Because you can't actually fix anything with a sandwich and an orgasm, contrary to popular belief.

I'll be the one to protect you from
Your enemies and all your demons

I'll be the one to protect you from
A will to survive and a voice of reason

He tried, I guess.

Dinner was beyond decadent. Vertical food. Probably plated with tweezers like I've seen on Chef's Table so it was cold by the time it made it to me, and then I didn't know how to eat it.

You haven't touched your food. 

(Sorry, I'm busy savouring this six hundred dollar wine instead. Tonight's going to hurt, better anaesthetize myself while I can.)

I don't know what it is, Cale. 

He rolls his eyes. Chicken. Mushrooms. Risotto. 

Which part? I squint at my plate. I see no chicken. I can identify a green bean and what I think is shaved parmesan. The rest is roasted beige something. It's a poultry inukshuk. We were here alright.

Tell you what. Finish your glass. We'll go find some Monte Cristos. 

Really? I light up. I'm starving and pretension robs my appetite.

Tension robs everything else. Including common sense. As I never saw the shift in him, the one that took him from trying to please, to expecting to be pleased. There's always a price for a six hundred dollar bottle of wine. I should have stayed in Vegas. At least then it wouldn't have been the same monster over and over again. It would have been a different one every day.

Bridget. 

Mmmm? My attention is drowning in oak-aged grapes and wrath.

You're preoccupied. 

Sorry. Just thinking. 

About what? Be honest with me. He's got our coats now, helping me into mine, the familiar roughness taking over where his gentlemanly efforts are beginning to wear away. He leads me out by the hand and we are in the car and then we're in a more-brightly lit but far less affected restaurant where he orders cokes and sandwiches and then he smiles but only with his mouth and we eat quickly (he eats the half I leave) and then we're in the car again. It's late. Deciding you chose the wrong place for dinner and having to choose again takes time.

Oh, nothing. I was just thinking about how Joel said Lucic makes one-point-five million every time he scores a goal. It made me laugh.

I didn't think you followed Edmonton. 

I don't. I follow Lucic though.

And then we're home and it's hardly lit at all, the outside lights are mostly off. It's later than I thought and the house is quiet. The kids' doors are closed and no one is around and there are a few lights burning in the library and Lochlan is there but I don't even know if he followed as I am led upstairs, still with my coat on. Still with my buzz on. Still with no lights on and I stumble against furniture as we make our way to my room. He wastes no more of his precious time, stripping me down, again without the gentleness of before, now with barely-concealed need leaking out from the darkness of his eyes, the strength of his hands and the bent of his brain that has to do this.

(Why does he have to do this?)

And then he has already begun, his hip bones grinding against mine, his fingers in my mouth, my buzz heading out the door. Lochlan isn't coming. No one's going to save me now. I can feel doors closing in my brain as history takes over and a ten-year-old starts calling the shots in the best way she knows how.

Don't shut down on me, Bridget. It's a warning I can't heed. It's too late.

He shines a flashlight directly in her eyes. You're safe. Everything's okay. I'm here. He slows down, no longer grinding down my bones, instead bearing down hard enough to break them instead. My jaw unclenches and he holds my head in his hands, hard enough to squeeze my brain. I cry out and he loves that and his fingers go back into my mouth and I can't move a muscle. But I don't have to, the Devil is working my limbs, trying to touch my brain, trying to reach my soul so he can have it back. And the ten year old suddenly steps away and he sees my hiding place and I can't help it anymore and I give in.

This is his reward, the one I never want to give him anymore.

Go, baby, he whispers. Go get it. 

Harder, I cry and he twists my arms up over my head as I arch my back. I can't reconcile anything anymore but goddamnit I'm going to get something out of this fucked-up life too.

But the moment it's over she steps back in to hide me, my hands start shaking and the look of certain victory on Caleb's face in the dark makes me want to throw up.

This is why I would give you the moon if you asked, Neamhchiontach. 

Can you just get Lochlan for me instead? I need him. The look of victory and all of the air is sucked right out of the room with that request and I can no longer breathe at all.

The only thing darker than my last death.

In these diamonds we're left with coloured glass
As pressure takes its toll, we will outlast
But you can't break my heart
As long as I can be myself, I'll never fall apart
And you can't take me in
If I'm not broken, break me down
So I will never feel alone again

Have to get in the mood. Have to breathe evenly. Have to delete the message just like the good old days when several hours prior to a date, he would tell me what I should wear. Have to stop my hands from shaking as he pulls out old triggers and new risk. Have to button all of these stupid buttons but I can't breathe. I can't breathe. Can't let Lochlan see this fear after I said I was fine. In control, even. So not in control. Why did he agree to this? My terms are simpler. My ways are safer. You let him call the shots they'll be aimed right between my eyes.

Or worse. At my heart.

This is frustrating (and no I'm not drunk.) (Okay, I'm not drunk YET.) (Okay, maybe a little.)

New Jake is growing a beard (omg what's wrong with my knees?)

John just shaved his off. (I might have cried out in alarm when I saw him, as I didn't know who he was at first.)

PJ plans to grow his to his knees. God love my metalhead.

Ben has his customary-scary winter one.

Lochlan just looks weird and homeless with one. It doesn't work for him. 

Caleb looks like a serial killer hiding in plain sight with his. 

Daniel will never ever grow one and waxes. 

Schuyler shaves twice a week, sometimes only once. 

Christian also looks downright strange with one. 

Batman always looks like a Wall Street financier down on his luck with one. 

Sam looks like a... a Hobbit now with his. 

And I have been trying to grow one for years and years and it never happens, and they won't tell me the secret of how to do it. 

Hold my planner.

Caleb comes around this afternoon after I get home, trying once again for a date. He's less lonely than before but also makes twice as much effort to cement his place in the house (and my  life) but he's doing it sweetly, at least. 

Can I borrow her...just for a meal? 

She's not very high in calories. Lochlan is amused, playing with words like he plays with fire. Actually he's doing that too, as Caleb is running down a sensitive subject and sometimes when you joke with him when he's feeling like this he has a tendency to get violent. 

Except he knows that I don't permit violence in my house (much) and that it won't win him any dinners, lunches OR breakfasts. He needs to play nice to play at all. 

I'll let them figure it out. I'm too happy to be home and head first in Lochlan's shirt, his arms around me tight. He smells like goatsmilk soap and coffee and he's nice and warm. 

Thursday. When she's off work. Then you can come back with her. 

My eyebrow goes up and bumps into Lochlan's collar. Did he just set up my date and then invite him home afterward? 

I was thinking a late dinner, so eightish and back around eleven? 

Sounds fine. 

Yes. Yes he did.

Continuity errors.

If you knew me (you're so lucky you don't), you'd know that the only thing I want to do after sex is go to sleep for a bit. And by a bit I mean hours and hours, preferably overnight or at least for the remains of the day.

So when Ben gently turned me out the door I contemplated not doing my jean-buttons back up but I did and then boy, was I surprised when I ran into Caleb coming down the basement steps and I quickly tried to casually fix my Ben-hair, as he had it gripped good and tight in his hand and it's a disaster.

Oh, I was just looking for- He stopped. No amount of surprise casual-ness will hide what I was just up to. Jesus. You can't even wait until dark? 

Did you need something? Ice will cover my fluster. Ice will freeze it in place forever and I'll never ever change. I'll never be as cool and collected as the devil, I'll never have a poker face or be able to hide a thing. I'm clear. See-through. A jellyfish.

A well-fucked jellyfish.

I was hoping to steal you away for some brunch but now I feel as if I should just go back upstairs and pretend I never saw you. 

You could do that. 

Do you want to get ready and go out? 

No. I need to lie down. I start laughing. I'm the man. Don't men always want to fall asleep right after sex? Yeah, that's me. I'm a dude. So happy. Be right back, going to pee in the snow.

What's so funny? 

Nothing. 

Are you laughing at me? 

No, I'm tired. Maybe brunch tomorrow. 

You work tomorrow. 

That makes me laugh more, only it doesn't sound much like a laugh. More like a sob. True. Maybe later, when I get up. 

Are you alright?

Oh, I'm good. I'm so good. 

Benterludes.

I got to sleep in. Sam conceded that since I heard the sermon, live and up close, and that I live it already, trying to protect myself against all of the things that threaten to tear me down, that I was cleared to not attend.

He didn't let Lochlan off the hook and after a lot of grumpy swearing and even some indignant hollering down the hall at Sam's back as he went home to find a suit (and the famous Argentinian flag-bucked belt) Lochlan also put on a suit, a plain brown belt and brown shoes and went to church.

It almost made me laugh except that I was so damned surprised that he followed through the laughter ended up far behind me. I went down to see Ben instead. Ben sometimes still disappears for too long and it's one of the thorns that stuck into our relationship and let it bleed out so slowly nothing hurt and he is always, always there when I need him mind you. He's just distracted and always caught up in wonderful projects.

