Because why lie on the floor when supposedly lying on a fake wicker couch is that much better? YEESH.

Did I mention I finished my shopping for the away folks this week?

Amazing. Also I've procured the advent calendars and new Christmas cards (hard to find black ones, y'all) and wrapping paper (Okay it's not black, it's baby blue with little snowmen all over it and it's cute!) and the two cases of tape that we will probably still run out of.

I even have a couple of gifts for Ruth and Henry already.

But I also have far less time than I did before and that's going to make things tougher this year so I'm trying to get it all done in the next couple of weeks or so. We shall see. Next weekend will be very busy and also I'm sick again (this. goddamned. cold) but Lochlan's been really great about delegating, since I never have the heart to.

We even practiced and I still couldn't do it.

Tell him, Peanut. 

Hey PJ? Can you...uh..find a place that makes that yellow curry I love so much? I miss it. 

You were supposed to ask him to get out the patio set for the gazebo. 

But then I won't have room to lie on the floor anymore.

And you wonder why you don't get better. 

You don't get colds from being cold. You get them from germs! Also the gazebo is heated.

Yeah, okay. I raised you. YOU get them from being cold. I can almost set my watch by it. And the gazebo counts as 'outside'.

You hardly even wear your watch any more. 

Don't change the subject. Also, hey, PJ. Want to help me set the gazebo back up? 

I watch the master but I'll never be able to order my friends around. It just feels too weird. Even for me.

A Sea of trouble.

I'm pretty sure true bliss is lying on the floor of a heated gazebo on a cold sunny Friday listening to the Black Holes album by the Blue Stones and eating Kung Pao noodles out of a microwave envelope.

You can't beat that sort of a morning, actually.

But why are you lying on the floor?

Someone put the patio furniture away for the winter.

That was you, Bridget. 

Well, I think we can get it back out. It's twenty degrees. Winter is clearly over.

An apple a day (will not keep you from getting chased into a pool to be tickled).

And I cannot guess what we'll discover
When we turn the dirt with our palms cupped like shovels
But I know our filthy hands can wash one anothers
And not one speck will remain

And I do believe it’s true
That there are roads left in both of our shoes
But if the silence takes you
Then I hope it takes me too

I'm pretty sure being sat on and tickled at the bottom of the pool while he sings Death Cab lyrics at me so loudly and off-key I think I might choke, failing to catch my own breath is a rarity for a random Thursday in late November.

Stop it! STOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOP PLEEEEEEAAAAAASE!!!

And Lochlan stops on a dime, pulling me up out of the rain puddle that found a way to try and fill the pool against Caleb's wishes because it's almost winter.

And so I'm soaked and cold and it's pouring and he's still singing but I don't know the words to this one, I only know it's great, and I wish for monumental payback in the form of holding him down and belting out a Type O Negative or even an Amon Amarth classic in my half-assed growl.

He did make it up to me, slicing up a granny smith apple with tiny slivers of smoked cheese on each and every one, but then he ate half of it. He always eats half of it. We shared the bowlful while we found fresh warm clothes to put on after coming inside and shedding our soaked clothes and then he asked what I wanted to do.

Get a start on Christmas shopping, I said. It might be tough to send things across the country this year.

He nodded. Okay. No music in the truck today though. 

Excuse me? 

It was a song, and I feel like you talking about me singing it made it seem like I was saying those things, and I wouldn't-

Oh, no one thinks you wrote those words, Loch. 

I just mean-

I'm just amazed at how many lyrics you can remember. 

Probably not as many as you, Bridge. 

Oh, I don't know about that. I learned from the absolute best, and that's you for a reason.

Purely disfunctional or really really meant for each other.

Driving down the highway late last night on our way home from dinner and on the stereo comes the saddest song in the world that you'll never get out of your head. That Rihanna/Eminem song Love the Way You Lie that's so stupid-catchy and I'm only an Eminem fan when he's really angry anyway so I know this one so I start singing Rihanna's part and then Lochlan picks up the Eminem parts and when we pull into the driveway it ends.

We've sung the whole song together and I'm not sure now if I should be plotting divorce or instead a world tour.

I'm thinking tour.

All the land, I said.

A moment ago I was sweltering from the inside out day after day and suddenly it's dark at 3:30pm and I have to scrape my car in the mornings, and then sit in it shivering while I wait for the inside of the windows to defog.

PJ has offered, no less than every single morning to have the car warmed up, scraped and ready for me but I like him warm better than cold and I need to keep him that way.

Besides, I'm beginning to think I'm on a roll here. Should I build just enough character in this lifetime I can give it a face and a name and just maybe, I'll get my Jacob back. But don't tell them I told you this or they'll pad the walls of my room with feather-down mattress pads.

Don't laugh. We have a big squared off eight-inch-thick mattress pad on our bed that makes you feel as if you're falling asleep in an actual cloud. Or maybe that's on an actual goose, I suppose since clouds aren't made of feathers.

But that's okay, neither are Bridgets. Bridgets are made of rusted thumbtacks and linty pulls of cotton candy, loose strings of pink yarn and stray tortoiseshell buttons.

Or maybe that was magazine prizes, popcorn boxes, lollipops and dried blood. I don't even know, Lochlan changed it every single time he described me and he would always include some ingredient that surprised and ultimately dismayed me.

(Why do you say these things?

So you don't get full of yourself. 

Well, that's silly, who else would I be full of. I'm Bridget to the very top of my head. 

Yes, you are. 

When I grow up will you start my car for me on cold snowy days? 

I asked him this as we sat in his mother's car in his driveway while on this day he decided I was full of frozen pennies, stuck in a mudpuddle, broken popsicle sticks and one single left mitten.

No, because I hate doing this. I'm freezing. Maybe we can find someone to do it for both of us. 

Huh? 

Like a neighbor or a person who rents a room from us. We'll be landlords.

Oh, I see, like of all the land before us. Like kings. But wait! Why would they do that for us?

Maybe we'll do something for them too. 

Like what? 

I don't know, exactly. I guess we'll have to cross that bridge when we get there. 

We're going to live on the other side of a bridge?

Probably. 

Like on an island? 

There are all kinds of bridges that don't lead to islands. 

But the good ones do. 

It's an idiom. 

I thought it was called an island. 

No, no. The phrase. 

All good bridges lead to islands? 

You know what? You're right. Let's leave it at that, Peanut.)

Hey, PJ? On second though, would you mind starting it for me? I think that would be nice. And I'll bring you home some of that roast beef you like so much from the restaurant.

Stubborn is my middle name.

I think the last straw today was when Lochlan pulled into the parking lot at the restaurant only to find me sweeping up cigarette butts and straw wrappers from the pavement, my jacket wrapped around me, apron sticking out the bottom. It wasn't busy thanks to the observed Remembrance Day and so I was sent to do a lot of random chores today in lieu of waiting tables.

(I also spent forty-five minutes making sure all the forks faced the same way in the bin but no one seems upset about that.)

Alright, that's enough. I'm not going to watch you do that. 

Then go home and wait for me?

I think Caleb's right, Bridget. 

About what? 

You don't need to do this. 

I'm making twenty-two dollars an hour doing 'this'. 

Go inside, give them your apron, tell them that's your notice. 

Go home, Lochlan. I say it gently as the wind whips the hair into my eyes, hands covered in ashes, dignity locked securely in the trunk of my car. I have work to finish.

We are the dead (loved and were loved).

Where do you want to go for lunch, Neamhchiontach? 

For Ramen, actually. Is that okay? 

Of course. 

But we checked and nothing was open that we liked and so we came home and I'll make grilled cheese. It's a frosty cold Remembrance Day today, with little traffic and few people to interact with. Church was empty, so empty in fact that Sam culled in all of the folks who tried to sit unnoticed in the furthest rows, who then ended up right up front and he stood in the aisle, hands on the backs of the benches, and spoke as if he was leading a small meeting and then opted to give a very short sermon, releasing the tiny congregation. It felt a little like it did when the teacher would say we could leave ten minutes early, an unexpected freedom suddenly thrust into our universes to hold in both hands.

Sam went and helped all of the older folks find and put on their coats, and Caleb held out his hand for me, because I didn't take my coat off. I'm cold all the time lately, still stuffed up and coughing some and never ever rested. Ever.

Lochlan slept in. I tried to wake him but he said to pray for him and turned away. He made a sound like a kiss and trusts that I'll find what I need, that someone will bring me, that Sam will keep watch over me once I'm there and that I'll return and he'll be up and dressed, sipping coffee lefthanded the way he does, all but ignoring the world around him in a way that only someone who's lived with a multitude of distractions can pull off. He can fall asleep under a ride full of screaming teens and in a field with fireworks being set off directly overhead with a ridiculous ease that makes me so envious I'm always tinged a shade of green and yet he gets tired so easily now. Life has worn us down. God didn't have any answers for that, he only wanted to take stock of our gratitude for those who fought in the war. My poppy fell off somewhere between the front hall and returning to the front hall today. Not sure why but I usually spend fifty dollars on them because I forget to figure out a way to affix them until I want to take them off my coat but then again this time of year I'm numb and going through the motions.

Remembrance indeed. By the skin of my teeth.

Grilled cheese is ready, Diabhal. 

It looks delicious. Thank you.

Spoilers, spoilers.

I would talk about Caleb's new level of affection since he's come to reside in the main house, as he calls it (not what I call it, oddly) but instead a lot of people emailed me to ask what I thought of Sabrina. 

