Mute (no color, no sound).

Weightless and dark when I hit the water, ears pounding out a rhythm of pain where my heartbeat forces air through them, out into the open sea. I can't hold my breath, violently breaking the surface to suck in lungfuls of sparse clouds and pale sky. The birds ignore me, just another fish in their peripheral view, splashing quietly within the vast Pacific, pink against the heavy black teal of the waves this morning, something I didn't think I would touch until they took me from the land.

My brain drowns to silence but my ears refuse to comply, working just fine, thank you. Lochlan's voice cuts through the hard water just enough for me to catch the sound, but not the words.

What? I look up from my habitual panic-tread as I'm not strong enough to float the way the boys do, spreading their arms languidly in front of them, an easy challenge. I pant like a dog, fluster around and dip below ear-level. It's a fight I'm not sure I could win.

I said come out. He is standing on the dock in jeans and his boots. I notice he has placed his wallet and phone on the wood and his boots are unlaced. Just in case he's coming in to swim too.

Fine. I swim over to the ladder at the edge of the dock. There are four ladders in all. One wasn't enough. Now one at each side. They have to be close. The ease of swimming in the deep end of the pool all but disappears when the fear of not seeing bottom rushes in around the edges, setting my nerves on end, making it hard to breathe. From Lochlan's vantage point he can see no enemies but I don't have (and will never have) his confidence, though keeping me out of the water is hard.

He reaches a hand down and grasps my wet hand, pulling me right out and up to the dock before I can step on the ladder proper. He grabs the back of my head and plants a kiss on my forehead, before heading to the cupboard for a towel. I am wrapped up like a burrito and pronounced fine, untouched by sea monsters or sea lions (more likely than the monsters) and then ushered back up to the house for a quick shower and a long lecture, behind closed doors where PJ won't be able to referee the stern limits of a man running out of patience set on a girl running out of places to hide from herself.

I agree with everything he says because he is right. I know he's right. I play it as cooling off from the weekend's oppressive humidity and thanking the sea for yesterday's bead face-to-face but his fear speaks right over me and I agree to stick to the little swimming beach he has made far on the other side of our beach where the rocks are all but stripped away and the floor has been raked to a fine sand. When I run out of sand, I run out of freedom, he reminds me.

I know this. I just wanted to run and jump off the end of the dock. Sometimes you have to break the rules. Sometimes you gotta just be a kid. Sometimes you need to just do the thing your heart tells you to do even when your brain knows so much better. And besides, he was RIGHT THERE.

Was it fun? He whispers, pulling me in close once again, now clean and dry. Now safe.

Yeah. REALLY fun, I tell him and he grins.
 

Agains.

This is living. Holy shit. Woke up to another dim rainy almost-fall weekend. I was whisked up the road for brunch at Troll's and a walk at Whytecliff for beach glass (I FOUND A GLASS BEAD) and a view of the fat white sea lions before returning home to a a replacement gazebo roof (long story) free of charge from the company that sent us a defective one originally and we have been politely fighting with them ever since and a quickly-pulled together round of chores as tonight is Henry's main birthday party. I finished icing the cake I made. I finished decorating while I did laundry. I made a few lunches for tomorrow. I organized my lists and phone for the week. We fixed a bunch of random small things that were not working and now I feel somewhat heartened and ready to face a new week.

We're also trying something that seems ridiculous but is working great-going to bed at around ten every single night of the week and waking up early, even on weekends and it's working. I'm tired when I should be and awake perfectly without physical pain in the morning. I may be one of those insanely enthusiastic morning people at heart but I also despair when the alarm goes off in the morning because it hurts to have to wake up when I just want to sleep.

We're trying to fix that. I'll let you know if it works.

Hey honey.

Just home now from hosting a massive restaurant brunch. Now no one is hungry for dinner but it was such a huge success and marks a rare departure from the norm of flipped tables and bruised feelings. This time I looked after the bill and everyone sat and talked long after the poor waitstaff wished for our departure, I'm sure. Graciously they hung back and we soon moved out to the street before saying our goodbyes and taking off for home. I'm tired but content. The kids were all amazing. The budget came in far below my own estimate. The food was terrific. The boys were on their best.

What a great day. Even Caleb kissed the top of my head and told me I was a warm hostess and did a really good job.

I did, didn't I? I came down this morning in a dress, returning upstairs to match the casual of the boys in smart pants, a wraparound halter blouse and flats. I left my hair down, now past my chin and no longer a cute french bob, instead a longish pageboy. God, I hate it. Not quite sure if I should chop it all off back into a pixie or let it grow back to the point where it becomes everyone's security blanket, full of bees and peanut butter, always caught in doors, watches and plates.

Yeah, come to think of it, I never minded the bees.

Better but only kind of.

I have had three hours sleep (long story, but sadly not a fun one so let's all pass, shall we?), some leftover salad and a cursory first listen to Dope Lemon's new album and now I have to drive across town to see a man about some balloons. It's Henry's birthday weekend and I'm once again ridiculously emotional about all of it but also way better organized than I first thought. So time is short but emotions are tall, as always. Happy Friday! Also it's thirty degrees in the sun. When I get home I'm heading straight for the pool.

You know when you have a favorite shirt and you see a thread so you pull it and you figure it will come out and the shirt will be perfect again, and then it unravels slightly and you're disappointed?

That's what I feel like only the shirt is my skin and the thread is my nerves.

I told them I felt this way and they said nothing at all.

Arrivals.

We discovered that if you play Bruce Springsteen's The River one of you will sing along. The passenger will invariably start singing The Animals' House of the Rising Sun over the top of that and the girl in the backseat will be belting out Bon jovi's Born to Be My Baby before it's through. That song is a chameleon. It's a sham. It's a classic and yet it sounds just like everything else too.

***

The subject came up abruptly after dinner. I am two glasses of wine in when he changes the subject almost rudely.

I have a position in London. Actually, I have several if you truly want a change of scenery. 

London? 

Yes. Ireland is next door. You could live there and work remotely. 

Remotely.

Via computer. He is impatient. Almost rude again.

How long is this available for.

The offer? Say four or five years. 

Perfect. 

Would you consider? 

Of course. Just not now. Henry is too young. 

Alright. We'll revisit it in a few years. Can you see yourself living overseas? 

Yes. 

Good. It's something to consider. 

***

Still okay with our conversation? I get a text during dinner. He wants to make sure everything is okay. I didn't go home last night, I was with him, and so tempers have flared, singeing the edges of everything in sight. I head over but he's already on my patio steps when I come outside.

Looking at real estate. 

That sounds like you're okay to me.

I found some things. 

For all of us? 

No. I think if we left that would be it for the Collective. 

You said last week you wouldn't break it up for anything. 

Hey, I'll invite them but they have to be willing to come with us. 

You don't think they will be? 

It's a gamble. 

Life is, you mean.

That too. 

He kisses the top of my head. Don't worry about it today. 

Uh-huh. Now it's all I can think about. Congratulations, Batman. You got me to consider the future for the first time since 2007.

Can we not find a way to ban Mondays already?

Everything's fine. I just don't appreciate Mondays enough.

But it's Tuesday now and I have a huge cup of hot coffee and right now I'm listening to Koda sing a better version of Radioactive than Imagine Dragons puts out and I'm absently playing the piano on the desk while I try and reply to a hundred emails and write and get my budget done and read the news on the side, but mostly I don't want to see the news.

I mean, a grandad dropped his grandchild eleven stories off a cruise ship. CHRIST. Who wants to read about THAT? Why did they put that in? Is it a cautionary tale on why we don't balance babies precariously on windowsills?

Just don't tell me. Please. I'll live in the soundless dark with my music piped directly into my mind.

That's my next plan. Become a world-famous brain surgeon that discovers a way to bypass hearing in order to send music directly to my amygdala. Mine is so large. There is room for all of it, trust me.

I just need help passing high school biology first or I can't get into the sciences program at school. Just like last time I tried.

Pause and hold.

Today is a paint-headache, french fry, Fleetwood Mac kind of day, sunny with a chance of rain, boys with a chance of heartache kind of day, a good day to call it a Monday and go to bed at eight o'clock with a big glass of whiskey and Netflix kind of day.

An I'll post tomorrow kind of day.

Fire and rain.

Well, the move is a bust before I even begin to pack, as none of the boys want to leave the point, let alone the country. Sam plants a kiss on my cheek as we get out of his car. He motions for me to wait as he comes around to my side, umbrella held high. The ground isn't shaking today but it is soaked right through with more rain falling all around us. I take his arm and we head into the church. It's early. He needs to turn the heat on and do a quickie clean. He prefers to have Jesus beach in July and August, but just a single service instead of two a day and there will only be one today but it has to be in the church due to this humid wet weather. When we get inside, he shakes out the umbrella, leaving it open on the floor. We go our separate ways, him to the thermostat to crank up the heat, me to the broom closet to fetch the mop and dusters. Between the two of us we get the whole church ready inside of forty minutes and then he asks if I can set out the hymnals while he turns on lights and prepares his notes for service. He disappears down the hall to his office while I got row by row with the cart, three bibles and two hymnals per row. There are never enough so people need to share but no one minds and he's actually not one to dredge up unfamiliar songs, in fact he's the opposite, making one inevitable leap past Jacob and leading the congregation in a rare popular/secular hymn refrain, which is always fun and appreciated as we don't need the hymnals then at all. James Taylor is always a frequent choice. I'm not sure why but I appreciate the lighter fare.