I snuck in through the door and up behind him as he sat in his chair. I didn't know he was asleep or I would have left him be but I wrapped my arms around his head and he startled fifty feet and shouted. AH!

WHAT?

WHO IS IT?

It's MEEEEEEE!

Oh my God, Bridget, you scared me. 

Probably because you forget what I look like. 

I just look for the short blonde blur. 

Nice. 

Have I been down here too long? 

I didn't nag. 

Maybe you should. 

I'm not that type of person. 

He snorts and I make a note to follow up on that. I am persistent, though I won't harass you if you're busy unless I'm kidding and you're clearly not busy.

Where's Loch?

He went to church. 

Huh. What'd he do? 

I just told you. 

I mean to go alone? Did he kill someone? 

Sam guilted him into it. 

Sam is everyone's favorite sitcom wife. 

True. But Loch went that's good. 

And you're bored. 

Yup. I'm just using you for entertainment. You know, til he comes back. 

How much time do we have? He's not in his chair anymore, crowding the spot where I stand, head down, lips against my hair, hands absolutely all over.

What's time again? Oh, that thing we don't measure. 

Lock the door, Bridge. 

Already did. My smile is wicked, my intentions crystal-clear.

Bones are not enough armour for a heart.

Sam is road-testing his sermon on us today about the difference between forgiveness and self-protection. Using himself as an example, no less. Beginning with a parable of a samaritan who puts his own safety at risk to save another's life and ending with dealing with lies in a relationship and when to cut the cord in order to save oneself is going to be an interesting sell to the congregation tomorrow but will also put to rest the rumours which will no doubt fly when Matt's fresh reappearance turns into a glaring absence, noted by the people who seem to find sport in noticing such things, under the guise of concern. 

(It's not concern. We see right through you.)

I think he should take the day but he incorporated that into the sermon as well, in that no amount of outside influence will weaken his relationship with or need to be close to God. 

He is a living lesson sometimes, with a strength I don't understand sometimes as he can seem small and vulnerable but then he's weathered storms that would break a lesser man at the same time. Sam's demons are fought to fucking ash and then he steps over the remains into the light. Sam's a hero. No question. 

The question is not if I can manage, but if you will bear witness, he asks. He is sleepy and gorgeous and I just got that sermon face to face, morning-breathed and half-awake, cuddled under all the quilts in my bed, Lochlan still sleeping against my other side, slumbering right through the entire homily (possible as usual?).

But I've already heard it now! Doesn't that mean I can sleep in? 

Snap your fingers, snap your neck.

PJ's entire existence has been devoted to doing things like playing Prong or Amon Amarth at top volume while I eat my breakfast, nodding along while he headbangs through loading the dishwasher or pouring cereal for milk. He's so earnest. He said the heavy holds our worries, the notes weighing them down in order to drown them in this endless, soaking rain. He says that it's liberating. He says It's necessary, Bridget. And you should try harder.

God Bless him. I just finished a night in which I was reminded of being ten years old and not understanding the incredible heartbreak in the music of artists like Air Supply, Journey, Bon Jovi and countless others.

Lochlan took a gamble playing endless ballads and now they all run with it, including Sam, force-feeding it into my brain, making a whole new kind of hurt as I hear the words with fresh adult ears, always jolted by the pain, the emotion in the voices of singers I can belt along with in my sleep at this point.

But that, my friends, is a far cry from nodding sleepily along with fucking Prong while I enjoy toast with crunchy peanut butter and coffee in the huge BB8 mug that I always grab first, crumbs on my cheek, curly tips of a bedhead bob making me feel ten years old again, in which case this is definitely not the right music.

My kitchen is Wacken, my bedroom a smoky pub on the right side of town where they play soft pop and mourn their busted tickers til the sun comes up and then we'll start all over again, won't we, because that's what people do.

Sam is okay. I've passed on all of the positive encouragement you've emailed and I thank you readers, for understanding how much it hurts when the love of your life walks the fuck out for a third time without warning.

(He's not sad at this point, just angry at himself for falling for it all over again. But he's not too angry to take comfort with us, and I think I may just keep him here until Easter all the same.)

Holiday Matt.

(For the record that I don't even know who is keeping, Lochlan already pinky-swore to make up New Years Eve to me, as if it was his fault or something that I chose to work both days, and so Friday night we're going to go out for a fancy dinner and a show (this usually morphs into a stack of pizzas brought home in the truck followed by a stack of boys draped all over the place in the theatre room at home, though, so be warned. It's my favorite thing. Well, one of them anyway.)

When I get home with groceries (a quarter of a load. We'll go back out Saturday or Sunday but I needed a whole bunch of things that couldn't wait) this morning in advance of the impending storm, Sam is standing on the second step down. Not underneath the porch roof but just beyond reach of it. Soaking wet. An expression that would be unreadable if I didn't know Sam so well. I load up on bags and head up the walkway. He hasn't even noticed me yet even though I drove the big truck and parked it badly right in front of him.

When did he leave?

Sunday night.

Oh, Sam. Why didn't you say something?

What was I supposed to say, Bridget? You were right? Again? We got caught up in the wedding, I guess, and didn't see that nothing has really changed.

So what have you been doing the past few days? Instead of looking to your friends to support you. I don't want to be right, I want you to be okay.

I'm okay. Mended my ego, shined my pride back up, prayed for a solution to being lonely. You know, the usual. Well, YOU don't know but some of them get it.

I guess the look on my face walked back his attitude just enough to bring my Sam back.

Sorry, Bridget. I'm just trying to deal with it.

Let us help you.

How can you possibly help me?

By giving you perspective. And grace. 

Is your grace stronger than God's?

Of course it is. I'm local. 

He snorts laughter. Finally, a smile. A soaking-wet smile.

I should have come around days ago. 

You can move back. 

Good luck convincing Caleb to go home. He's so content to watch your every move. 

You can live in my room. But you can never ever bring your overly-complicated wedding dates there. 

That's perspective alright. Thanks, Bridget. I get a hug that's half-rain, half-Sam.

You're welcome. Just a note though, I go to bed these days at like eight and I'm usually fairly cranky by then. 

Flushed.

My work week is finished, the cook gave me a huge piece of cake to bring home (it was broken and he knew I would love it so he didn't throw it out) and when I get home I sit in my Porsche in the driveway in my spot to the left of the garage beside the steps to August's loft and I eat the cake with my fingers.

It was a good plan until Caleb knocked on the window and I dropped a fistful of cake all over my lap. What a waste. But secondary win, my car now smells like chocolate cake.

Eating sweets in secret usually means someone is cheating on their diet.*

What diet? I ask through a mouthful of cake.

He frowns. I don't understand how he managed to raise you with zero manners. 

I have manners! I'm supposed to use them for important people. 

He misses the burn completely, apparently distracted by the fact that it's three in the afternoon and no one's claimed my attention yet. They don't even know I'm home. Actually they might if they heard the car but sometimes they sit outside too, in their vehicles. I always thought they were probably listening to the end of a song or something but from now on I will assume they're also eating secret cake. That must be why Caleb is out here waiting. He's either the nutrition police or he's hoping I will share.

Well I won't and I'll go to jail if I must. Sugar is worth more than oxygen to me.

I agree to come over after dinner. I can stay up a little later, as I don't have to work tomorrow, and he's been great about not trying to monopolize my time. New Year's eve technically didn't exist except I did indeed wait up for Henry and then texted with Ruth around three in the morning and then I got up at five and went to work.

We did absolutely nothing. Loch dozed off. Ben only came upstairs at twelve ten to say Happy New Year and PJ never even made it past ten-thirty. New Jake was a no-show (he said he was on a phone call) and Matt and Sam didn't come over. I haven't seen them in days. So it was sort of a non-existent celebration in which we didn't celebrate but I did make a few resolutions. I gave up pop. Makes me have to pee, never makes me less thirsty, and is always far too sweet anyway. I rarely have it as it is. I'm going to treat myself to more water plus more hot drinks like tea or an afternoon hot chocolate instead (not too sweet since I put a half-teaspoon of mix in for a huge mug). No drugs and by that I mean I went off the shit the doctor put me on. I threw out all of the pills that make me miserable and I plan to keep advil and decongestants in my medicine drawer and the rest is going away. Part of the reason I always feel so tired and energy-less and nauseous is the endless cocktail of birth control (that isn't for preventing pregnancy, long story), sleeping pills, headache pills, cold pills, stomach pills, stress pills, depressing pills, fucking pills holy fucking jesus no more pills so there you go.

I'm just going to eat cake all the time instead. So far so good. Also, it's GOING TO SNOW TONIGHT. Finally! Wait! I HATE snow. But I don't care since I don't have to go to work. Muhahahaha.

*(Edit: Oh, dear readers. Caleb was not fat-shaming me, he was making a gentle joke. I weigh a massive ninety-four pounds and am always working to gain. It hardly works. And no, I don't need tips. I've tried them. I'm not a stress-eater, rather, the stress eats me.)

Absolutely nothing.

