Ben's already made a joke about cup size.

I've been out in my glossy green raincoat picking up fallen branches in the deep woods in front of my house. I think I have enough to start the ark, though we may have to make a lumber run at some point to finish up, as I don't think this is good enough for trim pieces and it's hard as a rock to cut through. I believe it's most maple, aspen and cypress. The blackberry woods have taken a beating this fall but mostly because the summer rain and cooler temperatures made the trees grow these long spindly branches that aren't ever as strong as I am, and therefore they snap off when heavy and wet.

I've made five piles. I look like I'm setting to burn five witches at the stake. Though PJ's probably going to come out and yell in a minute to get the wood off the grass.

I will say: They're not on the grass.

He'll say: Well fine, then. And turn and go back inside.

The rain makes PJ cranky.

But I cheered him up in advance, because I'm good at that.

I went out this morning and bought a Keurig.

YES I KNOW.

For whatever reason, I originally wanted a Tassimo. I borrowed one briefly but I didn't love it enough. This was in 2006. Then after two or five more standard coffee makers I got caught up in the bulletproof, pour-over crazy but after two different pour-over setups and a lot of wasted sludge and tasteless coffee I finally bit the bullet and bought a Keurig and I already had a cup of regular coffee and it was pretty good and really easy to make. Cleanup wasn't bad, I can recycle the parts, the grinds continue to be scattered and mixed into the soil in the gardens as always and well, we finally joined the legions of pod-coffee people, I guess?

Probably better than joining the actual pod people with no coffee in sight, right?

Anyway. The hot chocolate is up next, and that's the part I figure PJ will like the most.

Internet is so sporadic today so we're living like it's 1699. I think I like this better! Maybe it will be back tomorrow. Bye!

The construct is flawed. Sam has already supervised the demolition and the site has been remediated, earmarked for something different?

What, exactly?

New memories. For example, Bridge, what were you doing five years ago this week?

Turning my attention to training camp for preseason hockey. Driving Ruth to work all the damn time. I spent my evenings in the car, I think. 

You remember it all. 

Of course. I have a gold-plated short term memory. 

But if you rebuild that will disappear and you'll remain rooted in ancient history. 

Because we've all moved on?

Exactly. Joel fails to catch my irony and I have to bite my tongue not to cast him out.

In the interest of full disclosure I spend most of my spare time rebuilding. But it's hard work. We're talking one cinder block a week. The concrete guys never showed up for the pour so we're taking it old school now-

Ever think your brain is preventing that progress because deep down you want to put it on the very back burner and turn it to low. 

How many analogies are you going to throw at me this visit?

All of them, if it helps. 

Maybe it does. 

Ah. The princess throws a bone to the poor hungry mind tamer.

I can feed you but you're no longer allowed to tame my mind. 

I can still help when times are quiet. As a friend, not as a professional. 

Or just be an actual friend and stop trying to stir the pot, destroy my progress or be a reminder of him. 

Is that what I am?

Not in the way that you want to be. August gets that designation forever. 

I know. 

Thank you for the honey delivery. 

I knew you'd appreciate it, Bridge. 

I do, and it's not even a euphemism. 

I know. That's sugar, right?

Build it up in a technicolor dream.

In the end after an impromptu vote the households declined my new mega holiday and so we decorated for Halloween only, which is nice because it's also Schuyler and Daniel's wedding anniversary and it's a very special time of year for them.

I will bite my tears back and be happy for them. Which isn't hard to do at all, it just went from one of my favorite times of year my whole life to one that brings up memories of the hardest times and it's not something I can forget or get past. My grief doesn't go away or lessen or fade. It blocks the damned door and I have to climb over it just to get out of my mental cage in the morning.

I'm high-functioning.

I'm actually sure that's not it. After waiting a few years to see the new John Wick movie I promptly fell hard asleep last night during the biggest gun battle and missed the ending, waking up in time for the credits.

For fucks sakes.

Lochlan thought it was hilarious. I even pregamed with a second cup of coffee at lunchtime and then a giant glass of Dr. Pepper with dinner which did nothing.

PJ suggested I watch movies standing up from now on.

It's not even a comfort thing. I do the same thing at the shitty movie theatre with it's hard upright seats, someone kicking my seat repeatedly until they get my murderous suggestion that they stop. It's like movies are my kryptonite. They signal a slow down. A kick back and relax. That's not an easy thing for me to do. As I say if I stop moving I'll fall asleep.

Yes there are narcolepsy drugs that will help the falling asleep. Stimulants. You know, those things that cause anxiety. So yeah, no thank you. And headaches. Double-no-thank-you. I will fall asleep here and there and someone will cover for me, tell me the ending, or rescue my coffee from my hands.

I don't know why I went on that tangent. Anyway, Schuyler's coming home tonight and he's going to be happy and surprised that his house is already completely decorated for their Halloversary. They're a beautiful, loving couple and I'm proud of what they've evolved into. They are what most couples aspire to be, or should if they don't already.

On that note, it's a cozy rainy day (aren't they all, suddenly. Welcome fall in the PNW. If I had known it would be this abrupt I would have asked someone to mow the grass just before it started because now we can't and it's long) and I've deployed one of Lochlan's older too-tight-for-his-arms (ha this is not a problem if you ask me) flannel shirts to warm my bones while I enjoy a coffee and headphones and tunes before the whole house wakes up. Started the laundry (it's Dalton's day but I'll help) and am waiting on the dog. I think he's passed out on Ruth's bed. She ends up with all the pets these days.

I'll get a little while longer in before the house erupts into a typical morning. 

Raising my vibrations.

It's Friday the thirteenth. It's a full moon and a storm on the way. It's the first full day listening to Starset's Divisions and I love it. Everyone was right. The bridge in Telekinetic is so heavy it brought me to my knees and I'm okay with that. The whole album is incredible. I love it. Well worth the wait.

I let Daniel tint my eyelashes and paint my nails dark blue while I played the album for him. He loves it. He loves everything, very easy to please, easy to adjust, way more laid back than Ben sometimes but also wound to a tight spring most of the time so this is a fun departure. Schuyler's gone away for a few days and so we invited him over to stay until Schuy comes back. Daniel's a massive cuddler and he wastes away before our eyes if left to his own devices when alone. That's not happening on my watch. Not in a million years.

Bridge. Do you want to help me decorate for Halloween?

You mean you....put the creepy things away when Halloween is over?

Well, yeah, Christmas needs space. 

We all need space. 

Not outer space, Bridget. Room to decorate for every holiday. 

Right. I just leave my stuff out all the time. 

I know. He pats the black bear skull on the shelf. But think if you start getting into the spirit of the holiday on an immediate level maybe things would be easier.

I don't think things can be easier but thank you. 

Bridget.

I know you mean well. 

I'll always mean the best for you, Bridget. 

Then we should put up all the holiday decorations for every holiday at once and have a Mega Holiday Seasonal Extravaganza. 

Oh my gosh! I'll go get the bins!

That's how Daniel became my favorite. I'm a fair weather favorite-namer but not anymore. Not at this sacred time of year, Mabhallothanksremembramas.

Dreamstate/The Audubon Society of Point Perdition.

What is that bird? Caleb comes to stand behind me at the patio doors. The boys have hung some very popular bird feeders in the backyard and we now have endless entertainment. I could stand here all day and watch. I've named some of them. They are 'my' birds and I eagerly await their antics.

(Joel calls it 'healthy', as if nature and I don't get along much. I mean, we do but it's only because nature comes looking for me most of the time. My own little black cloud.

I swim almost every day. 

That is good too.

Then stop picking on me.

He disappeared from the room and I haven't seen him since.)

It's a junco. 

He's beautiful. 

Agreed. I look up and turn around and am faced with the underside of Caleb's chin. He looks down abruptly and grins.

Bridget's birds. 

I should name more of them. 

What ones have you named so far? 

I turn around and scan the feeders with my eyes. None of them are here right now. 

I can wait. I'd like to meet them. 

If I go outside they fly away though. 

You have to be more quiet. 

I thought I was. 

Can you hear his song? 

No. 

You're really noisy just in general. Maybe you should wear your hearing aids again. 

