This is how I medicate. Fuck off.

One of the greatest things ever would be if we discovered that Paint from Les Friction was actually Freddie Mercury, having been in hiding for almost thirty years. Listen to Torture. I don't know about you but my brain replaces the role with Freddy Mercury's voice, even though he would be in his early seventies now and the voice I hear is definitely late thirties.

I can age you using only your voice. I'm good at it. It's one of my many odd talents, along with tightrope walking, putting out streetlights with only my brain, and collecting lost souls to keep until the universe takes them away.

You want to know why Rocketman didn't do as well as Bohemian Rhapsody? It's because Elton John is still alive. One can only be built into mythic status when one is no longer here. Larger than life, brighter than the stars, it's a level one only achieves in absentia, in death. It's the reason why Jacob is not a memory but a force to be reckoned with, something I haven't actually been able to do because as I said, my talents are weird and small. Just like me. How am I supposed to conquer Jacob's memory when he's a legend, never ever relegated to just a man.

The boys say that Paint is Paint, whoever he is, and Freddie's long dead.

Just like Jake, right?

Right.

Holding close to the flames.

So don't tell me why he's never been good to you
Don't tell me why he's never been there for you
Don't you know that why is simply not good enough
So just let me try and I will be good to you
Just let me try and I will be there for you
I'll show you why you're so much more than good enough

The fluttering and stuttering began some time shortly after dinner, a quiet affair in which remorse rang loudly throughout the halls of this stupid house, echoing off the walls, settling on our heads like plaster dust when someone dances hard one floor above.

Bridget-

It's fine. I'm fine. (I'm so not fine right now. One of the beautiful side effects of condemning the boys for the past is falling the fuck apart. I do so good keeping my shit together most of the time. You wouldn't even believe it. I've been written about in psychiatric journals. They make me sound fucking insane. I'm high-functioning insane though, and that's the important part here. What you see is what you get. I have my coping mechanisms. Someone should charge admission to read here. Jesus Christ.)

You're not fine. Put that down. 

Three glasses of wine didn't even put a dent in the movements, they didn't help the words flow. Lochlan comes over to me, kisses the tip of my nose while taking my glass, marvelling at how I haven't spilled it yet, brushes the plaster from my hair and then leads me down the hall, where I am zipped into my fleece jacket before he takes me all the way down to the beach.

I screwed up, Bridget. I took a moment and ran with it. And then I dug a deeper hole and you fell in it and I don't know how to find that balance for you. Ben could but Ben's gone half the time and I hate myself for this but I'm trying to make you happy. 

We'll figure it out. 

I wonder how long it will take. 

The rest of our-

Lives. I know. I'm so sorry, Bridget. Happily ever after wasn't supposed to come at such a price.

Legacies and ligatures (a perfect counterpart for shipwrecks and soliloquies).

Just hear me out
If it's not perfect, I'll perfect it till my heart explodes
I highly doubt
That I can make it through another one of your episodes
Lashing out
One of the petty moves you pull before you lose control
You wear me out
But it's all right now

Well. That didn't work.

Prone on the hardwood floor. Face up, however. Looking upside above me where Caleb frowns.

Why did you do that, Doll? 

At this point I'm fairly certain he's about to take something heavy and bring it crashing down on my little skull, putting the lights out, ending everything all at once. It'll just be a flash of black and I'll be their memory and they will scatter to the four winds and never speak to each other again.

I'm torn between wanting that outcome and wanting to see how it all turns out anyway, even if it hurts.

And that's the problem. These kinds of fights are the worst.

I took myself over to August's last evening. It was that or I would have gone straight to New Jake, or worse, old Jake. I professed a deep-seated attraction to him as a whole, not just as a ghost, and for my honesty I was beautifully rewarded. Halfway back across the driveway I was intercepted by the Devil, who proceeded to make an unholy noise that I was later told was shouting so angrily even the cats ran and hid from the sound.

At least it wasn't Lochlan. Lochlan doesn't even know what do with me at this point. Lochlan's hands are tied and his heart is falling behind, running to catch up and then giving up, tucking itself in right where I left it, for me to find later when I'm done pissing off the Gods.

I sit up quickly just to see the stars. No one else can see them. I love that feeling. My eyes focus, one at a time on the Devil's handsome blue eyes, not so kind right now.

What have you done?

You did all this. Are you happy? I told you this wouldn't turn out well and you thought it meant they would come after you. Wow. Bet you wish now that that's what happened instead of this. You broke her! Congrats! 

Are you drunk?

Not nearly enough. 

