben fetches the tray, gives me a kiss on the cheek in thanks and promises he'll be up with us before pumpkin-hour.

We head upstairs a little while later and I wait until the door is closed behind us.

What did he want?

Lochlan shrugs. He said he didn't plan to openly defy my wishes today, that he made an executive decision as you looked like you had a tough day. He reminded me to spoil you a bit. Make sure you don't get run down. 

That's weirdly paren-

Parental? I know. That's all I worry about with you sometimes and he thinks I need reminders?

He's trying to keep you on the same page. 

Jesus, Bridge. He isn't even reading the same book. His is horror. Ours is an epic love story. 

Can't believe that just flew out of your mouth like that. Unscripted. I wasn't even sitting down. 

He smiles and says nothing.

It was horror though. We've since had an exorcism. 

Who was cast out?

Cole. 

He nods. I'm trying to give you this but it's hard.

Going to go to work hungover tomorrow or whatever.

You've been trying my patience,
trying hard to make sense of
things we've gone and messed up,
things we've gone and made so wrong.

But maybe we can mend it,
Baby, this tremendous love.

I was met in the driveway at my car by Caleb today, who said Lochlan was due back shortly and that he was to furnish me with peanut butter cookies and cranberry juice. But that he didn't have organic cranberry juice so apparently Lochlan told him to cut it half and half with water to curb the sugar.

Caleb waited until Lochlan left and laughed as he mixed a pitcher of vodka cranberry instead, because if you can't raise them right, you can at least get them somewhat drunk before dinner.

So that's where we are now. I was going to make stuffed chicken. I brought home a lemon blueberry custard pie for dessert. I had all kinds of plans but I can't feel my legs but that's actually a blessing since the last time I could feel them they hurt. so. much.

I have to go. It's my night to cook. 

PJ can do it. 

He's been doing it. Thanks for the drinks.

A beep from the driveway signals Lochlan's return as he locks his truck.

Told you.

I'm thoroughly disappointed. 

I blush. Maybe you can come up later.

Clear it with your dad. 

WOW. 

How many husbands dictate what their wife eats?

Wait. How many husbands have I had? Three? Wait. Four. God. No more vodka.

PEANUT!

That's my cue. I stumble as I step out the door and swing off the knob and hey, there's Lochlan, up the steps, glaring at Caleb.

What'd you have, Bridge?

Vodka butter cookies and peanut punch. I mean-

Christ. Good job, Pedo. 

Anytime, Pyro. See you tonight, Neamhchiontach. 

Tonight? Lochlan looks so disappointed.

It was a maybe, baby. I smile up at him. At least we're all disappointed so we all know how each other really feels.

Christ, thanks for getting her trashed. 

Anytime. Caleb returns my wave as I'm led away. Bye, Beautiful. 

That's right. I am. I twist around to look at Lochlan face-on. I'm really hungry too. Someone needs to stuff the chicken. 

Is that a euphemism?

No, silly. It's a recipe!

I wrote this for you.

That’s what it feels like when you touch me. Like millions of tiny universes being born and then dying in the space between your finger and my skin. Sometimes I forget.”
                                     ~Iain Thomas

Fun fact: I don't like to be touched when I'm eating.

I found this out as Lochlan brought up breakfast in bed so early I was sure I must be eating it in my sleep.

He did this to make the day good. I hate Mondays. They seem to run long.

It takes me longer to eat, even though on the Midway we learned to wolf food down. There was never time for a leisurely meal. On the circus there was never a meal for our leisure time so there you have it. Lean and mean is an apt description here but as I was embarking on the second half of my bagel he was getting affectionate, trying to rub my legs, shoulders, trying to start something he would definitely finish and I couldn't do it.

Get away! I cried and he laughed.

What's wrong?

I can't eat if you're touching me. 

He laughed. Well, there's a first. 

I'm pretty sure you'll never see a porn movie where someone leans over and picks up a fork while they're being fucked and has a little snack. 

But rule 34!

What is that again?

If it exists, there is porn of it. 

Right, but this one thing doesn't exist. 

What about whipped cream and chocolate syrup?

That's not food. I'm talking toast or cereal or....a roast beef dinner. 

We could be famous again, Bridge.

Not gonna happen.

Helplessly hoping.

Wordlessly watching he waits by the window and wonders
At the empty place inside
Heartlessly helping himself to her bad dreams he worries
Did he hear a goodbye?
Or even hello?

They are one person
They are two alone
They are three together
They are for each other

Stand by the stairway you'll see something certain to tell you
Confusion has its cost
Love isn't lying it's loose in a lady who lingers
Saying she is lost
And choking on hello

Lochlan is transparent, direct. Hopeful and commanding all at once. Leave Batman alone and I'll bring back your memory thief. 

I don't want him to take anymore. I don't want him to give me mixed messages.

What do you want of him, then?

His friendship. His steadfast spirituality and righteousness on behalf of the rest of us who fumble around for it. His affection. Sometimes he's the best substitute when you're not here.

I'm here now. 