Church turns out to be somewhat quiet and ill-attended anyway. For a rainforest people here seem awfully afraid of rain. None of the boys come later on, and so I stay behind to help Sam wrap things up, collecting forgotten umbrellas and sweaters for the lost and found box, loading bibles and hymnals back onto the rolling library cart and wheeling it back into the storage room. Sometimes the church is used by the community for outreach and for meetings and bibles disappear if left out so Sam put up a sign on the hallway door that says if you need or want a bible please check in at the office and if people do he has wonderful ones that are brand new sealed in beautiful cloth wraps that he inscribes with your name or the name of the recipient.

It's kind of nice to see in a dying industry. Not Christianity, but in people willing to devote their lives to spreading the word.

I wouldn't be able to do it. I have an abundance of questions and a deficit of patience. I'm also a card-carrying heathen so it would be hypocritical for me to ask people to accept the lord and live a Godly existence when I....don't?

Maybe I try to. In some parts of my life. Just not all.

When we get home PJ and Lochlan have been driven by guilt to set out a hot lunch of grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup for us, complete with homemade crackers and chocolate milk.

I'm warm again. I went to change into warmer clothes and Lochlan follows me upstairs.

Did Sam talk you out of the move? 

No? Was he supposed to? 

When you get a bug in your brain, I never know where you're going to go with it. 

Oh, I know we're not moving. 

We can, it would just take a lot of planning. And if some of them don't want to go-

I'd rather we stay here and stay together. 

He visibly relaxes. Me too. 

I'm not going to disband the Collective. Not in a million years.

Looking at real estate now.

Ack.

I was so happy to leave hurricanes, hills and wind in the Maritimes, and then we had to deal with tornadoes, floods and extreme cold in the Prairies and then we come here to the 'Hawaii of Canada' and there are earthquakes. All the time. And did I mention we're surrounded by volcanos? Oh and can't forget every time one or the other makes a peep we get tsunami warnings too.

Usually I pretend none of the threats exist but that's been a little tough the past few days as the earth moves mightily all around us. I remember the only time I truly was concerned about Tornadoes was one evening when the sky turned black. I actually put all of our shoes by the basement door, our bug-out bags beside them. It never materialized and truth be told I was resigned to seeing the house flattened and it didn't scare me all that much. Maybe I haven't seen as many tornado disaster movies. Two. Wizard of Oz and Twister. Maybe they don't bug me because I have a truck now. Because I would just pack us all up and leave. Same with hurricanes. They'll blow the windows out and the roof off and then you just replace all of it.

Floods freaked me out a little more. We had six inches of water in the basement once in the castle but it was a tree root thing and a nice plumber came and drilled the whole thing out. Never had another problem after that but watched the water approach all around our neighbourhood every damn spring. I hated water by the time we left, granted, I hated everything by the time we left.

But earthquakes. I don't know. The movies are so devastating. All of it ends in piles of rubble and &people trapped and things caving in and collapsing and I was all but hyperventilating last night when we went to bed, wondering if the point would collapse and crush us, wondering if the yard and house would just cleave off into the sea. Wondering how many people we can safely get out of here on the various small watercraft down below on the docks (five Sea-doos, 3 kayaks, 7 SUP boards and various oversize ridiculous floaties like golden swans and tropical islands.). Plotting to find a perfect place and buy an emergency, just-in-case yacht. Looking for some sort of out so I don't have to deal with it. We're prepared. We have water, generators, weapons, headlamps, and food and medical supplies, warm clothes, camping gear and a whole fleet of trucks.

But we're still sitting fucking ducks.

Where can we live that has zero threats? No natural disasters, no terrorism, nothing to fear?

Scotland, says Loch. But it's highly boring. 

There are no issues, though? 

Well, we have lake monsters, endless rain and Outlander tourists, but otherwise it's perfectly safe. 

This what happens when you ask France for help.

July 4th turned out to be a fun day. Rain threatened the whole time but never made good. We grilled hotdogs and hamburgers by the pool, washing them down with strawberry shortcake and wine and then when it finally got dark we lit sparklers on the patio and drew designs on the night, hearts and letters and happy faces too, toasting a country that made damn near a quarter of my boys only to spit them right out onto my doorstep where they quickly diluted their blood with maple syrup to fit in (it worked) and left their stars and stripes behind forever.

But we still try to mark Independence Day, though probably a little more quietly than most. Even Caleb joined in, arriving with a few bottles of what he thought would be a nice wine for the occasion. His bottles each cost more than the insurance on my Jeep, which is a lot. And he said he didn't go out yesterday which was extra-neat as I mentally tried to figure out where he keeps his magical millionaire wine cellar, because his suite of rooms doesn't have that feature and he has storage space but I never imagined he'd eschew an actual wardrobe with space for high-end clothes for a few cases of wine but the surprise is all mine, and the wine was very good indeed.

But now every time I go past his door I'm going to wonder if he steps to the shelf, pulls a book out only to have the entire floor open up, a staircase to a whole hidden underground lair, fully stocked with wine, cars and jets.

This would not surprise me in the least, frankly. I tell him this, drunk on his wine, drunk on sparks and contentment and he laughs gently and tells me it could be done.

Not here. 

Anything can be done for the right price. 

Oh fuck. Is this going to be one of those half-threats, half-promises that you'll somehow buy out Lochlan's share and have me all to yourself?

No. He is so amused his whole face flushes as he laughs. I meant we can extend the basement by digging an addition into the foundation. It can be done, and then we would have further rooms for a wine cellar or storage, or what have you. 

So stung it's downright embarrassing. I am rarely embarrassed easily but also far more drunk than I thought. I look away so he can't see my own flush of pink.

Caleb leans against me, pulling me in close. I could buy you if I wanted to, but this is all far more entertaining. He kisses the side of my head before letting go and taking my glass to refill.

Secretly I decide I'm celebrating independence from my former family today, that of Cole, and of Caleb too. Except the battle isn't finished yet, and I don't know who's won.

Agendas and empty stomaches (and earthquakes OH MY).

Who said I don't want you? He bends his head down for a kiss, an amused smile playing across his lips and -just barely- across his eyes. I arch my back to meet him. He has my arms pinned up high above my head, pressed into the pillows that have been tossed to the very top. His weight isn't hard to bear, it's a comfort. It's a prelude. It's an intro I hope never ends.

You did, yesterday when you called me a pain in the a- but his lips are back and he eats the word right out of my mouth and then whatever else I was going to say. I've forgotten by now. It wasn't important.

Dinner was a glass of wine on the balcony. A barometre and an omission. An admission and a plea. A reminder. A moment. My stomach growls and he laughs and says hush, you. We'll deal with you later. I laugh as I'm turned over, briefly weightless and breathing deeply for a moment before it's all taken away again by the return of his body pressed against mine. He pulls my face up and kisses me once more before letting go. Before systematically and sinfully removing everything I had on, even the extras because it was cold when the sun went down.

Finally, he breathes and we're moving together. Everything aches in the best way possible and I give in, arching my chin up to press my head against his chest, fighting his hold on my hands, trying to wrap my hands around the back of his head and pull him back down with me to stay. He pins me more firmly and laughs. Stay put, Peanut. Then before I can protest I am on my back again, his arms around me, in close, breathing the same air, basking in the same heat, keeping time with the same heartbeat until those beats slow down and the sun comes back up, a whole new day in which to fuck everything up.

So do we mark thirteen years old from fragmented, iron rule into total hedonism or what?

We do.

How should we?

First by acknowledging that I want you indeed. 

You sure? I hold my breath.

More than anything. It's us against the world. Same as ever, Bridgie. Lochlan laces his fingers into mine, pulling my hand up to his face, kissing the back of it.

Second?

Second by keeping boundaries. 

I nod. I'm still holding my breath here.

Actual boundaries, Fidget. Not just lip service to them. 

I nod again.

What?

This doesn't sound like total hedonism to me. I laugh and he looks amazed.

Jesus, you're right. 

You guys were always too serious. 

There was so much at stake. 

If it's us against the world and everything is okay then don't worry so much about the rules. Boundaries. Whatever. I sign the word to him as I say it, just for effect and he laughs.

Nice.

I'm telling you what you thought was a harmless catchy tune was someone pouring their damn heart out. Time and time again.

A little voice inside my head said
Don't look back, you can never look back
I thought I knew what love was
What did I know?
Those days are gone forever
I should just let 'em go

When I was young, Don Henley was one of the most sophisticated, perpetually-jilted men in existence. When I was thirteen Boys of Summer appeared on the radio. A nod to fairweather romances, seasonal change and growth, Don sang it like it was.

I loved that song. Still do. Even the covers of it. The Ataris did a great one sixteen years ago, when Henry was in diapers and maybe Ruth was barely out of them. It's a vibe, that song. It's a song that takes on a completely different meaning from a happy go lucky summer song when you're young to a lament for times gone by. For longing. For Don Henley's weathered broken heart and for mine too.