The ones that have been in a drawer for the summer?

Summer's over, Neamhchiontach. Time to leave the inside of your head.

Distraction is to the mind what _______ is to the heart. Fill in the fucking blank for me because I can't figure it out and I've been trying for decades.

Third cup of coffee today. Nicer cup than what I usually use. My current favorite is a big orange round BB8 cup from Star Wars. It holds a metric shit ton of coffee and it stays warm and it isn't top heavy or weirdly delicate. This cup at Batman's is one of his custom-commissioned designer teal and charcoal-grey west coast hand-fired stoneware cups built to specifically fit a man's hands.

His entire set of dishes cost something like 4k. I remember. Jasper showed me the invoice in the middle of an argument once and I never forget. Who the hell spends many thousands of dollars on dishes. Especially since it's merely a full set for only ten people. Not even twelve. Just ten.

(Any more than ten at the table and no one can carry on a conversation, he theorized.)

(That was another argument, but I digress.)

Not only do I love a circus of a dinner but I love cups that are pretty and work well. His are far nicer than mine and I might steal this one when he turns his back. It's what I do. I actually never brought back one of his little dessert dishes. He brought me a piece of cake and said I could return the plate in the morning. I did not and he hasn't asked for. I guess he's only set up for a party of nine now.

Or two, as it were.

I'm wired but fixed in place, lightning bolts shooting all over the place, burning my world to the ground, all the while nodding at his thoughts as he tosses them at me gently, agreeing with what he says without hearing him at all. My mind is firing from the caffeine. I have no inbetween, I'm either manic or panic and then asleep. There's no sit and talk. I don't have a sit and talk setting. I have to keep moving or I'm going to pass out, snoring on your elbow as you try to tell me your hopes and dreams. I already know what they are. They're tangled in my own.

We're not all that different, though I am exceedingly poor by default and he doesn't even think about money. Richer than Caleb, or so I think sometimes, and yet instead of throwing it at me by the fistful Batman makes controlled gestures based on merit, employment, after a fashion and the rest of the time I truly believe he just forgets he's wealthy.

The thought that someone could even do that keeps me fascinated by his mind.

I finish my coffee and realize he's staring at me.

Waiting.

Well, what do you think?

Mmmm, I nod. Play dumb. Can I change the subject?

No, he says, more kindly than I deserve. I'd like an answer so I can make some plans. 

Go ahead and make your plans. 

You're up for it? Now? 

Wait. What? (midnight green, you say?)

Where the hell are you? He looks so done with me. Gone is the formality and in it's place a lonely, irritated man who's pushing mid-fifties and hasn't figured out the meaning of life even though he already bought it and it's in his inventory. He just needs to level up.

That's a good question. 

Did he give you something?

I'm sorry?

Did Lochlan give you a sleeping pill last night? It's usually the only time you're this scattered.

(ashes on the wind, bitch.)

Yes, I think so. It didn't work but the coffee isn't helping. 

I see that. 

I should go. 

Let me know by the morning and we can iron things down.

Sure thing.

Call me tonight if you'd like a refresher on the conversation. You don't even know what you're agreeing to. He leans down and kisses my cheek, takes my coveted mug and walks me to the door. He's so disappointed the grey in the mug pattern has darkened to black.

Pay with your face.

Listening to Lochlan go ON AND ON AND ON as Apple rolls out it's yearly event for the unwashed masses, feigning mild interest as he points out the odd neat new feature, falling asleep when he starts talking about the cameras (fun fact: Cole was a photographer. Doesn't mean I know a thing. Possibly even less) until he notices and I am forced to pay attention.

It has BLAHBLAHBLAHBLAH. 

Picture that for like, two hours.

Ending with his wish to preorder, naturally. Loch is weirdly into technology for someone who grew up servicing fifty-year-old amusement park rides, and loves loves loves computery...things.

Right? He says.

Hmmm? Peak brightness isn't one of my options, I guess. I would really like my phone to be able to understand what I'm mashing in a message window without replacing all of my words with unrelated ones. I want dark mode. I want actual waterproofing to the depths. I want a fucking physical tiny keyboard-

....and midnight green. 

Wait, what did you say? 

Green. The 11 Pro comes in dark green as one of the colors. 

Sold.

subliminal souls.

Now I'm here with you, and I
Would like to think that you would stick around
You know that I'd just die to make you proud

Green cowboy boots and a red and orange flowered dress buried under Cole's chunky grey sweater this morning. It's pouring and cold, strangely enough. Like summer just rolled up and said k, bye then! and peeled off down the road, a blur within seconds to our sunbaked vision, sunburnt skin pelted with tiny bits of gravel from its wheels.

Goodbye to you too. Bring on the Halloween decorations, the endless coffee. The baked apples and casseroles. The wine. Bring on the brightly colored rotten leaves and the mood that spirals all the way to the bottom, brought on by the early and late darkness, the time of year, the cold.

I will weather this like a forgotten sailboat in a storm. I will survive because that's what I do. Stubborn to the core, ridiculously weird and wonderful with lots of creative outlets to keep me busy. Stores of affection well-secured for the coming season like Mormon grain. I could feed hundreds with what I've saved though I use enough for ten people so maybe my needs may not equal someone else's.

Your hair. Caleb says it sweetly. I know, right? Just touching my shoulders if I pull my waves out straight. Bangs to my nose. I'm starting to feel exactly like myself at last, again, just in time for the rug to be yanked out, landing me on my ass.

Morning. I pull my coffee cup up to my lips, slurping up a sip. He hates that sound but it endears me to him nonetheless.

Sleep?

Some, yeah. He frowns at my response. He doesn't know what it means. You?

Yes, quite well now that it's cool. Listening to the rain was nice.

Ah. I wouldn't know. I can't hear it unless I stand very still right in front of the window and it's a heavy downpour. I always agree though, because it makes them feel better when they forget. It was, I lie.

Busy this morning? He acknowledges and ignores my lie.


Maybe. It depends. I do have a lunch with Christian and Andrew.

What time?

One sharp. They're making waffles from scratch. I'm less of a guest and more of a guinea pig.

Ah.

You can come with me-

No. I was hoping to maybe spend the day. Are you free after lunch?

Around three. I do have an hour of meditation planned but you can join me for that, if you like.

Meditation?

That's what I call it. I just lie in the gazebo on the floor and listen to music. It's my me time but Sam suggested I call it something more legitimate, as chanting Om and sitting crosslegged thinking about nothing is apparently more acceptable than wallowing in one's own misery, winding my feelings out on beautiful music. I think my 'meditation' is more useful long term. It's an outlet. It's a relief and a release all at once.

I know. 

You don't kn-

Oh, I know, Bridget. I knew back when I'd drive you home from the lake and you'd play the same songs over and over and over again on my tape deck, rewinding it constantly the whole way home. And I told you to leave it and you sulked and sat back with your arms crossed and your lip out for all of five seconds and then you reached out with one finger and hit that rewind button again and I never gave you a hard time about it again. Do you remember that? Because I definitely do and I've tried to entertain those needs for you ever since. 

I nod because he's right and it's raining again and I don't want to felt Cole's sweater but I don't want to leave this moment either.

So stay. Just for a bit. Perfect weather to play that soundtrack in your head. 

Wish you could h-

I can hear it. It's loud, Neamhchiontach. So loud sometimes it scares me. 

Good.

Thank you, Sam.

Post-birthday week church in the pouring rain this morning, the church warm and dim after a night filled with lightning and thunder that never stopped. Maybe Caleb was quietly celebrating Lochlan's decision to send August home, across the driveway in the deluge of sleet that blurred the edges of the night.

Lochlan did it to keep me from seeking out Jake. It's a kindness masked by authority and this morning I relay my gratefulness for him straight to God when I take my place in church. He holds out our coffees once I'm settled in, coat off, purse tucked against my ankle, and I take them while he shrugs out of his coat. I hand his back and he winks at me. It's a reassurance and I shift position to lean against him.

Sam brings his own mug of coffee over, and sits on the top step.

I don't think anyone else is coming. We'll wait fifteen minutes and then head out. 