Was the best substitute, I mean. 

I'm sorry I wasn't here, Peanut. 

I'm sorry about Batman, Locket. 

Are you? 

I don't know. He left a lot of money for me for any hardship. 

Send it back. 

No point. 

Caleb has that covered though?

You always told me if I can to double down. So I did.

And he laughs out loud. Now I'm starting to worry that you did listen to everything I say. If I told you to jump off a cliff-

I do it every time. The water's cold but I go. 

Why?

Because you say so. 

I wanted it both ways, Bridge. 

What do you mean?

I wanted you to be independent, to be able to be free of me and able to hold your own and at the same time I wanted you to need me. 

I am but at the same time, I do. I say it softly.

Sam is safe, Bridget. 

I don't think he is. 

No. You know what? I see the way you look at him. 

I don't mean to-

And it's not the same way you look at me. He leans way in for a long kiss. We know each other's faces. Hearts. Minds. He can come back. Let's have some peace here for once. 

Sunday. Of all days. 

Seems right.

***

Hey, Little Stranger. 

Hey Preacher. 

Is it safe to swoop in for a hug?

It is.

Dizzying night.

I chose a midnight walk with all of my boys on our beach, merlot in hand for those who wanted it, coffee or tea for those who didn't. It was dark and freezing and full of stars and I wouldn't have changed a thing, except for my tiredness, which took over and threatened to upend the whole evening, or maybe it was the merlot, since I'm not good at wine, am hideously allergic to the tannins in red wines and also prone to becoming quickly drunk off a typical glass, as I am maybe ninety or ninety-five pounds soaking wet, and only if I've filled up on bread first (but not dangerously enough to explode, like a bird, into a beautiful silent fluff of feathers and glitter).

So I needed a little help coming back up. The steps are treacherous and steep in bright sober sunshine, and here it was dark and drunk instead. Lochlan tucked his arm around my waist and brought me up, laughing quietly against my head as he was vaguely drunk as well. Ben and Duncan came up behind us, I'm sure ready to catch us if we stumbled or stopped. We managed fine and went straight to the camper for a mildly drunken bonfire and a little more wine before rediscovering exactly what we like about each other when he's not parenting me, and I'm not rebelling against that. Level ground, inhibitions and emotions gone in the bliss of a lit fire and a lack of tension, an intoxication brought on by the perfect combination of stars, saltwater and moonlight, brought on by the complexity of long-time love and by the proximity of everyone I care about it.

He put out the fire when my eyes got heavy and the ghosts of Bridget Past tried to crowd back in to the smoke-tinged darkness.

No, I protested. I love it. Leave it.

Time for sleep, Lochlan says, taking my hands, pulling me to my feet. He brings me inside the camper, closing and locking the door, pulling his shirt off and mine too, pushing my jeans down over my hips, dropping his own pants, arms around me, my hands on his face, kisses raining everywhere, tasting smoky skin and merlot and exhaustion. We're cooling off, goosebumps rising, limbs tucking into warmth made from within and without and we remembered who we are in that beautiful night, and who we want to be, separate and together and everything else was erased by the sunless sky.

This morning we woke up in 1986, thick as thieves, fresh as new lovers, eager to start over together as one. He made coffee for us in the campfire and then we returned to civilization to try and reintegrate into normie life.

It's tough but so are we.

This is how I thought it would play out when I was ten.

(And here we are, at long last.)

Last customer, sitting at a booth in the corner for so long, menu held up to block out the world I wondered if he was going to last past the end of my shift. A few attempts to offer coffee or the special (roast turkey on an open-faced sourdough bun, cranberry dressing and mashed on the side) were met with silence. I kept cleaning, loading dishes and redrawing the menu board. I reorganized the spoons and filled vinegar and ketchup and salt and pepper too. I poured myself a cup of coffee and leaned against the counter finally, with my back to the booths. Not my problem.

Obviously it's Lochlan.

Not sure how he didn't realize that I would see that his ring matches mine. Or recognize his clothes. Or that I would know his hands, his posture, his presence anywhere, immediately. I always feel him before I see him, but I think he thought he could blend in until the three-o'clock mark.

I think I'm ready now. He folds the menu onto the table and smiles at me.

What'll it be? 

One Bridget. To go, please. 

To go where? 

Anywhere you want to go, Little Lady.

Wash it away.

August did that thing again where he's waiting for me after I come down the driveway from work. Only this time everyone else is gone and he's in charge of food + brood or so they call it when I get home from work, ravenous and needing to unload for a few minutes before I make my way back to a reasonable state of-

As if I do.

Come on. You know me better than this.

August's idea of a snack is fresh kombucha and a cold curry couscous salad. He might be trying to kill me. Over huge spoonfuls of the salad I ask him if he's ever had a pop-tart. He narrows his eyes and changes the subject. How long were you at Batman's? 

Long enough to start a war. 

Is that why you took a shift today? 

Maybe. Is that why no one is home? 