I don't think I'll finish it. The boys weren't all that impressed, as they are not the target demographic so that's okay, they were far more impressed with that scene in the Delta-V episode of The Expanse when dude hits the shield in the ring at 80000 km/h and his face torques out and liquifies in the COOLEST WAY EVER.

But Sabrina? I was so happy they were portraying witchcraft as an everyday normal activity until they mentioned Satan. And then I was like HUH? and then they kept doing it and mixing up Witchcraft and Satanism and I was like Oh, hell, no. Pick one, they aren't the same, they have nothing to do with each other. Then there was a little Voodoo and I rolled my eyes and decided the show just doesn't get it and I think I'm done.

But it did have promise and all of the actors were amazing.

But damn, someone in the writer's room or at the first read through should have quashed the Satan aspect so hard. Seriously, folks. What the fuck.

In other news, did I mention my Devil is being stupidly sweet? Cause he is.

Think I have this 'self care' thing down now.

I've spent this rainy Friday lying in bed with Daniel, Schuyler, Lochlan and Ben eating brownies and watching Sabrina on Netflix. Does it count?

(I hope it does.)

Warily warily warily warily, life is but a dream.

(I misheard those lyrics once. Lochlan said if I didn't want cavities I should sing Row, Row, Row Your Boat in my mind while I brush my teeth but I didn't know the song, his accent and my ears further messed it up, and it's been a cautionary tale ever since.)

This morning I feel better. I feel victorious and renewed. I feel like I conquered a ghost or a feeling or a day just by avoiding it completely, which seems a trickstery, underhanded, rather shady way of dealing with things, forcing one to shove their true feeling down to the bottom of their very selves where those feelings fester and infect the owner. For ever.

Sam laughs at my descriptions. It's early. Far too early for this and my legs hurt. Not quite, Bridget. More of a coping mechanism using distractions. You still need to deal with the feelings. 

I ask him with my mouth full of toast with honey. Oh yeah? How do I do that? 

As if we've never had this conversation a hundred thousand times before and he just grins softly because he's relieved, sharing in my victory, glad to be over the worst of it. I don't speak too soon, I don't need to knock wood as the beginning of the week was tough and careless, difficult, dark and sharp and yet eventually all good things must come to an end. Today the sun is shining, there's a million and twelve new red leaves on the ground and I need to make the rounds, get my hugs and reassure the boys that I am okay even as everything I do and say tells them something completely different lately.

Lochlan is the most relieved and yet still the most guarded of all. Every time he walks into a room he points at me and snaps You good?

I'm almost afraid to say anything other than Yes.

I did it.

I held my breath and I worked a surprise, unscheduled fourteen hour shift at the diner, the last four hours of which I did with tears in my eyes and nary a word to the whopping five people who came in long after the dinner rush. The manager tried to send me home, then the cook, then the cleaners but it was better if I stayed. Ben showed up and sat in a booth for what seemed like hours. I waited on him silently, refilling his coffee five or six time and he finally got tired of watching me suffer and left only to be replaced by Lochlan who sat in his truck in the parking lot until the restaurant finally closed and I was forced back outside into reality, my apron still on because I forgot to hand it in.

Let's go home. Lochlan says nothing else on the entire drive. When we get home I take a long hot bath, get checked on so many times I give up entirely and put on warm pajamas and Cole's grey sweater. I take a brand new bottle of Lagavulin and a glass and I walk out to the pool. It's empty so I walk down to the deep end and sit down and pour a glass for Jacob for his birthday. I pour it out, down the drain and call him a few choice names, taking a good fiery burning swallow from the bottle for good measure. I do this for a few moments while my legs seize up from running all day and then when I go to stand I find I can hardly do it, limping to the shallow end to climb the stairs.

They're all sitting there. All of them. Lochlan comes down to take the bottle, putting his arm around me.

Time for bed, Bridget.

I nod.

Sam kisses my cheek and tells me I did the best thing I could have done today, throwing myself into something to get through the day without dwelling on it. That it was a healthy alternative to previous years. That he's proud of me.

That they all are proud of me.

Usually that makes me feel so good, so...worthy but tonight I just feel tired.

Eleventh year gift: the lobotomy I wished for and never got (until today).

I woke up abruptly this morning, or rather, something (someone) woke me. I white-knuckle-gripped the banister on the way downstairs into the cold light. It's so quiet. I can hear my heart hammer in my chest as I keep going down, down, down until the floor gives way to stained wet concrete and errant leaves in the most beautiful shades of blood and ochre dot the path on the way to the big door with the rusted dog lever that I can't turn from the outside, meaning someone must turn it from the inside.

I climb over the sill into the concrete room. I haven't been here in a while. I thought they closed it for good. Blew it up. Sealed it off from my life, a memory I can't keep because it drowns me alive but Jacob showed me a different way to get to it, down a hallway in my mind.

And I followed because I need him. I need to see him. I need to check in on a regular basis in order to feel alive because he isn't and sometimes I wonder if I actually am.

The lights come on, one at a time, from the farthest, darkest corner to where I am and when they're all on, I shiver because the room is still empty.

Princess. 

I startle, choking on my breath and twirl around. He's behind me. Standing less than twelve inches from my heels (now toes), smiling down at me. My heart breaks into a million shards and my brain follows it without question. Tomorrow he would have been forty-eight but he'll never see that, just like he never saw thirty-seven because instead of celebrating his birthday he was busy losing to himself.

And I wake up screaming because it hurts. Everything hurts. The parts inside my head that are loose. My heart. My chest is hammering, tears are streaming down my face and my vision is blurred and yet I can't stop screaming. I don't want to be alone down here. I don't want to be with someone who isn't breathing. Don't want to stand here in the cold. Don't want to feel like this. Don't want to be like this anymore. Don't want to hurt. Don't want to hurt. Don't want to hurt.

Fetch.

When I left work today, Ben was waiting outside.

You're going to follow me home? I ask. I'm too tired to see what's in front of me. It was very busy for a Monday. Steady and I did a lot of random tasks that I usually don't do like mopping and scrubbing shelves.

I'm going to drive you home. PJ already took your car. Do you have everything? You won't be back until next week. 

I work tomorrow and Wednesday. 

Not anymore. 

I take what he says at face value. If there's a plan falling into place here on the eve of...of Tuesday, then I don't want to be in the way when it hits the ground.

I have everything. I don't leave anything there. Well, the apron, if I remember to take it off, since they wash those nightly. 

Good. He opens the door for me, helps me into his truck and buckles the seatbelt around me. Shades of Lochlan, 1982. I'm almost relieved, as the hectic highway at three in the afternoon is always the last thing I need.

Ben is the first thing I need and after being virtually absent all weekend he is more than present finally. Just when I need him the most.

Need to stop anywhere?

No. Let's just go home. 

The whole way he holds my hand and I look out the window at the trees. No radio. No music. No jokes. No conversation at all. Just a comfortable, familiar silence, as is typical in the calm before the storm.

Polished.

I love it when someone engineers an early evening, picking up the corners of the night and knotting it into a tight bundle containing all of the dirty dishes and lingering partygoers and walks out the front door with it.

Honestly, now I understand the premium people pay for that sort of stress-free experience and I'm grateful for it, even as I had one too many sazeracs and stumbled just enough on the bottom step of our staircase just long enough for the Devil to catch up with me.

Wait for me, Bridget. I just have a call to make. 

Take your time. I have plans. I swing around and sit down on the steps. I'm going to have to call Lochlan to come downstairs and get me. It's just too far.

Fuck the call. Come with me. He takes my hand, arm around my waist.

No. I give him a shove and get nowhere. I have to go.

Coming with you, Neamhchiontach. I'll see you to your room. He leads me up the stairs though I attempt to hang back. I can't feel my tongue or my legs. I can't feel my brain or my ghosts either. Maybe the sazeracs win where the other pills don't. Maybe therapy is overrated and I just need to be drun-

I bring him right inside, through the landing and the little den and into our room. There's a few lights on, and Lochlan's suit jacket (that he hates) is draped over the back of the couch. I can hear water running in the bathroom so I drop Caleb's hand, leaving him by the door and go across to the bathroom, knocking softly.

The door opens and Lochlan's eyes meet mine, warm until they see Caleb is with me, then slightly guarded. Lochlan is stone-cold straight. No sazeracs for him. He's being the grownup as always while I will forever be the child.

Just for a bit. Not for the whole night. I plead with him, biting my lip, wavering on my feet, flushed from the alcohol and the anticipation and the tension in the room.

He nods, briefly and leans down for a kiss. I'll be out in a minute. 

But it wasn't for just a bit and when I woke up this morning I was tucked in tightly between them, sleeping one of the best sleeps I've ever had, no hangover, no regrets and no resistance. Nothing left to clean up and no one that I have to answer to. Take that, ghosts. Take that, Bridget.

I hate parties and other non-revelations.

I somewhat reluctantly handed over my menu late last night to Caleb, who made some calls and today starting at eight this morning the house was seemingly full of strangers, albeit silver-service strangers, who began to set up the dining room in anticipation of tonight. The food will be brought in shortly before dinner, set up and served and whisked away at the end.

He had a team of house cleaners sent as well who had the entire point scrubbed and mirror-shining in a little under three hours (that's seven buildings, if you're counting) and he had groceries delivered too.