He and Lochlan talk softly about winterizing preparations for the church and for the point, a little bit about how August is adjusting back to life post-burn and then I open my eyes and Lochlan is prodding me to get up, it's time to go.

He took my coffee when I nodded off and just held it. I take a huge gulp but it's barely warm and I make a face. He tells me that Duncan is making french toast, that we'll have some brunch and then have a nap if I like.

Nothing else to do today? 

Nothing that can't wait, he says. We should have stayed in bed.

Then Sam would have been all alone. And besides, it was the first time he's ever had the church warm in time. Someone had to be there to appreciate that.

My own private perfect dystopia.

August's hand trails across my lips and down my face as he talks. I'm trying to listen, trying to lasso my mind back from where it's going, trying to stop my eyes from turning him into Jacob, trying to stop my body from liquifying when faced with his touch, Lochlan's eyes burning a hole in my skin anyway so not sure why I try so hard but it seems like it's going to be this way. It's going to be difficult and yet he means so much to me and I try to separate August from Jake but I can't do it. Not one hundred percent. Maybe sixty on a good day, seventy-five on the very best but still a huge, mutinous part of my brain screams with laughter and runs the other way.

August looks older, somehow. Gone just shy of three weeks and it's like he's been away for years. We've heard so many stories from his adventures, from the burn, seen the pictures he took, looked at the small things he did bring back and evaluated his mindset on return as the boys do for each other. Is he coming back healthy? In a good headspace? Mentally fit? Capable of a return to life or desperately grieving the hedonism that sent him out looking for it in the first place?

Well, August is also around seventy-five percent of himself, as it takes a while to adjust back to normal life. He is always a night owl for months afterward, staying up too late, sleeping in too long, forgetting to have meals and do chores at usual times. He walked in the kitchen last night at midnight to borrow tea, setting off the alarm, the dog and Benjamin. It took us a long time to settle down and he stuck around which made it better.

I shake my head. Don't do this. Don't touch my mouth. Don't make me want you. I close my eyes and his fingertips touch against my eyelashes. Goosebumps rise up on my arms and I feel Lochlan's hand wrap around mine.

Neamhchiontach. 

I shake my head. Don't break this spell. I need it to be fulfilled. I need some Jake-time and then I'm okay. Need a little Preacher memory and then I can get by for just a few more days.

Goodnight, August. He says it gently and my lips are cold suddenly. August's proximity fades, his smell disappears. His hands let go. Then he charges back, a hard kiss landing on my cheek. A squeeze around the back of my head in the process.

Goodnight, Princess, he whispers against my head and then he's gone.

I am turned to face Lochlan. No apologies, no remorse. He pulls me in close. Come here, Bridget. 

All yours, I tell him, palms out.

You're disappointed. 

Yes, I answer truthfully, honestly. We don't lie to each other, we don't protect each other or soften the blow. Never have. Rip the bandaid off. Blow the lid. Make it hurt and then you'll know you're really alive.

Another time. 

I nod in response. I know. 

I love you. 

I nod again. I'm surprised. 

Why? 

I'm...unloveable. 

Not from where I'm standing. Not from their vantage points either. 

In real life I would be. 

Then let's stay here.

Fifty-four.

I don't know when that happened. The trip was long but we finally arrived at this number and it's mind-numbingly larger than I thought. It's seasoned. It's earned it's scars, pockmarked by years of being pelted with space junk, with aster-

Meteorites, I mean.

Look up there! 

An asteroid! 

That's a meteor, Peanut. 

Same thing, isn't it? 

Technically, but it's an asteroid until it reaches our atmosphere, and then it becomes a meteor. If it burns up when it gets to us it's a shooting star. If it lands it's a meteorite. 

Can we look for some? 

Meteorites? Or shooting stars? 

Both! 

Meteorites would be hard to find. 

But what if we found one? 

What would you do with it? His mouth curls up on one side. He's amused. I love it when his face does this. It makes my stomach flutter so fucking hard.

Cut it open! I am breathless and immediate with my reply.

And what would you find inside? 

OUTER SPACE. That's it. I'm determined now.

But outer space is right. there. He points for effect. Look around you. 

I sit up from where we lie on the picnic table. His legs dangling off the edge. Mine not reaching, thought they would if we were crosswise.

This is the best birthday I've ever had. 

I can't believe you're fifteen already. 

Some day you'll be fifteen too. What are you going to do when that happens? 

Get my learner's permit. And go to space. 

You can't drive there. 

I'm thinking driving a rocketship is like driving a car. 

Is it now? There's that smile again when I look at the side of his face. He's making my stomach hurt. His eyes flash in the dark and I really wish he would hold my hand.

I trace his arm in the dark. The rocketship tattoo is still vivid decades later now, ready to lift off into the sun. Into space. Our ticket home to the stars, this massive field above us while we lie in our backs in the wet grass at the far edge of the lawn, stuck way down here on earth.

Happy birthday, Locket. 

Best birthday ever, Peanut.

He says that every single year.

Roller toaster.

Plotting weekend tattoos (shhhhh) and dealing with a last minute car appointment as something fell OFF my car this week and I'd like it stuck back on. Having olive bread and listening to Starset's fourth single, released today while I was picking up some items at the grocery store and I might have squealed out loud. Getting THINGS DONE today. I felt the familiar overwhelm creeping in today which dragged Resolve and Attitude Adjustment behind it. I can handle it. I can do this. I got this.

I swear to God, when people say they have a hard time getting out of bed in the morning, yeah, so do I. I just bring the bed with me just in case. Then I run right back, throw it in my room and dive back in before the Big Bad World can find me, or catch me, at least.

I didn't say wolf. It's the whole world today.

Cardinal Copulate (this is not a thirst trap).

We're going to take a day off from relationship drama to examine yet another one of Bridget's Amazing Future Inventions, right up there with Airport hugs and Saltwater Princess, the novel, only it would have to be in encyclopedia form because it's too huge now to reduce down, boiling it into something anyone could even read. Whatever. Onward and upward, right, Jake?

Remember the airport one? (Gawd. Don't go read the post. Here's the part you want)

What if when you traveled or were on your own in a strange place there would be a way to get comfort on the run? I had a vision of a special room or area at the airport, with yellow lights above a stark white hallway, and if you needed someone or wanted comfort you would go stand under those lights and anyone who saw you there would approach you and invite you to have a meal with them, share a cab, or simply give you a long hug. I realize that's an impossibility, a horribly invasive and assumptive series of events but at the same time if you have ever navigated an airport alone and felt as what was on the inside of your own skin brought the only familiarity in an alien sea of people then you'd probably agree this would be a splendid invention.

So here's what I propose:

We divide the Internet into genres, kind of like music except the subgenreing would be LEGIT and not fucked up, in that I mean no one in their right fucking mind would label Ghost the band as anything less that pretentious theatrical pop music and everyone would agree with it, wholeheartedly and I would stop having to read about the band on all my metal news sites.

Yeah, I'm fairly picky about my metal subgenres for someone who's been listening to Lana Del Rey all week long. I'm aware. But this isn't about that.

Let's have an Internet where you pick your genre and the only thing you can see/watch/read are things that pertain to that specific genre.

Cute dogs.

Politics.

Sugar.

Hardcore porn.

Demotivational memes.

And so on, etc. Because I get tired of going looking for porn and finding politics. I get sick of finding a batch of cute puppy videos sandwiched between posts debating whether or not the poster is an asshole and food blogs. I don't want to watch a Lana Del Rey video and find Chinese propaganda social credit score stuff in my sidebar.

I don't want to see your world. Don't want the current events. Don't want to mistakenly stumble across a video of protesters getting gassed and don't want anything about Ghost in my fucking universe.

And yes, women look at porn online too. YES EVEN WITH A HOUSEFUL OF MEN.

(Honestly I'm just trying to find better/different positions for the size differences between me and them. Shut the fuck up.)

Radical self-awareness.

He made it.

Trudging across the beach at high tide, looking a little exhausted and a whole lot relieved, August got back just in time for Ruth's twentieth birthday champagne sunrise toast.