I doubt it. Caleb and Lochlan got into it pretty bad but Schuyler broke it up and then had a few terse moments with Batman. I think they sorted it all out. The only issue left is your movements. We take our eyes off you for one second, Bridget-

I was there for four hours, August. No one even missed me.

Right, well, you should have been at home. 

I know. 

And? 

What would you like me to say? Sorry? Won't happen again? Sometimes I get sucked in. 

So he's like a tidal wave?

More like an unpredictable current. Is that so bad? 

Who takes the fall for it?

We both do. Him for taking advantage of historically documented vulnerabilities and me for exploiting that history thoroughly. 

August is temporarily speechless at my self-awareness. I never said it wasn't there. I said I live around it. The twelve-year-old me is much stronger than all the rest. And it never changes.

So what happens now? 

A shoving match between Lochlan or Caleb or whoever, I get grounded, my circle gets really fucking small and Lochlan needs reassurance. 

What do you need? 

Do you have any pop-tarts? Couscous is like really old caviar. 

That's the best reason for a pop-tart that I've ever heard. Go find PJ. He's got some from grocery shopping this morning. 

It wasn't until I went across the driveway that I realized he dismissed me just like Lochlan does. Like a little kid.
 

Never the boss but somehow always in charge.

The saying goes something like 'you never know what battle someone is fighting' or something like that. It came to me as I poured endless coffee refills into the thick white china mugs diners love so much because they're cheap and virtually unbreakable. It came as I whiteknuckled my favorite coffee pot, pouring black sludge through the cracks in my facade into grateful expressions and wizened fingers wrapped around handles as if they were simply afraid I would take their cups away.

My boss finally let me go home, telling me the lunch rush was over as was the afternoon break one, and he held his hand out for the apron as I untied it from my waist and gave it back. I had been washing it at home. Apparently I wasn't told he washes everything at night and I don't have to.

When I got home PJ had blackberries and hot chocolate waiting for my snack. I ate it at the kitchen sink looking out over the ocean because I'm no longer allowed to go to the swing alone.

(I can move Jake, you know. He stays wherever I put him. I threatened Lochlan with the endless misery of the preacher he hardly tolerated forever being my own shadow, as I am Lochlan's.

I know that. But you don't need to be out there this week. Clear? 

Yes sir.  I salute him and he frowns.)

Batman summons me. There's eight or ten really intriguing messages on my phone when I finally get home, fishing it out from the bottom of my handbag. I'll start the furthest away and work my way back. That's the most logical way.

(What? No it isn't, Lochlan will say.)

You need me? 

I do. He smiles, staring at me without saying anything further.

He holds out his arms and I sink against him almost gratefully. Done for the week. My legs ache. My brain hurts. I just want to shut it off.

Have you eaten? He says into the top of my head.

I nod against his chest, my ear muffling his words. Blackberries. 

I'll fix us a drink. His grand charming trick is to fix one drink, for us to share. It's always been a cheeky gesture. A touching one, weirdly. That's how I know my list will be short today and I probably won't get time to deal with all of the messages on my phone as I'll be here for a while.

He takes a sip and holds the glass down to me. I think I know what you need. That smile. God. I hate it so much.

Hope is not in what I know.

He isn't real, Peanut! Jesus, I can see talking to yourself but if you've conjured up this two-way conversation in which the things he says surprise you then it's gone too far. He isn't real! You don't have to justify anything to him. You don't have to put him anywhere. He can stay in your memories. He put himself there. He doesn't deserve anything further. Jesus. Listen to me. I sound like you. He doesn't even have this much presence. I don't know what to do here. If no one here can help then we're going to have to go elsewhere. 

This is your doing. 

Oh, no, it isn't. 

You said make a story, Locket! And it was the only thing that MADE ME FEEL BETTER. 

You were ten fucking years old! 

And it still works!

It SHOULDN'T. Jesus. We did do this, didn't we. 

Did what?

Left you to grow up with only the coping mechanisms of a child. 

What are you, Rip Van Winkle? Did you just wake up? Jesus, Lochlan. I've been asking for help with this for a thousand years and now that I don't even want any anymore you're all swooping in to somehow try and save the day. 

Not the day, the girl. 

Same difference. 

No, it isn't. 

Well, it's too late. 

He smiles suddenly. It's never too late. Look at everything else that's happened. You and me. Back together. It's absolutely never too late, Bridget.

Broken hearts, broken bowls (I survived the tenth shift. It took a lot of biting my tongue but I did.)

PJ made me a snack today when I got home. A small bowl of spicy pistachios, his pocket knife with which to open them and a fresh glass of lemonade, made with less sugar than most people like, or so I'm told.

I like you more lately. 

See? I told you I'm becoming a better person by working. 

No, but by working you're usually too tired now to argue with me about the dinner menu. He winks and then frowns. You sure you won't cut yourself, because Lochlan will murder me if he finds out I gave you that knife to-

Oh my God, PJ. Seriously. I spend all day long around huge butcher knives now.
 (They are the only thing that can cut through the moderate-burned pies the cook churns out morning and noon. Seriously.)

Tell him you stole it them. Have my back. 