He delegated the dog walking/laundry-folding/time-machine emptying and he sent out msgs to everyone to see if there was any want for an on-site barber. He tried to have a person come who did massages and one who does nails but I asked him to ask the boys if they wanted that. At their house. No one touches me that doesn't love me unconditinally. That's the rule. That's why Daniel cuts my hair. Jesus. This hasn't changed in years.

He shook his head in disappointment at me because I won't let him spoil me.

I think I just did. 

This is not for your benefit, this is for theirs. I wanted something just for you. 

This is for me. My house is clean. I don't need to grocery shop and I don't need to cook tonight. 

Sigh. I hear it though he tries to cover it with a cough. He's being magnanimous benefactor today, benevolent, relaxed millionaire in jeans and a seriously overpriced long-sleeved t-shirt. He's being the way I always hope he'll be before he destroys all of my illusions eventually.

Thank you, Diabhal. 

No more of that. I have a name, he says and I'm surprised.

Then no more Neamhchiontach either. 

But you always will be. And it's written on your back. 

Ditto. And I turn and leave before he realizes I ruined the moment, before he recognizes that the chance he took failed spectaculary and before he talks me into being spoiled in a way that doesn't suit me at all and only serves to make me feel more like his property than anything else in the world. And that thought makes me cry and I don't want him to see that either.

I'll reappear when people start arriving. Maybe.
 

Who needs fine when I'm going for perfect?

Wait on me girl
Cry in the night if it helps
But more than ever
I simply love you
More than I love
Life itself

I would have been planning a forty-eighth birthday party for next week-

(Stop it, Bridget. That's destructive, unhelpful, damaging thinking. Let's reshape the thought and see what happens, okay? You're doing great, by the way.)

I'm planning an anniversary party for this weekend for Daniel and Schuyler. Their anniversary was earlier this week and we couldn't do it last weekend so this one upcoming is better for everyone. Especially Schuyler, who is working on a big project and is very busy and so we are babysitting Daniel, who has taken to chiming in with Lochlan's singing, and every song is now a theatrical duet, which is fine because Lochlan's always been incredibly theatrical and downright silly and because the two of them singing I Guess That's Why They Call It The Blues while I try and concentrate on gathering ingredients from the menu for tomorrow's party is making me happy in spite of my efforts to sabotage every good thing in my life, as is tradition.

Like throwing pumpkins off the cliff. If you do it year after year after year and then suddenly you don't do it, not doing it feels weird so you should probably keep doing it, right?

(No, Bridget. That's wrong. That's only useful for positive behaviors.

What's the difference?

Positive behaviors are GOOD for you. Negative behaviors are ba-

I get it. Well, I mean I think I do. No, wait. No, I don't get it actually.)

My  knuckles are white. My nerves are exposed. My scalp is peeled back and they're poking in my brain. Some touches so familiar, some so foreign. I cover my head with my hands but it's useless and so I soldier on, exposed.

When the cacophony gets too loud Lochlan shuts it down. I'm sure Caleb has some numbers. We'll have it catered. Don't worry so much, Bridge. It's fine. 

I heard my name? Caleb comes downstairs. I wonder if I'll ever get used to him wandering around the house. He comes over and Lochlan asks him for some contacts for a dinner service.

He nods, putting an arm around me, pulling me in tight against his shirt as if he can see my brain, see the wires and the lightning and the carnage and the black burnt parts and he knows and he squeezes my whole body and Lochlan's shoulder at the same time.

I got this. Why didn't you ask me sooner?

Red lipstick, orange leaves and music to drown out the rain.

One time to heal, one time to hurt you
And now I can't even feel you
I had one time and now it's over one time
One chance is all, one time only
And if the sun doesn't call
I had one time
One

Okay, um, if there are no gay boys living in this house anymore maybe we could stop with the Corey Glover/Elton John/Sam Smith brokenhearted playlist and I dunno, maybe play the new SLIPKNOT?

I'm on board with that. PJ smiles very wide. He's finding my irritation hilarious. I'm drinking cappuccino at four-thirty in the afternoon, which will mean a certain emergency later when I can't fall asleep but I'm still pretending right along with the rest of the world to 'take a moment for myself' as if I know what self-care even means.

I don't. But I'm sitting here sipping from my favorite cup and Mr. Glover is winding his pipes out on a twenty-five year old heartbreak and I only hope it's healed by now.  I only hope I sound so good when I reach those numbers.

But Slipknot. Did you see the video? Terrifying. Well done, boys.

Oh, wait, who snuck Cigarettes and Coffee onto this playlist? Yes, Mr. Redding, you can stay too. PJ can wait a little longer. Like they all do when I get in a mood.

I got time. PJ's on board with anything. He always is.

Happy Halloween, it's been a pretty good day.

Okay. Halloween is almost over. Four fence/gate jumpers and doorbell-ringers this evening. All warned off private property and given full-size chocolate bars but only after they almost peed their pants from the fear of PJ, who pointed out boys of that age can surely read, and don't sneak onto property that isn't open and welcoming with lit pumpkins because far worse could happen to them besides being momentarily scared and then being given diabetes.

The rest of the chocolate bars were evenly dispatched, half into Henry and half into Benjamin.

Henry dressed up for school today. I dressed in my work uniform for...work and Lochlan wore his velvet top hat (not the good one, this one is the....uh...casual one) just for kicks and we tossed a few pumpkins after dinner (which was breakfast. Hash browns and fried egg sandwiches because I'm tired) and had a good strong drink (okay that last one was just me because it's my Friday) and went back inside, safe from the rain and the teenagers. Back inside where we started to plan the wedding.

Christian and Andrew have chosen a date and an officiant (snort) and they're going to distract me the same way Schuyler and Daniel did with wedding planning back in 2010. We're celebrating their anniversary this weekend with a big fancy dinner and will plan a lot more. All hands on deck. Bridget is no longer your singular executive assistant/event planner/life coordinator. I'm just too tired. 

(Did I already say that? Yes I did and I'm sorry but it's true.)

Also I think I may have sprained my life tossing that last pumpkin off the cliff. It weighed ten freaking pounds!

Now tomorrow I have to be rock-steady so wish me luck. It's All Saints Day, followed by All Souls Day on Friday. And the dark is coming and I hate it so I'm grateful for each and every wonderful distraction here tonight.

A Jeep, a torch, a death.

I sat in the garage, still in my work dress and non-slip shoes, in the weird momentary sunshine this afternoon when I got home right up until my legs got numb and fell asleep and I couldn't get up.

The Devil knew where I was almost by feel.

What brings you in here? He says, blocking the light from the door.

The door was up. I heard a noise. 

Probably the sound of PJ's Jeep giving up the ghost. I don't need to see Caleb's expression canker ever so slightly at the idiom he just tossed out without thinking first. We do that. We say stupid things about important subjects. We take it lightly. We're disrespectful and we forget. If you don't do those things you're not human. You can't cope either.

I look at the Jeep. It's nine years old. When did that happen? How did we get from this brave new world to nine years further down the road in a blink?

Because you move forward, Princess. Jake says it gently, standing there in the sun leaning up against the driver's door of the Jeep. I am between he and Caleb. I don't know if I want to acknowledge him in front of Caleb. I'll be crazy if I do, but I'll miss my chance if I don't.

I don't move anywhere. I stay still. 

What are you talking about? Listen, don't worry about the counseling. I tried. We'll try something else, okay? Don't worry- Caleb is background noise.

He keeps you still. Jacob repeats himself, in case I didn't understand.


He does. I agree.


Who? Lochlan? Does what? Listen- And then it dawns on Caleb suddenly, like the sun just before the rain comes back, darkening it back in the shadows to wait for another day. Bridget, you can't talk to him. He isn't real. 

Maybe you can give up the ghost but I'm not going to. 

This isn't a hole you're going to fall into on my watch, Neamhchiontach-

But Jake is staring at me. He does. And you moved him closer. Why'd you do that, Bridge? 

I wanted to answer but I got confused and I opened my mouth and screamed. It was frustration, not fear and it brought three more to within my reach as I stood up, Bambi on shaky legs, covered with oil, marked for grief like others must be marked for death. I blamed it all on Caleb because he deserves it for trying to lock the whole thing down the way he is.

I don't have to explain it to him. I don't have to explain it to Jake either, though.

Smells like a Freakshow.

Remember that time about a year ago when I got us tickets to In This Moment and as a bonus Of Mice and Men were opening? Oh and Hollywood Undead and a band named Avatar that I looked up and went, well, okay. I guess we'll see...

We saw them play again last night and they were so good we felt as if skipping Trivium and heading home on a metal high was a fine thing to do and it was.

Because damn. They're even better than I remember. And we got our same tables so we had a wonderful view and they just killed it. And Light the Torch were good (though their sound was a bit rough). I'm so happy I got the see the legendary Howard Jones of Killswitch Engage perform. He was incredibly humble, thankful even, and they were amazing.

But Avatar. Holy cow it gets no better than this! The vintage circus preshow tunes, the road crew in vests and poet shirts! The pomp and circumstance and then the synchronized headbanging just kind of did us all in. I could go watch them every night of the week and I daresay I'd never get bored.

Once they finished, we faced a half-hour wait for Trivium, and knowing Matt Healy isn't singing (though..Howard Jones IS, and that would have been amazing to see) and the fact that I'm still suffering from this stupid sickness and that it was pouring rain and if you read the news Vancouver almost drowned last night and we hightailed it out of the Commodore and back to the trucks, driving very slowly through the knee-deep water that had already claimed several cars, and we were home and tucked in our beds by midnight.