This morning the lines I've copied above serve as a warning to heed the past but focus on the future. Thank you, Don, you always have my back. I'd have yours but honestly I have enough problematic men in my life at present.

Take this one, for example. The one in the dark suit and shirt, with the flashing medium blues, handsomely devastated by my words yesterday (they read. Why do they read?) and suddenly keenly, painfully aware that Cole's anniversary has crept up on us, tapping us on the shoulder only to have us turn around to get punched right in the face by it. By time. By history. By Cole's massive legacy that leaves us all wondering how he went so off the rails.

I listen to them when they say that. I write it down. I absorb it and nod along, agreeing with it even as I knew Cole as something vastly different. He was always cruel and violent. Always difficult. Always setting me up and tearing me down. Always making me wonder which side of him I would see, and then surprising me by changing it up constantly. He was oddly easy to love. Easy-going. Easy on the eyes. And he made it easy to fall in love with anyone, everyone else right in front of him. Worst of all he made it easy to shove Lochlan to the side, as Lochlan has his back, brothers until death.

Then death happened, Lochlan found out that Cole was the same kind of brother Caleb had been to him and the world tilted on one axis, leaving us hanging in outer space. In the dark, cold, silent space. No radios here.

Cole's legacy isn't what he hoped.

It's okay. Is anyone's? I doubt it. The way you think you'll be remembered is never how it actually turns out. It's akin to taking a beautiful picture of the moon. You wind up with a fuzzy, unfocused recollection of such a beautiful sight. You wind up wondering if it was all that or maybe you were just bewitched. Charmed.

And Cole had exactly an eighth of the charm Caleb carries on any given day, doling it out like gifts from a benevolent God. Exactly what we want, perfect fit. Right color and everything. God help my soul, he sniffs around it like a rabid dog.

He did love you, Bridget. Don't let what happened at the end change that for you. 

I haven't. Oh, trust me. I haven't. I need that reminder like I need another hole in my head. Cole was the one who saved my life when Lochlan broke my little heart into tarnished and blackened teenage pieces. Cole painstakingly put it back together again and then broke it for kicks all over again, just to see what would happen, under his brother's guidance. He should have heeded their warnings. He should have seen it coming.

Thirteen years out from under his rule, his intense, private cruelty, his outward insanity and charisma and I am still learning not to let them hurt me so much. Don's helping, for every time I get sucked into Caleb's charm now the radio dial spins like it's possessed until it finds a station playing that song and I am reminded why I went running back to Lochlan for good, whether he wants me or not.

I love you I love you I love you.

Go for a run?

Uh. Wow. Okay. Let me go throw on my gear. 

Hurry, Ben.

It's eight kilometres of oppressive humidity, light rain and silence before I speak. Ben has no problem keeping the slow pace I run, even though I run flat out like my ass is on fire. Eleven days from now-

I know. 

He died THIRTEEN YEARS AGO, Benny. 

I remember the night well, Bridge. We were still reeling from his attack on you. And then he just checked out of life with no explanation as to what made him snap. Well, I mean Jake made him snap-

Cole and Jake were friends! 

DUDE. He spent close to a decade watching you two fall in love. It was Lochlan all over again but on crack. He went mental. I probably would have too, save for I'm super-generous and too busy for a full-time lover. 

Ben-

Only partially serious here. But Bridge, you had to know he was wrecked over you. He would rather kill you than live without you. What does that say about him?

If he hadn't tried that he would still be here. 

And you think having Caleb around is awkward.

THIRTEEN YEARS, Ben. 

I still miss my friend. Sorry. As fucked up as it all was he left a huge hole that doesn't get filled. Sam and August don't fill it. Nothing does.

I know they don't. 

So why are you marking it now?

This is the first year I can think about it objectively, without losing my shit. 

Eleven days is a long time, Bee. It could still happen. 

Oh, I have no doubts. 

Should we gather the troops? He cocks an eyebrow at me as I look up at him.

I didn't know they were scrambled this time of year. They probably shouldn't be. 

You're right. You're weirdly objective right now.

Just in case. Don't tell Lochlan I'm losing it.

 Lucky for you he's had me shadowing you since last week already. He's a boy scout when it comes to your grief. Always prepared. The troops aren't as scrambled as you think. Ever.

But he's avoiding me. 

He's giving you space to mourn. Whatever it takes. But he's there if you need him. Cole was his best friend, Bridget. This is hard for him.

Thirteen years, Ben. That's a lifetime. 

Not quite.

I stop, hands on my knees. Gasping for air. I don't think I can run back.

I know. Duncan's just up ahead there. See the truck? Lochlan sent him out shortly after we left. I can see the texts on my watch. 

From far and wide.

Best Canada Day ever. I slept in, the dog slept in, the devil slept in, the whole house slept in. We got up slowly. Caught up on laundry and chores. Made coffee and then went in town to for brunch and to walk around enjoying the festivities for the holiday. It's the first long weekend holiday I have had off in a year and a half so it was nice to watch people fly kites, have their faces painted and sing O Canada, followed by an actual bagpiper, something I didn't expect and right up until I saw him, I thought it was my phone. My ringtone is Scotland The Brave. Go figure. Bagpipes aren't as big in British Columbia as they are in Nova Scotia.

Mostly though I celebrated because I slept all night. I'm sick with a cold (yes, again) but I used some of Caleb's cold medicine. It was amazing to just drop out of consciousness for a little over ten hours without a single interruption. Good stuff. I won't spam it here because I don't do ads. I got to have eggs Benedict. I got a second cup of coffee. I enjoyed dumb things I like doing and no one complained. We came home after a while, walked the garden to see what's up now and I don't have to cook dinner because everyone overate at lunch and the rest are still out, I didn't have to drive, didn't have to be in charge, didn't have to make excuses, amends or reparations and I can just let out a long breath (while trying not to cough, good luck, Bridget) and call it a perfect day.

As soon as the temperature drops I'm going to run the dog around the block and then put on pajamas. Because I can.

I can help. PJ calls from around the corner. I'm detailing my list here and he can read things on a screen from forty yards away.

You'll walk the dog for me?

No, I'll help you put on your pajamas. He winks and heads out the door. Proper thing, leaving.

Room.

He puts his hands up. He's not carrying anything. He doesn't have any weapons. For the moment I am safe even though I know damn well his gun is his heart and it beats down a count heralding the remainder of my life. He's watched every breath I've made so far. Nothing's ever going to change here in this dappled-sunlight-covered plant-filled room. The dark greys are so restful, his mood is relaxed. So far so good.

Just a drink. 

Drinks always result in a whole night. 

So two drinks then? He laughs handsomely. Aw geez.

Two max, I promise. His eyebrows go up. He's thrilled. He thinks that means two whole nights.

Cale-

Let me hope, Neamhchiontach. 

Don't do that. Just enjoy the moment. 

Oh, I am. I want you to as well. 

I'm here because I want to be here. 

Is it my aftershave? He laughs.

Curiosity flows both ways. 

How so? He hands me my drink. My out.

Thank you. 

Tell me. 

Tell you what? 

What are you curious about? 

Life with you. 

Marry me and find out. 

Sorry. 

Are you?

Not really. I'm happy and you're always wanting to fuck with that.

Not in the least anymore. My only aim now is to augment that happiness. 

Is it now? Truth, Cale. 

God's honest truth, Bridget. No fights, no battles of will, no tugs of war. Just peacefulness. Just happiness. Just time together on the right side of history. It's time for you to trust me.

Okay. 

Okay? He's holding his breath

Okay. 

He downs his drink. Fuck whiskey, this calls for champagne.

The concept of infinity.

And I swam in the wakes of imposters
Just to feel what it's like to pretend
There's no dreams in the lakes only monsters
And the monsters are my only friends

This morning a thorough fucking followed by a hot shower that almost doubled down on need followed by chins held up, late coffee (yup, best thing ever) and avocado-slathered bagels on the patio, where it's colder than it should be, but nicer than it is.

The song is wrong but I wear the words anyway, shoved underneath my skin, visible only when you pull my bones out one by one, tangled and dented.

Ben has a satisfied smile, Lochlan a contented grin. My arms hurt as do my ears. Things grabbed in the throes. I pulled Lochlan's hair way too hard but all he did was laugh. He is bulletproof. And I couldn't hurt Ben if I tried, though I wouldn't try, and he is exceedingly careful with me, save for bumping my ear a little more brutally than usual, as I caught his elbow on the way up and it knocked into the newish conch ring in my ear (acquired in May, as I always wanted one). He whispered a sorry but my ear rang with pain into the early hours nonetheless. I didn't mind. I was busy trying to find creative ways to breathe, unique ways to hold on, and simple ways to keep my head and heart from exploding, as for all of Lochlan's silent attacks of jealousy, he gives Ben the most generous share and Ben returns the favor by caring for both of us in a way that brings me to my knees.

It's a love like no other and something I never expected in a million years or a thousand lifetimes even.

For all of our bickering I just want this to be it, Bridget. Lochlan says it, maybe hoping I didn't hear him, as I was looking the other way. I just want it to be this. To be last night. To be forever.