Basically we all drank it in a single gulp, eyes wide because she's twenty and she was seven yesterday, hung up on singing Avril Lavigne songs and wanting to dye her hair blue. I consented to that, a year later because why not? Her hair is no longer blue, right now it's bright green, and she's got a good handful of tattoos and is in her third year at University, which started today (sorry kid, your due date was August 22, not my fault you procrastinated), and so she's off on public transit, to figure it all out. Henry's gone off to do his schoolwork, having started last week on a course and since I'm technically not all that keen on discussing too much of my children online there's your paragraph for the season.

August looks a little past tired actually. Maybe a little haunted instead. Maybe conflicted. Maybe even lonely for those he knows best these days. He greets the children first, as we do, and then the boys. I am last and am practically rabid by the time I reach his arms. I'm so happy he's back. I worry that he's lonely. I worry that he doesn't have a strong enough pull to the point. I worry that something bad will happen when he travels alone.

So glad you came back. 

Definitely probably my last year. 

Ha. Doubt it.

No, you know even though last year was brief and didn't end up great it was nice having my whole family there. This year seemed strange without all of you. And he pulls me in for a hard hug again that leaves me without breath.

I stare at him when he lets go.

It's the truth, Bridget. 

So you're not going again?

We'll have a burn here. I know a guy who does fire pretty well. He grins at Lochlan, who surprisingly grins back. Lochlan who has spent the week alternating between snapping at me, marvelling at the fact that his child is twenty years old today and being jealous of August for taking off for Burning Man without a care in the world and all that just went away. Nothing to be mad, sad or envious about, right this minute.

And if anything, though he has a torrent of emotions always at the ready, Lochlan also has a terrific gift of perspective and pragmatism, that keep him centered, balanced and open.

Really glad to hear you missed us, he tells August. We missed you too.

He should be a Scorpio for all these moods.

Two coffees, one orange juice, one attempt and failure to shave my legs in the shower and then two glorious eggs benedicts with back bacons on English muffins and-

Wait. Are there Scottish muffins? I ask Lochlan, my face still full of brunch goodness. Yes, I talk with my mouth full and so do you.

You ask this every time and as I said before, there is. You wouldn't like them though, he scolds and we resume eating in silence. It's birthday week and it begins with brunch at his favorite place and then a long sunny week of floating in the pool, drinking the good birthday-whiskey and low-key bickering with me as I attempt to find a new job, finish three different house projects and up the ante on life itself and figuring out what that is.

Also August coming back any minute now and I miss him! But Lochlan doesn't! And that's a problem!

There's no problem, Lochlan reminds me. Why is he so cranky? Oh right. Someone's dog barked all night across the cove and none of us slept. If it happens again tonight we'll be lighting the pitchforks and kayaking across. If I don't get some meaningful sleep soon I may fall for his attempts to bait me into a fight but honestly I'm trying so hard today, with zero support, to stay in a really good mood and anticipate a wonderful week full of birthday celebrations, homecomings and back to school.

Poly narco baby.

You again? Sam laughs softly when I open the door. We have to stop meeting like this. 

I grin at him and stick out my tongue before softening and stepping back to one side so he can come in. We are settling into quite a Saturday night routine, only my legs are so tired from walking miles and miles around such a huge shopping centre, and I'm falling asleep on my feet.

Sam is our Saturday night companion, our steadfast, our anchor. He's soaking up the affection here with an enthusiasm that I never expected. He and Lochlan are closer than ever and he sleeps so easily, as do we, when we're all together. Even Ben doesn't mind finding him with us. He's a comfort object in human reverend form. And we are comfort right back.

But he sees that I'm struggling with the hour and the expectations right now. That's what I love most about Sam. Within seconds of talking to you he can figure out exactly what you need. He's the Devil in a collar. He's needful things. He's the always-solution to the problem you didn't even know you had yet.

What about instead of a snuggle we had a bath?

OH. Sam. You haven't lived until you've swam in this tub. Except I know I'll fall asleep so another time. 

We could go for a hot tub. 

Rather be naked. 

No one ever accused you of being subtle. Can't you be naked in your own hot tub though? 

It's not exactly in my own private backyard. 

Er..okay. I can draw a bath for you. 

Draw it for three. 

Wait, how big is this tub? 

Big enough. Come and look! 

And he did and he chose a lovely blackberry vanilla bubblebath and ran a blisteringly hot bath for us. While he did that I lit candles and closed curtains. I met Lochlan coming in through the door, suit still on from some thing with Schuyler. He had said to start without him, which was lovely but unnecessary, and I told Sam to arrive later than usual. That's why I'm so sleepy now.

Sam here? 

Hey, Brother. Sam is in the bathroom doorway. I just arrived. I'm running a bath for us. 

Nice. Lochlan smiles warmly, giving me a quick kiss and then heading straight to Sam for one of those thumping-back hugs they do.

 I do indeed fall asleep in the bathtub, lulled into heavy dreams, listening to quiet talk between these two and then Lochlan wakes me gently, squeezing me in his arms until I open my eyes. Time for bed, Peanut. He pulls me with him out of the warm bubbles, Sam wraps me in a towel and then I am led to my big giant bed and I only have time to ask that they turn off the lights and blow out the candles before I am asleep again. When I wake up it's morning. It's ten already. Sam is gone. Lochlan is awake watching me. The sun is up.

Good sleep? 

So good. I realize Ben is sleeping in his usual place and snuggle into him. Lochlan plays big spoon and we fall back asleep for a half hour, Ben's arm coming out to pull us in tightly to him.

Was Sam frustrated when he left?

On the contrary. He was tender. He baptized you with a kiss and said he would say extra graces over dinner tonight. 

Good. 

Yeah.

Happy burn.

I need a vacation. I just braved the crowds at Metropolis for a little back-to-school shopping with the kids. Henry did not want to go, having bought a bunch of outfits already this summer for the upcoming fall. Ruth will always take shopping over just about any other activity, and happily lights into Forever 21 with an enthusiasm reserved for kids about to eat cake at a birthday party.

Speaking of parties, she went out with her friends tonight in her cute new jacket and gave us reprieve to complete preparations for her family party tomorrow. We blew up a million balloons, suspending them all over the main level of the house from the ceiling, brought out the pile of presents and finished decorating the cake I baked this morning. She'll be twenty on Tuesday, a double-happy day because August is supposed to come home in time for her actual day.

I kind of hope he comes home early but that's wishful thinking. Had I been able to stand it physically, they would have had to drag me kicking and screaming from Black Rock City. I know he has such good fun and he always downplays it when he comes back and that makes me sad. He shouldn't have to minimize such a life-changing, life-restoring experience but he will even as I press him for more details. More feelings! More photos!

It's all so exciting. I'm happy I'm keeping up today. So is everyone else though, as I threatened to get drunk and go sit in a tree yesterday and apparently that was exceedingly immature. I can be mature!

Tauruscopes.

It's raining here on the point under a super black moon morning. It's quiet and dim. It's my favorite time of day. I'm awake, alert and inspired. I drink my coffee alone when I can, headphones blocking out the world, my very own version of an apocalypse bunker complete with stores for years, if not longer. I can write and play with words and draw and music myself up until I'm ready to be released into the known world where we are hellbent on socializing, being together or whatever that thing is called where I must exhaustingly interact with other humans because that's what one is supposed to do.

Maybe it's me. I tolerate so few of them. Like the sun. I can handle it (if I must) while I'm gardening but if I'm at the beach I want this weather, always. Darkened skies and brackish teal. Muted foggy green and dampened lamp-black shores, holding their secrets closer as they wait for the light.

Today brings a new personal outrage as I need to bring my glasses to the beach. From far I can spot the sea glass pieces but once I pick them up I then need to put on my glasses to see if they're ready for saving or need more work. This is my true garden where I cultivate the legacy of how water smoothes the rough edges, softens the violence of a shard, mutes the screams of my victims-

(Okay maybe ignore that last part, for that is simply wishful thinking and nothing more.)

Little blind-and-deaf Bridget is watched closely, red eyes blinking out of the darkness by the edge of the steps. Always close enough to run. Always far enough to try and afford a graceful sort of mock-privacy. I set my coffee cup down on a large flat rock and he stirs in concern, pretending to shift his position sitting on the third step up, coffee cup nestled in capable hands.