I always have your back. I wink, worried for a microsecond that my eye might be joined by the other one, and that they might both just opt to remain closed for the duration. To my relief they act normally. Thank you for the snack. 

See you in a bit, Jellyfish. I am dismissed to carry my dishes out to the orchard to the swing, where I sit in the shadow of the tree to eat and then fly for a little while. Just until I feel like I can answer with a quick-witted reply when they ask how my day was. Otherwise the tears will continue and then everyone is angry and frustrated at me and at themselves.

Where have you been going? 

The swing is occupied when I arrive. Jake slows to a lazy circle on the swing, not holding on, squinting at me in the sun. My knees buckle and I almost upset the bowl but he reaches out to steady me. I can see the ocean right through his face, a lone sailboat fighting the current from within his right dimple. His face is a whirlpool and I get sucked right in. I'm drowning and the only thing that will be left of me is this untouched lemonade.

I have a job now. 

Yes. Sam told me. 

There goes the bowl. And the glass too, for good measure.

He...can see you too?

No, but he prays to me sometimes. To my spirit for guidance. 

I think that will be a good explanation to calm the fluttering of my heart and hands but somehow it just makes it worse. Oh. I see. I say it slowly.

You understand this isn't how you have relationships in the real world you're so eager to be a part of. 

It's a long story, Jake. 

I have time, Princess. Tell it to me.

I drop PJ's open knife on my foot. May as well spill all the bad blood while I'm at it, right?

Jesus, Mary and Joel.

A break?

A day off. 

From me? The only person who actually doesn't try to keep you sick, to bring you out of your comfort zone but keep you well within a safe environment so you can make some improvement? You always fight it, Bridget but deep down you know better. You're always going to struggle against that regression. They set you up to depend on them for everything-

There's nothing wrong with that- (also? He lies.)


When it turns out like this, yes, there is something deeply wrong with it. 

Don't bite the hand that feeds you, Sam-

I'm not. I'm trying to help you, Bridge. I'm in the most precarious place of all trying to balance my job with our relationship-

Have a good day at work. I can't do it. I don't want to talk now. He is older, more experienced and has more miles on him than Jacob ever will and yet when he says the same words it destroys my resolve and I don't want to work on anything. Don't want to be anything. And I certainly don't want to remember anything about life before the Collective all assembled in one place for good.

Though I keep saying it's not for good and every single time I am corrected.

(It is, Bridge.)

(Don't worry, Neamhchiontach.)

(We're not going anywhere.)

Would you go back and change it if you could? Joel asks over coffee, hashbrowns, bacon and eggs that got cold because this restaurant doesn't warm the plates in the oven before putting the food on them so that everything stays hot longer. I try to make butternauts and they don't form properly, butter blobs laying every which way on my plate. What a mess. What a fucking mess.

Change what? 

Being raised by wolves. 

No. 

You sure you don't want to think about that?

I have. And the answer is still no. 

Then why won't you listen to them when they ask you to stay home? 

I shrug. I'm stubborn...and...

And?

Maybe I'm helping them get over their fears too. So we can all be better people. 

That's pathetic. 

He's looming over my shoulder as I bring up my deposit on my bank app to show him. I got my first paycheque.

I was really proud. I made almost five hundred dollars. And that doesn't even include the tips I brought home each afternoon.

Just end this farce. I'll top up your account daily, if you like the thrill of it. It'll be far more, however. 

You've missed the point. 

Oh, I don't believe I have. It's been several weeks, Bridget. I think we should stop talking about ghosts and go back to talking about you putting in your resignation, or whatever a job like that requires. I have people who know the provincial labour code if you need advisemen-

I'm not quitting. 

You're digging yourself a hole for what? Pocket change? 

I'm trying to become a better person. 

You're already the best person, Neamhchiontach. You've brought life to this point, to the people on it and we miss you dearly while you're gone. I'm watching you throw yourself into one hole after another on a daily basis all the while ignoring the terms of our settlement. 

My pay doesn't even cover the cellphone bill so if you're worried about supporting me I'm pretty sure you still are. 

So why continue?

I told you a hundred times over already. 

He looks down for a moment and then back to me. His face is soft but his eyes are hard. I think it's time to quit now, Neamhchiontach. It's phrased as a gentle suggestion but it's very clear.

I told you it's none of your business. And the second restaurant is busier and less friendly, just to turn your screws. 

Good, Batman can buy that too. 

The owner isn't selling it. 

Anyone can be bought. 

See, I thought you were learning the opposite of that. For some people out there, money isn't their endgame. 

Money is the only end game. 

So by that logic you're complete? 

You're easier when you're mute. 

You're easier when you go away, Diabhal. 

This wasn't meant to be a conversation where you break my heart, Bridget. 

Hey, it's the club we run here. 

How do I make you understand this is so very temporary you won't have time to get your apron dirty? 

Unless you lock me in a room I'm working for the time being, and I'll decide when I stop. 

I didn't want to resort back to force but as you've reminded me, it's the only way to get you to do anything, isn't it?