I survived work today (it was bonkers at times, and perfect at others) and after working my ass off they let me leave a little early, so I had time to come home, message Ruth, who is already out for the evening, and hear of Henry's first-ever New Years Eve plans (going to a friend's house, has a ride home for 12:30 am from the parents of a different friend who is also going) and am now making spaghetti for eight, as there are eight of us with no plans.

Tomorrow is going to be a tiring day, that's for sure, as I tend to panic if I'm still awake at eleven at night now if I must get up early.

I brought home another pie, as we had too many and since the restaurant is actually closing early anyway (it's not the kind of place you book for NYE) it would have gone to waste.

Tomorrow is such a normal day, except at over twenty dollars an hour. I won't leave early even if they offer.

Batman cancelled our big formal plans at the last minute, and so Caleb has been edging around me, trying to find out what new plans I have in mind for between spaghetti-thirty and eleven, or twelve-thirty, I guess, for as much as PJ tells me he will wait up for Henry, I feel like I should, as Henry is my son and it's not fair to PJ to shoulder that responsibility. I will probably bend to a port or a martini with Caleb and then maybe some of that prosecco (wouldn't you know it's already been transferred from Batman's house to ours, and New Jake is now one of the eight for dinner) at midnight and then I'll slap myself silly to try and stay awake to see everyone safely in. Except I'll probably fall asleep against Lochlan's shoulder and he will see everyone in but since I'm technically there, I'll take credit.

Last day of Christmas vacation and I'm sad as fuck about that.

Trying to have a best day ever once again because I work tomorrow and I don't know if it's going to be crazy-busy or not. I work New Year's morning too and I don't know what to expect then, either.

In the meantime I'm tracing my finger down Lochlan's face and every time he twitches in response he comes close to waking up but not quite and it's become a game to touch his eyelids/nose/cheek as lightly as possible.

Sometimes I don't sleep. Sometimes I can't sleep and there's nothing else to do. I can't reach my headphones  from here, they're on the night table on the other side of Ben Mountain, and my phone is on the dresser on the other side of the room anyway. If my feet touch the floor I'm going to wake everyone up so instead I poked at Lochlan until he sat up, wild curls and tattoos everywhere and suggested I go have coffee and read. That's the adult equivalent of making cold cereal and watching cartoons, I think, and so here I am.

The coffee is kind of boring and I don't feel like reading. Sam wandered through in search of sugar (they were out) and suggested I write my resolutions but I don't know what I'm hoping to change or better about myself for 2019.

I'd like to read more, worry less, murder my sweet tooth in favour of more fruits and vegetables. I'd like to cook more, but different, adventurous things. I'd like to go out for noodles more and maybe go out for dessert but without dinner first. I want to finish listening to Demon Hunter's discography before the new double album drops this spring and I'd like to watch more foreign films, with subtitles. I want to go back to dressing weird, losing the black, bringing back the rainbows and I want to not cut my hair ever again. It's to my chin at last and I'm not even cutting it to clean it up at this point. I just want it to grow.

I could make a whole heaping pile of resolutions that have to do with my boys or I could just leave well enough alone.

Oh and when my work-pay account reaches five figures (excluding tips) I'm quitting in order to find something better.

Best. Day. Ever. (and I've only been up for two hours.)

Slept in til ten-thirty.

Ben bathed the dog.

Ruth is making pretzels from the Warcraft cookbook.

It's raining and windy and cozy. There's a fire in the fireplace and sleepy, quiet boys everywhere. We're caught up on Outlander (finally) and maybe will watch the Black Mirror movie later, but maybe we'll watch something else. Who knows? We have turkey soup, leftover turkey and gravy for sandwiches and I'm not going to change from my pajamas because I have zero reason to.

The failed but predictable Group B army recon.

Ha. Between being so sick this year so far and the holidays and the wedding (and..the...the...fist fights) I figured I'd forget to pay all of the bills this month, since I pay them during the last week. Hydro, natural gas, insurance on all of the vehicles and buildings, credit cards, internet, phones, etc. etc. It takes a couple of hours for me to pay everything, do transfers and then enter everything into the big Collective spreadsheet that we have for keeping track.

I'm so caught up I'm actually ahead now, however and I'm happy to report that I plan to not sweat falling behind on everything else as a result. And so I agreed to go on a New Year's Eve supply run with Batman, who also hates crowds but sometimes must venture out into them for a purpose.

Just a Prosecco run, sweetheart. If your monkeys will let you out of their sight. 

Olives too? 

If you like. Batman smiles thoughtfully. He's having a little thing on New Year's Eve. I'll be asleep in my plate face down, as I go back to work that day and then have to go to Batman's for dinner and drinks and then back to work early on New Year's Day. I've been threatening to quit but for some reason knowing I can means I haven't yet, and will soldier on until I can't stand it anymore at all.

Only if they're garlic-stuffed. 

Only for you. He laughs. So picky. 

Not picky. They're the best. 

I prefer pimentos. 

Well, get those then. Don't worry about me. 

Someone has to spoil you. He winks. I shake my head. I try not to be spoiled but it's inevitable.

Okay then we'll get both. I offer a compromise.

That's a good plan. 

Indeed. 

You know what else would be a good plan? 

Olives stuffed with pearl onions!

No, you staying New Years Eve. 

Not a chance. 

Not even a small one? 

Nope. About the same as finding olives stuffed with pearl onions. 

We didn't find any. We spent the rest of the shopping trip in an unfamiliar (but still comfortable) silence.

Caleb hates weddings.

Seven hours of sleep, coffee that is more Baileys than coffee itself (thank God) and a fifteen minute blistering morning sauna followed by an hour-long drunken soak in the hot tub with Caleb and I'm sure I can tick off my self-care regimen and my visitation requirements with the Devil all in this Thursday morning before the snow comes.

And then I'm free.

He's crushing me under the weight of his psychic pain, his need. He hates weddings, mentally planning his own, loathe to celebrate any others until he gets what he wants so desperately and what he'll never ever have.

We can all feel it, he wears it outwardly, an arm-band of black for mourning, and we avoid looking directly at it even as I consent to a little extra time with him over Christmas, because he'd really like to have that time, he needs that time, he wants it in a way he wants it but tenfold, physically painful, inwardly destructive.

So here I am, half-drunk on a Thursday morning at Christmas, bangs stuck to my forehead from the heat, letting the jets roll over my muscles and bones, bringing me back to life only so he can destroy me again at will. It's a resurrection game, a breath-holding, voice-caught kind of urgency at this point but I'm playing along here from rock-bottom, safety net not all that far away honestly so I'm not concerned. It's a stage. A phase. A momentary lapse. A weakness uncontent to be shoved down any more, bubbling up to the surface and boiling over. It's a curse, is what it is, and we'll get through it just like we get through everyone's personality quirks and bad habits and temporary insanities. I would say we're more fucked up then the average bears but I would also say it's probably a crime to live without this level of intensity, truth be told.

Can't get close enough.

It's getting better baby
No one can better this
Still holding on
You're still the one

The beach looked so beautiful. Driftwood tangled in candle holders by the hundreds, custom-blown in smoked teal glass, long tables set like a woodland fairy seaside Christmas (as it is!), set with thick brown runners and copper utensils, dress code well-adhered to, as everyone was asked to wear black. And everyone did, except for Andrew and Schuyler, who wore morning suits in complimentary shades of teal and tan, and they looked incredible. Don't think I've ever seen Andrew with a fresh haircut, in all my years, and don't think I've ever seen Christian let his guard down even for a moment, until he stepped up in front of Andrew before Sam and said his vows, vows I never heard but the look on his face was enough. Who needs words when someone looks at you like that?

We had the clouds, the spring tide and the love of an entire army out in full force and we had everything we needed. We danced on the beach. We cried. We had a moment when we realized how tough these are, these moments in which you choose, and you don't look back and we had our fill of champagne, sparkling water and wedding cake.

We had some incredibly elderly folks make it down to the shore and back with the help of everyone but mainly John who took it upon himself to personally escort those who needed assistance as required. Bless him.

We had the whole point cleared of people by seven in the evening, as it was Christmas Eve and the deal was we will bring you here at no expense to you but you'll also be home before it's time to put out cookies and milk for Santa.

We need no other gifts this Christmas. This was everything. Seeing Chris and Andrew find each other, watching them fall deeper in love and watching them make it permanent, make it real through marriage, before all of our warm gazes and before God was everything we will ever need and Christmas became an afterthought, an oh, yeah, it's Christmas, isn't it?

Caleb offered them a honeymoon as his gift but they didn't want to leave. Batman tried to sweeten the pot along with Caleb and they insist they have everything right here.

Here.

I know what they mean.

Something blue Christmas.

Andrew and Christian got their wish of sunshine and will shortly get their wish of a seaside wedding followed by an early brunch on the beach, complete with:

One server who's entire job is to ensure that all of the candles remain lit, and as they burn down, replace them with new lit candles.

(Sounds like the best job of the day, frankly. Though only because it isn't supposed to be windy.)