I find a singular treasure and pull my glasses back down over my eyes to look more closely. The edges are smooth and cloudy, pitted and round. Perfect. It's hard to find the white and pale blue pieces. Mostly I find green and brown. Each color has a value and I'm suddenly rich. Each piece has a weight and I'm suddenly heavy. Each day has a number and suddenly this one means something.

You really want to know who the fuck I am.

(Don't panic. It's a song lyric.)

I still have a weird dent and a white mark on my fingernail where I slammed my finger in the fridge at work on one of my last days. I only miss my paycheques, nothing else and when I went in to drop off my dress I was struck by how disorganized and filthy everything was. And yet it was filled with customers. I think my next job will be bagging groceries. At least there all the food is sealed and I can't be embarrassed by the state of it all. When people ask what's good I would pick a different dish every day off the back of the menu because I don't know, I wouldn't eat it.

Caleb smooths his fingers across the dent and tells me it will grow out soon. He's anxious once again to get a good review, a favourable mention in my writing instead of a vent or a despairing question of why he's here. I don't know what he wants me to say. No one needs to hear that he woke me out of a sound sleep last night, brought me to heaven four times straight with his fingers and then with his mouth and then put his weight on me, bringing himself up to where I was before disappearing back to his own room in the dark. It wasn't midnight yet. I was so sleepy. Just the way he loves it. Then I feel asleep again and when I woke up it was daylight. I was curled against Ben with Lochlan wrapped around me. I had to see if it was a dream. I asked Lochlan why Caleb came back and he didn't answer, changing the subject instead.

When I come downstairs PJ is playing Slipknot's Orphan so loud I think the roof is going to rattle right off the house.

Right? He grins, giving me a couple of good headbangs for effect.

The guitar sounds like Van Halen. I frown at him and he laughs.

Okay, so I know it's not your favorite.

Ooh. I like this part though. I give him a single slow headbang in return and he claps for me.

God. So proud. You look like a mom trying to be there for her kid.

So I'll skip that part and just throw the horns instead?

Atta girl. Throw them HIGH.

It better not be as hot as it was yesterday all day or I swear I'm going to liquify and they'll have to keep me in a jar in the fridge, which sounds great right now frankly. I actually fit in the fridge. We checked and scared the fuck out of Duncan one morning as he blindly reached in for something and I grabbed his hand.

Keeping up appearances with acts of attrition
It doesn't matter 'cause I know you'll never listen
Before you knew it when you saw it, now you say you never knew it
It was all a big conspiracy
We came together when the hands of fate let go
Is there anybody left to fill this hole?

Heat madness.

Fear fun, fear love
Fresh out of fucks forever
Trying to be stronger for you
Ice cream, ice queen
I dream in jeans and leather
Life's dream I'm sweet for you

Lying on Daniel's giant pizza slice inflatable pool float today. It's big enough for four people. It's vegetarian. I am stretched out between a cartoon cross-section of a mushroom and what I think is a blob of green pepper. It's a horrible thing, this, with terrible graphics and worse colors, but it's also the only one big enough for me to step onto and stretch out on without getting wet.

As such I have my airpods with me, an item that is positively banned from poolside, a rule I break every chance I get.

If you ruin them I'm not replacing them and neither are you, Lochlan says. Then what will you do?

Listen to my music on the speakers. Then they all can be treated to Venice Bitch played on repeat for four hours straight and they'll know what my brain can be like.

Better than they do now, I mean.

Daniel's not going to rat me out. He made a big show of cramming his giant frame onto my floating chaise with attached...uh..leg holder. 

Ahem, it's called a footrest, Daniel says.

Then why does it end just under your knees? 

Because it's for kids, he reminds me.

(Everything they get for me is built for your average ten-year-old. You should see my tiny kayak. It's like a little curled blue leaf and it's about half the length of theirs.) and he's not saying a word, though I know his arse is soaked through already because it's almost submerged from his weight. He's so tanned. I could stare forever. He looks like Ben but friendly. Wet.

It's hard to get Ben into the pool some weeks. The days run together for him. He probably doesn't know it's Wednesday. He doesn't know there's a long weekend coming up. PJ and I already grocery shopped. The gardening is done. I made jam. The house is clean, beds are fresh, gifts are collected and wrapped for next week, a week that sees Ruth and Lochlan have birthdays (twenty and fifty-four, respectively, where is the time going holy shit) and we're ready. I'll bake cakes this weekend and finish up decorating.

And it's thirty-eight degrees in the sun right now. The music is melting into my brain. It's going to be stuck fast and we'll never get it off.

Bridget. What the fuck.

Oh shit. Lochlan's noticed the headphones. He charges into the pool and pushes the pizza to the edge where PJ stands with an equally disapproving glare. PJ leans down, one hand out and I begrudgingly give him my airpods.

Last warning or you don't get them back, Lochlan says.

For fucks sakes! I protest and I turn and roll off the float into the deep end.

The blog with the classiest, most introspective foursomes you'll ever read about with zero sex mentioned because I'm better than that, fuckers.

They mistook my kindness for weakness
I fucked up, I know that, but Jesus
Can't a girl just do the best she can?

August called me late last evening. It's as if I can conjure him and he's there. Kind of like Jake, I guess, only marginally less heartbreaking. Or maybe he's marginally more heartbreaking.

Grab your humidifier and get on a plane, baby. 

Oh my God I love you. 

I bet. He laughs. You okay?

Hmmm? Yes? It's not Halloween yet. 

Not what I meant. 

Where are you? 

On the road. 

Ah. 

We're not in yet. Gate news is decent. Got hung up in Lovelock seeing some old friends. Still here.

Oh. 

I love you, Bridget. Wish you were here. 

Yeah me too. Love you too. Be safe.

Will do. Catch you on the other side. 

He hung up and I tried to keep my shit together and failed.

***

Before I could get out of sight Caleb swoops in. He's an emotional vampire. He smells feelings and he's there, feasting on my affectivity, drinking up my despair, growing stronger from the elixir of my misery and then trying to fix it. Because if he can make me happy, bring me up so high he knows eventually I will fall from those heights and he'll be there to feed once more. We're a vicious cycle. We're a cyclone together. A tornado of history that flattens everything in it's path and in the waking light I really hate him right now. He can give me anything I want but I don't want any of it.

Love you, I say as he smooths my bangs back with his thumb, smiling at me gently.

We can go. 

I can't handle the conditions. 

We'll bring the doctor. You can run around with an IV pole. It'll be a look. 

Sounds like certain disaster. 

Okay, stay home and cry over your livestream instead. 

That isn't...why I was crying-

You need to learn to embrace what I can provide.

I'm no longer sure if he's talking about impulsive trips or well-planned, choreographed sex parties anymore.

I split the difference. I thought I was. 

Not even close. He laughs but there's an undercurrent of disapproval so strong I go under, fight to get back to shore and give up, preparing myself to die.

***

It was a one-off, Peanut. 

I was, you mean. A little bit of a stressful night as I couldn't relax enough to get anywhere except for with Ben and you don't think that shit tears at Lochlan just a little bit?

Should have had a little wine first. 

Should have had a lot of things. Maybe not Caleb. 

I'm just trying to make you happy. 

Then don't agree with me. 

What?

Nothing. 

Bridge-

Hey, Lochlan?

Yes?

Can we go to Burning Man? 

No, Bridget. It's bad for you. And by the time we got ready it'd be almost over. 

Okay. 

Wait, what? 

That's what I want. Is for you to be what I'm used to. 

The killjoy? Your dad?

The voice of reason. You're the only part of my brain that keeps me sane. 

He smiles a weird grateful smile, maybe getting the confirmation he needed that he doesn't have to try and make all of my wildest dreams come true, he just has to keep being himself and stay true to what he knows is right and what is wrong and not fuck with those things. Ever.

I'm really glad you said that, Peanut. I needed that.

I nod because I'm losing it. I'm also hung up in Love-Loch and I can't say anything to him in return.

Another opens.