Two steps forward, ten years back.

You found me drifted out to sea
It's automatic
It's telepathic
You always knew me
And you laugh as I search for a harbor
As you point where the halo had been
But the light in your eyes has been squandered
There's no angel in you in the end

Sam didn't let up at all, telling me that, just like in the song, Jacob clipped his wings so he could come down to earth because I needed him, and when his wings grew back and he was needed he left again, knowing I was in good hands. Maybe he was sent to get me through losing Cole.

That can't be right. Back to the hitching, tear-choked morning that gets all the light sucked out of it by default, plunging us all into the abject blackness that spreads from my brain in a slow circle as his words hit their mark, leaving my head full of holes.

What kind of angel lets you fall in love with them if they're not going to stick around to see it through?

It doesn't matter, Bridge. You fall in love with EVERYONE. EVERY. SINGLE. TIME.

STOP LYING. Bridget's suddenly eight, just to finish this vision for you, resorting to paper-thin responses as a child does. Whatever works. BE NICE. STOP SHOVING. LEAVE ME ALONE. MOM, BAILEY'S BUGGING ME.

That brings Lochlan out of the woodwork. (He knows that Bridget best. Sam hardly knows her at all.)

He's not wrong. But it's okay. I promise.

Okay? No. It isn't okay. It's not okay. Your promises are as shot through full of holes as my head right now. Blackness is pouring out of his mouth and I can't hear him anymore. Stop it. STOP IT. STOP IT. 

Neamhchiontach. 

The word that acts like a light in the dark. The absolution a spotlight on a life that saw me taking fault for everything that's ever happened when I shouldn't have.

I whirl around and Caleb is in the door.

Not a good time, Diabhal. Lochlan's got it. Under control. Yeesh.

Just in time, you mean. He doesn't look at Lochlan at all, instead holding his hand out to me. Come, Bridget. 

I take a few steps and put my hand out and he closes his around mine. There. We'll go escape for a bit and you'll feel better.

Jesus, Bridget-

ENOUGH. Caleb finally addresses Lochlan directly. I don't know what you're doing but you need to stop. This is the second time in a week I've had to step in and if things don't change I'll be in charge and you'll be banished from here. Am I clear? 

Bridget. Lochlan continues to ignore Caleb, staring at me, pleading with his eyes as if I'll magically get a grip on this flood of feelings that I would do anything to get away from today.

I stare at him without expression and then I get pulled along, out of the room.
I'm sure Caleb is right. I just need a break. I need to not have to defend every thought, every feeling, every moment. I need to think less, not more.

***

This morning things look slightly different. Lochlan isn't going anywhere. Caleb doesn't have the right to threaten him. But Sam is here and I think I need a break from Sam. Not friend-Sam, but Preacher Sam. Preacher Sam pushes too hard and I don't need that right now.

Bastard history.

August got positively..uh..cockblocked by Sam, who decided tea & porching was the theme of the evening and kind of peeled my skin off, leaving the organs of the former Bridget MacIntosh there to try and find some sort of container to maybe put her back together, or at least keep her together in. Eventually they found the skin, now shredded and transparent and all but useless, but good enough, as always, for that's how I roll.

I don't know if Lochlan is all that impressed with Sam today, if only for the condition he left me in, which isn't something you want to do in the name of helping someone, and there may have been a good shoving match in the kitchen while I sat outside eating toast in the clouds. I have the day off, don't fuck it up for me, guys, but then I heard the toaster oven hit the floor. Now we have a dent in the hardwood. Now we need a new toaster. I don't have time to buy one so someone else can do it, or we can go back to toasting things in the oven like we do when we rent a cottage that is supposedly furnished but they don't actually expect people to cook so there's no toaster.

Right.

That's dumb, isn't it? Who doesn't like toast?

Comfort food. Like comfort boys only I didn't get any August and I'm pretty sure Sam planned it that way. They have different methods of caring for the inside of my skull, which has a whole different set of instructions from the rest of me, but Sam decided I was doing GREAT and working was a wonderful way to distract and forget all about Jake. I told him I didn't plan on doing that and maybe Jake would have a word or two for Sam as well, because he's disloyal and damaging to even suggest that to me these days, and Sam implored that he knows better, that he's older and has weathered more of life than Jake ever will and I thought about it for a minute and then I went out to the orchard in the dark (don't worry, the electric fence is on, I'm free to roam) and asked Jake how old he was and he said thirty-six without hesitating and I turned and ran back to the house and I forgot a few things about the trip back and landed on my face a couple of times but I went right past Sam and inside to Lochlan with my usual snot-nosed holy-fuck face that I get when I can't believe everything has been a lie and boy, Lochlan's in a tough place trying to balance my needs with his own pragmatism and Sam's weird loyalty and August's surprise requests and Caleb's endless pressure so that started a fight and you know where that leaves us?

Yeah. A Thursday spent playing eighties ballads and indulging in the world's longest run-on sentences. The words just won't stop. If it gets any worse I'll have to stem the flow by throwing myself into the sea. That dilutes them back down to floating jumbles of letters and then I don't have to sort them out. It's a relief. I need all my energy to hold my skin together here anyway.