(The perfect evening, really, except that the rain puddles eating cars kind of freaked me out and I may have cried on the drive home but once we hit the bridge it was smooth sailing.)

I hope Avatar comes back before another year passes.

Rustic rainy.

Is it ever fall today. Our leaf-raking efforts have all been for naught, as the wind and rain turned every last green leaf red or vibrant yellow and there's very few left on their branches this morning. Trying to love it. Drinking french vanilla coffee mixed with regular black, having French-toasted Russian rye bread for breakfast. I have to iron Henry's halloween costume components and make a few lunches for tomorrow and then rest up because we're headed downtown tonight for the Light The Torch/Avatar/Trivium show. I'm excited but a bit trepidatious at the same time because I have to work early tomorrow morning but at the same time if you told me we were staying home I might be disappointed. Since the bulk of us are only in it for Avatar, we may leave a bit early. We shall see.

The last load of laundry is in the dryer and Sam is walking around nursing his hoarse voice with tea as he and I remain sick but almost-functional, but he can't orate sufficiently to conduct a church service and I can't go more than an hour or so without a coughing fit and so we stay home.

Caleb and Lochlan are talking about ordering some quiet leaf blowers for the yard. I don't know if they exist. Loud roaring things are banned because ironically they produce a high-pitched wine that bother my ears so, and yet the work in this yard with only rakes is backbreaking. But they're getting along and that's more important than leaf-removal methods so we shall see. I think Caleb is beginning to figure out that it's not me, it's him. Maybe he just had to be closer to realize.

Clocks go back next weekend. 

Give me strength. 

That's why I'm here, he says.

Sleepover.

Last night a bunch of us went out and got a stack of pizzas and garlic bread and then came home and rented The First Purge from Apple TV. It was so fun to just stretch out on Benjamin who was stretched out on the big sectional couch with everyone and just zone out on what turned out to be a very good movie. The dialogue was snappy, the masks always amazing and the violence quick and...well, violent.

The soundtrack was catchy as hell, too and I'm not really a hip-hop person, so there you have it.

When it was done I was still awake, even as Ben was warm and cozy and I was lying just right so I couldn't feel any pain and I wasn't coughing (which sometimes just never stops as this illness drags on and on) and I wanted to watch another horror movie because it's Halloween weekend and I used to love this holiday. I don't decorate anymore, I don't give out candy, I don't even buy candy, truth be told and so this is the way I celebrate now. A quiet evening with my boys and some good movies.

But it was so late and Lochlan was worn out and I wanted him to get some rest along with us and so we excused ourselves from the evening and came upstairs and were asleep in seconds. Maybe less than that.

When we woke up this morning, I had to laugh. All the movie boys were in our room sleeping. Four extras on the bed, around the three of us, two on the couch, one on the floor. All fully clothed. Did I mention I love my army? They've got me safe from my nightmares, asleep and awake.

I wonder if I can make them watch Sabrina tonight?!

That's what this is: A very long book entitled 'The Grief That Never Leaves'. I'll be the first to tell you that no, sometimes you don't get over it.

The second and last session was yesterday, which if you're a longtime reader you understand that yesterday also marked exactly eleven years since Jacob left. There was a lot of support going in to this plan but it seemed as if the Devil has set me up, as all of the concessions, all of the changes were being requested of me instead of the other way around and I...

Well, yeah, no.

I didn't figure it out for so long it's just about criminal but during the set up and information sessions I was politely asked if I would give up my romantic entanglements with August in order to work from a healthier place. Apparently they wanted to gloss over Caleb's monstrosities and head straight for whatever's supposedly wrong with me that totally isn't his fault and somehow should be blamed squarely on the ghosts. It is Halloween, after all.

Yeah. No. Absolutely not. And I laughed, so inappropriately.

Then I briefly flickered my gaze to Caleb's face just in time to see his expression fall from a smug high to profound disappointment. That was when I knew he set me up and I then picked up my handbag and my kleenex box and I thanked the counselors for their time and I told the boys I'd see them at home.

Which was a little dumb in hindsight as we drove there in two vehicles but I needed to make a coolly controlled exit before I lost my shit. All I wanted was some professionals to look Caleb in the eye and say Stop being a monster or don't push her so much. Don't demand things of her. Don't be the same way you've always been and if she started to lose her courage let go of her for a little while. 

That's what my dreams are made of. My reality doesn't keep up and so it became a quick exercise in detailing Bridget's Flaws.

Well, guess what? I don't have any.

I mean I do. I still sleep with August because I need him. Sorry. Take that away and I can't function at all because even a little bit of almost-Jake is far better than none.

I need affection like water. Maybe Lochlan looks the other way. Maybe he's stronger, hell, I know they all are but I wanted something different out of this fall. I wanted this one time to be a little easier and the distraction of finally moving past the past would have worked but Caleb had no intentions of trying to make this better. None at all. They're not even angry at Caleb. They're jaded and not surprised as he is predictable, heavyhanded and refuses to take responsibility.

So now the struggle resumes and the hard time begins now. It may get worse, and bear with me as you do if it does. It may get easier. Who knows? Lochlan's being wonderful. So is Ben, PJ, Duncan. Sam. Batman. Joel, if you can believe it. Dalton. Gage. John. Schuy. You wonder why I reward them so lavishly with my time, my attention and sometimes my very flesh? Well that's why.

Which holds more weight, Bridget? Death or madness? 

They weigh the same. 

What makes you say that? 

I'm holding them both behind my back and I've checked.

Hi-burn-ate.

Lochlan rolled over onto his back this morning and covered his eyes with one hand.

Headache? I ask. I lurched awake when the cold rushed in to wrap around me, from where his warm skin had been before. Such a good sleep with him wrapped around me. Window open so that the air is cold and we cocoon as deep as we can under the quilts, listening to the rain.

No, just tired. 

Didn't you sleep? I am disappointed at the thought of him being restless all night.

A little. Anyway. Gotta get moving.  As long as you got some sleep I'm fine.

Today is counselling day two. I don't have to work and so we go in early, emerging early in order to put all of our skills to use. In order to have the day to think over things we've said, elephants we've addressed and plans we've put into place.

The earrings will be going with me so that for once Caleb can hear from someone else why you can't smooth over massive rifts with money. That would be too easy and like I've said before, I signed up for the hard-way method in life. Sam says the rewards will be greater this way.

***

Last night while cleaning up from supper PJ remarked that it is stupidly dark for six in the afternoon.

Here comes winter, I frown at him. We both hate the time change, hate the long slow march toward spring, hate the dark, hate the cold, hate that we hate those things and then hate each other for enabling, for giving it a voice, for acknowledging the wait. Or the weight, if you will.

Honestly eight of these weeks and the days will begin to get longer again, Dalton says, unhelpfully after overhearing our grousing. Roll with it. Pretend it's not happening, he suggests.

Bah. It's too late for that, I tell him. Wake me up when the sun goes down at nine pm again. 

Sorry, I was busy yesterday (not dead).

My opinion will not be lenient
My opinion, it's real convenient
Our words are loud, but now I'm talking action
We don't get enough love?
Well, they get a fraction
They say, "How could he go if he's got everything?"
I'll mourn for a kid, but won't cry for a king

Okay these have to go back. They're pretty but a waitress wearing eleven-thousand-dollar diamond earrings would raise a few red flags, don't you think?

It's not as if you're a normal person anyway, Caleb offers helpfully. This is a reward. It's how he does things. We successfully navigated one single whole session. No one threw any chairs (or any fists). Bridget didn't cry (she laughed at the absurdity instead) and everyone agreed to come back in three days to do it all again. It's like AA but instead of alcohol we're all addicted to the patterns of the past. I'm hoping that's changeable, like wallpaper, but these earrings, and Caleb's ignorant, magnanimous and cavalier attitude predicting our eventually successes lead me to believe it's not.

Here we go.

Church was fun this morning. Such a nice day that Sam made an eleventh hour change and posted a note on the door saying to meet him on the beach and everyone straggled in by nine so he was off and running. I think I got a sunburn. I got tired, that's for sure, and I coughed a lot. I leaned against Lochlan and I closed my eyes and listened to the surf and let the sun warm the top of my head and I can only hope eventually it all soaks in and I can shake this cold.

Because I still have it, whatever it is. The antibiotics aren't working, which means the fever was rogue, and it's a virus.

Or I need stronger antibiotics. If it's still this bad by Tuesday afternoon I'll request that the doctor come back. Otherwise I'm going to head to work in this sorry shape tomorrow and run myself ragged and try not to cough on people and hope my nose stops running. Hope my energy keeps going. Hope I can get enough rest to mitigate the effects of these awful infections. I'm sure they're brought on by stress and extended by strife. I'm sure that I'm dying. I'm sure you'll get better, says Ben, and while Sam gave a very timely lecture on faith and love and support in times of family crisis, I quietly, selfishly prayed to physically make it to one hundred percent health, just once in my life. Strangely I didn't pray for peace of mind or peace among brothers or peace in my heart even.

A week will change everything though, because we all know what's coming.

Meet it head-on, Peanut, and show it who's boss, Lochlan says.

What a great idea.

Throw you all over for Michael Myers in a hot second.

(This is not about the week past, nor is it about the week upcoming. This is purgatory, right in the middle. We're making plans though. We're all sticking together and to that end we must figure out how to live with our terrible flawed selves instead of painting everything in shades of black and white. The white is blinding, and the black, well, we just can't see a thing.)