I bought me a truck in the middle of the night
It'll buy me a year if I play my cards right
Photo free exits from baby's bedside
'Cause they don't yet know what car I drive
I'm just trying to keep my love alive

I take a deep breath. I shouldn't be here. I should be at Burning Man with August, who swears every single year that it was his last and then he goes off again the very next as if he's pulled to it unconsciously, can't help himself, can't stay away. Burning Man is the love of his life, a place that centres and builds him, a safe haven in which to recharge, something to celebrate and indulge in.

Meanwhile I'm on the other side of a bathroom door and I'm afraid to come out. Everyone always thinks I'm so full of shit, confident, egotistical even, boastful of my nights while downright greedy with the affection I seek during daylight besides. And I can be, truthfully. What you don't see is that I also have debilitating moments where I'm so self-conscious I freeze, my legs turning to stone, my hands shaking.

Out there they have plans.

I open the door and step out. My chin is quivering now but Lochlan is there, on his way in as I took too long to come out.

Hey. He kisses the palm of my hand. There are only a few lights still lit. Caleb stands by the fireplace, Ben by the window. I almost turn to go back into the bathroom to find another way out. Maybe if I open the door again there will be a different scenario here. It's a trick door, perhaps. I'll open it and there will be a field of flowers or a seashore, complete with seagulls on the other side. Maybe a busy rainy night metropolis or a tree-lined small-town street complete with pumpkins and plaid.

Ben comes over and kisses my forehead and goes on onto the balcony. He knows me. Knows I'm overwhelmed by this, every single time. I want to thank him but I'm still frozen. I want him to come back and Caleb to leave but it's not going to play out that way. They're trying to figure this out and it's still so much harder than it should be. I hate it. I hate being on display, hate being fought over. Hate anything save for one on one or for Ben with absolutely anyone else.

Turn the lights off. I say it abruptly, startling at the sound of my own voice. Please.

Caleb turns and complies. Better. Then I won't have to reflect this which I have become. I feel hands slide around my back, pulling me in close. I am stiff and unyielding.

Neamhchiontach. Lochlan says it so softly. Yes I know. He is afraid too. But that doesn't change how I feel right this minute. Outnumbered, overwhelmed. Afraid. He kisses my forehead almost exactly where Ben did and I return the favor just up underneath his chin. He relaxes ever so slightly, and I turn away in the dark testing the theory that Caleb will now be within reach as I can't hear him or see him.

I reach out and my hands touch his shirt. Yes. There he is. He reaches for me but I turn back to Lochlan. It's a warning right out of the gate. Fuck this up and you won't get another chance for a long while. Lochlan's grateful arms pull me back in. There's a moment where time stops and they remind me and each other of the safe word (forever gingerbread because why not? Something sweet. Something long and completely out of context, just so there's no mistake) and then we begin.

At some point Ben comes back. I feel his hands, smell him near me and I finally rest. At some point Caleb leaves. At some point I finally sleep, only to wake up when Lochlan talks in his dreams. At some point he wakes me up and tells me he loves me. Answering that is the only easy part of the night, but I didn't have to invoke any Christmas desserts or break up any fights either.

I do know this is not going to be my life going forward, and even with last year's fiasco I still wish I was at Burning Man instead.

Big time believer.

I'm the bolt, the lightning, the thunder
Kind of girl who's gonna make you wonder
Who you are and who you been

And who I've been is with you on these beaches
Your Venice bitch, your die-hard, your weakness
Maybe I could save you from your sins

So, kiss the sky and whisper to Jesus
My, my, my, you found this, you need this
Take a deep breath, baby, let me in

Sam came down the hall, thoughts burning through doors that opened with every step he took, determination making his mouth look just like that, that slight disapproving frown that I can't resist in the near-dark as it presents itself to me like a new song. It can whisper in my ears, put words in my mouth, send me to heaven and then drop me back into the quilts before I have time to look forward. He's a Bridget-whisperer, a light-heavyweight, an exorcist and this morning the memory of his hands on me soaks right through my Sunday due diligence, clouding the words on the page, making them unreadable, making the book heavy, and I leave the bible on the bench beside me. I don't need it. I know it by heart.

Headphones in church this morning. Watching Sam and that set of his mouth that hasn't changed as he must be so secretly gleeful that he's back in proximity, that he can figure out how to get along with the devil with a maturity I expected from neither of them, to the point that Lochlan and I stood with surprise and watched them banter lightly, affectionately this morning as we got ready for church.

Caleb, to my left, seems fairly secure about the whole thing. After all, he is next to me right now and the future is probably his, even though Saturday nights are for Sam. It's the extra push of faith that brings Sam straight to his favorite day of the week. He's pregaming, he's making sure to pour all of his sins on the page, letting them soak through to cloud His words before turning it to a fresh one to write the story he wants for himself, not the one he needs.

He is no match for the devil, though. One deep breath from the devil and I turn from the light and run, tripping, falling, crawling back to the dark where I belong.

And then Lochlan strikes a match and the dark disappears, taking Caleb with it, a memory of a dream I had but can barely recall now. The warmth rushes in, I hold on tight as I feel music swelling up, my heart breaking at the sight of his face, the sound of his voice as we go under again. He is an ocean, deep and reflective. I see myself in him. The drive to be better. The drive to put myself first so I don't drown. The only reason I don't chase them down. I let them come to me instead. I put myself up at the top of this pedestal, standing on their hearts, piled haphazardly around my feet, a mountain of carnage and adoration that I refuse to let them live on, instead starving them out until they're almost dead, then resurrecting them, bringing them back to life on my terms.

Life on my terms. A first. A sea change. An epiphany. I'm their faith. I'm the messiah. The five-foot-tall bedhead and green eyes, perpetually drowning in my own quiet sadness, using the ocean as a cover to mask my tears. Fuck you, Jesus. I'll write my own book here. Just get out of the way.

You got me good
Got me thinking
Got me pushing away your hands
Got me needing a break
Got me taking a breath

I walk through unscathed
into the teal night
water blurred into sky
faith smudged against a clean page of need
hands tied in distant death

we're blind
drunk on endless time
no start no finish
no middle no doubt
just me and you

caught in a net
pulled back to shore
a beautiful catch
can't throw her back
out here in the beautiful blue

Fog-sharpening.

Hey
How long

I woke up this morning to Lochlan gasping for air, fighting for breath because I had my arms wrapped tight around his neck, holding on to him for dear life trying to get away from a nightmare I have constantly but it played out longer this time. Hours. Days. Weeks. Years.

Which means they're giving me Ambien again. Nothing fuels a nightmare like that garbage. Instead of bringing me back around it only serves to paralyze me, helpless and uncaring while my brain tears me apart without interruption. Outwardly I look like I'm having a great sleep most of the time. This time I managed to fight it so hard I almost strangled him in the process.

A momentary shout of surprise, a gentle but firm effort to quell my panic and we got all the way through an icy cold breakfast out in the gazebo (twelve degrees and he refused to turn on the heat. There will be no elaborate comforts for you today, freak, I'm sure was his reasoning.)before he asked for an explanation.

Sleep paralysis, I lie. Fuck you, then, if you're going to take it personally. I'm trying to save our lives here.

What's the dream about?

Jacob comes back.

How?

He wasn't dead. He went to a monastery.

Sounds like a film.

Yup.

And?

He wants absolution, wants to pick up where we left off.

Isn't this your most fervent hope?

I smile tightly. God, you can be such an asshole. I woke up with my arms around you because I wanted to be with you and he was trying to pull me away.

That's not going to happen in a million years. You're seeing him everywhere. You conjure him in the clouds, in the water, in your dreams.

I'm afraid he's going to show up and ruin what we just got back.

Wow. And for the second time in less than a week I've driven a grown man to tears. Usually they're immune to my words, my thoughts. But I've got everything freshly sharpened for fall at last and it's cutting deeper than expected.

I'll never forget that you just said that. If nothing else, I know now that none of this was in vain.

Who said it was?

Caleb, among others.

Well, they're wrong. As much as I wish for Jacob to come back, it's so he can pay for what he did like a man instead of a coward, living in the fringes of my peripheral vision and my dreams.

User 34739, your battery is low.