Newfie Surprise mens.

August was sitting on the steps of his loft when I pulled into my usual spot on the left side of the garage, in the hollow under the big tree that if you walk underneath and around to the right and up a hill behind the garage you come to the orchard, my garden, the tiny vineyard and the swing that sails out over the grass. That parking spot is the shadiest in the whole driveway so I claimed it a long time ago. Then my Porsche stays nice and cool instead of feeling like the sauna, which I don't want when I'm driving, frankly.

Hey Princess. 

I collect my bag from the passenger seat and stand up, smiling at him while I remove my name tag and throw it into the bottom of my bag.

Hey Augie!

He shakes his head but grins. Aw fuck. Don't look like that. Such a Newfie expression.

Long day?

The longest. I looked at the clock after about six hours and only six minutes had passed. 

Rough. 

It was. By Wednesdays I'm a mess, the laundry is backed up, the house is falling apart and it takes the whole rest of the week to pull everything back together. What's up? 

Just seeing if you and Loch are free later. 

Yes. I think carefully. Check with me around nine. Should be okay. 

Will do. He grins so openly and innocently it makes me feel guilty but also thrilled beyond measure to be missed so thoroughly during the days that I work. I don't know what I expected, but it wasn't that.

Longest. day. ever.

Worked all day, got off at three, filled the car with gas, ran some errands, dropped both kids off at work, had a shower, watered the garden, made some lunches for tomorrow (mine included), made dinner, played with my dog, did a load of laundry, mailed a letter, and sat down at eight at night to write and I'm empty. Too tired. Eye on the clock hoping the dryer is done before I'm too asleep on my feet to open it and fold everything that's inside. Still have to pick the kids up later. Oh my God. I'm not going to make it.

I have ten minutes, Locket. What should I write about?

Tell the world your husband is hot. 

Okay, then. Guess I'm done here. :)

Pride's a fickle bitch.

Worked a long shift today. So tired. Ben rubbed my legs for twenty-five minutes straight and now they're Jello but he's also the only one allowed to touch my feet. I have issues. No massages, no beauty treatments, I can barely stand to let Daniel cut my hair or Lochlan cut my bangs even. Doctors are difficult. Tattoos are alright, at least. (Side note here: my wings now look like they're part of the rest of my suit and I have had a lot of comments on them as the tips stick out the bottom of my work dress on the backs of my elbows.)

But yeah, for someone as habitually sex-addicted and affection-whoreish as I am, it's weird to hate to be touched. Or maybe it's a mark of those who belong to the Collective only. Maybe that's how you tell us from the rest of the world.

Also, I get paid this week! And as is tradition in this family, when you get your first paycheque you spend it selfishly and willfully on whatever the heck you want.

I don't know what to spend it on. I can't buy time, clearly (remember the fun of yesterday's moods). I don't buy jewelry for myself. I don't like clothes. I have enough art supplies to paint the point five times over. We got amazing pool floaties last year. I can't actually think of anything here.

Uh.

Geez.

It's not enough for a trip..unless it's a day trip. Maybe that's what we'll use it for. A trip into the interior maybe to a winery for lunch. Gas will be included in the cost because ow, it's so expensive right now. I'm going to keep dreaming on this until Friday when I see it show up in my bank account.

I can add five zeroes to what you anticipate and you could have your trip, Neamhchiontach. 

I don't reply. I like the idea of trying to plan it and not knowing if it can actually be a thing. And also now I remember why my legs hurt twice as much as they usually do today.

Spinning.

Are you complaining?

Yes, but I know my place. 

Sure?

Are you? 

I got admonished for having first world problems today. Instead of being endlessly grateful for my car, home, healthy boys and children, larder full of food, etc. etc, I had a little bit of a spoiled meltdown because the stress of not having any downtime to think for five minutes caught up and passed me, leaving me in a cloud of dust so thick I began to cough, choking on the potential of my squandered history of absorbing all the attention to be had within a twenty-mile radius. I'm not very good at balancing things, managing my free time or panicking over very normal things like flat tires, missed appointments or empty pantries. I've said that before though. I'm a planner, I'm organized and when I can't be in the way that I want, life goes nuclear for me for a bit and I have to hyperventilate myself to sleep and try again another day.

I'm not sure how people who have it all are supposed to be some sort of level, content, bland robots all the time but apparently that's how it works? Do they not worry or feel pressured or have bad fucking days, maybe? 

Of course they do. 

Well, then that's what I'm having and I don't need a lecture. 

He bit his lip. Maybe we should have gone to church. 