Jesus.While he laments my lack of compliance I go off down the dark hallway in search of my boy, one middle finger raised defiantly behind my back at the Devil, who doesn't even have a stake in this night the way the rest of us do and doesn't he hate this. If I get this wrong August leaves and I don't think I can take that. If I get it right we both get everything we need. We promised Jake we'd look after each other. We don't intend to fail.

Or me, I mean. Because I don't want him to go and he's got one foot out the door.

BRIDGET. Caleb roars again, into the dark. He can't see me anymore and that's good.

I find what I'm looking for and pull it out, wrapping my arms around it. Lochlan's heart is heavy and weak. It's squishy and solid though. It's a perfect fit and a rare prize. I haul it back down the hallway and drop it at the feet of the Devil.

What? I smile at him, mirroring his rage in the best way I know how. Belligerently and with confidence. It may be an act but I'm good at that too. This is different from not being able to keep a poker face. This is pure showmanship and I've got it nailed.

Put that away. 

You don't get to order me around anymore. You created all of this and now you have to live with it.

We created this. Don't forget who started it all. There's no difference between he and I. 

Sure there is. 

Tell me what that is. 

(Tell you what again? You all passed around a TEN YEAR OLD and I have to explain why it didn't all end in roses and lemonade?)

Love. Lochlan held my hand. He held me. He talked to me. He took me out for food, and planted flowers and taught me things about the night sky. He taught me how to fall in love. You never took five minutes to do any of that before touching me. All of you. 

All of us-

All you did was further perpetuate it by putting us all together again. Bet it feels weird now, hey? You wonder why I seek out anyone but the lot of you when I can't help myself? Because they don't use me for their own needs. 

You think August isn't using you? 

August loves me. Sam too. Duncan and Dalton definitely do. Jake may, if given the chance and really if I get enough of them I won't need any of you, now, will I? Lochlan will still be there but the rest of you will wonder what the fuck happened when you're suddenly somewhere else.

I wished for weird.

And I got it, I think.

I'd take another chance, take a fall, take a shot for you
And I need you like a heart needs a beat, but it's nothing new
I loved you with a fire red, now it's turning blue
And you say sorry like the angel heaven let me think was you
But I'm afraid

It's too late to apologize (it's too late)
I said It's too late to apologize (it's too late)

The magic spell always seems to be broken with the soft gaze of the morning sunrise, and the shame rushes in to fill that new void. Or maybe it only does that for me, as the minute I let go just a little all the deepest darkest parts of me rush up to bask in the light.

I stand inside the patio door wrapped in one of the woven blankets we keep for chilly shoulders on the patio at night (the heaters are neither easy to operate, for me anyway, cheap to run or good for the planet, frankly. Wear a fucking blanket.) sipping my coffee while I watch Lochlan walk back down the path behind Schuyler and Dan's, taking a right around the pool, closer to the house before deviating left at the gazebo straight to the telescope by the edge of the cliff. As if he was always just right there and not at Batman's trying to circumvent my words published here for all to see. What is he planning? What did he say?

I finish my coffee but remain by the glass, zoning out hard. Missing Ben as he comes to stand behind me, then jumping out of my skin when he speaks.

What are you doing, Bee?

Waiting for Loch.

Ben kisses the top of my head as I turn. I lean against him, a wall of cool warmth in the morning cold. A stranger I miss.

Jake, huh?

Jesus, here we go. Like you don't fantasize on command.

I do. I wish you were taller. Every damn day.

I rest my chin on his chest and look up at him. I name three names of famous people he wanted and then slept with and he laughs suddenly.

Been there, done that. One you get it out of your system you stop daydreaming about it, you know? That's the difference. It's like you're a sugar fiend and the candy is right next door and we're all like what the fuck? Eat your vegetables but you only see the candy. Even though you TRIED the candy and it make you sick.

Jesus, Ben, it was a moment.

He watches Lochlan through the glass. Then you should probably lie next time.

Why do you think he went over?

Either to fight him or invite him. Guess you'll have to ask him which one. Just watch out for Caleb. He's the only person who would have been more offended in the light of day by this. And with that glaringly obvious comment Ben is gone again. My favorite stranger, always.

***

Late last night came the knock on the door. An invite, then. He never did say. He told me to mind my own business. He told me not to worry so much. He told me to answer the door.

I opened it, looking up into the face of New Jake. Of course. It was an invitation. I'm not going to be sent to the workbench. No. He would like to keep control. He wants to have his presence known. He wants to be in charge. He's afraid but he's trying to be everything and give me everything right now while he has the chance. He wants to make sure I don't fall in love, only like I've said a thousand times: there's something about New Jake but it isn't love.