People will be arriving soon, and I'm not ready. I've already cried like five times today because this is all so beautiful and I'll be able to describe it one I have a little more free time, and the next time a holiday wedding morphs from New Years Eve to Christmas Eve someone please remind me that it's a little bit much and move it to some random date in June, okay? At least it's happening early on, as we have tons of family who flew in last night and will fly out tonight.

Sam is ready and wandering around calming people down and even sprinting out to the driveway to greet people as they arrive.

I can't even believe that this is happening to two of my oldest and dearest friends. Wish them luck along with me, would you?

Never leave me home alone again.

Everyone is home at last and Ben wants a do-over of my night, having loved facetiming me at the absolute pinnacle of my disco party when I collapsed on my bed in my rollerskates and glitter and nothing else. The music was still loud and he laughed and laughed and pointed out that there was glitter on the dog, even.

Oh my God. So much glitter.

Everyone kept sending me sweet pictures. They went for a huge steak dinner. Then they saw a magic show. Then they went to another place for dessert and then...they shopped and everyone kept sending me photos of Lochlan standing near doorways looking vaguely supportive but like he'd rather be anywhere else and then at nine this morning they were back on the plane and home in the house by noon with a lot of fun and neat wedding presents and souvenirs and it's probably the least typical Vegas trip ever embarked on by twelve grown men but it was a bonding experience. I think they all enjoyed a night off from looking after each other on the point and they loved my solo Saturday night chronicles, which consisted of close-up, haphazard photos with flash for full effect.

I'm so glad they're home. Not even one of them is a Vegas-people, and yet it's good they marked this next step in life with concrete traditions, as brothers should.

They brought me vintage matchbooks from jazz clubs I didn't know existed and Lochlan found me the most beautiful tiny clutch evening bag. Strange mementos from an even stranger weekend.

Housepet disco.

Eleven brusque kisses on the forehead and one prolonged one (Lochlan) and the boys are off to Vegas for a night for a last-minute bachelor party, thanks to Caleb who grabbed a plane and booked a room at a nice restaurant for dinner and a block of hotel rooms and they're going to see a show and do the town and then they will fly home in the morning, though probably not in time for church.

Everyone over five-foot-nine was invited. Caleb's such a dick. Henry laughed and asked if he needed to bring his wallet (Henry leaves his wallet home all the time. I swear he gets his grifting charm from me) and Caleb gently told him not this time around, that someone had to stay behind and look after mom.

Sam demurred and Matt along with him. Sam said to me later, I don't think Vegas is for me. 

Vegas isn't for anyone, honestly. It's like Disneyland for sad people. 

He laughed but he remained somewhat unsettled. Not at having to stay behind, but mostly because of my description. He's content in the fact that no matter how much glue he is to hold this Collective together, no one invites the minister along to their bachelor party.

Which one is going to be the bachelor? I texted Christian enroute. They left so early. I ran out of things to do by noon.

We'll make it up as we go XO. Christian is tired of my jokes but he also rolls with it nicely.

Have fun and be safe, I text and I hear nothing back.

It's now five o'clock and Sam and Matt took me for my first visit to Popeyes Louisiana Fried Chicken (which is a fast food place way the fuck out in the valley but we were all bored and hungry so road trip) and it was delicious but then they disappeared when we came home and now I'm on my own.

 I'm plotting to haul out my roller skates, all of my body glitter and my Bee Gees Greatest Hits album because that's what this princess does when faced with a night all to herself. 

Neo-orthodox Unitarianism at it's finest.

One of the biggest tenets of AA is to begin by admitting you were powerless in the face of your addictions. It's a way to bring you to your knees, of course but I always thought it was a crock of shit. Start over, sure but the only person you have to blame is yourself and stating stupid things like alcohol controlled me or I was weak is weak in of itself and shifts the blame right off of where it belongs.

On you.

I struggle with this and I'm not the alcoholic. Never have been. Sam says I interpret it wrong. Ben just laughs and tells me I'm so stubborn he can see Youngest Child Syndrome from space. I agree, mind you but I also don't like blame suddenly shifting from I'm an asshole to It was the drink talking/acting/screwing up my life. No it wasn't, Matt.

It was you.

This is your fault.

And Sam is a fucking saint for letting you back into his life/heart/home. I don't even want to place bets on this save for the New Year will feature yet another broken heart and I know from experience they get harder and harder to put back together as time goes on.

Sam tells me to have an open heart and mind. That it's Christmas and this Christmas we're celebrating love all around us. And I know I'm supposed to allow Matt to begin again. We get endless chances to be good humans, even when we sometimes don't truly deserve them.

But love? We'll see. Right now, I'm celebrating germs and I'm cranky from not sleeping from this weird endless sinus headache so I'm definitely coasting on the good graces of God, his children and my army lately and that's fine too. I blew my nose to try and ease the pressure in my left eye and my matching ear exploded in pain. Christ already. It's been a long year and suddenly we're at the day I hate more than anything. Almost. Winter solstice, AKA first day of winter, AKA the shortest day of the year with the absolute minimum of daylight. Caleb always picks this night to spend with me because he knows how much I hate it but honestly I think I'd rather spend it fighting indoctrination. Fighting surrender. Fighting any more change and any more staying the same too.

Oh glorious wind!

This week's wedding planner is working underneath, and in spite of, the weather.

Monday is going to be rainy and four degrees and that romantic son of a bitch Andrew still maintains the wedding dinner will take place on the beach.

With...tents?

No tents.

Umbrellas and portable heaters, then? 

No. It'll be fine, Bridge. 

Oh, honey. It won't be fine and yet he refuses to make contingency plans, all the while I work around him organizing a multitude of contingency plans for every little thing, including backup tents stored in the garage where he can't see them, our portable space heaters and plans to still have dinner outside, just on the patio if it comes to that.

No one wants to eat if they're cold. No one wants to try and eat a wedding feast in the rain.

Sure they do, Andrew says dreamily.

You're the worst bride I've ever dealt with, I remind him. Let's plan for the best and prepare for the worst. Also you need to go and pick up the tents you don't need. I've reserved them already. 

You've managed to weaponize logistics, Bridget. He gives me a kiss on the cheek.

Someone had to, I tell him, and cough in his face.

Short and sweet, or maybe that's short and drippy.

I feel like I've become such a lightweight but work is cancelled for the week and I guess I'm officially on Christmas break? Though I keep sitting down and drifting off because I can't breathe and my face hurts. 

On the upside, Lochlan remains handy to cuddle with and we watched Krampus. Not even two stars bad. More like one of the greatest Christmas movies ever made. 

Single-digits rotten.

Today is crisp and beautiful pre-storm and I'm not at work.

The headache took over and is still here this morning and so I called in because a brightly-lit, noisy, busy restaurant is no place for someone in pain. I will hang out here in leggings and a big sweater and move slowly and quietly, drinking tea and watching Christmas movies on Netflix with PJ and Duncan, neither of whom enjoy cheesy Christmas movies but both of whom will coddle me until the cows come home. Maybe I'll try a wrap a couple of presents but maybe not, too. Lochlan is worried about my health and my sleeping and has instructed me to do nothing and for his sake I'm really going to try. Otherwise I'm happy it happened now and not next Monday because next Monday is going to be a little busy with the wedding and all.

I had a white flag waved in my face and Lochlan has agreed to the cheesy Christmas movies. But only the ones with two stars or less because he says if they're going to bad they may as well be the worst. I think a new tradition has been born. 

Twenty hours of work left before Santa.

No church today, though I would have loved to see the candle lit and hear Ben sing again without guitars burying his voice, but I have a huge headache from a renewed bout of coughing and I'm not pushing myself. Physically this week I already went too hard and now I have to pay the price, I suppose, so I had some coffee and cold pizza and I plan to just live quietly today, and hopefully this week overall.

This is Lochlan's lecture to me this morning as I insist I should go to church and he suggests I maybe just stay in, stopping short of outright ordering and instead trying to influence gently.

Which is nice. He doesn't want to the bad guy, even though he has every right to be and he is smarter than I, so I'll go with his observations and try and take it easy today. I work three days this coming week and then I'm off until New Year's Eve. Which is good because we're having a Christmas eve wedding here and it's getting really busy suddenly. So I checked my list, pulled Ben's big Goatwhore hoodie over my head and plan to do very little, though I do have presents to wrap and I am so behind.

I'll do a bunch of it Thursday maybe. Hopefully, or maybe a little later today. We'll get it done. Just not today. 

Fairytale of Horseshoe Bay.

I could have been someone
Well so could anyone
You took my dreams from me
When I first found you
I kept them with me babe
I put them with my own
Can't make it all alone
I've built my dreams around you

I woke up with that song in my head. Maybe it's growing on me as I age and make mistakes and live far from home. Far from people who break into chorus and dance steps on a sticky wooden floor and far from the snowy wonderland of trying to drive cars uphill on ice and the ever-present conundrum of how to cook a turkey when the power's been out for hours.