We won't just fall away
We weren't just born to fade
Our stories are past the horizon
We're chasing the sun till we find them

I watch him sleep. God, he's trying so hard right now. I should be grateful. I should be thrilled. I should be less suspicious. The extreme stress of coming home, suddenly wondering if maybe it truly was a terrible idea to have Sam and Caleb living in the same house led to a mess yesterday and the only way out of it was the cold shock of the sea. I was perfectly safe. Caleb's a great swimmer. They can see it coming a mile away and I never throw myself in unless under heavy supervision. It's enough to reset my brain, or set it back, as it did yesterday, failing to do it's job, floating my ghosts to the surface, looming those monsters in closer than ever, thanks and I was relieved to be out.

They've been fine. If anything they are giving each other healthy space but also notes of curiosity float between them as they are the final relationship within the Collective to form,  Sam uninterested in forging a friendship with someone who flies in the face of his deep faith, Caleb loathe to extend the barest of acknowledgement to someone he considers a credible threat.

But yet here we are. They cooked dinner together last night, the electric snap of interest between them palpable and elastic. I didn't expect that. I mean, maybe it was a show but Sam rarely engages in effort for effort's sake and needs meaningful reasons for anything. Caleb is surprised to discover Sam is engaging, warm and concerned without being overbearing or intrusive. Sam is enigmatic and fascinating. He's a little like Lochlan save for the energetic intensity and quiet confidence. He's more than a little cute. And they can fall in love over the coming Autumn while I fall apart, I guess, and it will be fun to watch.

But he turned his attention back to me after dark, when Sam and the others drifted to their corners, new and familiar. He took my hands in his, kissed my palms and then held to his face so I would pay attention.

I meant what I said. 

I nod.

Will you help me fix this. I started it and I'm holding myself accountable. Will you help me to help you? 

I nod again. I'm trying not to cry. If I say a single word it's going to happen. He is already.

No more jumping in the sea?

I can't promise-

You have to, Bridget. No more of that. No more waiting until it's so bad you don't have a choice. I want you to come to me before it gets to that point. Do you understand?

I don't always have a warning, Cale-

Jesus Christ. 

But I still felt small.

(Hi, you can skip today. It's not for you.)

Now I wait
This metamorphosis
All that is left is the change
Selfish fate
I think you made me this
Under the water I wait

I pushed up toward the light, away from the blackness, the unknown beneath me. Fighting panic, fighting to breathe I shot to the surface, a reverse asteroid hellbent on remaining on earth, even as I was meant to descend from the stars.

Neamh-

No. I push him away. This isn't what I want. This isn't how I pictured it all. I dip back under briefly and in the blackness I see Jacob, who takes me around the waist to propel me back to them. His hair flows around his face, his beard floats and his eyes are still so kind, even now when filled with concern.

Go, Bridge. You don't belong here.

I know. It's the Atlantic, not the Pacific, that I'll die in. That's why they keep me here. Can't self-fulfill a self-fulfilling prophecy when they won't let me out of their sight.

You're not going to die until you're a very old apple doll. I laugh in his face as he says it and he frowns as I fight his efforts to push me to the air.

It'd be easier to stay with you. 

Not for them and he's done talking. He gives a final thrust of his arms and I am catapulted into the sky, gasping for air as Caleb's hands reach down and pull me from Jacob's arms.

STOP IT. He's screaming and I don't know it until the water drains from my ears. His voice is strange, strangled and strained. I don't remember him ever sounding like that before. Instead of holding me away from him he pulls me in tight, stroking my face. He's not down there, Bridget.

Maybe you should tell him that. 

He looks at the sky. I don't even know what to do with you at this point. Tell me how to help. Tell me how to prevent this. THIS is what's killing all of us, Bridge. Please. Let me help you. Don't let all of this go to waste. Jesus CHRIST. I did this all for you. At least let me use it to fix this. 

You can't fix this. 

Let me try. Oh, Jesus, please let me try. He breaks and I get to see it happen.

I think that's what might work. If they all drop the facades and let me get through this then maybe I can actually get through it instead of dying every time I try. A force of one tiny bird against a gale force wind, an army of weather I can't rise above so I keep trying to sneak underneath.

Jacob shakes his head. Ever cautious and doubtful. Ever dead.

You don't get a say! I yell at the water and Caleb just continues to sob.

Here.

(We're home from New York. I'm so tired. This will be short and I'm going to bed before supper.)

 Sometimes I think I'll die of curiosity waiting for the denouement of my own life, and yet when faced with a fortune teller and an open schedule I can't set one foot in front of the other, too superstitious, too doubtful to follow through. The last one who spoke to me was so right and so eerily prophetic I can't even imagine what would happen this time and yet I want to know so badly it hurts.

While we were away Sam and Gage shifted homes, only instead of Gage moving to the boathouse, Andrew and Christian are taking it, and Gage will move in with his brother and Daniel instead. Which works far better and never even crossed my mind, honestly. I'm excited to see it all works out but for now I am busy worrying that having Sam and Caleb living on the same floor might be a difficult thing. Sam is hesitant but also buoyed with the omnipresent faith of his that it's all going to work out. His own denouement, as it were.

If it really doesn't work Sam will move next door also and live with Schuyler, Dan and Gage. It's a big house and there he will have company but also privacy which is the best of both worlds.

Silver-lined.

You know what I secretly love about Caleb? He can be ridiculously, childishly impulsive. Like me. And I never see it coming. So he waited for Lochlan too and we went off for brunch. Only we were late and so brunch became midnight dinner.

In Montauk.

A place I have come to find sacred, safe and calming. Which is crazy because it's right next to a city that runs at a pace that leaves me breathless and then you drive for a few hours and boom. Silence. Surf. Sand.

And they were nice to each other. I started to get nervous and tired and kind of lost my shit at the end of what turned out to be a long day. I am famous for travelling much like a four-year-old in that I need breaks and distractions and I get overwhelmed and worn out so fast my composure dissolves just as I'm told to put on nice clothes because we're headed somewhere exclusive and difficult to get into.

And they stopped on a dime and turned and Caleb arranged take-out instead and we ate on the beach just down below the place he rented, which isn't all that far from the place Lochlan and I stay when we come here alone.

After dinner I put my head against Lochlan's shoulder and I was out like a light and I woke up this morning and it wasn't actually a dream. Especially since I woke up alone. I smell burnt toast and hear the low laughter and head downstairs in yesterday's dress and they're making breakfast, faces clearly disappointed as they were going to bring it upstairs for me but I beat them to the punch by showing up before it was ready.

Fucking 1979 is playing on the stereo and becomes the song of the summer, just like that. Only it's still The Contortionist's version, thank heavens.

There are bags on the table. Clothes. Caleb kisses my forehead as I peek inside but then breakfast is ready so I resolve to eat quickly and get ready so I can have as much beach as possible before we have to go. He and Lochlan are already ready, dressed almost alike in black t-shirts and black shorts. Damn. I'm so lucky.

Why here? I asked last night over candlelit sand, my voice slowed by the heavy red wine. Lochlan had excused himself for a moment and we were alone.

Because you needed an adventure and I didn't think another shot at Nevada was a good plan. 

New York is so far though. Could have gone to Oregon.

He shrugged. And we could have gone to Bali. Pick a beach anywhere in the world. It's not the same. Besides, we can go to the fair today.

Why did you bring Lochlan? 

He's your comfort object. Imagine the meltdown if I hadn't. 

True. I stick my face in the glass and hope to drown. Who wants to imagine that?

Sleeping holes.

And I know it feels like you’re drowning these days
And I know you question if it’s too late
And my only hope is that you choose to stay

Don’t be too proud to say
That you are alone, lost and afraid
Think about your pride
Just know your doubt’s misplaced

I know it feels like you’re drowning these days
I know you feel like you can’t be saved
And my only hope is that you choose to stay

Church this morning was coffee and ballpoint pen-stained fingers clutching my own and a whispered, quickened prayer against my forehead before a crush of a hug and a send-off into my day so fast I blinked and I was alone.