I shook my head and closed the door. There may be a new map here but I already have my route mapped out and I'm not changing it now. If it's not on my terms it's not at all, thank you.

I could just snap my fingers and lick my lips and he wouldn't even need his imagination anymore.

He leaned me back just enough for my hair to brush the bed. I am still suspended in his arms a foot away from the safety of my quilts, from earth. From the cool night air that surrounds us even as he radiates heat like the sun.

Say when. 

Never!

And he laughs with the most joyful sound. We've been devouring each other since sundown. My bangs are plastered to my forehead. His hair is half out of the bun he hastily put it into, and he looks like a wild man. Feral. Dangerous.

Also stupidly handsome and content and amazing and mine. All mine though he said again this morning I was free to do whatever I needed to do.

He plays an awful game and I like it.

If you could go to anyone right now, who and where. 

I think about it for a minute. I think about lying. I think about telling the truth. I think about angrily reminding him that this is why we fight. This is why I make and break more boundaries than I can keep. That this is the thing that keeps me recidivist, fucked up and ruined.

Answer without thinking. 

New Jake. 

Where?

Jesus, Lochlan. 

Tell me. He is hot and bothered. Gee. Me, too.

His garage. Up against the workbench. 

He's holding you up. 

Yes. Lochlan, I don-

He never even puts you down. He's got you in his hands-

Lochlan-

But he doesn't hear me. He's gone so far ahead, and I'm never going to catch up. I'm not even sure I want to right now. He's gone to a place I don't think I want to be.

Half Lizard King, half fairy godmother.

There's a rule in this house that if you break something you get to fix it and the fix better be as good if not better than the original so be careful or you may find yourself foundering for experts if you destroy something beyond your skill set.

I sat on the floor handing tools to Lochlan this morning, who at the crack of nine came home with a new door for Caleb's bedroom. The door to his wing was fine, it was the inner door that got taken off the hinges. He politely knocked on the first door, which was opened without hesitation. He told Caleb he had a new door and would put it on, Caleb said thank you very politely and left and we set to work.

I handed a level, two different screwdrivers and one single tiny shim and then he was finished. Luckily a door is an easy fix for Lochlan, who can fix anything anyway, save for my attitude and my interpretation of his allowance for my issues.

See how different perspectives make for different opinions of the same situations?

Yeah, me neither.

I got it. You're free. He starts packing up his tools and Duncan materializes out of nowhere (babysitting duty, don't think we couldn't sense him lurking in the front hall below, just in case) to carry down the old door. I rush off down the hall to get ready. We have a brunch to get to. Another dressed-up Saturday, another long table. Another sunny day spent with people we don't see nearly enough, and we're off and running. I wore the wrong shoes, something I paid for dearly over the course of the day, which involved too much walking, and also eyeliner that didn't like me at all, smudging in the heat. Lochlan eventually held out his elbow for me and said I looked hot. I said I was, and he said that wasn't what he meant.

I burst out laughing and we were good again suddenly. He pressed a kiss hard against my cheek and stroked it too. He squeezed my hand in his arm and said he loves me. He gave in first, while I held my ground as I still don't understand how his allegiance to the Devil trumps my need for the Devil but somehow it does and our histories are combined, complicated and chaotic. But our presents seems less so, even with the occasional missteps, hurt feelings or ignored boundaries.

When pressed Caleb breathed his usual crushing beauty of an explanation. He always has one, and they are always solid gold. You don't think he's the Devil? You weren't there when he said, voice breaking, My God, Brother, I couldn't let her go. Not yet. And Lochlan nodded and I am That Object again but also so weirdly thrilled I should be shot for how that feels all the time, just when I'm sure I've had enough of Caleb. That's how he works. Charm and cash. Affection and longing and power and the past.

It's disgusting.

It's the best.

***

My words about PJ hit home like a freight train without brakes and PJ went straight to Ben. Ben who sponsors a couple of people now, has a good solid handle on what has always been a tenuous balance for him and won't bullshit you one way or another if you want to talk addictions.

Ben threw it right back at PJ and asked PJ if he thought he had a problem. PJ didn't even hesitate and has already gone to a meeting. He and Ben spent most of the morning together and it turns out it isn't my fault. I knew that, I've been through the family program, and understand self-preservation on all fronts, but I still worry about PJ and I worry about his mindset, blaming me for this monk's life he leads. It's wonderful to constantly be with friends, and have financial security and privacy and a purpose. It's another thing for a true romantic to be without a love of his own. It's also been a huge blow to see the children he has raised from birth as a caretaker (and the most favorite hunkle of all) suddenly turn eighteen and twenty and not really need him anymore. They have assured him they do need him but gone are the days of homework and packing lunches and gym clothes and early bedtimes and pep talks and projects.