But in the meantime, my favorite person in the world (besides Lochlan, Ruth and Henry, I mean) kidnapped me and led me by the hand to his truck.

Where we going? I ask sweetly and Ben smiles.

You'll like this, I promise. 

He found an empty theatre playing a lunchtime show of Halloween and got a huge bag pf popcorn and M&Ms and we sat dead-centre and I only screamed out loud once but boy that was stressful and wow am I so happy that I got to see it on the first weekend it was released, as I am a huge fan of the franchise (maybe even the bad ones) and I was waiting for what seemed like forever.

It was worth it.

I'm still gritting my teeth from the tension but it was worth it. I think I loved the long pauses as they introspectively played their predictable and then completely unpredictable but predictable roles.

I won't spoil it for you.

I try to never do that.

(I did not love Doctor Eyeliner but you'll see what I mean when you see it. He was there to jam a point down our throats. I get it. We get it. Still so good.)

Ordinary average Thursday cliches.

I'm not sure who moved faster last night, in hindsight, as Caleb's voice cut the magic hour right in two but all I knew was the light was fading so when we dumped out of the hammock, Lochlan already on his feet, I ran straight inside. I didn't want to be in the woods, for it's always better to confront the monsters you know, instead of the monsters you don't.

Except I didn't confront, I hid. Lochlan had to go it alone, though I heard nothing so I'm hoping they haven't killed each other.

Then I hear Caleb. He flew for ten hours to get home early. He cancelled all of his potentially lucrative meetings and he recognized Bridget's descent into laying blame and casting at shadows and he showed up ready to be There For Her.

From what I heard, Lochlan absolutely set him on his fucking ear when he found out Caleb was mad, as if there's any rights there at all. 

He follows my steps right to the end, where I am tucked down between the end of the counter and the wall inside the butler's pantry, eyes shut tight, hands over my mouth. If I could have made myself smaller I would have.

Neamhchiontach. He reaches out a hand and strokes my hair and I let loose of my face and scream right into his.

Shhhhhhhh. He sits down on the floor, pulling me out of the corner and into his lap, into his arms. Safety in danger. Death in life. Everything in nothing. And he rocks. And he rocks. And the tears well up and stream down his face and he loses his words for a moment.

Like a child, I wrap my arms around his neck and hold on for dear life.

I would take it back if I could, he whispers. Tell me what to do. 

You need to leave. 

I don't have any place else to go, Bridget. You are my home. 

I can't be. This isn't working. 

It's just the time of year, the rest of the time you're okay with this, we do well toget-

Please. 

You'll feel differently in a couple of weeks. When you need me and I'm right here. 

At least I made up with Lochlan.

But the post. Well, it stays.

It stays.

IT STAYS, Caleb, and I don't care anymore.

For all those who think I'm so fucked up, rest assured. It's not me who's fucked up. It's them.

There's a subreddit called AITA (Am I the Asshole?) But then again, there's also one called BreadStapledToTrees.

I tried to call Emmett this morning to thank him for the flowers that arrived shortly after his visit on Monday with a lovely Get Well Soon! X, Emmett sentiment but his number wasn't in my phone suddenly. The flowers were gone too, not surprisingly, though I still have to track down the vessel they were in, it's my grandmother's vase. I asked Caleb if he had Emmett's number still on the phone and he said, Oh, trust me, I've got his number and in my feverish broken-voiced state I failed to grasp his meaning and instead implored him to just give it to me already. I could call the firm and deal with Ransom but I don't want to, frankly and am a little angry that I can't use my manners in spite of my poor behavior to show I'm not the trailer trash Caleb seems to think I am.

Or maybe I am, as I threw Emmett a bone and he seems hungrier than most, and this is how I end up with things like Collectives and all-male friends with benefits.

I think I did it because he reminded me of Ben. I say it out loud, forgetting I'm tethered this morning. To Ben, believe it or not and I tend to forget the details because he tends to forget to come up for air.

I'm right here. Ben laughs and then frowns. Lochlan wanted to send him a message. 

That said what, exactly? Stay away from my polyamorous nightmare of a wife? 

Yes, but not with words. 

Geez, I'm missing all the inneundos here, save for the dangerous ones. My ears are blocked along with my noise and my voice a hilarious raspy screech.

Do you have Emmett's number so I can at least say thank you? 

Bridget, Caleb sent him a Cease All Contact letter, so really it's not a good idea to poke the sleeping elephant here. 

Overkill! Christ, Ben!

A necessary evil to keep you sa-

Safe? I bray in laughter. Jesus, my voice is making me sound unqualified. We should let him in to keep me safe, you mean. From all of you. 

You're supposed to use the tools you've been given to keep yourself from getting out of line. 

I am. You're here, aren't you? I throw it back, suddenly able to get a purchase on my words. I am the asshole. Confirmed.

You can take it out on me if you want. That's why I'm here. 

Right because Lochlan wants nothing to do with me. 

This was his idea. He knows how you get. Especially when you two are fighting, and the very last thing he wants is for you to step outside of the Collective ever again. 

What if I want something new? Something different? 

Then go the fuck next door. I don't know but Emmett won't be back so don't push it. And Caleb's on his way home and he's just as angry as the rest of us and Lochlan can't even look at you right now so exactly what are you posturing for? Everything you need is right here but you keep running away from it like you're on fire. What gives? I thought things were getting better. 

Wow. Can't believe he pulled that one out. Has he met me? Hell, has anyone met me? I was raised by a wolf and his friends, and then abused from the age of ten years old by the Devil, who now expects me to be in a relationship with him which makes me feel worthy, honored and loved instead of horrified because my brain is fucked up from the rides and the lights and the...the...touching and the death and he wants to believe things can get better?

Well, fuck.

I have a proposal for you. He smiles with a boyish charm I remember well from the spring into the summer. He hands me a large hot coffee and asks how I'm doing first, pointing out he went to both restaurants looking for me. At the first they pretended they'd never heard of me. At the second they let Emmett know I was home sick today.

(Gee, thanks?)

How about instead of you bringing coffee to everyone else, I bring you your coffee every morning again? 

But the house is finished. And I already have a husband to bring me coffee. And a boyfriend. Or two, actu-

I mean as your boss. I need a bookkeeper.

Can you forward the details to my email? So I have it writing?

Does that mean you'd consider it?

Not necessarily but I do business in writing. It's a good practice to do so. 

It is. He's still smiling and it's starting to hurt like a sunburn. I will send the details to your email then. 

Thank you. 

Can I offer you a walk? I need to see how the pilings are holding up on the beach steps. Can you manage that? He shifts it back to business, emptying the chamber, clicking the safety back on.

If we go slowly. 

Of course. More time to talk that way. 

At the top of the steps he offered his arm and set our coffees on the landing. They'd still be warm on the way back. If not I can make us fresh. Good thing, that. He checked out his handiwork to make sure nothing was crumbling/leaning/sinking and then we walked to the end of the point and back very slowly.

It turns out he loves tattoos, doesn't take much time off and does very well for himself. Turns out he HATES paperwork and wants to be hands-on. Turns out he and Ransom are brothers-in-law without much actual use for each other as Ransom is in it for cash and Emmett for quality, but Emmett likes to keep an eye on Ransom because he and his little sister are close and supposedly when Ransom proposed to Emmett's little sister Emmett took FOREVER to warm up to him and now they work together virtually every day and it's been lucrative for both, though Emmett swears he would happy living out his days as a school custodian or someone doing small odd projects here and there. That he doesn't ask for much.

What about a family?

Nothing ever came my way.

That's hard to believe, I watch him.

Doesn't make it less true. I've hit a nerve and Emmett wraps up our visit. I'm not a need, I'm a want, clearly or he would have tried to drag it out. We head back up the steps, with Emmett stopping every now and then to pull on a railing or inspect a screw and then he picks up our coffees and proclaims them still warm.

Like my heart. I make the inevitable bad joke and instead of pointedly ignoring it like everyone usually does he says,

Why do you say that?

It's just a joke. I mean I feel dead sometimes but my heart still beats so I guess I'm alive. 

I hear you. I feel that way too most of the time.

Oh. A kindred spirit. I asked for help with him and no one came. He showed up at my work and asked about my heart already and I blew him off and it took him four months to come up with an excuse to come back and this is how it begins and I'm not sure I hate the process, but I am sure I hate myself and I hate him too right now.

Check your email later today. But call me to discuss any questions or concerns, okay? I like the sound of your voice, Bridget. 

I have strep throat. 

I heard it before you were sick, remember? Also if you're in the gazebo, you know it has a heater, right? 

It does? 

Yes. Someone was supposed to show you. There's a dial just inside the door, on the wall. It functions the same way as the gas patio heaters. Turn it for greater heat, or turn it all the way back to the left until it clicks off. It has it's own natural gas line. So maybe you won't get pneumonia next time you sit out there to write.

Perfect. It will take my mind off everything else.

Pneumonia and strep. A two-hitter. I already had pneumonia in April, I don't believe I need it again but here it is. Can a person just wear out? That's what I'm concerned about now, that I'm so run down all the time it will just get worse and then the really bad illnesses will find out and come inside. (The water's fine right?) Here I was worried about my legs and my body hurting so much from work and from overly-rough efforts to provide me with some affection I would never forget (I don't forget any of it, dear lord, I swear I don't) and my lungs and throat were all Hold my beer.