It is, I tell him and he is surprised. I look at Ben. So does Lochlan and Ben nods. The gazes form an infinity loop and I let out a long breath. You could hold a gun to my head right now and make me choose and it would be so fucking easy I'd be done before you could finish your threat.

Easy.

Caleb walks out onto the patio to greet the now-stale sunrise, stretching his shoulders, cracking his neck. Morning. He cocks the gun and waits for me to confirm my choice.

Morning. Did you sleep? I don't actually want to know. I'm going through the motions. I usually freeze when faced with a weapon but I'm unpacking niceties instead. I don't even care. Kill me right now, it's been great. Thank you.

He knows. God, how his hand shakes with the gun. One good squeeze and I'll be blown off the earth. One good thought weighted with anger and I'm gone. Vaporized in a spray of crimson on the wind. A memory. One that hurts as it approaches. One that will hit him like a fucking freight train, I hope. For that's how it works with him.

He puts the gun on the table. It vanishes before our eyes.

I did. You? 

Not really, it's okay though. I will tonight.

Return of the cookie monster.*

Sticking close to Benjamin today. The seas are still rough out this way and Ben is a lighthouse on the shore. Rigid, safe. Unyielding, welcome. He's learned unconscious affection thoroughly and I'm going to take full advantage while Lochlan rages on in between serendipitous moments of tenderness. We have our moments where we get along, where we hang on each others' words and we have our moments when we hate the very sight and sound of each other. This has never changed, we're not in any danger here, it's just the way it is. Little things are far too big and big things far too minor and we can't seem to switch it around so we continue on, down a very strange path indeed.

He's coming home in a few hours and is happy to farm out care to Ben in the meantime, who is recording some vocal tracks today for a project (*coming early October! Now leave me alone). He's getting a little older (shhhh) and still wants to be fierce (as if he's not?) and so has me come in and sit for his dirty vocals (that's when you growl-scream the lyrics instead of singing them nicely. It's called unclean or clean singing depending on whether he sounds like a demon or an angel). If I flinch or get uncomfortable, he knows he's doing it right. I never could fake a facial expression to save my life so he's used that to his full advantage and it works well.

Except for today. Today it didn't work at all. Today he got me all settled, hit the button, ran through the motions and finally let out this deep and unholy guttural roar, a growl that sent me ripping headphones off, shrieking right off the stool in front of him, out the door of the booth in tears. I don't know what happened. It was overwhelming.

He chased me right up the stairs, as it was easy to tell where I was by the screaming, grabbing me at the top, pulling me in with a gentle laugh.

You okay, Bee? Did I scare you? 

I don't know. Maybe. It was just...a lot. Sorry I wrecked the take. 

Actually, if it's okay with you, I'd like to leave your cries in. 

The birbs and the beans.

We are reading Money Diaries from the Refinery29 website out loud and snorking on them. I would say snarking but I have a cold.

Good, Lochlan says.

Arse. He's taking Ben and I out for Indian food for a late lunch but we are waiting because one of Caleb's lawyers is blocking the driveway. He won't be long though, just dropping off some papers (Sam is taking over ownership of the Boathouse in order to gain some equity from it. Caleb is going to be the bank. That way he can buy Sam out without fees when the time comes and we don't have to actually subdivide the property. Kind of a neat system if you ask me but then again, it was my idea.) and then we can leave.

Soon.

Ben is busy reminding me that chana does me no favours and I am not to eat chickpeas until I no longer fit in the truck. I am non-committal, which is sad because I famously eat my body weight in them and then suffer days-long severe stomach aches afterwards. Then I forget and do it again. God, I love Indian food but I finally promise him I will only order korma and keema naan and I will even tell the server not to bring any chickpeas to the table.

Lochlan bursts out laughing.

So Ben can treat you like a child and you find it endearing, comforting and funny yet when I do it I am controlling and stuck in the past and rigid. 

Right. 

Then he can take you out for lunch. 

Wow. One of you ladies is super hangry. Ben frowns at both of us and I point at Lochlan.

That would be the redhead. 

I see this. Let's get him going before he starts shrieking unintelligibly and flapping his arms like wings.

My turn to laugh at Ben's description of Lochlan's decided lack of patience brings a smile to Lochlan's face finally. He winks at me and flaps his arms gently once. Ka-kaw! he whispers. 

This perfect existence (Fuck it, you know it's not).

When you made me crazy
We were not afraid
Just star-crossed runaways
No looking back now

Yesterday's weather was a metaphor for our whole life together. It started off hazy and humid, then cleared to beautiful blue skies and breezy heat before the black clouds rolled in and all of the sudden our words were weighed down by rain, cleaved in half and singed by lightning, muted by the thunder that heaved across the landscape like an earthquake, forcing me in, forcing him out.

He wrung his hands, ate his fist. Started and stopped speaking more times than I could count. I looked out the window at the rain. I refused to look at him.

I'm running out of grand gestures, Peanut. 

So don't make any. 

Ah. I see you're speaking to me again. 

Not actually. 

That's actually no-

I know what it is, Locket! 

He's never going to see me as an adult, never going to see me as an equal. His faith is a show, like everything else, confidence painted on like a mask just as he walks onstage, bravery suit stepped into for a perfect fit that is ripped off and torn to pieces the moments the lights come up full.

At least he has a mask. Hell, at least he has a whole suit. Doesn't matter if it's real or not. If you don't have tools, you can't use them, and that's where he and I differ.

I walk out on stage flayed, without skin. Blood pooling around my feet, skull sawed open, brain prickly and visible for all. I can't gather myself in one body, can't stretch my tattooed skin over it sufficiently anymore. Ever. Looking back I don't think I ever could.

The only weapon I have is silence. Ironic, since it's the only thing I'm truly afraid of anymore.

That's actually a lie but whatever.

Prone to magnificent, profound gestures, and can juggle anything you hand him, including newborn babies and broken glass.

When I go for my morning walk today I get the biggest surprise. At the end of the dock, where the giant yacht used to be, where I never went and now that the space is empty and open I visit it every single day, there's a small, handpainted sign. Wait. There's another. And another. They are brightly colored, painted on small pieces of board and nailed sturdily to two by fours and then to the ends of the dock and all around the edges and then down the steps too.

They are encouragement signs.

One says THIS TOO SHALL PASS

One says JESUS SAVES but it has a winky face underneath it so it's mostly sarcastic.

One says WE DON'T SINK WE SWIM

COURAGE, DEAR HEART with a tiny hanging sign swinging below it that says BRAVE

And my favorite? DON'T LOOK BACK YOU'RE NOT GOING THAT WAY

And nailed all over the dock at random intervals are painted red hearts on small scraps of wood. Some are as big as my hand, others are the size of a thumbtack. It looks amazing. I wouldn't have seen them except that I tripped on one and almost fell off the edge, rescuing myself with a gasp and a newly cold sweat.

And every one of these signs is painted in an individual and unique style, one I know so well.

What do you think? Lochlan's waiting on the stairs, guilty as charged, with paint-stained hands and a bruised thumb from where he smashed it with the hammer. He's here every morning. Every time. He has far more faith than PJ in me, enough to let me go alone, but his eyes have bored holes in my back as I go. The wind whistles a tune straight through me now, and the faster I walk, the louder it plays.

The ties that bind.

I'm playing 9 Crimes on the panio this morning. Singing both parts. August comes in and sits with me on the piano bench. He doesn't know the song. How can you not know the song? But he knows the piano after watching me play the same part over and over again. He takes over on the keys and I wish for my violin but it's not on this floor. Maybe another time. The tag is sticking out on the neck at the back of his henley and I absently sabotage my perfect morning with the ridiculous point that Jacob had the same shirt. Dark grey. Five small buttons on the front. Long sleeves and a marled texture that made it appear cashmere from a distance, though it was brushed cotton.

Thanks, brain. Thanks for that. Truly.

August turns. I didn't realize I had stopped singing.

I don't ask for much, Bridget.

I shake my head in agreement. No, he certainly doesn't.

Please don't talk about what happens between us. Don't lump me in. Don't call me out. Don't put a target on head. It's between you and I. They know damn well I wouldn't hurt you so don't list my name when you speak of reasons to continue your war. I'll be in your army but I don't want to be singled out. I'm begging you.

Did someone come to you?

Of course. It was an avalanche and I had no idea what was going on.

I'm sorry.

I understand you were trying to prove a point. I get it. I just don't want the politics.

It's inevitable, August.

It's making me think twice, Bridget. Honestly, I'm well past twice and am reconsidering everything.

What's keeping you here then? I close the lid over the keys and get up to leave. He grabs my hand. I wrench it back. Go if you're unhappy. (I call his bluff. He's not leaving.) Sorry I used you as an example but in case you forget they know exactly what it's like with you because they've seen you in action.

May as well point out I'm not the one who brings others to my door. The politics is all this is at this point.

***

Henry's done and done. Marks are rolling in already, though he wrote exams this morning. We held the ceremonial burning of the schoolwork and tallied up the marks, as the children get a pre-determined amount of cold hard cash for every A, B and C they pull off, A is worth the most, naturally. His marks are great, far better than mine were, anyhow at the same age. Almost as good as Ruth's though Henry took all physics and engineering, drafting and computers and math classes. Ruth took art, english, french and student assistance, so they are as different as night and day.