It hit me hard but it seems to have hit him harder. That touches me ridiculously deeply and I bled out and flew into his arms when he got home from that meeting, having been brought up to date by Duncan (everywhere suddenly to pick up PJ's slack), who was there for his initial meeting with Ben about whether he should go into the program or not. I don't think PJ will wind up needing to be sent away like Ben did, he just needs to get back in control and he wasn't too far gone so I'm optimistic.

Sorry, Babe. This isn't you. I don't know why I said that. 

You're just a mean drunk, that's all.

That cuts deep, Bridge. I'm bleeding here. 

Join the club.

Pretty little commune.

In the gloaming oh my darling
When the lights are dim and low
The quiet shadows fall around us
And softly come and swiftly go

When the winds are sobbing silent
With a gentleness we'll know
Will you think of me and wonder
As you did once long ago

I tried to leave him. I tried to get up, he'd pull me back down. I put my things on and headed for the door and he blocked it. I tried to play along and thought he would smarten up eventually. I remained there for a while. Finally I levelled the usual explanation that if he didn't make this easy I wouldn't make it often, and that freezing him out for his behaviour would be squarely on him. He ignored it. So I went for the door again and he grabbed me and took it way too far and I yelled at him and Lochlan kicked the whole door in.

Not sure how long he was out there but I never forget how fast he can move. We meet eyes and we both wished he could have kicked in the metal door of the camper many years ago for just a single second and then Caleb's on the floor and everyone is yelling and I just walk out through the carnage and meet Sam in the hall. Sam's face is questioning and he's there to make sure nobody dies. Or maybe he's there so if they do he can see them to their reward. Or their punishment, as it were.

He had decided I would stay when I was ready to go. And Sam nodded and moved to one side to let me pass.

Lochlan came back a couple minutes later without a scratch. Caleb has none either. He got thrumped on his ass to prove a point, they don't need to take it further. They still put each other in each others shoes more often than not, but it will be at their own expense, not mine. I can't afford it anymore.

PJ found it hilarious. But then again, these days PJ drinks far too much and is becoming less help than hindrance. Not to say he's in the way but he's usually half into himself by lunchtime lately and I'm soon to go fetch that bottle out of the recycling bin and break it over his head. If I could find it for the pile of new ones that has buried it.

Fuck off, Peej.

Notice when you overstayed your time with me, no one broke down the door.

You didn't try to keep me from leaving.

Oh, he pulled that shit again? Fuck him.

Fuck everyone.

See, that's the problem, Bridge. And the only thing Lochlan can do is bust in a few doors and pretend he's fine otherwise.

He sent me there.

What the fuck, Bridget.

He told me to go.

Then he's more fucked than I thought.

I told you this. We all are. Also you're going to a meeting today.

Like hell I am.

Well it's your lucky day, because this is just like hell.

Sometimes it is, you know. And that's your fault.

My eyes sting with tears and I look away. Of course it's my fault. Even though Lochlan is tired and he sends me down the hall to keep the peace, to be a pal, to seem generous and above everything and then he hates me and hates himself and hates everyone and he tries to pretend it's fine. He spins it like I have all the power but I actually have so little. That, like everything else, it will just be unconventional. He did the same thing when we were on the road. He normalized the weird. It's fine that we're on the run. It's the life, climbing out windows in the middle of the night and picking pockets so we don't starve. It's par for the course, selling our souls to get jobs so we can survive even though the jobs were no different than prostituting ourselves on the corner. He packaged it up pretty though. We were together. It was an act. There would be rules.

Just like now.

The redhead would have played America's Rainy Day and it would have worked but of course and that isn't what this is, now, is it?

Well I know that you're gonna cry
Tears are running from your eyes
The piece of my life you take
Is one that so often breaks

It's the kind of cold miserable morning that sees Caleb put on California Dreamin', stereo filling my ears when I'd rather be sleeping.

Stopped into a church
I passed along the way
Well, I got down on my knees (got down on my knees)
And I pretend to pray (I pretend to pray)
You know the preacher like the cold (preacher like the cold)
He knows I'm gonna stay (knows I'm gonna stay)

You don't like it? He's missed the mark. I prefer the Mamas & the Papas version with the flute over the Beach Boys (or even America's cover and I don't often put anything above that band) with it's cheesy eighties saxophone solos any day.

I frown and he turns it off, returning to the blended-family music of The Blue Stones and Missio. I already made the choice for today. I rarely can be persuaded to switch. This is one of my flaws, to be sure. God help you if you're near me and you want to listen to something different and I'm not in the mood. I can't help it. I'm sorry.