I laughed. Maybe. But then I'd have even less time than I do now and I just wish I could figure out the thinking part. To be able to think instead of being too tired. To be able to plan some projects or live past the end of the day ahead of me just a little. I went from living in the happily ever after to living in the moment and I need to switch it back and suddenly I can't. Maybe it's a bad time to write but I have to get something out or I won't have anything and the inside of my skull fills up with words and starts to ache and I don't know how to fix that but it usually ends up with my head exploding and the wrong words raining down on the wrong people, toxic clouds of letters rearranged with meanings they were never meant to represent, and then I don't have a face anymore and no one can see me and-

Leave her with me. She'll be fine tomorrow. Caleb's voice cuts through the chatter and my body goes into some sort of thankful, resigned flight mode. That's how it works.

Fairy tales and princesses, fires and princes.

Lochlan caught the nightmare after dark, adding weight to her limbs, slowing her down in the way that she responds best, and when she slept, she turned back into me. I harbour no guilt for my daydreams, as they were encouraged, cultivated and excused and you can't just waltz into someone's brain, cut the music and make sweeping changes unannounced.

Lochlan knows that but he has his own demons to fight and so the struggle endures.

I broached the subject of finishing the gardening this weekend and he laughed a soft laugh with a sinister edge that I promptly sawed off.

You can come too. 

Three's a crowd, he countered.

Never. We're inclusive here. Shots fired and.....man down.

Touché.

Don't challenge my simple needs, Loch. 

Don't make me share my beautiful life with the overbearing legacy of the man that had it and threw it all away. 

He didn't, he just borrowed your life and it didn't fit him-

Oh, SEMANTICS, Peanut. I hate him for what's he's done. 

Oh, but you accept the Devil. 

I do not. 

Semantics, Dóiteáin. 

He pulls me in underneath his arms and plants a hard kiss right on the top of my head, shoving me away without a hug after. I frown and he says I'm impossible and I nod as if that's old information.

Are we going to plant the tomatoes or what?

Sure. And then we're going to do nothing but spend time together doing nothing. We could use a few hours of that. 

Can we rewatch Sense8? And maybe some of the royal wedding again?

Yes. We can do all that. And maybe make some pasta and have some wine. 

Ooh, fancy grownup dates. 

We could use some of that, too. 

Dates?

Being grownups. 

I'd rather not, if it's all the same to you. 

Me neither. And he grins that tired grin, the one that's blurred around the edges, lined with time and space and still a thousand watts brighter than the lights on the Midway, just for me.

On growing a new moon (fifteen percent in).

Send us a blindfold, send us a blade
Tell the survivors help is on the way
I was a blind fool, never complained
All the survivors singing in the rain
I was the one with the world at my feet
Got us a battle, leave it up to me

The day is dim, dark and heavy with the promise of rain. I was outside for a little while doing a little gardening, planting nasturtiums for endless salads this summer, marveling at the lilac tree we planted that has grown out over the wooden retaining wall and is now far taller than even Ben. The soft grey of the wooden wall is the perfect compliment to the palest violet color of the blooms. I planted some lavender and some parsley, and some sweet peas. Maybe this weekend if it's not raining we'll plant the tomatoes, peas and peppers too. People would say I'm very late in planting but it doesn't get cold here in the fall until after Remembrance day and I like to plant from seed so I wait until the ground is warm and dry, rather than in years past when my kitchen was covered on all surfaces with seedlings. I don't want to pre-grow things, I don't want to cheat. I'm not chasing the warm weather here in the way it's done everywhere else.

I can take my time.

I look up as the sun pushes the clouds back for an instant. The sea is content today, her waves blunted and smooth, no whitecaps, no foam, no roil underneath the invisible wind. I don't want to be out in the bright sun so I gather up my tools into the big red bucket that I use for gardening and I head toward the house. Just before I top the hill I look back at the rope swing drifting lazily back and forth against the green of the orchard. I dreamed last night that I could swing high enough to touch the clouds but when I tried in my awake hours I had to settle for only reaching palest blue.

The swing slows to a stop and only then do I turn and make my way home, stopping by the stables to drop off my bucket of gardening supplies and then I spent a minute with the hose and stiff brush in the driveway to wash the soil and the dust off my bare feet before heading inside.

Lochlan meets me at the door.

Who were you talking to?

I was in the garden.

Yeah, I came out to see if you wanted some help and you were talking up a storm. At least you didn't wait for replies or I'd be even more worried than I already am. 

It's nothing. 

Is that where you put him? 

What?

Is that where Jake lives now in your mind? Is that why you spend so much time out at the swing? Is that the shadow I'm going to have to rip off your heels for the rest of our lives?

Loch-

I was kind of hoping he was taking a little break from your life, that you were focused and paying attention-

I am-

You are a dreamer, a magic fairy. A mythical beast. A nightmare. And you're never going to be mine, are you?

I'll be in the sauna (favoring my knee).

I walked into his house, still in my work dress and thick black sturdy shoes, aching knee and everything and I dropped my bag on the floor. The apple I didn't have time to eat rolled out across the floor and we became an eighties movie when I specifically requested my life to be an eighties music video.

Fuck.

Goons? Seriously? You sent goons to threaten my boss.

He needed to know who he's dealing wi-

I'm a PART-TIME employee! That's who he's dealing with. This is none of your business. 