I'm just stupidly proud. I never have to send him up the hill ever again. His college program is mostly going to be online, amazingly enough, and now he needs a job for the summer and beyond, until his program finishes. I had a little birdie tell me Schuyler has an offer for him from someone he knows. I'm hoping it works out and comes to fruition but if not there will be something else.

Sigh. While I cried all through this month at the thought of Henry being done now I just feel relief. It's over. It's finished! They're both done. They're good humans, wonderful fledgling adults and far far better than I, which is all I ever wanted and everything I probably didn't deserve.

Poets in the clouds.

Hell is not fire and brimstone, not a place where you are punished for lying or cheating or stealing. Hell is wanting to be something and somewhere different from where you are.

        ~Stephen Levine.

Lochlan doubled down on the fire and Sam on the brimstone this morning as they made a wall of flames around us, a personal cautionary tale instead of a general sermon. A lashing, not even remotely less painful by virtue of being verbal and a call to God to end the madness even as we keep its head underwater so that it only ever surfaces enough to get a breath. It's under control. Everything's fine. You can call God on your personal hotline all you like but just remember the only single thing on earth he can't control is the Devil.

I took Caleb's hand midway through the lexical torture and Lochlan sighed and pulled my hand away again, taking both of mine in one of his, firmly against my lap while his right arm pulled me against him, away from Caleb. Not sure what changed. Maybe writing about what a difficult time Caleb has with being gentle is setting him (them) off. Maybe the fact that he still likes to mildly put me under consciousness so that everything is easier is making Lochlan worry. It's easy to kill someone who's half your weight, half your size. A good squeeze will do. A hard knock will do. A twist. A blow. An oops. Though Caleb isn't going there, as he would suffer the most grief if he did, having wanted me the longest and been denied. That would cement his fate alone. Alive, I remain a goal. A dream, even. Alive, I remain a rare companion to him. Momentarily making his night or his day before the dream is ripped away because Lochlan's never going to let him have it.

But it isn't only Lochlan in the way. It's an entire army made up of the living and the dead. And clearly it's headed by God. I was actually surprised when he said he would meet us at church. I figured he would shrink back against the woodwork at home but instead he holds his head high. Technically he's done nothing wrong. Technically I'm his girlfriend. His charge. His sugar baby. His Reason for Being. His brother's wife that he promised to take care of. And honestly the sex isn't even that rough anymore when compared to Ben or Sam or August, for fucks sakes so I don't know why Lochlan is so mad now.

I can tell you after, Lochlan whispers to me and I stare at him. Stop reading my mind, I think and he shakes his head.

No, he laughs. It's the only way I can tell what's really going on. 

Just going to point out here that God can't even do that, or everything would be different right now.

The darker the weather the better the man.

Caleb's on a roll. We were listening to Missio's Loner album, from a band which always has a wonderful pendulum that swings between making you want to dance to making you want to tear someone's clothes off. We had a good balance of the two going, frankly, finishing a bottle of wine neatly while doing so but not being even remotely lit, just a little warm, just a lot of fun.

Soon he lets muscle memory take over, pulling me into his lap, wrapping me in his buttoned-down french-cuffed shirt that should probably be whisked away to be cleaned, pressed and hung perfectly somewhere instead of crumpled around my form, falling off my shoulders, down over my elbows to wind up underneath us somewhere. Like my phone. His watch. Something else that's probably going to hurt later. Like most things here do.

When the song changes he leans me forward, away from him but coming with me, until his weight crushes me into that shirt. One hand around the back of my head, one around my neck he brings me with him, climbing to nirvana harder and faster than I like, slower and more gently than he prefers.

His lips are bruising mine, his breath ragged but quiet against my face, his hands squeeze the air from my throat and I drift into the dark alone before he comes thundering in against me, strong thighs working to keep mine apart, sharp hips grinding into my existence. Always sure I might die this way, maybe inadvertently, maybe not, I begin to catalogue all of the good things I have experienced in my life. I don't have enough time for it, as the memories stack up, building a wall between us that even his need can't climb. I build and build until I'm too tired and eventually he is through, letting go, letting the cold air rush in around my bones, insulating it until the new room is warm. I fail to answer whatever question he asked there, at the end and he is angry, turned silent in the chill, removed from me as I have removed myself from him. What generally begins as fun, as progress, time travelled since the past into tonight ends in a stark reminder that we're still on the starting line. That we've made hardly any progress at all except to confirm to those around us that we are stubborn, broken and depraved.

He lands one final kiss against my lower lip, loathe to let go completely but determined to keep his composure in the face of total and utter rejection. No matter what I say or do he knows he's in last place. No matter the number of I love yous or the depth of my demonstrated commitment change the fundamental result. I can't talk myself into this.

She won't let me.

You need to-, I tell him in the dark. My voice is so small. I hate it.

I'm going. He nods and suddenly I'm alone.

Soft-tissue artifacts.

Hey, pretty. 

I was almost asleep. Book hitting my face with alarming regularity as I pressed on, waiting for Lochlan to come up as he was helping Sam with something and I couldn't wait up any longer.

I roll over, smiling at thin air. No one is there. The door is closed. I sit up in a rush, wide awake. The dog hasn't moved, stretched out asleep on the floor at the foot of the bed. He would have gotten up and flustered if it had been anyone other than Lochlan, Ben, Caleb or Sam.

No one. I'm alone. I wonder if I am alone. Hey, pretty was one of Cole's greetings, not Jacob's. Great. Uninvited ghosts. Not even giving me the courtesy to show me he's here save for whispering in my ear faintly, late into the night.

Go home, Cole. I say it out loud just as Lochlan comes in.

What? 

Cole said something. 

Bridget, what? 

Nothing. Nevermind. 

Tell me what happened. 

I was reading and trying to stay awake and Cole whispered 'Hey, Pretty' at me. I can't see him but he's here. I told him to leave. 

Yeah. Cole, go home! Lochlan says it loudly. He opens the window all the way. Here, you can go out this way. Then he gets undressed, turns out the lights and climbs into bed.

Did he leave? 

I was going to ask you. 

Let's assume so. He was never one to stick around where he didn't feel welcome. Lochlan pulls me into his arms. He always has the right words. He takes me seriously. He makes me feel safe. It's been a long road to get to this place and I don't want to start hearing voices so I'm hoping it was real even though I also hope it wasn't.

Sleep, Bridget. It's just you and me. 

Drained and fabulous.

The chocolate arrived, the elevator doors finally closed and one of the cats sneezed on me all night long so while I haven't slept this week yet, the outlook is still definitely better than before. Plus I think I got all my crying over my baby graduating out of my system because as luck would have it, he still has to go to school right through Monday thanks to British Columbia's provincial English exams requirement. Great fun. Ruthie is travelling downtown to hang out with her friends, have lunch and shop and I have had a square of salted caramel chocolate and a deep breath and I've decided to cancel grocery shopping today in favor of finishing my other chores early and then trying to be kind to myself for the remainder of today. No more school lunches ever to be made. Just work ones. Which is great. I'm excited.

Caleb is easy with the forehead kisses and long, searching hugs this morning.

Feeling better? 

Yes. It must be the chocolate, I tell him, because if I say Lochlan as my reason (because really Lochlan and I sat on the porch last night and talked forever) Caleb will stiffen and formalize and it's such a nice day.

Wonderful. Maybe we should make it a monthly delivery. 

Perfect. 

He wanders off, proud of himself and Duncan sweeps through. Drops his coffee mug into the sink from downstairs and gives me a kiss on the top of my head as he says goodbye. He's heading to an early meeting. Two a week at present. Doing well. I try not to fuck with his head and he is affectionate but removed. It's a pattern but whatever works.

And things today are okay. I really need to sort through this thought of being kinder to myself and work on keeping the peace in this house, instead of inciting emotional riots and when all that works, everything else works too. Right?

June's been rough, to be honest.

He did it, Jake. He graduated and you weren't even here to see it because of your goddamned doubts.

I had to say it. Even under the watchful eyes of PJ who won't stay at the top of the steps during high tide, insisting on being within grabbing distance if I just decide to walk into the wind-licked sea.

Except I'm not a quitter. I'm sticking it through. I was here every single day of Henry's life, to wake him up for school. See him off with an I Love You and a Good Luck and a healthy lunch and a bug hug. So was PJ, if you want to be fair, and so we were rewarded with watching Henry walk across the stage to get his diploma, loping easily, a satisfied small smile on his face. A cheer rising up from the crowd of his uncles and friends, now. Almost a full beard, as he loves looking older, here on the cusp of eighteen.

I'm so proud of my kids I could burst.

You missed the whole fucking thing.

That's enough, Bridge. 

There's the best part. I'm not even allowed to disparage Jacob out loud, because he is Henry's father. Because I have to respect that. Because I try to respect that.

But it's so hard.

Gift basket is on the way. Lord help my saccharine soul.

All chocolate emergencies have been dealt with now because not only is there a few packages on the way (which will get eaten, as chocolate is a Big Deal in this house) but Lochlan and Ben brought home a cake from their travels yesterday (which included driving all over town picking off a list of things some of the boys needed and they like to take off sometimes and spend the day together and have lunch out and bond separately from me, which I love because it keeps them close).