It upset me, that song and so I buried my face against Caleb's chest. He isn't awake yet. He tends to sleep until close to eight most days, though he will arrive in the kitchen showered and dressed, ready for the day almost at eight sharp before checking for coffee and any change in the stock market overnight.

His arms tighten around me and I squeak a little. My shoulder is sore from his teeth pressed against it, my arms weak from his hands holding them down and my legs ache mightily from being tense for hours. He wasn't traditionally rough but he still goes hard and I still need a little cautionary handling the next day as I move slower.

He's been romantic though. He had a fire in the fireplace and hot buttered rum drinks waiting when I arrived and he didn't put me up against the wall or pin to the bed by my neck. He was gentle and sweet and he said he wanted me to have my Christmas present early but a week is way too early and so he agreed to wait a little bit longer, and I agreed not to leave last night, to stick around and go to sleep and he found such comfort in that it made me want to cry. He's touched that I wear his ring every day, no matter what and not all that angry about PJ as he is learning to live in the main house and he's learning to put his temper away and that's nice too.

I always expect everything to be so temporary. He's nice today? Only a matter of time. I didn't cough all morning? I will tonight. The car started with no issues in the cold? What if it doesn't tomorrow?

(I'm never comfortable in my own skin, let alone in someone else's.)

It's not a matter of time. This is where I needed to be. He reassures me without trying to convince me. That's helping, too.

Something has to change, Diabhal.

It is, Neamhchiontach. It is.

Then can you help me get this song out of my head?

Let's try. He found his phone, hooked up to a neat little bluetooth speaker on the shelf and played Coldplay's Christmas Lights instead. And it worked on the first try.

Slower than slow learners.

A new daydream today involves Ryan Clark and Benjamin Burnley doing a duet. A girl can dream, can't she?

I watched the new Tourniquet video first thing, with coffee. I don't know why I did that. I think it's part three of a set that began with Red Cold River. It's uh..very metal. The song is amazing but sometimes I think musicians should stop with making videos. Even as they've been my bread and butter, they generally suck, honestly. Even some of the ones I've been in. Some are fucking breathtaking, but then again, that's rare. I used to hate live concert video compilations and now I think that's the way to go.

I pre-ordered the new War and Peace albums this morning from Demon Hunter. Now I have two more songs, though I can't seem to take Carry Me Down (the piano version) off today's pedestal, on repeat in the rain as I conclude that I have used up all of my nine lives as a curious cat and I now wish to be a fly on the wall, hearing everything or nothing at all as PJ holds his ground against whatever kind but menacing discussion he and Caleb are having.

Leave it, Lochlan orders. He's distracted, up to his neck in Henry's computer, optimizing the motherboard or something. Henry is learning as much as Lochlan knows as fast as Lochlan can teach him. Together they figured out they missed a step when they built the machine and I still can't figure out how to turn on the monitor.

As long as I can figure out how to get to my music I'm fine. This annoys Caleb to no end, who, against Ben's express instructions, tried to teach me to use Spotify. Spotify is a heated topic in this house. Very precious few people have it as the pricing on the back end is detrimental to the artists you're listening to. I balk at renting my music besides that. Fuck that noise. I need to own it.

PJ is back in a few minutes.

What body part has he threatened to take from you in the night and sell on the black market? I bet I can guess. 

PJ makes a face. What? No. He just wanted to know where I am in this new hierarchy. 

Below me, obvs. 

Well, obvs. He just wants to make sure I'm below him. 

And what did you say? 

You don't want me to repeat it. 

Hell, yes I do. 

I asked him when the last time he had good pussy was. 

Okay, yeah, I don't want to know. Never mind. I hate that word. 

I needed to be crass to make a point with him. 

Which was? 

You call the shots. Not him. 

And from deep inside the computer case, now up to his shoulders, Lochlan laughed. 

Nanny state.

I made it through the year and I did not even collapse
Gotta say, "Thank God, for that"
I'm torn between what keeps me whole and what tears me in half
I'll fall apart or stay intact

With tired eyes I stumble back to bed
I need to realize my sorry life's not hanging by a thread
At least not yet

So look at me now
Its finally Christmas and I'm home
Head indoors, to get out of this weather
And I don't know how
But the closest friends I've ever known are all inside
Singing together
Singing merry Christmas, here's to many more/i>

It's quickly becoming my all-time favourite Christmastime song, though they all are, if I'm being honest (Just kidding! It's still and always will be Type O Negative's Red Water). I love Christmas. I love falling asleep in the big chair in the living room in my uniform after coming home from work from a really busy day and waking up to PJ running interference between Caleb and Lochlan, both of whom have vastly different but the exact same ideals when it comes to how best to deal with this pathetic state of affairs.

Jesus, I just sat down for a second. I fall asleep whenever I stop moving and suddenly it's a job con?

PJ ordered both of them out of the room. No more arguments, no more ultimatums just get the fuck out and let her sleep and he'll wake me up later and send me off to bed.

He didn't clarify which bed and Merry Christmas to both of us because guess where I woke up? I still haven't found my work uniform. I think PJ was hoping I would stay forever in his room if I couldn't leave with decorum but he doesn't know me as well as I hoped, I guess. I got up and started to walk out and he was suddenly full of shit.

Okay, okay. Here's your clothes. 

Gee, thanks, Padraig. 

No, thank you, Bridge. Best Christmas gift I never asked for. 

Ah. Too decadent?

Wrong size. 

Motherfucker!

Indeed. 

Weirdly proud.

I got a Christmas bonus today. Cash in a Christmas card from the owners of the restaurant. It is the equivalent of a half day's pay but it touches me all the same as I work my ass off to see that people like their meal and that they come back. I mopped twice today. I'm so tired I could cry and I came home and opened my card while Dalton looked on. This is something because it's the first bonus I've earned myself in twenty years that wasn't related to doing work for Caleb or Batman. It's the first one that's all mine. No strings. No expectations. Nothing but joy and generosity.

I feel a little bad for lecturing the manager today on the most efficient way to clean the windows.

But only a little. Maybe he put extra cash in afterwards because he knew I was right.

Postfamous.

And I feel so much depends on the weather
So is it raining in your bedroom?
And I see that these are the eyes of disarray
Would you even care?

And I feel it
And she feels it

I have the remote in a deathgrip, heart locked down, brain switched off as Jacob's swagger of a third incarnation (after God. After Bridget.) fills the screen in the theatre. Matt is rapt, watching Jacob sing in his STP cover band, watching him work the crowd, watching him find the camera and then address it. Watching him rake his hand through his hair, lean way out over the crowd and act so not-preacher-like it's almost as if he was someone else completely.

It was a test, if you can believe it. Matt's heard the stories, Matt's been here through someone of my worst after-flight moments, but never have I offered to show him the recordings, the videos of Jacob's band belting out Stone Temple Pilots hits while the townsfolk positively screamed for more. Jacob has always been just a name to Matt until today. But right now I feel like I could and so I did and I didn't implode or anything.

Matt sits back, sinking in the couch, his eyes wide. Wow, he whispers, looking at me.

I don't look back, I can't take my eyes from the screen. I know, right?

Deep end, shallow end, meet me in-between.

Matt pulled me in close to a hug this morning when we arrived at cold, rainy church and the seats were all saved because we get there early anyway.

Can I request a plot near the telescope? The orchard seems so far from the beautiful view. 

No. It's already dug and everything. Don't make me use it, Matthew. 

I won't be. It's for keeps this time, Bridget. Sam is the greatest thing about my life and I've fucked it up enough. He's got tears in his eyes. Great, now I do too.

I hold up my pinkie and Matt wraps his own little finger around mine, whispering Swear before we take our seats. The litmus test will be when I show up to the boathouse, however. Then we'll know for sure.

***

I kind of fell off a cliff reading Yrsa Daley-Ward's poetry late this morning, after church was over, only to find out she has an upcoming collaboration with Valentino early this spring with her poetry on the Garavani bags. Looks like I'll be fighting for one of the four hundred available and I don't even like the bags. Just the words. As usual.

I'll get you one, the Devil assures. Because of course he will.

Or maybe the book he's reading is boring but I doubt it (It's called The Great Zoo of China).

It's raining and warmer today, everything is a lush, soaked green, a dim, muted rainforest weekend day meant for doubling down on snuggles and holding out for nothing short of extreme comfort. My hot chocolate was spiked with Irish cream, my boys have multiplied and the library is dark and quiet.

Lochlan dozes lightly beside me. He was reading, but his glasses keep slipping down his nose as his eyes close. Then he jerks awake, his arm tightening around me only to realize he is safe and then he goes to sleep again.

I like watching it happen. He was never one for blackout curtains or dark rooms and I would always watch him lose his grip on the day slowly and then all at once, his whole face going slack from where before his expression would be coiled and tense.

He falls asleep like no one else I know.

Every time someone pokes their head in the door I hold a hand up in warning. Then they fumble for their phone and text me their question/offer/request and then they go away again.

I said yes to the hot chocolate though, and I'll say yes to the leftover Friday-night pizza if it comes to that. I just don't want to move right now. He's so content. I'm so content.