You are my bus-

NO I'M NOT! I'm not! I don't know why you insist that I am. I never asked for anything from you. Not a thing. 

And you won't. You don't have to. That means we're doing our job. 

This is some massive Fifty Shades bullshit-

Write down your goals and stick to making them your reality instead of doing these stunts where you make sweeping changes in your life to try and fix what Caleb broke-

Stop changing the subject and tell me why you sent goons after my boss! He only moved me because I work hard and he didn't know if you were just going to shut the whole thing down. He was making sure I could keep my job.

Doesn't he know who you are?

Apparently I don't know who I am. Please. Do share if you can tell me. Last time I checked I was nobody. 

Let me reframe this. Is your employer aware that you come home to this house, where you live with these people?

He knows how to mind his own business. Unlike you. Maybe he doesn't care. Maybe he doesn't have time to worry about people that doesn't know. But good luck with your restaurant. You seem like the type to buy something and just shut it down. There's a lot of people out of work now.

I'm not shutting it down. You can run it. 

I have a job, thanks. 

You can do both.

Not interested, sorry. 

Are you going to throw me a bone here? I'm trying to help you. 

Doubling the workload wouldn't be helping. Maybe tell me why my knee is swelling. 

Because you run yourself ragged from the early hours right through late afternoon and you had given up running because of your knees. 

This isn't that kind of runn-

Yes it is. I can call a fellow I know who practices sports medici-

No, I'm good. Stop calling people. Stop doing things. If I want your advice I'll come to you and ask for it. 

But you won't. 

Right. Now do you understand?

Now I have time to play Zelda on the Switch they got me for my birthday.

Wow, just like that we went from spring to summer and back again, today being very fall-like. I woke up wrapped tight against Lochlan, in his arms, with the windows open, birds chirping so loudly I wasn't sure I even slept at all. Suddenly it's too cold for the pool again (I told you, said the Devil when I asked if he could put the heater on so that when I get off work it's bathtub-temperature). All of my older customers asked me to relay to the manager that the restaurant was very cold today and I nodded and said I would tell her and then I did nothing because it was blissfully ice-cold for once.

I got off work, forgetting I was going to bring home a pie, taking off my apron and rushing to the car so I could jump in, lock the doors and cry except that I have the next few days off so I'm celebrating instead.

I got my chores finished before five. I can paint my nails for the weekend! I have a Lochlan all to myself, a long weekend that suddenly isn't long, as I'll be working Monday's morning rush and a Ben that is changing his schedule around so that he will be with us too.

And maybe even Sam will be around, as it's not a huge church weekend, since last weekend was bonkers for him.

But GUESS who bought the restaurant?

No, not Caleb.

Batman.

So the owner's moving me to his other one. It's closer to home, which is good, and newer, which is even better. And boy, is Batman pissed.

(Also, with this weekend being finished I've officially broken my record for days on my last restaurant job. It was four. Four whole days. This one I've already worked six! But back then I also only made two dollars an hour.)

Sugar-dusted.

I'm pretty sure they are taking turns, one by one, to see which one can talk me out of this. I want to stick it out. Honestly it's a crap job with shit pay, a polyester apron so thick I could use it as a pool cover and sure, I don't need the job but I'm not taking it away from anyone as they couldn't fill it for months. The owner was taking orders. The cook swept under the tables when it wasn't busy. And as I said before, pay isn't the only reason you take a job. This one is a challenge (The sandwiches are confusing. I never check the soup of the day until it's too late and someone puts me on the spot and the blender and A/C are both perpetually broken.) But it's a challenge that ends with that table. When you leave the diner you forget about it. I don't have to worry about working nights and weekends. I don't have to be in charge of anything. I just have to smile and greet each person as they sit down and make sure they have ketchup and fresh coffee and everyone's so happy it's dumb.

I'm looking forward to my first paycheque. And also any food I buy at work is half of what it costs everyone else so today I had a rootbeer slushie with the peanut butter and jam sandwich I brought with me and it was amazing. I was so hot. I have a heat rash on the back of my neck from the apron band. I'm happy I have four days off after tomorrow and I asked the owner if we could get organic cotton aprons instead.

He said no. He looked confused. I didn't press the issue. I'll wear the one I was given.

But today it was Ben's turn to ambush me when I got home.

Bumblebee.

Big Ben. Done work?

I am. Are you?

No, now I have to do my chores. 

I'll delegate. But only on one condition. 

What's that? (I thought he was going to say something that would make me blush but he didn't.)

Quit and let me cover your salary. I'll even throw in daily challenges. You don't need to do this.

I do, though. But I'm curious about your daily challenges. 

Oh, are you?

I am. 

If you quit you can find out what they are. 

Did Lochlan put you up to this?

No. 

Caleb?

No. Why?

You're the fifth or sixth person to offer to cover my pay if I leave the job. 

Was Lochlan one of them? 

No. He thinks it's a good thing. 

That's because he's the only one who cares that you grow a little. The rest of us want to permanently hobble you so that nothing ever changes. 

It won't. 

Don't make promises you can't keep, Bumblebee.