Also I learned how Caleb shops online (which I suspected but have now confirmed). He goes online, finds what he wants, sorts from highest to lowest price, selects and buys the top thing. I'm trying to teach him that isn't really the best way to shop. Sometimes it's a brand preference or a value for the money thing. I don't think he believes me but we ordered Ghirardelli on my advice because it's probably the best that I've found, albeit not even close to the most expensive. He has his doubts but he will see.

It's raining today and everyone is quietly hovering. I like it. It makes the cake I'm having for breakfast that much sweeter.

Don't read this unless you're used to it, too.

Once again it's a beautiful day. I'm feeling better, however, having moved on from a fever and extreme exhaustion to a headache and extreme exhaustion. I'm trying to drink more water and get more sleep to counteract this and maybe it will work.

Over breakfast someone made the mistake of asking me how I'm doing (serious this time) since I will never complain to them, and so they got a highly detailed account of my attempts to insert my menstrual cup this morning in spite of giving up on it last year upon finding out my uterus is also narcoleptic and is leaning up against my bladder, having a snooze, so tilted it should be sent to AA meetings, if only I could take it out.

(And I would, if anyone would let me. Because apparently no one wants to remove parts from a perfectly functioning somewhat healthy woman just because every period she has is the Shining elevator doors scene repeated for four days straight every month now, sometimes every second month because normal? Who the fuck needs to be normal?

I think Dalton was sorry he asked.

Caleb found it fascinating. I might know someone who can help you, he says. Of course he does. Why wouldn't he have a uterus expert on file. Or a heavy period specialist. What's he going to do, threaten it?

(I've tried that. It did nothing.)

I have three doc-, no four. I have four doctors already. But thank you. 

Let's change the subject then. Dalton pleads with me.

Okay. Find those isograph drawing pens in this city. 

Just get them on Amazon. 

What the fuck? No. That's far too easy. I must drive around for two weeks searching for them before forgetting about them for another year. 

Dalton rolls his eyes and looks at his phone. Conversation over, I guess.

Ordered. Caleb says.

I was JUST about to do that, Dalton laughs.

So I'm stuck home waiting for Amazon now. 

May as well since you're bleeding out.

Did you order chocolate too? 

Jesus Christ, Dalton says and they both whip out their phones again.

So far so ____________.

What a beautiful day. It's breezy and sunny and perfect, a summer day like no other. I called my father to wish him a Happy Father's Day but he was busy so he asked me to call him later before I could get a word in. Lochlan is still asleep after a rough night and no one else has appeared as of yet, save for Sam, who pushed his hand against my forehead, rattled off a prayer for the contagious, for the sweaty-feverish, and then all but ran out the door, late for church.

But as I said: What a beautiful day.

If I resell my soul can I be well again?

Until this fever breaks I'm trying to move slowly. In this house when we get sick we really get sick. We need to just not get sick right now. As long as Henry's getting better (and he is, though he coughs so) the rest of us can muddle through.

Tomorrow is Father's Day, the day (like every other day) when the boys step in to big shoes and continue (as they always have) to be dads, positive male role models and big brothers, hunkles and good friends to my kids. Our kids. Their kids, in some cases, and better late than never. Kids that have been stolen for their own (right Caleb?) and kids who never for a moment felt fatherless and I am ever grateful, ever floored by that. I'm throwing a big communal lunch, which is the perfect thing to do when one is very ill and has pledged to move more slowly, right? I thought so. To make life simpler and more breathtaking we'll eat outside on the patio and we will have mountains of pancakes and tea, fresh maple syrup and blueberries to toast to the dads, the boys, the brothers, the saviours. The rescuers. The holder-uppers. The ones who are here and have stuck by us, thick and thin.

That's what you do. You mark the moments and you mark the people that bring meaning to them. Thank you boys for bringing meaning to ours. To theirs. They need you, I need you, and you never let us down. And for that I raise my glass (half champagne/half Nyquil/all bad ideas) and salue you.

*cough*. 

(Fuck this getting sick. Just fuck it. I have parties to throw.)

Fevers and yearbooks and groceries, oh my!

Can't even look at a screen. My face hurts. The yearbook made me smile though. Henry's grown up so quickly, so quietly. You wouldn't think a giant blonde seventeen-year-old could be quiet about anything but he can be. 

Turtle princess.

First full day off and I'm running in slow motion with heavy limbs and a sour disposition, not to mention a voice that sounds like a poor radio signal, cutting out constantly with every third or fourth word, only to come back and break. I'm getting Henry's final magnificent public-school cold, something he's managed to pull off and work on getting over with room to breathe here in the middle of exams, dry graduation and his graduation ceremony. Report cards, yearbooks, end of term projects, job searches and learning how to drive.

The slow-motion part bothers me the most, in that I've had to talk myself into everything today. Like everything little thing. From putting on my necklace to brushing my hair to fixing lunch. To wondering if I should have tea and then deciding it was too much work but not wanting to ask anyone else to make it for me.

I wanted to go sit out on the front porch but I need to start dinner. I wanted to draw a little but it's late and that's always one of the things I covet for the perfect moments. I trashed my last painting without finishing it and I feel so unmotivated and unsuccessful right this moment it's hard to blame it on the impending arrival of this cold or on the end of a huge part of my existence (youngest child finishing up public school after being in the system since 2005. That was the year Ruthie started grade two. That was the year I gave up homeschooling. Ironic but I don't count that as a failure or something I dropped out of, moreso it was a decision to give her things I couldn't, including independence and individuality. Henry quickly followed her, though he's had two extra years of school thanks to being enrolled from Kindergarten. Is this how I'm supposed to feel now that they're about finished? Tired? So tired I could sleep while I drive, cook or clean?

Maybe it is.

Naw, it's just the cold. Lochlan says it from the back step where he sits working on getting the old barbecue up and running again even though we've aready got a new one. He coughs before he finishes his sentence. I guess it's going to be a quiet weekend.

The losers.

This should have been easy. I have my hands behind my back. It's cool in the air conditioning. This sundress doesn't have pockets. I am disappointed, surprised and a hundred dollars poorer as I bring my hands forward to give Joel his payout. I came prepared. It's in American one dollar bills. Only seventy-five of them, thanks to the exchange rate. A nice thick half-inch stack. Because if you can't win a bet, at least be an asshole about it.

Joel laughs. It pays to support the underdogs.

Total fluke, I repeat. I learned my lesson. Six Stanley cups already, one won in my lifetime even (unlike my beloved Leafs), so the Bruins should have been a natural inevitability instead of a glaring jolt and so I was cocky.

Lochlan warned me not to bet actual money. I never listen to him of course, generally reaping hundreds from the boys since they make bets with their dicks instead of their brains.

I did that tonight, I guess. I made a bet using my dick as a compass and it pointed me in the wrong direction. Stupid thing. Clearly it's broken so good thing it's imaginary.

I hand him his money and he laughs out loud. At least it isn't pennies. 

I tried to get them. I also tried to get you a hundred dollars worth of marshmallows but I didn't have enough notice.

He laughs harder. This is fine. I think. 

One by one everyone pays him. The odds were so crooked here, and he was the only one willing to stake his cash on a team that's never won before. PJ hands over a gift card to the Keg for a hundred bucks and wipes away a tear.

Lochlan hands him a stack of fifty two-dollar scratch cards.

Ben gives Joel a crisp fake one hundred, waiting for him to notice the fact that Justin Trudeau is on it. Joel absently puts it into his wallet and thanks Ben for not giving him a hay bale, as once threatened.

Look at the bill, Ben says.

Joel gives him a withering look. It's fake isn't it? 

Ben claps him on the back. The hay bale is behind your car. I can help you load it in whenever you're ready. PJ can help. We can cut it in half if we need to, right PJ?

PJ  nods. He is full-on crying now. Aren't we something.

Snap. Crackle. Fuckit.

Okay, so I quit today. Lasted fifteen months all told. I won't be detailing the reasons but I also didn't share the reasons with my employer, telling them only that I was moving on to new opportunities.

What opportunities? How much they paying you?

Double. I smile gingerly and keep polishing spoons. They're always water-spotted. I cringe when I give them out.

Oh.

He doesn't say much more. He comes back an hour later and asks if I'll come back someday.

Maybe, I lie. Depends.

You should come back.

I almost felt sorry for him but then I remember that straw, the one that broke the Bridget's back and the one that sent me straight to his desk to give notice.

When I got home everyone was ready with the hugs. Long comforting hugs. Can't believe you lasted that long hugs. What took you so long hugs. You okay hugs. Let's burn your uniform hugs. The best one was from Lochlan who rocked me in his arms, the I can't wait to spend more time with you hug. That was definitely the greatest one.

Merchant of hearts.

I set my price and they paid. I didn't have to stand on a busy corner harkening for the most desperate of cries, able to reach in through my ribs and pull out exactly what they needed, right down to fit, colour and value. I didn't have to work hard at it, for it was something that came naturally. I wouldn't have chosen this path but when I looked down the alternatives this one chose me, pushing me along, tripping me with it's heavy claustrophobic vines and rocky footing, igniting my fear of its darkness.