AWD for Christmas is you..

The tree is up! It's lit and decorated and wrapped with miles and miles of vintage wired embroidered ribbon. It's a very forties-looking tree to that end, and every single ornament has a story. Everyone is very happy but no one is as happy as the cats, who parked underneath it and haven't budged since.

All the presents are bought. I just honestly need some time to wrap them and a moment to run out and lug home the turkeys for dinner but other than that the spirit is here and we're set. This weekend is for egg nog and making tourtière pies and maybe watching Krampus. Maybe sleeping in a tiny bit. Maybe coughing less, I hope (rolls eyes). Maybe not eating the entire dish of Hershey kisses that's on the table in the hallway.

I'm sort of car-shopping as well, while I'm at it. While I'm off, I guess. I've finally had it with the way giant pickup trucks treat me on the highway, as if I'm a nuisance, in their way. I'm tired of their headlights shining directly into my eyes. I'm tired of hoping Henry hasn't grown again when I give him driving lessons, as he actually doesn't fit in this car at all, as a passenger never mind as a driver, and I don't like the little knocks and fits it has when it torques around corners and such. It's been a fun couple of years but I think I'm going to buy a Jeep. I like PJ's and he says it's a good vehicle so why the heck not?

I have time to shop. I'm a car salesman's worst nightmare though. You would think the boys do all the talking but they don't say a word. 

A single moment on a Thursday in early December, 2018.

Watching: Kodaline's almost-short film, in the form of two music videos, All I Want (Part 1) and All I Want (Part 2). Came for the nice guy, stayed for the dog (who looks a lot like my dog). It's ten minutes of wonderful, simple storytelling with a lovely song. I'm not crying, you're crying.

Listening to: Cary Brothers CHRISTMAS MUSIC (Takes me forever to find these things, sorry. Yes I know). Still love him. It's been fifteen years. 

Eating: Had Pad Kee Mao for lunch. I'm spoiled rotten. Now I'm drinking hot chocolate. Dinner will be late, I think. Or nonexistent, maybe, as PJ already sent out a FFY warning (fend for yourself).

Wearing: Leggings and a huge sweater, gold hoop earrings, wedding rings + boyfriend ring. Lip gloss. Mascara. (Why do people constantly ask for this? Who cares?)

Plotting: To put up the tree this weekend. It's time! I held out forever and it's time. Also the dog needs a bath. Badly. I don't know what he got into, maybe just the garden beds near the garage but he's grungy. 

Working on: self-care. I don't think I'm doing it right, still, though I remembered to put on hand cream last night before bed and I'm drinking the hot chocolate as a treat. Right? Right????

Ordering: Henry's graduation photos. Many, many copies for everyone. The proofs look amazing, he's a stupidly photogenic human. Like his father. Now I have to wait a month or more for them to arrive and we're in the home stretch of high school forever. I can't even believe it. 

(Actual content tomorrow. Currently busy referring a standoff between Duncan and August over something dumb. August thinks he's going to toss Duncan off the cliff. In this weather. They're teasing but I'm making sure no one goes in the water when it's this cold. It's not safe.)

The pie thief.

I went over to check on how things were going at the boathouse only because I like to be a good hostess and because it's Wednesday and on Wednesdays my restaurant sends home any full leftover pies for the Reverend and today was a positive bounty in that I knocked on the door with three. Strawberry, pumpkin and a key lime. Sam kept the pumpkin but asked me to share the wealth with the others and so Schuyler and Duncan took the key lime and Batman and New Jake took the strawberry. Everyone is happy. Our house doesn't need pie, trust me. We're cake people anyway.

Matt wasn't even home. He was at a meeting with Ben. I would have known that but I went to the boathouse first because of the pies, you see. Sam said things are going well, that he didn't realize all of Matt's confidence came from a bottle and I gently reminded him he should have, for that's how it generally works.

How about you come back late tonight with Ben for dessert? We can have some tea and some pie and Matt can work to get back on your good side. 

I don't have a bad side, Sam. I'm just protective of you. 

And my gratitude for that is bottomless, Bridget, but it's something Matt wants to do. 

Let's give him space to settle in. I'm going to give him a little time first. He doesn't need me breathing down his neck. He can ride to church with us on Sunday. I'll check with him on Saturday. Until then I just want him to feel at home. 

Bottomless, Bridge-

I already dug a hole in the orchard for him, Sam. 

People can change, Bridget.

Yes, and it's only for that reason that I haven't put him in it yet. 

I did tell him if he hurts Sam a third time his body will be buried in the orchard.

Matt arrived this morning with his pride under his tongue and flowers in his hand. One bouquet for Sam, and the other for...

Ben.

Ben is Matt's sponsor, but only after hours (weeks, months, actually) of conversation in which Matt has agreed to get some help for his issues (drinking too much, levelling ultimatums and dealbreakers and names called at Sam, at me, at all of us and so we cast him out and yet Sam was still in love.

Sam's in love with everything. God, me, Matt, Ben, Lochlan, the evening sky and the cold empty beaches too so when someone is that open with their heart they tend to get stomped on. And since Matt and Sam have had two magnificent go-arounds already, you can see we're a little hesitant to open our home and our hearts once again. The last time Matt burned every bridge to this island and then he came back and threw sharks in the water just to finish the job. Sam on the other hand, hesitated for less than the space of a heartbeat and jumped right back in with both feet.

He's getting help. Remember when Ben went through this? 

Oh. Don't compare apples to oranges, Samuel.

But we have agreed to give Matt a chance. As long as he sticks to the program.

He has his three-month milestone so far, ninety days sober and he's already like a different man from what I've seen. Gone is the quiet confidence, the understated ego and in it's place remains a frailty, an honesty I always wished for from him. Sam emerges as the newly confident, the sure-stepping, direct and positive force and Matt is buckling down to work at last. I wondered if it was alcohol but he hid it well.

Matt also seems more comfortable with Sam being in the boathouse. There's more privacy and he seems to feel as if maybe we haven't brainwashed Sam after all, that clearly he's free to detach slightly, to move out of the main house and be ever so slightly apart from the Collective as a whole. That's not to say that them living downstairs doomed their marriage, but that a little breathing room is never a bad thing and Sam's move has done wonders to reassure Matt.

Or maybe he's lonely for the holidays and feeding us a tale.

I don't know. I'm a little suspicious and I'm not alone. But he asked Sam if I spend time there (at the boathouse) and Sam told Matt, if you can believe this, that it's none of his business.

And Matt said he deserved that.

And Sam said it doesn't change his answer.

And Matt said he can accept it.

Because you have to, Sam told him.

And Matt nodded.

And there was a lot more to the conversation and all of it turned me back around from a blackened, wizened cynic into a champion of true love once again and that's how it came to be that Matt has moved into the boathouse with Sam and has given notice on his rental.

(None of this happened today except for the actual move.)

Ugg boots were made for people who walk all damn day and thank God for that.

Tonight the dryer runs in tandem with the furnace, as the temperatures dip down below zero and the sun pulls a blanket of darkness up over its head, the hemlocks crowding in close to lift up the moon and point to the stars overhead.

It's a good night for spicy french fries stolen from over broad shoulders and for egg nog, nutmeg and whiskey. It's a good night to pour over Henry's graduation picture proofs. It's a good night to finalize the Christmas shopping list (I'm down to a spare handful of things left to pick up) and it's a good night to go to bed early, as I really fought myself to go out the door this morning, where it was so cold I've added a cardigan to my uniform dress and the car never did fully defrost by the time I made it to work. PJ didn't start the car for me. Neither did Ben. Mondays are for being a big girl, I guess.

I'm always glad when Mondays are over, even though I armed my brain to the teeth with things to think about when I was in danger of being overwhelmed. That helps too.

Drunk Sundays.

I was woken up in the best possible way this morning, a sleepy tug of war to remove my pajamas while I tried to keep them on, and then an attempt to put me on my face when I sleep best flat on my back, believe it or not but eventually I woke up enough to understand what was going on and then I helped out, pulling things off, not fighting anymore, and I might have pulled on a few curls in my rush to be so close to Lochlan I might have been behind him by the time we were finished with each other.

Then church, because it was frosty and there are songs to be sung, by Ben no less, who has been recruited to lead hymns for the entire month and oddly he accepted, so everyone gets a treat and the ones who don't think the words match the picture, well they will be won over soon enough, as always. 

I've only coughed half as much as usual this morning, too, but someone made me a second cup of coffee (from a slippery slope, no less) and then Lochlan poured a couple good shots of Baileys into it and put it in a travel mug for me to drink during the service and we piled into Ben's truck and I may have dozed off a couple of times because Sam sometimes gets boring when I get really cold but then we got to the good stuff and candles are lit and Ben's voice soars overhead into the heavens, so high I'm sure that even Jacob could hear him. It brought tears to my eyes. It brought tears to a lot of people's eyes, looking around. 