But it's fine because I have antibiotics and a throat gargle thing that has painkillers in it and after twenty four hours of that I don't dread swallowing. I slept in a little. I'm not going to work. I'm just going to take it as slow as I can.

But it still sucks and I don't think I fully have chance to get better. When I had this in April it was just before/during my job and I started work with a deficit that seems to grow and grow and I can't even catch my breath so maybe I should quit. My boss called this morning, shorthanded, Where are you? You're late and I told him I called in yesterday and spoke to his third in command so I'm covered and I wondered if he would tell me I was fired and I realized I wouldn't be sad I'd be relieved so bring it and then I can find something less hectic, less rude but probably not.

I need to be able to sleep during the day.

I need to feel better than this.

Lochlan pushes his head against mine after my phone call this morning. Stay in bed. Let's sleep.

So I tried but I couldn't. And I looked out this morning and squealed as the tops of the other houses were covered with frost and briefly it's exciting. Because winter isn't forty degrees in the shade.

It's ten, here in the rainforest. Which only feels marginally different, unless you're in the water (It's fine, right?).

I'm going to go try and will myself to get better today. Lochlan is close, the fire is blazing beautifully in the kitchen fireplace and I have an unlimited supply of tea and honey.  He has an unlimited supply of presence, patience and affection (gentle or rough, depending on the time of day and our moods) and he's absolutely one hundred percent sure he can look after me, just like he always has.

I believe him today. I didn't yesterday.

I don't know what this is.

He was like a broken record for a while.

Every second sentence out of your mouth begins with "Lochlan". Every thought in your head starts with him. Stop putting him on a pedestal. He cut you free. He doesn't care about you anymore, Bridget. 

It was knives to my heart. Knives that twisted and turned down pathways paved with flickering multicolored lights instead of blood. Being human wasn't keeping me alive, being weird did.

You've got to stop thinking about him. He left. You're mine now. 

Cole's broken record played a song I'll never forget, verses reminding me I was never good enough, the chorus a litany of everything I wasn't and everything I would never be. That song was stuck in my head for so long, even as he would wrap me in his flannel shirts on very cold nights (just like Lochlan used to) because my shoulders shivered so. Even as he happily pushed me off to Lochlan for random drive-by affection as only Lochlan could ever get away with, the song swelling loud in my brain like a siren heralding his proximity.

And Lochlan was a safe thought even as Cole let his brother rip me to shreds on his whims, showering me with deposit slips afterward as if I was a commodity he was investing in.

I suppose I am and he was, looking back now.

And I learned to put up a wall between myself and Lochlan. An ice-cold division made of silence and payback. A bitter, painful memory that ballooned in an open festering wound that time and reunification seem to do very little to fix. His promises have been reinstated. The past is the past. The silence stopped abruptly and the music swelled up once more and still...

Still...

It's far too easy to look for comfort from someone, anyone else. I used to think it was because I was afraid I was cursed and that I would kill him too somehow but now it seems like it's so much more complicated than that.

I don't know the words to this song, Lochlan whispers to me in the dark, helpless as I refuse to let go of the wall I put up between us, on this night named Duncan.

Hum along and eventually you'll figure them out, I snap back quietly. At least you can hear them. 

Meanies.

I have to go to London.

He looks at me for what feels like an eternity. I'm busy stirring honey into my coffee. My throat is knives. I took Henry to the doctor yesterday and he has strep. Why wouldn't I, right? Henry's on antibiotics and I'm just plain stubborn. I have six days to get better before an event and no way could I get on a plane.

If I had the time.

If I even wanted to.

I have something I want to check out and then I thought we could have a little vacation. Take a few days-

I'm sorry. Maybe Lochlan is free though. 

It's not on offer for him. It's work and I need my assistant. Not a busker. 

Well, sorry to say your assistant is a busker so when you insult my husband you're lumping me in with him. 

Caleb realizes I'm not going to let him off the hook and tries again.

Bridget, I'm sorry. I don't appreciate offers of replacement, I guess. I was trying to turn a work trip into a pleasure trip. God knows you could use the break. Honestly if Lochlan saw you talking to yourself as I have he'd-

I wasn't-

DON'T say it. The only way I can sleep at night is to consider you talking to yourself to cope. Please. 

Ha. Newsflash-

Do I have to force you to go. 

You can't. 

I don't know if you've noticed, but I do what I please.

If it doesn't break your heart it isn't love.

These days pass me by
I dream with open eyes
Nightmares haunt my days
Visions blur my nights
I'm so confused
What's true or false
What's fact or fiction after all
I feel like I'm an apparition's pet
But you haven't lost me yet

Jacob still doesn't like this. When I come into the kitchen this morning Caleb is already present, making coffee, reading on his phone. He's wearing a soft t-shirt and worn jeans. Bare feet. I wonder if I've ever seen him in my house without shoes before. Maybe only in my room. I don't know but it seems odd and then perfectly natural, like the first thing a man does when he's home is kick off his shoes. He takes his mug and his phone and heads to sit down, right where Jacob is already sitting, leaning forward, elbows on the table, worn sleeves rolled up. Worn jeans to match only Caleb prefers dark denim. Designer. Probably Balmain. Jacob lived in his Levis from Sears. $39 in the big and tall section. I only know this because it's where Ben goes for his. Or used to. Now Sears is gone and I don't know where to look.

Caleb puts his cup down and sits back in the chair. Good morning, Beautiful. Did you sleep?

Jacob disappears as the cup lands on the table, reappearing beside me. I almost die from shock but flinch almost imperceptibly inwardly instead, nodding.

I did. You? I turn to stare at Jacob and he frowns. That wasn't necessary.

I'm not allowed to greet you now? Caleb looks unimpressed.

Not you. Just-nevermind.

Jacob laughs. Told you you can't handle more than one man at a time. This isn't who you are-

I know who I am! I hiss in his direction.

I know you do. Caleb is waiting, alarmed.

Sorry. Just thinking out loud.

He's here, isn't he? Caleb is the Devil. Of course he can see angels. He used to be one.

Who? I shoot him a look of confusion and what I hope passes for irritation and I hurry out of the room and back upstairs. Anywhere Jacob isn't.

Captive audience.

(To set the scene, I'm using Ben as a pillow today while I nurse my bad arm by the fireplace in the great room today. He has his laptop and we are watching Things. I'm not going anywhere. My arm is very sore. I don't think it should hurt like this when weight is put on it but then again, I heard what it looked like that one time. But this isn't about my arm. I'm about to have an opinion, here. Look out.)

I'm at the point where I've absorbed enough direction and have enough confidence to watch a brand-new music video of an acoustic rendition of a song and give it my own running commentary.

(Slow it down, just a little. You can't breathe while you sing this. Black anad white would be better. Add some noise. Some film grain maybe. Some local cameras. Stop with the wide shots already. The composition could be tightened on this by a monke-Hey! This goes right into Memphis May Fire (God they're young).  Stop. With. The. Wide. Shots. End it with the song, we don't need a cheesy afterstory. Do more of THIS. PLEASE.)

Ben is very patient while I rattle off all of the things I would change. Sometimes he takes full advantage, as I am a ruinous, rabid music lover as well as the subject of more than a dozen semi-infamous music videos so my suggestions (or rather, my opinions) come from a place of love.

Well, what do you think?

I think you're jaded. Maybe they calculated this for humility. 

Yeah. I doubt that.

A subtle image change for them. Like 'hey, it turns out we're not perfect'. 

Okay, in that context it works great. Sort of like these bands that are like 'hey, we know a guy with a drone'. 

Worked for your last music video shoot, Bridge. 

It sure did.

So...don't quit your day job? And he laughs, because they would love it if I did.

A little laugh, a little scream.

Today I got home, kicked off my shoes, dropped my purse by the door, my nametag (still says BABY) on the table in the center of the foyer and walked straight through the house, out the back patio doors, across the back lawn on the lovely new flagstone path and climbed straight into the hot tub. The pool is empty now (sadly) but the hot tub will stay since we can cover it and empty and fill it with ease. Caleb laughed, as he was the one who followed me out, watching as I climbed in dress and all.

I sat there refusing to speak, as I reached that point in my week where I feel too beaten down by life to respond without committing murder and I leaned my head back and closed my eyes.

That bad?

No, just tired. Where's Loch?

Helping August, I think. 

With?

A wifi issue, I believe, unless that was a ruse.

I go to get out of the tub, suddenly panicked and Caleb shakes his head. I sent Ben with him. Everything's fine. 

Okay. I settle back warily. I'm still leery of Lochlan going off on August if he even breathes the wrong way. Not that he will, but that he might.

Besides, he knows you're going to be busy. I don't think he'll make any extra work. 

Busy with what?

You're going to have to help Andrew pick out his dress. 

I don't know why it was funny but it was and I laughed and then I let my head go below the surface in defeat of the day and Caleb got scared and pulled me right out of the hot tub by one arm.

The bad arm.

The sound I make. Holy. It scares even me. 

"As he read I fell in love the way you fall asleep: slowly, and then all at once." -John Green

Okay it's official now that they've told extended family far away, so now I can talk about it all I want.

Christian proposed and Andrew said YES. What started as a hey what the hell early-spring fling in the ebbing winter of 2017 grew into a strong and quiet love that doesn't show any signs of doing anything but steadily deepening, between two young men who spent twenty years getting along great to two fully-grown men who've spent the last two years getting along even better. Then late on Thanksgiving night they went for a walk around the water together and as the story goes, Christian turned to Andrew and asked him if he was happy.