And then I realized it would show me the way back. And as I trudge along, dragging this heavy case of hearts, given freely in exchange for certain immortality I smile to myself, because I'm almost home.

***

Ben wakes up at the crack of For Fucks Sakes this morning and with that, the day begins. I don't know what it is about Ben where if he gets up for whatever reason that's it for everyone in the bed but it's almost as if the sun rises and sets by him.

Because it fucking DOES.

So it's eight in the morning and I've done two loads of laundry, fed and walked the pets, done the budget (personal and household), written for a while (not here), made lunches for tomorrow, organized all the fans and such (in summer they turn counterclockwise to push air down for maximum effect. Did you know that? I thought I might but BC Hydro confirmed it in an email. Of course I subscribe. I won the 10% less challenge last year and earned a $50 credit on our December bill. That's how awesome I am) and switched to summer quilts on our bed at least. I'll do the kids' beds later when they wake up and encourage the others to switch if they haven't. I checked the garden (watermelons, carrots and radishes in the lead!) and noticed PJ was up and out back practicing his golf swing (he's golfing this evening). Ben took a tea downstairs to work, I ate the last scone and Lochlan is having a forty-five minute shower right now. That or he fell asleep in there. I don't think we're going to church. Sam can give me a drive-by baptism later if he needs to. And then maybe he can take this case off my hands and find a safe place for it. It's much to heavy to carry by myself.

Three weeks.

That's a timeline I've given myself. Three weeks. To accept that things will be a lot busy and a little crazy and just to give myself space to take deep breaths and finally learn that it's definitely okay to suggest everyone find a bagel or cereal or take my damn designated night already if they are hungry for a meal that I'm supposed to cook and haven't yet. To learn that it's still okay to call in sick if I have to because things are too busy or too fragile or I'm too tired. To learn that sleeping pills are okay once or twice a month if I must. That things will get done and if they don't, odds are I'm the only one who's going to notice. To confirm that I don't care who wins the Stanley Cup once the Leafs are out of the running and that it's okay to be a particular team fan if not a full-on hockey fan these days. To look forward to the huge list of horror movies I plan to watch this summer because I'm so far behind.

To not care about basketball but desperately want to have some We The North merchandise because I am a proud Canadian, after all. Yes, even if I don't watch basketball. Right now my casual clothes are all band t-shirts and hoodies and plain black leggings. It's so boring but also funny because I can go to the grocery store in my best Goatwhore shirt and be surrounded by people in high-cost athleisure wear judging me up the wazoo and you know what?

I don't care. And that's okay. I don't have to learn that lesson though. I already did.

I need to care less and self-care more. I know this. We said goodbye to our guests this morning. Two night visits are the best. Just enough time to catch up and get ahead without feeling as if your space is shrinking. We need to go grocery shopping again but PJ, Ben and Henry are going to look after it.

I learned to let them, even though they just buy chocolate everything. Sometimes that's okay too.

But in three weeks my insular world should open up a little more with the promise of a slightly less intense pressure. The grip that life has on me will lessen slightly and I'm going to learn to be a little bit selfish. Everyone should be once in a while if it means self-preservation and regaining the ability to push through the tougher parts of life.

I'm so slow with the lessons though. Takes me forever. 

They're from Denmark. Oops.

I think the rain might hold off for a little bit longer. Which is good. Our guests weeded the garden, did all of the landscaping, detailed all of the vehicles and then cleaned the house top to bottom. With five of them (and us) working the whole thing was finished in under three hours and we have grand plans to invade some poor pub for beer and not-beer-but-pop and chicken wings this evening before returning to watch movies in the theatre.

A relaxing day, finally. I'm so tired. It's very nice to have company when you don't have to lift a finger.

They brought us real halloumi.

Blueberry scones and biting wind mark this Thursday, the scones only present because Ben's friends are here for a couple of days from uh..Oslo? Turku? and Ben went and did a quick grocery shop because there are five of them and they're going to eat everything.

They always do, except now they eat like Ben. Instead of cigarettes, broken glass and women, they eat whole grains and vegetables. They juice. Instead of drugs they weigh legumes and instead of dealers they have grocers who know them by name.

It's kind of nice. And they've always been a respectful, sweet bunch who manage to pull off one major renovation every time they show up. One year they cleared out all of the deadwood from the three properties and neighboring woods. One year they painted five bedrooms in a day. One year they did a months' worth of freezer meals for all of us. All of us. Freezer meals for fifteen people. It was amazing. Especially since toward the end of this particular project they discovered we don't have a deep freezer and so everything was divided up between the other houses and I don't think I ever did see any of the food but the boys next door didn't have to cook for months.

They like the pool though I doubt it will be warm enough to use it during their stay. They love Ben, love seeing him so content. Love the property and all the boys. Love seeing Duncan and Daniel too Love visiting with Corey and Dylan. Love seeing the kids grow up. They love me too, being supportive and also weirdly talkative, as if they want to impart as much comfort as they can into each visit.

And it's getting a little crazy around here. It may be this way until Saturday afternoon, but I will see if I can get time to post. If not just know I'm somewhere on the point wrapped in a blanket, listening to death metal and eating cheese.

Holy.

Lochlan did indeed find me last night after finishing off his whiskey. I was pulled down and turned over, his hands around my knees, pulling them apart, putting his face between them, making me squeal with the sleepiest joy you can wake up with, I think, if you were to put it to a vote. He was relentless, violent even. He got an unfortunate knee to the face at one point because me being flat on my back apparently wasn't good enough and he didn't seem like he thought this through so by the time he was really off and running (with me in tow) I was sitting up and he was flat on his back, and I don't know if you've ever sat on the face of a Scottish man, but they still have an accent. You can't quash it, literally or figuratively.

Because they talk. All the time. Constantly. I was a human megaphone only it was muffled and I had no idea what he was going on about, clearly yelling into the wrong end.

But I enjoyed whatever speech he made. Probably something about William Wallace and freedom. Maybe something about Independence or smartphones ruining the mystery of Loch Ness.

He finally throws me back down to the bed and declares me conquered.

What the fuck ever! I'm nothing of the sort. 

Give me five more minutes. 

Five minutes? You can't conquer someone in five minutes! 

But 1) I'm still drunk and b) of course he can.

Done and done.

Slept like a baby again last night. I did not wake up hungover. The Collective made bets. I can't drink wine. It's unpredictable. But at least it's fairly harmless.

Like you, Lochlan says, and smashes a kiss against my forehead.

Did you wash your face? I ask him.

Tuesdays are for drunking.

This is the life. I came home from work. PJ took my lunch kit to unpack and repack, I kicked my shoes off inside the front hall, dropped my bag and keys on the floor and unzipped my dress right there. I might burn it. I might never return to the restaurant, though I got a raise, since the whole province got a raise I guess it isn't fair to go back to square one so I'm making a couple dollars more an hour this week suddenly and maybe I'll stay just a little while longer.

After my shower Ben is there to dress me in clean pajama pants and a long-sleeved t-shirt. I come back downstairs and Lochlan hands me a rather large, full glass of wine while Dalton holds the door open so I can take it out to the patio. Sam has music playing out there but it's on low. The sun is shining. Ruth made cookies. Henry's heading into exams, prom and graduation as we speak.

But I have this minute.

Schuyler is outside on our patio but he makes himself scarce with an excuse when he sees me. Andrew waves from his own perch with coffee and his ipad on their balcony above their stone patio on the house next door. I wonder if I'm hungry and Gage says that he and PJ are making an early dinner and they'll serve it here outside if I like. I take a sip of my ice-cold dry wine and nod.

Yeah. That will be nice.

Dinner always tastes best when I don't have to make it. Also when I am in pajamas. No one says a word. I've finally earned the right to come home and change into comfy clothes and I get it. I always did before when I worked, this is no different.

Caleb joins us a few moments late, with apologies. Conference call. We wave off his efforts to quash his own hubris and pass around the sparkling water. We tell stories and talk about our days. We dissect news stories and help Henry form a study plan. We finish the wine (some of us do). We make plans for the rainy end of the week to come. We take the time to go around the table to make sure everyone is content, built up and has everything they need. We love big and we love hard. We make excuses and head inside to clean up and retire early. My children now remain up in the night longer than I can. I got an incredible nights sleep last night and I hope to do the same again.

But after four glasses of wine I can't even find the dishwasher so Ben takes my glass with a laugh. Time to go upstairs, Bee. 

Bring my Lochlan. 

I will. 

August burns red.

And if the sun grows cold for you along the way
And if the stars don't line to light the way
And when you fall away and crash back down below
I'll search the skies for you and I'll follow
I'll be in your afterglow
And I'll bring you home

Lochlan is burning down the world as he goes. Outwardly clipped and formal, inwardly afraid as the dark sees him holding me clutched against him, securing my place in his dreams, loathe to let go in case I leave him in the night. He says he's fine. We're fine. Everything's fine.

But he's not telling the truth.

I tuck his hair behind his ears. He's sitting so patiently, just staring at me. Loathe to open Pandora's box. Loathe to give a name to that fear. Loathe to let it consume him, unable to see that it already has, even as I dismiss it as shallow, unfounded, unreasonable. Trite.