After church we came home to now make a few dozen grilled cheese sandwiches and a big pot of soup and get ahead on some chores. I realize it's hardly even December but with work and being sick and everything else one of my fondest desires right now is to do as much as I can while I feel well enough and then over Christmas week (since every. single. person on the point now has it off because Christmas. because WEDDING!!)I can do what I want to do, instead of what I need to do, I can relax and I can enjoy a dwindling childhood in which even the children asked for such practical things, and I know these years are now numbered. 

The waiting game.

Twenty-four hours and I might feel maybe five percent better, at least with a cough I can hear things in, instead of that dry, breathless cough I've had since labour day, or thereabouts.

Since I felt so great, I figured I should join Caleb for his first annual (fourth? Seventh?) Christmas shopping trip and so off we went. I finished my shopping and he finished his. We had a quick breakfast on the go, in which for the second time in a single season I walked and drank my coffee without spilling any or burning my tongue or pouring the whole thing into my purse/onto my phone/clothes/boyfriend and I even managed to finish it and find a recycling bin for the cup.

So yeah. Success. Then when we got home we pitched in to hang up the rest of the lights and did a few other chores and I feel caught up. I feel productive. I feel tired because we walked a whole lot and I saw things and remarked on things I'm sure I'll find under the tree in a few short weeks because Caleb is incorrigible, stubborn and predictable.

A little like me, I guess.

I hope I can tack on another five percent of health every day for the next three weeks and be at one hundred percent for Christmas.

Lochlan finally caught up with me when Caleb graciously offered me back to him and he kissed me which I returned heartily before coughing right in his face and told him about my coffee success. And the donut I ate. And the weird things I saw. And the feeling that I got a lot accomplished but I missed him something fierce.

Well, we'll get coffee on the way to church tomorrow then, he smiles. I think he missed me too. Advent starts tomorrow.

I always like it when the big wreath is lit, one candle a week until Christmas. It feels important and sombre, it feels like a big part of the holiday somehow. We don't have Elementary school pageants to go to anymore, so this is as close as we get to finding the spirit nice and early and keeping it through to the new year.

A red inhaler, to match my favorite lipstick, and a lot of reassurance that even though I wondered if I would die from this, I won't. I'll die from something else.

Ben absconded with me yesterday, setting us up in the library under cover of the rainy hemlocks, with his laptop on the table and hot chocolates and a big fuzzy blanket and we watched cooking documentaries all morning, afternoon and evening and I didn't talk, I just dozed a lot and then this morning we were still there but the laptop was dead because we didn't plug it in and so we jumped up and went up to get ready for the day, saw Henry off to school and then Ben took me to the specialist. 

Whew!

Actually it was nice. Ben will sometimes insert himself as a physical, flannel wall between me and everyone else who is trying to be helpful, including Lochlan, who is too pragmatic to be comforting sometimes and too fretful to be calming besides. If Ben is worried he does it in a weirdly mature and quiet way. And Caleb is even worse, pacing and throwing cuffs and checking the time and proclaiming he or his money could fix it and blahblahblah that sends me into a tailspin without even preamble. 

I almost forgot I even had an appointment today, snuggled in behind Ben's arm. 

But we're back, armed with prescriptions for steroid inhalers and more rest and lozenges (! Since they clearly understand I. DON'T. REST. Or can't, I guess, as the only reason I did yesterday honestly is because Ben sat on me and then swore at me when I struggled to try and leave.) and a new timeline of two or so weeks to get truly better. 

And I feel better already. My lungs are almost cleared up, my ears are barely inflamed and my throat looks good (which is weird since I cough all the damn time lately) but there's hope and maybe I can move on to talking about something besides my wonderful, terrible immune system. Things like pizza! Because it's Friday and I don't have to cook tonight. Yay!

The HASSELVIKA challenge.

I went next door this afternoon to check with Christian to make sure he's looking at the Pinterest things I've been saving for him and he and Andrew were busy putting together furniture! Because the wedding is on New Year's Eve one of their gifts to each other is a fresh start, such as new bedroom and den furniture and sheets and robes and bookcases and much much more.

Because I don't know about you but stuff has baggage, and after you've had a couple or maybe hardly any relationships you wind up realizing all of your stuff hasn't changed but you have.

You've changed a lot.

So I barge in only to see Andrew holding a drill and Christian holding the instructions upside down and they both seem to be biting their tongues because I'm there.

Did I interrupt something? We have an only-knock-outside-of-normal-waking-hours policy point-wide so I don't think I did.

Oh, Christian was just telling me no one needs instructions and that's why we're four hours into this and don't even have a completed drawer for a nighttable. 

That's not what I said, Andrew, I said most people-

I heard what you said. 

I backed out of the room slowly and shut the door. Apparently I interrupted the final compatibility test of every good relationship: IKEA. 

Ignore this. I've reached a level even I didn't think I could get to.

Tuesday is another day of endless rain, another day of uncontrollable coughing wracking my poor body limp and aching as I tense up so hard now because it hurts when I cough. It's not a nice, polite cough, it's an abrupt bark, a seal-call, a mostly-not-productive but occasionally thankfully productive and today Caleb set a firm timeline by which I must be better or he will call in a specialist.

Lochlan pulled me in close underneath his chin only to kiss the top of my head and find a rather disturbing cut and a fair amount of dried blood, most likely from when I whacked my head on the concrete under the stairs on Friday, which is really great, since I wash my hair every day and shower every day too and basically didn't notice I had bled and wasn't doing all that great a job of brushing my own damn hair, apparently. Which, of course I'm not. It's barely to my chin and looks a little insane these days anyway, all pointy and flippy, the sparest of bobs now at last.

To that end Lochlan took Caleb's firm date and moved it forward by three days, to Friday. So Friday I get to see someone who maybe can make a difference in my health, that's been deplorable to the point where even I'm wondering if I can have a break now.

I did go to work though. Thankfully the diner was empty.

Dueling iPads.

Euphoria’s gone, it’s time to move on
I have to believe we can change
When the notes come out wrong
Stop singing along
We can’t be the same old thing
It’s New Year’s Day

Well, here comes the Christmas music, though the princess isn't going anywhere today, as I am still sick, if you can even believe it and even after topping myself up with daytime cold medicine, my inhaler and a big old cup of coffee I still knocked fervently at Death's door, hoping to be let in if only to let go of this misery.

So here I am. Back in pajamas and listening to my favorite playlist of the year. Too sick to decorate or do anything exciting, like make cartwheels through the rain puddles in the yard or walk on the beach but Caleb is keeping me company, reading the stock reports online, making small noises of approval or sadness depending on the numbers and every now and then throwing out a suggestion for something for us to do, as if it's a Sunday or something and we just woke up and never go to church and don't have an entire Collective to match social calendars with.

You can do things but I'm going to stay in and drink tea and add things to Andrew's Pinterest account for the wedding.

And Caleb laughs, which startles Lochlan who is snoozing beside me. He is getting a cold and isn't sleeping well and oh my God, we're going to go round robin with this stupid thing this year but he also weirdly can sleep while people are having conversations all around him. He attributes the thin aluminum walls of the campers to that, being parked in less than ideal places on the midway.

I never slept if someone was talking right outside our camper but at least the accommodations on the midway were better than the circus, a rotation of shitty motels in shitty cities that I wouldn't set foot in as a tourist, but as a performer I had no choice, really.

He also can sleep right through Christmas music. I can't even keep from singing along out loud though I cough all the time and I feel like I've been doing hard-core crunches for a month at this point. Everything hurts. Everything's wrong and this isn't depression, I'm just physically worn out and I'd like to sleep for a week and I knew if I went to work today and a customer said something shitty I might have said something shitty in return and so even though I probably risked my job by being sick again (twice in two weeks) it's better to risk it then give it up completely because of my skin being far too thin.

In any case it's nice to be wedged in here between these two just hanging out on a stormy Monday morning.

Especially if it involves planning weddings for other people. I feel like I may have missed my true calling here.

Habit.

Every day spent away with Caleb is usually followed by a day of deprogramming on the part of Batman, who will never accept Caleb's efforts to change or even try harder. Every gentle smile, every healthy suggestion from Caleb is met with suspicion by Batman as an attempt to fool all of us or suck us in only to bring us close enough to poison eventually. To Batman Caleb is a deadly flower with a beautiful bloom. To the unaware (or unprepared), it's when you lean in to smell the fragrant blossom that you realize you've just been poisoned from the fumes.

Oh. I see we're going to have a dramatic reading this Sunday. I wish you had let me prepare something in return. 

Don't be disdainful, Bridget. I just see how easy it is for him to catechiz you into making him the hero of your story when he's nothing of the kind. 

What is it going to take to make you see that people can change? You did. I try and give him credit, soften him a little, make them as alike as they always were. It's kind but cutting.

Did I? I don't know if I have. Authoritarian has shifted to honest at last and I reach him.

You have. At least, I think you have. 

Then listen to me and listen to Lochlan when we tell you to keep your guard up, or we'll have to. 