Andrew smiled at him hugely and said he was, and suddenly worried that maybe Christian wasn't happy. He didn't have to worry long, as Christian reassured him that he was the happiest he'd ever been, and that happiness was because of Andrew.

Then Christian got down on one knee and brought a small box out of his pocket that contained a silver ring that used to belong to his grandfather. He had the inside engraved with their initials and a teeny tiny hollow heart and Andrew is now wearing that ring and it will become his wedding ring this spring.

And I am so happy for them I could burst.

If you can't handle me at my worst...

..then you probably don't live in my house.

(or as Sam told me later this afternoon, I seem to go from ridiculously silly to devastatingly profound in the blink of an eye and it's one of his Very Favorite Things about me.)

I got all worked up about my speech for Thanksgiving dinner last night and then after I had two glasses of wine and a huge piece of apple pie with ice cream Sam gave our closing grace, which takes awhile because...of Sam. He likes to preach a little extra when given the chance, as most of the boys are total heathens, wayward souls who don't go to church enough and need to be saved. So I leaned my head against Ben's shoulder and rudely fell fast asleep, sitting up like a horse, no less, and missed my turn, which came around and was sweetly ignored by all, and no one protested, as apparently they had a little Bridget-free family meeting and Sam read the pertinent parts out to them from yesterday's post and they had already decided to let me off the hook.

Sam insists I will go to heaven, that God doesn't want me to mourn anymore and that my reward will be the end of this pain I'm in. While he was talking the tears started rolling down my face, a race to the bottom like no other and he shook his head. Apparently most people are rapturous when he talks like this but for me it just confirms my misery as if once it's validated it is real and then I'm really in trouble.

No, no, no, Bridget. Don't cry. These are beautiful times. Your words, God's plan. the love and patience of this entire extended family that holds us in the palm of their hands-

I wish they-

What do you wish, tell me. 

I wish they could understand how much I love them all. 

See? That's what I said, flighty to devastating in the blink of an eye. That's what makes you worthy, Bridget, and that's what makes this whole argument pointless.
 

Revenants and rogues.

Deep breath. Step outside in the rain. Pull my coat a little tighter around my bones as I wait for Lochlan to pull the truck up to the front walkway. One month remains and Jacob would have been forty-eight had he not chosen to fly instead. It's been eleven years, almost, since that time and it's only barely dulled, still agony, still aching in my soul, and I'd happily give it back to the Devil if it meant it wouldn't hurt this much.

But today is our Thanksgiving. We're going to church, we're going to cook turkey and stuffing later for dinner and we're going to go around the table and list what we are thankful for out loud, taking the time to give those items their due, gravely as such, solemnly.

I am thankful for so many things, I think as Lochlan comes around to open my door for me, waiting until I am in safely in and belted, coat gathered up under my legs so it doesn't get caught, before closing the door and coming back around the front of the truck to get in his side.

I'm thankful for my stubbornness in getting and keeping my job (even though I hate the job), the almost five thousand dollars I've earned in the six months time I've been a waitress, and for the boys' reluctance to insist that I quit, even as I come home in pain and in tears, more often than not.

I'm thankful to Jacob. He taught me how to let go, how to hold on. How to deal with the loss of Cole. How to love outside of the Collective and how to pray. How to open my heart to Lochlan again after so long. His absence renewed something bigger than myself, bigger than my heart. His death brought us all back together in a way I thought I'd never see again in my lifetime but the space he occupied will forever remain empty in remembrance of who he was to me.

That's not beautiful or eloquent. I don't know how I will word it at dinner tonight or how I can even make Lochlan see that he isn't up against an adversary he can't fight, he's here because of that adversary and I wouldn't change anything that's happened since Jacob left because it's been all better than good. I just wish I didn't have to trade one for another, I wish I didn't have to choose, didn't have to miss, didn't have to love from down here knowing that I'll probably not end up in heaven, in spite of Sam's insistence, told to me directly in the sermon today as I sat, damp and miserable, my rain-soaked coat wrapped tightly around my broken heart, ineffective safety mechanism as it was underneath Lochlan's arm around my neck, tighter as the words hit their targets, loosened when the words stopped altogether.

It was a hell of a morning and will probably be a hell of a night. Wish me some luck, I'm trying to turn it around a little here. 

Save me from myself.

He burned it all. Down through the layers, through potential. Through the present and into the future and then he made his way across the scorched and blackened earth and he came for the past. He came to burn down the past without him and renew the past with him, searing it into my brain, into my flesh, into my very soul even as he was singed in the process, scalded and smoked, a victim of his own efforts to fix this.

It can't be fixed but he pushes it back, bringing the flames and the light to the dark, his side of a losing war fought with heart, with earnest, with the blazing glow of a love that won't quit.

This was his battle speech, told to me in fragments and with lengthy delays, over his shoulder as he waged that fight against the dark. Against the past. Against Jake. 

Jacob is the black hole that has ruined everything. I would have done okay after Caleb. After Cole. After all of that already until Jacob happened. Lochlan doesn't see it that way. He thinks eventually if you burn enough of Jake away, the remnants of everything and everyone will eventually stop coming back.

It's the complete opposite of what Sam is doing (as the memory thief he's trying to bring closure to my time with Jacob, locking all of the memories away as they are finished and solved, turning hurtful moments into teaching ones, negatives into positives, and using the power of Bridget's Oversized, Expansive Imagination to finish off the ones that remain incomplete).

(Lochlan burned those down too but we're not going to talk about that today).

It's the complete opposite of what August is doing too (as the surrogate-Jacob he's telling me I need to move on before and distract myself from memories of his best friend before shape-shifting INTO his best friend for a little affection without strings (as if there aren't strings!). And it helps. And we're not blaming him, it's my fault even though if the truth is to be believed I'm not in a position to control much of anything. Too fragile. Too splintered. Too Fucked Up with a capital F U.).

(Lochlan hates it. Oh, how he hates it and yet he bites his tongue until he tastes ash and regret. And still he says nothing.)

He pulls me into the flames with him, baptized by fire. I'll win, Lochlan says, the firelight flickering in his green eyes, which look almost black in the dark.

I know you will, I tell him. Because ten-year-old Bridget believes him. Believes what he says and believes in his capabilities without question and without doubt, one hundred percent forever infinity.

Whoops.

My poor PJ is absolutely aghast that the previous post was not about Behemoth's new album I Loved You At Your Darkest, which also came out today. I figured he was doing enough squealing about it to cover all of us and didn't mention it. My bad. It won't happen again, sir.

*flashes horns*

My jumpsuit is on steady.

East is up, I'm fearless when I hear this on the low
East is up, I'm careless when I wear my rebel clothes

So much excitement last evening and this morning as the whirlwind that is Ruth spooled right up with the release of Trench, the new Twenty One Pilots album. Ruth is a hardcore early-adopter of this band. I didn't love them until I heard Trees. Then I was ruined. But I love the new album for certain, just not as much as Ruth. Ruth is losing her shit. It's so amazing. She cried, she danced, she squealed and it's good to know that our enthusiastic love of music is genetic. She is now plotting to get tickets to the show in Vancouver this coming spring, having seen them four years ago at a tiny venue here when she was barely fifteen. She cried then, she's still crying over them. She's exactly like I was with Bon Jovi from the age of fifteen through my early twenties. And I still squeal when Living on a Prayer or Runaway comes on the radio, honestly. She just has the luxury of a deeper, more profound, faith-based subject matter (oh, in spades) for these songs.

Sam is also squealing. He's a huge fan now. It's all Trees fault. That song is incredible lyrically and kind of sets us all on our asses.

But yeah, this is fun to watch.

***

Lochlan continues to categorically deny that he and Caleb were spooning, leaving no room for me in my own bed, which means Detective Bridget is now on the case, and she's going to get to the bottom of this.

She went to Caleb, boldly confronting him last evening as he came in from a brief run. He is somewhat breathless and handsome, finding it amusing that she is demanding answers and readily admits his guilt with a grin.

I figured if you went looking for comfort in the arms of someone you shouldn't be with, I could too, especially seeing as how Lochlan must have felt so alone when you failed to reappear. 

First the kiss, then the spoon! What's next? Stay tuned to find out.

Jesus. I don't think we want to find out. It's a slippery slope and soon they'll just be sleeping with each other and they won't need me at all.

Oh fuck you too.

With every settled score
I thought that fighting with meant fighting for
But you turned it around
But you turned it around

So.

Last evening I went to see August, who, in a rare and wonderful turn didn't even bother with the preamble of a talk or a barometer or fuck-all, he just reached around me when I came in and locked the door.

Three hours later he wasn't even August anymore, he was Jacob and I was ruined physically and emotionally. That's when August always likes to level that fatal blow and I don't know if he's angry at me or at himself. Maybe both.

Get out, Bridge. Please. Go.

It would have been less jarring had he shoved me right out of bed, only to hit the floor and have the bed swing back and knock right into my head.

I watched his face as he struggled to find an expression. He settled on protective, closed and I got up and dressed slowly in the dark. I don't have to, I shouldn't have to apologize for my actions. He got up and opened the door for me when I left, kissing the top of my head, lingering there against my skull for an eternity, and then he watched me cross the driveway, until I opened the side door of the house and then he closed his door and I was blind in the dark.