That's not a fear. THIS is a fear. And I reach up, opening first my skull, wide enough for everything to see the light of day. And this too, I pull my ribcage apart and my heart does a flip-flop out of my chest onto the floor, a caught fish landing in a boat, still hoping against hope for escape. The dark rushes in, putting out the flames, protecting our eyes from the volume of blood, softening the horror of all that I am in his eyes, or so I can only hope.

It seems like nothing to you but it consumes me. It's so easy for you to say your pain hurts more but it can't hurt more than this, Bridge. The fear that you might fall in love again and it still won't be me. 

But it is you, and I fall in love with you all over again, every single day. 

Jesus Snap (crackle and pop).

Be still, my love
I will return to you
However far you feel from me
You are not alone

I will always be waiting
And I'll always be watching you

I may or may not have recorded Lochlan while he was running through his nightly piano exercises. I did it in my free time, ostensibly while he presumed I was off being a jerk to him through no fault of my own. Instead I was tucked around the corner from the living room, in the little no-man's land between the kitchen and the dining room, a place that affords a good view of the piano but doesn't alarm the player.

And I taped him because I love it when he sings to me, even as he doesn't want or mean to. I have precious few memories of him commited to permanence. They're in my unreliable head, a format I don't trust for a second. What if it changes the content? Or brings it out of context? What if it forgets? What if it wipes itself completely?

That's probably the part I fear most, that I'll wake up a blank slate one day, alone and unable to recall. It's a weird new kind of fear newly sprouted, just poking up above the surface, a hint of green. A promise of a whole new thing to worry about. An invasive weed.

Just what I need.

So I've begun to keep things, now able to listen to them on demand instead of having to beg him to sing. He's a performer at heart but so stubborn at will. This is unabashed belting out of the high notes and it makes my heart soar.

Even better is using Ben's big headphones just to listen, without the visual of watching Lochlan's shoulders move ever so slightly as he finds the keys, watching his curls crest his shoulders, leaving the back of his neck exposed as he bends his head to get those notes, watching them sail back as he flips his hair away from his face again. Watching him turn and check for an unwelcome audience and finding none, singing louder still. I have that saved now. I just want to hear him forever.

But Ben's headphones crackle and pop, distracting from the sound of Lochlan's falsetto on those notes and I'm forced to abandon my secret errand. This is why he gave me these ones. They're almost worn and it takes me far longer than it takes Ben to hear these defects. It's like listening to a vinyl record, popping and hissing through the vocals, enveloping the sound in a staticky fog cover.

Daniel comes through. He's coming to church with us and is making sure I'm ready in time instead of lying in bed in my slip listening to music.

That's what you're wearing. 

Just to be difficult, yes. 

Well grab a sweater. It's time to leave. 

Listen to this first. I pass him the headphones.

Ah, Bridge, these are blown. 

Listen.

He closes his eyes and listens for several minutes before taking the headphones off and passing them back. Is that Lochlan? 

Yeah, I smile.

I see why the busking worked so well. 

I put the headphones back on and indicate to Daniel that I'm not coming with them. I changed my mind. I want to stay here and listen a while longer.

Emotional centenarians.

August stayed for dinner (just like always) and we joked around a lot and then after dinner I walked him to his loft and stopped at the bottom of the steps.

This isn't working. I know you through and through. 

It was worth a chance. I was hoping we could reset somehow. 

I don't think we can but I don't want you to resent me either. 

I don't want to be used or to use you but I don't like it when you avoid me. 

So what do we do?

We keep working at it. 

What if you need him? 

That's grief. I try and do something else until the feelings pass. 

What about me?

Being lonely isn't a solution to anything, August, but I can't take a permanent place in your life though. 

I don't want to use you, Bridge. I've done that enough. 

Maybe we just need to work on our shared headspace when we're together. Make it about us, and not him. (I want to capitalize the H on him so badly but you'll be offended.)

How do you get better? 

Time. 

How much time do we need? 

Another hundred years, I think. 

He laughs, gives me a kiss on the forehead and then a ridiculously long hug and I am spun away back toward my own side door.

Inside the door Caleb loiters, most likely pleased with the conversation he overheard.

I have something you might like. And he puts his arms out wide.

Back-up, secondary hugs. Sometimes some of the best ones start out that way.

He'll be fine. So will you, he says, and I get another forehead kiss.

Hope so. I hope none of it takes a hundred years. 

Compare this to eight years ago. Or even two. 

Yeah. 

Things are getting better, Neamhchiontach. 

I nod. I don't know if I believe him though.

Come up and watch a movie tonight. We'll have a quick nightcap. 

Okay. Ten? 

Yes. 

I didn't make it through the movie, falling asleep tucked against Caleb while he watched the citizens of Berk decide to give up their dragons, sending them back to the hidden world. I'm sad I missed it. I was looking forward to it.

This morning as I went back to my room to try and wake up, hoping Lochlan didn't find fault with anything specific. I was out of luck though.

How long is it going to take, Bridget?

A hundred years, I told him, because that's the party line.

Fuck that, he says. God loves Lochlan. He puts up with nothing and yet he gives me the world. Caleb took a weak moment and took advantage. And you're worried about August using you? 

I think about correcting him since it's not me worried about August but everyone else worrying about August but I realize that's a pre-formed argument just waiting for it's time in the light.

I nod in agreement. Just to keep the peace. Sorry. We were only going to watch a movie but I fell asleep. He's never going to wake me up to send me home when he can just have more time. 

He doesn't get more time, Bridget. He's had enough.

Tell him that then! I'm tired!

(So much) At stake.

Our library seems to be neutral ground. It's the place where Talks happen, where things get worked out. It's a calming, restful room with floor to ceiling windows overlooking the woods and a fluffy white rug on the floor. The standing shelves on the two walls that aren't all windows are white, the chairs are white, the couch is white, the walls themselves are white and the floor under the carpet is bleached hardwood, unfinished except for a regular coat of wax.

I love this room. It holds the books of our entire Collective, save for personal favorites that are kept in our respective rooms. So everything else, in other words. It's large but the conversational seating arrangement in the centre makes for a cozy vibe. It's hard to describe but so simple. It has been in a magazine online, just for kicks but I'm not going to tell you which. I don't sell things on my blog. Except maybe desperation but that's not really for you to buy, is it? If I like a product (like my shorts from the other day) I'll point that out but I'm not going to become an affiliate for everything. It was never my intention to write my words and then sell them out from under myself for the sake of a few dollars. I don't need the money, you don't need yet another sponsored post in your life, nor another ad.

Maybe that's why I'm still going, when I've seen some of my own favorite blogs write an entire post on a new toothpaste only to have a link with a discount code at the end. That's not content, that's shilling for a toothpaste company. Is it not? Within a year or two said blogger moves on. They weren't in it for the words, they were in it for the money.

I'm still here. Never in it for the money or I would have married Caleb.

And it's in this room that I meet August.

Not Jake's surrogate brother August. Not August of the past. Not August of the sometimes-difficult present.  Not August the struggle.

This man is new. He's wearing a button-down and a nice jacket. He's carrying flowers. When I open the library door after he knocks and refuses to just walk in, he thrusts the flowers at me and sticks his hand out. He says his name is August, and that I must be Bridget, and he's happy to meet me.

These are beautiful! I stick my face in them. Lilies. What are you doing? 

Starting over. He takes a deep breath. Something we should have done a long time ago but we can do it right now. 

What does this mean? 

We go forward as friends with no baggage. And no pain between us. 

Is that even possible? 

Let's find out. Are you going to invite me in? 

Depends. Are you a vampire?

Last time I checked, no, but you're going to have to trust me. 

Unsure of hardly anything, except him.

I was singing along with Elton John at the top of my lungs at the edge of the pool. Elton wasn't there, proper, he was in the stereo but I was having such a good time that I must have missed the look that passed over my head between August (minding his own business, sadly. As always) and Duncan, who never misses an opportunity to wade into whatever's going on on any given day.

Into whoever, I mean.

I sat up with a gasp, quilt in my fists an hour later in Duncan's room, as Duncan finally let go of me. Chlorine and incense fills my throat. His hands leave almost-bruises everywhere he touches me, Elton still sings in the background and I no longer what August is up to because he doesn't seem to want me to know.

I should spend more time at the pool, Duncan says softly. I wasn't sure if I was interrupting anything between you and August. I mean, I guess it's clear I wasn't. 

I shake my head. There's a lot going on with him. 

Interesting. That's not what he said. 

Please tell me so I don't act like a fool around him, Dunk. 

I could make my own case here and yet I'm trying to show you the virtue of someone else. That's the kind of man I am, I guess. He laughs.  He actually asked if you said anything about him. He said you've been avoiding him for months, that you two had a misunderstanding. 

A misunderstanding. That's what he called it?

Yeah. What happened? 

We had a...misunderstanding. 

Maybe you should go talk to him. Though I'd love to keep you. 

Okay. Sorry, Duncan. 

Short and sickly sweet are my favorite kinds of visits from you, Bridge. 

But I didn't go across the drive to August's loft. I went upstairs alone and hid out on my balcony with a book until August sent me a text.

Busy?

No. 

Come over? 

Can you come here?

Alright. Give me a minute.

I feel like I don't know what he's going to say but I know exactly what he's going to say.