Noted-

It isn't noted, Bridget. I know you well-

Then you'll know that at any given moment I have an army at my fingertips. 

It's the taken moments I'm concerned with, not the given ones. 

Don't use my words against me. 

I'm trying to protect you. That's all. We'll change the subject. 

He starts talking about holiday parties but his efforts to keep me safe from thoughts of Caleb only serve to keep my attentions on precisely that.

The rest of the drive to church is silent, the only sound the wipers against the glass, grating smoothly across the windshield as we drive under bridges and trees, then sliding easily on the drops that come the moment we leave those temporary shelters.

Maybe if you're free later we could have a walk on the beach? Ah. He does know me after all.

I'd like that. 

Actually I watched and technically they made us long blacks, which I love them for.

Christmas shopping with Caleb is a bit hilarious. He stopped somewhere and ordered Americanos for us to drink while we shopped, which meant I spilled a little, burned my tongue right off the bat and was struggling to finish it even as I realized an hour later it was cold and somewhat not a great idea to have right after lunch.

Lunch was a leftover cinnamon bun that I had for breakfast earlier in the day, also as we had a long list and only a little time, further constricted by the fact that at every turn, if I stopped to look at something too long or said I liked something, Caleb would insist that he buy it for me and I had to talk him down from it every single time. It took ages and we weren't even finished when we were done and we ran out of daylight besides, pulling into the driveway just as the automatic dusk lights flickered warmly on, him profoundly frustrated by that time, and me worn to smithereens because I still have. this. fucking. cold.

But we did accomplish a little bit and anything else I can finish off overnight, as I'll probably still be awake.

Did you enjoy yourself? He texts me later.

You need to learn how to budget, I reply. You would spend a fortune if you buy everything you see that you like.

I don't. I only buy what YOU see that you like, he texts back.

I don't reply.

So it's a Bridget-budget, he texts. A Budget. A Bridget. A Bridgbut.

Give it up. You can't make a portmanteau out of that.

No I can't, he concedes and we're good.

I ducked underneath the basement stairs (fully finished, but it's a storage space) to pull out the big rubbermaid bins of Christmas lights and decorations. Ben resisted, saying they would look after it but none of them fit. Hell, it's a squeeze for me even. I pushed out four huge bins and then realized I was missing one and ducked back in for the last one, and whacked the top of my head squarely and with force against the concrete header. I thought it was painted drywall but nope. It's painted concrete. Christmas decor will now feature tiny birdies and stars circling Bridget's head because ow.

"Stardom can be a guilded (sic) slavery" -Helen Hayes.

I can't breathe but I still fight while I can fight
As long as the wrong feels right it's like I'm in flight
High off her love, drunk from her hate,
It's like I'm huffing paint and I love her the more I suffer, I suffocate
And right before I'm about to drown, she resuscitates me
She fucking hates me and I love it.
"Wait! Where you going?"
"I'm leaving you!"
"No you ain't. Come back."
We're running right back.
Here we go again
It's so insane 'cause when it's going good, it's going great
I'm Superman with the wind at his back, she's Lois Lane
But when it's bad it's awful, I feel so ashamed I snap,
"Who's that dude?"
"I don't even know his name."

I'm just going to stand here and mark the time before I leap off the standard rotation of ballads and death metal into the vapid void of Christmas music, because this is how I roll. I know the moment I click the playlist I won't be able to shield my ears any longer. I've held out a little longer than normal because it's easy to let Lochlan pick the music or I fall into a void of a whole different genre.

(Shotgun shuts his cakehole)

In other news I've grown to be someone so anti-union only because it inconveniences me personally and risks the easy holiday of those I love and can't be with, which seems selfish, like everything else. Way back when I was little and they tried to unionize the show workers, Lochlan told me it was so everyone got paid enough, that we had the benefits we were supposed to have and deserved and so that we would be protected from the awful evil big bosses, the management, the underworld trying to peel a dollar off our backs even as we stood there and shivered and starved, stomachs growling like a thunder rumbling underneath the swelling music like a bass line.

I nodded. That's a really good idea. 

It is, Peanut. It means more for us. He smiled with his hollow cheekbones, starving in a way only teenage boys who never get enough to eat do.

(Oh, my heart.)

Now he still struggles to hold on to his weight but he also still believes in fighting for the little people, the workers, the bottom row front line of any war, corporate or otherwise and I have softened in crying that the world is against me in case my presents don't arrive at their intended targets in time.

It's a step back against the day and I remember who I am and what I came from and I call my loved ones to remind them that if the presents don't come, they will eventually.

Of course they will.

He was pleased with my nostalgia, and how I recalled being there, how I was able to pull myself back out of Caleb's mold, reshaping myself into the gritty little girl Lochlan remembers, the one he poured from that original mold that he made with his own hands, working nights, carving out small divots, forgetting other parts completely (I can't hear, I can't read maps, I can't make a poker face to save my soul, I couldn't save my soul, I can't breathe without affection, I can't pass up a piece of chocolate cake no matter how full I am.) and popping me out, proclaiming me perfect, even though I am far, far from it.

Noodles.

Dragged myself home last night, after asking to leave early and being refused (ha, we were short-handed so please please stay) and Caleb was making dinner. He made spaghetti with roast peppers and garlic bread and a really good wine that mixed well with my cold medicine, which kept wearing off so I would take more and I think I lost track of it completely and had to bail on cleanup help (with approval) so I staggered down to Ben's studio, where he had escaped to after dinner and came up behind him where he sat at the board and I threw my arms around him.

He reached up and pulled me right over his shoulder and into his lap.

See? It's the flannel! It's mag...nétique. 

Is that french, Bee?

Yes, I'm being fancy tonight. 

Ah, I see. It is magnetic. It attracted you. 

Like lint. 

Right. Warm and fuzzy. Little bit. 

Wow. Déjà vu.

Hmm? 

Lil' bit. I think it was the nickname Pa used for Laura in Little House on the Prairie. I could be wrong though. 

What on earth are you talking about?

Best books ever. You should read them. 

Okay. I'm going to escort you upstairs so you can go to bed. This cold has made you delirious. 

Right. But just a little bit. C'est magnifique. 

Christ on a pancake. 

We had those LAST night, remember? Speaking of food, do you want turkey for Thanksgiving? 

No, we've assimilated, remember? 

Oh, thank God. I'm too sick to plan a big fussy dinner this week.

(Update: It wasn't Little House. That nickname was Half Pint. Lil Bit was from Fried Green Tomatoes. Thank you Daniel.)

Hey I've gone viral.

Don't worry. I didn't stay with PJ very long. He was half asleep, but only the top half and didn't want to let me stay in my pajamas. I wanted to stay in my pajamas, so I gave him a kiss on the cheek, ignored his sleepy dismay and went back to my own room where I elbowed my way back to the centre of my bed where I belong and Lochlan pulled me in tight against him and told me somewhat thickly to stop wandering. But he was also hardly awake and so I don't know if he knew I left until later on when he repeated himself. That imprinting? It goes both ways. Even in his sleep he knows of my proximity. Even in his sleep he disapproves if it's too great.

But it's fine because I'm not in any trouble. I put on my big girl shoes and went to work today still sick and came home afterward to find the doctor already here.

Must be viral, he says after looking at my throat, listening to my lungs and generally absorbing all of the hand-wringing and concern of the boys who are all but despondent when I'm sick but somehow loathe to fix it. Sleep? Naw, wake her up. Stay home and rest? No way, there are things to do. Split up her chores? Why? We all have to pitch in around here.

Hide her fucking car keys?

(Yes, you should do that. Seriously.)

But no. So I went and withstood nine hours of complaints and rudeness while holding a hot pot of boiling liquid (and boy, are people brave to bitch when I'm doing that, don't you think?) and a little sweetness here and there and figured out some stuff as I do every day and now I'm home and I made at least three hundred pancakes (that's what it felt like) and cleaned the mirrors and ran the dishwasher and now my chores are done and I can finally, blissfully sleep.

With Lochlan, who reminded me not ten minutes ago that I wasn't to be wandering tonight. He said he'll light a fire and bring up a nightcap for us and it won't be so late or so long and we'll asleep.

I'm so looking forward to that I could cry.

Godless Sundays.

Sleeping in this morning, forehead pressed against Caleb's neck and not even noticing I wasn't in my own bed until I shifted slightly but had space to move and that woke me up, wondering who was missing. Usually I'm packed in tightly in between, just enough room to catch my breath.

I startled awake at the empty space and Caleb just pulled me back in without opening his eyes.

I'm not sure anything beats your version of sleepwalking, Neamhchiontach. Waking up to find you crawling in with me has made my week. 

That's what PJ says too. 

Caleb swears and pushes me away again. I guess that's my cue to go back to my own bed. But when I get there they've left no room for me as Sam is taking up at least three-quarters of the space I had previously and I don't want to wake him or anyone else up trying to reclaim my spot. So I shrug, rub my eyes and head down to snooze with PJ. Might as well make as many weeks as I can.