I went upstairs. It's three in the morning, no one is awake. No lights underneath doors, no sounds, no nothing. I go up into my room and one single lantern is lit. Just enough to show me that Caleb was lying on my bed fully clothed but fast asleep, one arm flung around Lochlan, who slept hard in the center, still in his flannel shirt and jeans, like he stretched out to wait for me and couldn't do it. Rounding out the party is Ben, who is hard asleep facing them, sleeping on his side, one hand around Lochlan's head. These protective expressions have spread around the point, I guess. I stand there for what feels like forever, and then reach up and turn off the lantern, plunging the room into total darkness.

I leave and head back downstairs, quietly going outside to head back to August's loft.

He left the door unlocked so I go in and he's sitting up at the counter, a cup of tea untouched in front of him.

There's no room for me there, I gesture. I'm losing it. I feel like no one wants me suddenly, too tainted by the memory of their friend to forge any meaningful future for themselves, for me. We're all ruined by Jacob in some way. Ruined by Cole. Ruined by Caleb. Ruined by Bridget.

He gets up, goes and locks the door again and goes back to bed. I follow him, climbing in fully clothed but turning away. He wraps himself around me, so familiar suddenly that I start to sob. His arms tighten, holding fast until I stop. I don't know when I stopped crying and fell asleep but it must have been ages as I woke up so tired. Drained. Wrecked.

He didn't leave though, still there, still holding tight when I woke up as I startled up, afraid that Lochlan would wonder where I was.

August already has that covered, as they back each other up even as they leave me to twist in the wind. Every now and then someone comes along and holds me tightly so that someone else can stab me right in the heart. That's how it works here.

He knows you're here. He's pissed though. Said he stayed awake all night waiting for you and if you're not coming home you need to tell him. 

A little moment, since that's all I've got today (busy with my muffin, leave me alone).

I got my medal (a blueberry muffin with ice-cold real butter, just the way I like it, thank you PJ) for not crying at work today. I also remembered my sweater, and somehow the lunch crowd trickled in with nary an issue and I was off and flying out the door at three pm sharp to Lochlan's truck, noting that it is indeed flannel shirts, jeans, and workboot season and I'm happy because everyone looks so cozy and hugs are better in flannel than in t-shirts and I don't even care that the calendar is beginning to lift up along the top edge, sliding me down into Halloween like an errant leaf floating down from the tree branch to the grass.

I do note with annoyance upon returning home that Bo Horvat has banned the Canucks from playing video games when they're on the road. Because the boys should be out socializing or drinking or being energy vampires to each other, which shows not only ridiculous the NHL is becoming, but how ridiculous the Canucks still are, and maybe they need a slightly older captain with an idea of how some folks don't necessarily want to fraternize the whole time and maybe want to spend their downtime how they see fit. But I'm pretty sure that Patrick Laine from the Jets said it best, saying that if the Jets start playing as bad as the Canucks, maybe they'll ban games too.

Christ LOL. Best burn.

Wrapping paper (help me).

I'm having a week where it's too warm for a sweater at work and so people each day so far have tried to touch my tattoos. Some of them ask, most of them just reach for my skin and I shrink back and tell them they can't touch them, that they can look but I get tired of the comments here where I am captive to a crowd as I refill cup after cup and wonder if I can keep the smile plastered on and the banter fresh long enough to earn my tip and then they can get the fuck out of my restaurant.

So I had a particularly difficult customer today and I asked him to wait a moment and then turned and fled out back, shoving my coffee pot at one of the kitchen help, asking them to take over just for a moment so that I could catch my breath.

And then I cried because he wasn't even looking at my tattoos. He just wasn't happy and it was the last straw of a Tuesday held together with very little in the first place.

And then I dried my eyes and went the fuck back to work, red-faced and defeated to finish out my shift and I clocked out the same time I always do and I refused to stay a second longer even though they were shorthanded and busy.

(My mind was also shorthanded and busy so in the interest of self-preservation I declined.)

I won't forget the sweater tomorrow. I'll deflect the calls to quit tonight too, as the boys are always soundly horrified when someone takes too much of an interest in my tattoos and ventures far outside of normal curiosity. Some will say I need to be tougher, that if I'm going to be covered I have to be prepared for the inevitable interest but I've always maintained I don't have to do anything, that they're not for anyone else, they're for me and thank you to those who at least asked first.

Tattoos don't require toughness. People require manners, however.

I need to come up with a few choice easy comments to politely make it known that they're not up for discussion. Also I need to turn up the A/C so not only will people have something else to complain about (HA) but I can wear my sweater without dying.

It's far more efficient and also less frightening to head down the hall at the end of a movie and some dinner with Caleb instead of out into the night, fraught with darkness and bears, and God knows what else. It's even good for those who wait for me, as they can wander down the hall and loiter about those few steps, waiting for me quietly, so that when I step into the hall and close the door softly behind me, as Caleb had already fallen asleep and I didn't want to disturb him when I left, I scream as loud as anyone in any horror movie ever because I wasn't expecting anyone to be standing in the darkened hallway waiting for me.

So Caleb woke up and everyone else came running and the new rule is if you're going to wait for someone, it has to be in bright light.

Hard reign.

I was pulled out of my dreams this morning, up into Ben's lap, arms around his neck, his hands pulling me into him over and over, driving like the rain in the darkness as I bit down against his shoulder just hard enough to leave tiny teeth prints in his tattooed skin that lasted through the morning and into lunchtime before fading back to nothing.

I was pulled out of my warm house this morning, into the driving rain with memories of Ben's arms soaking through my church clothes, thoughts that lasted through the morning and into lunchtime before fading back into nothing, teeth clenched against the word of God, intrusive guilt taking the place of pleasure in the darkness.

I was pulled out of the truck roughly this morning, when we returned home, into Caleb's arms, his hands pulling me close against his chest, gritting his teeth against the betrayal of a promise broken, to spend the darkened rainy Sunday with him instead of with his ever-intrusive God, just enough to soak through the relaxation before fading back to tension and upheaval, back to fear. Back to memories of the way I would grit my teeth when he touched me.

God didn't have much to say today. Sometimes the rhetoric brings the sleep and I tune Sam out and let my mind wander right out the front door of the church and disappear into the morning rain, thoughts that touch on Lochlan, not here right now with me, and then Ben in turn, with me but head bowed as he works hard to do right by himself first and then all of us around him and then Caleb, also not here and I remember I promised him I would be over before getting swept along in the Sunday routine and here I am, here instead of there.

I remember.

Oh, I remember.

I should have stayed in bed with Ben, but then again, he was the one who wanted to attend services so here we are and now I'm headed inside to spend the afternoon with Caleb, maybe watching a movie, in his private den with a good whiskey and some lunch. He bought a large wooden tray in order to cook in the kitchen but have some lovely private meals in his 'quarters' as he calls his little warren of rooms. It works. I don't know if the tray works yet, this will be the first time I've joined him at all.

Bring me the storm and let me feast on it.

No calendar. I won't be ruled by the dark changing into the light. I won't be mindful of the numbered days, labeled with the season, forcing me into a timeline not of my own choosing. Instead I will be ruled by my heart, fierce protective queen that she is, stumbling through the hours, reigning over minutes at a time as best she can.

That's what I'll be ruled by.

Fine, Sam says and washes his hands of it all, dirt running in rivulets, streams passing through his fingers, an attempt at salvation made and at once rejected.

Fine, Caleb says, licking the grievous wounds of his ego, bluster and swagger drowned in his own blood, running dark red like wine over my tongue.

Fine, Lochlan smiles, bobbing to the surface of the blood of his enemy, buoyed with the hope of his faith in me, in us.

The day is dark, rain washing away the blood, the dirt, the hurt feelings of the past two days, replacing it with new beginnings.

Today is the first day of the rest of your li-

Yeah yeah. I know.

Reluctant polyamorous therapy for three people who hate each others' guts but refuse to give up or in as directed by a completely unimpartial and thoroughly overwhelmed third party, told by a tightrope walker who hasn't walked a wire since 1996.

(Alternate title: The Gentlemen's Collective.)

Do we censor? Do we flow?
Are we drunk on the chemicals?
Every feeling in my bones tells me to lash out
Tell you to fuck off
You got my heart and I’ve got your soul
But are we better off alone?
With every battle we lose a little more
Remember everything that we die for
You are everything that I die for

I had to run some errands last evening and take Henry to work and when I came back Caleb has Lochlan facedown on the front walk, arms pinned behind his back, leaning on him hard, shouting at him I'm not going to take her from you over and over until Lochlan stopped struggling and gave up. Which is about the time I walked up. Caleb leans down and kisses Lochlan's cheek and Lochlan hollers his protest before Caleb lets him go and Ben hauls them both to their feet.

The hard part here is no one wants to give anything up. Caleb's got a foot in the door, so he thinks that means he's entitled to whatever he wants, and Lochlan just got back to the place he's supposed to be and he's not going to give up a moment, whether he's busy or not, whether we're getting along or not.

Not to Caleb, anyway.

This is going to be hard.

Sam thinks he can help us find common ground. Apparently it's the front yard and Lochlan's going to eat it or something. I sit near Sam, away from the rest, arms crossed over my chest, bottom lip out in silent protest.

Sam proposes a calendar. For fairness.

Seriously?

Do we feel safe
Do we feel safe
Do we feel safe
Do you feel safe