The good part is nobody actually minds, as I have good taste in music and play an exceedingly wide variety while keeping a balance of perfect old familiars.

Old family liars. That's how my brain sees that. My eyes just see Caleb, in his Tom Ford boxer-briefs, cut perfectly from the same cloth as Cole, just more refined. He's sipping coffee. He looks energized. I finished my coffee and refused a second cup. I want to go back to sleep, want to go back down the hall but he won't let me and so instead he paired my phone with his speakers and told me to play something good, but softly so I can still hear him over the music.

He likes to try and prolong the mornings, calling for a slow-waking when the usual one will do. He's very easy to fall asleep with, and stay asleep with. I don't know why that is. Maybe the familiarity (liar). Maybe the fact that he's nicest and most generous right after he's ripped me to pieces with his teeth. Maybe he's no longer hungry and can be civilized. Maybe he's just content for the moment instead of perpetually wound and unsettled.

He and August are, strangely enough, a lot alike in that respect in a way that sees a visible relaxing of their shoulders, their minds and hearts and hands directly after touching me that works in a way that fascinates me. I would never tell Caleb that, however. He likes to pretend he's the only man in the world in perpetuity. Just enough to keep my heart together a little longer, he tells me and it makes my tears threaten, burning my eyes and I have to look away for a moment, thinking about something else while he assumes I'm angry about his words and don't want to hear it anymore.

The truth is that's the fuel that keeps me coming back, thriving on his need for me, living for it as a challenge to shut everything else the fuck up. The only control I have over him (something I always, always wanted) is that I get to decide when I see him. And when he can touch me. And I live for the gratitude and tenderness he shows as a result of that permission.

It's a fucking drug.

( You want new music? Go listen to America. Sister Golden Hair, Rainy Day, Moon Song, Lonely People, etc. It's all fucking spectacular.)

I can hear the windchimes on the other side of the doors.

It's going to be a beautiful storm. We battened down the hatches ever so slightly, closing awnings and the larger patio umbrellas and stowing the inflatables. Daniel was supposed to be sure any glassware and breakables were removed from the patio and around the pool but he didn't. I've banned breakables anyway but that doesn't stop anyone who drinks from taking out beer bottles and leaving them everywhere. By 'everywhere' and 'bottles' I mean that one stupid Kokanee bottle I can see out the patio door that is sitting on the table beside PJ's favorite covered chaise lounger. It's been there since Saturday.

Shame, PJ. Shame.

I've got my storm playlist cued up. Sorry, I can't exactly share it since we don't believe in Spotify (again, not renting my music), but it's mostly a solid blend of Pachebel and Oceans of Slumber. Heavy on the heavy, I always say.

Sorry, Dalt.

He hates it when I say that.

But I'm not sorry because it's PERFECT.

Going to work on myself today and heal a bit and snuggle with Lochlan and make a delicious rare favorite for dinner (can't tell you and ruin their surprise) and maybe run out between rain and get that bottle. It's going to drive me crazy.

Fair of face.

When Caleb tracks me down with a hat-trick breakfast offer I clearly fail to impress. I am in the garden barefoot, covered with dirt up to my knees and elbows, the soil freezing and damp. I have a fistful of rosemary and one of lemon mint too and I have bright nailpolish on and hair parted nonsensically, as it seemed fine when I washed it and now that it's dry I've got a bizarre zigzag across the top of my head that somehow delineates the silver from the gold.

With a frown he asks if I'm 'busy'.

Uh. Not really?

He extends his offer, the expression on his face deepening, perhaps unconsciously into one of sheer regret.

Tomorrow would be a better day for it. I'm sorry. I'd like to be home when Henry wakes up. 

It's Henry's eighteenth birthday. He is Monday's child, and an Indigo soul. He has an emotional map copied from my very own and yet he's also a wunderkind that I never could have hoped to be. He has my perfect ashes, pine and ivory-pink coloring and that alone is astonishing. He hates it so.

But seriously. I want to be here so I can give him a huge hug and yell Happy Birthday at his retreating back when he goes to the table with his breakfast muttering something about me knowing he isn't a morning person.

YEESH, Henny. You used to be. You will be again some day if you're anything like me. I get up at five-thirty every morning of my life with a smile that slowly fades over the course of the day and by seven at night I am all but finished, mimicking Caleb's handsome frown in my own completely non-handsome way.

Caleb is a good de facto Dad to Henry though. I will give him that.

I figured we'd be back long before Henry wakes.

True.

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.