Sam came to us last night, late. He has a hard time shifting routines and an even tougher time living alone. As much as it has helped us to have Caleb close enough now to touch at any moment, it's been more difficult to have Sam so far away and so I might, as things shift, suggest that Gage take the boathouse, as Gage is the most private and independent one of all, and then Sam can resume life in the main house, surrounded by people and not feeling like an outsider. Plus both Gage and August are good friends, night owls and outliers, and so giving them closer proximity to each other might foster a closer relationship and that's never a bad thing. The Collective is always shifting and adjusting our dynamics based on need and so this wouldn't even be strange. I have already suggested it to several and they are positive about it so perhaps this week will involve a shuffle and Sam will return to the fold.

He seems buoyed by the thought, at least, sleeping easily when we did sleep. I had nightmares and was so cold. He and Lochlan had all the covers and I froze, pressing myself against Lochlan, hoping for a full-body snuggle but he was hot and too tired to be interested and so turned away. I didn't have the heart to wake Sam for more and so I tried and failed to will myself to sleep.

I won't make that mistake again.

The warmest bed on the point is Duncan's. Duncan has what has to be a four-hundred pound feather duvet that is so thick his bed seems up to my waist if I stand beside it and once you're in you feel like there's a heavy dense cloud wrapped around you. It's glorious. He adds flannel sheets in the winter and I couldn't ask for more. I tried to replicate that upstairs but we almost fainted from the heat. I think I just need to shift gears, maybe put the duvet back on the bed and close the windows at night but it's also supposed to swing back to forty degrees in the shade this week so maybe not quite yet. I'll make sure I have an extra blanket close, though. Just in case.

Sam's warm fingers around my hand are replaced with Caleb's. Equally warm but larger and more well-manicured. My mind is a quick read for this man this morning.

You wouldn't have been cold with me either, he frowns.

That I know. The fires of hell burn bright. I smile at him. It's fine. It was just cold last night and I didn't close enough windows. 

I would have fixed that for you. 

It's fine. I repeat and he changes the subject. Church?

Next week we're back to routine. Today's the last day. 

Ah right. Brunch then? 

God. He knows the way to my heart is a path lined with bacon and eggs. It's slippery but it's stick-straight and too amazing to ever deviate from, I swear.

My only hope is that you choose to stay.

(Should have listened to the cover of 1979, which is far better than the original but that year was a different sort of minefield. It would be the final year of Just Bridget before she met the boys and everything changed.)

The leaves are starting to fall, suddenly it's cool and dark early in the evening, and everything everywhere touts 'Back to School'. The pumpkins in the garden are so large I'm soon to need help to lift them when they need to be moved. Currently they are hanging, wrapped in cheesecloth hammocks tied to the iron fence along the eastern edge of the vegetable patch but soon we'll have to take them down.

The carrots and beans and peas are finished. The oregano remains a living buzzing organism of honeybees and the tomatoes press forward with a determination I've never seen from them before this year.

Our cucumbers were poison. Bitter and terrible from the cold nights. At least only three of them grew.

I am amused by the garden this year, not at all invested in achieving anything other than happiness from it and I think that's the best way to go.

I dug myself a massive dark hole this morning, listening to Early Grave, the best song on the new Contortionist EP. I could have driven my jeep and the porsche into that hole and probably a few of the trucks too. I could have thrown in three houses and the stable too and still you wouldn't have been able to see the bottom. Lochlan took one look over the edge and called Sam, who came and filled it all in while Lochlan held me far back from it, showing me pumpkins and coffee and notes on his guitar from when he tried to learn it and realized I was listening to the words and put the instrument down on the couch and went into emergency mode before I even realized I was digging that fucking hole because here we go into a steep slide straight to Halloween.

Life is a minefield and every second step I land directly on an IED. Life is a day as a sheet of paper with precious instructions, floating in the wind and it's raining so you must fly between the drops. Life is harder than I imagined.

Hey, check out your sunflowers. They actually grew! 

They're so late. They should have been open weeks ago but here they are, only as tall as me and tangled up in the grapevines so perfectly I didn't even know they were there.

I choke back a sob and will my eyes to stop flooding over. Be right there, I say in a strangled voice and I take a deep breath and head to where Lochlan waits for me.

Regressive tendencies.

Sigh.

A whole post about owls and woods and metal and you're all..."a single nother peep"???!?

Bridget, I thought you were a published author. It's 'another single peep'.

God. I could feel the condescension all but dripping off the emails but I had a laugh, wrung myself out, by now floating up to my ears in it, and pulled the plug on the room, washing it all down the drain. I rarely check my emails these days but I was waiting for something and so I read them, against my own best judgment, as I get tired of being told I'm a whore, that I'm going to hell, that I'm greedy and using people and dumb and soon to get 'what's coming to me', etc. etc.

Then the grammar police showed up. Thank heavens, because the others cut so deep but I tend to stay out of reach as it is. And my assistant blocks the worst and reports the very worst to the internet police or whomever needs to know. The Russians? Whatever.

(My assistant is Daniel.)

But yeah. It's a single nother peep. Because for me that's how it's ordered in my brain and I don't care if it's awkward, it's the way my mind does it and going back to edit my words later is sometimes something I can't get to. Sometimes it doesn't get fixed at all and I should try harder but sometimes...

Sometimes I just have to spill the words on the page and leave them there to pile up underneath the dead leaves and the moss and the pumpkin spice lattes and whatever's coming next. I've decided it's going to be good because I need it to be, regression and all.

She's a space cadet. Leave it. Important missions and all that. Lochlan isn't being unkind. In fact, he's the kindest of all, absolving me of my grammar tics and strangeness in one massive sweep. He is forgiving and gracious about it. He called me a space cadet once when I had my thoughts in the sky instead of in the present as required and instead of bursting into tears like he feared I would, instantly wishing he could take back the words he put down in anger, I took it as the single highest compliment he had ever given me. It's better than sweet, heavier than pretty, and more phenomenal than perfect to me.

What? He says, shocked. It's a name called. It's an insult, Bridgie. 

No, it's a goal, Locket. If I start out as a cadet, eventually I'll be the Space General! And then everyone will HAVE to listen to me.

Owls + new Starset.

Gravity
I pull on you
Close enough to rendezvous
You come to me and then you slip right through
I'm in the solitude
Why's it always touch and go?
Now we'll never even know what it's like
Left me in the afterglow
'Til I'm falling through space and time

Okay well, yeah. Toss the rest of the week off with one solid kick and haul in a new day. The owls sung me to sleep last night and when Lochlan came up I was all SHHHHHHHHHH CAN YOU HEAR THEM? And they didn't make a single nother peep for the rest of the night. Maybe that means I've manifested them only for myself, as Ben pointed out this morning. As if I could do that. Like, what?

Speaking of Manifest.

Jesus CHRIST.

I was scared Starset wouldn't sound like themselves. I didn't like MNQN, truth be told. I was really annoyed that there was another project taking up the time that should be used to push out the third Starset album and now that it's almost here I'm thrilled. I listened to Manifest about a thousand times this morning. It has all the elements that stroke my brain just perfectly. Heaviness, melodic emotion, and outer space.

Probably owls too, because owls are cool. 

When I say this afterthought Lochlan's coffee all but spits out in a huge spontaneous laugh.

God this song is SO GOOD.

Eagles, bats, IKEA pour-overs.

Drinking coffee in the gazebo, listening to The Contortionist's new EP Our Bones, reading my own words as I do a little subcontracted fiction writing for a guy who sometimes needs my touch but you'll never hear him thank me out loud. Sometimes gigs are crushing but still lucrative and I never had a soul to sell for so long it seemed easy to give away chunks of the carnival in my mind for a song or a fat cheque or a pat on the head, doesn't matter which.

I am usually the most impressed with the things I come up with anyway, overall.

Lochlan watches me from the patio steps, right by the door in the shade. My very own carnival in human form.  I take another dutiful bite of the apple-jelly toast he brought out for me, washing it down with a gulp of ice-cold gritty coffee from a cup I've been keeping close for several hours now. It's absolutely terrible and yet I'm proving a point. He doesn't need to hover.

I write a few more paragraphs and now I'm faking drinking coffee as it's empty, grinds travelling up the inside of the cup like a waterfall of dirt that eventually dried up in the sun. No one is going to hike back to see this marvel of nature, that's for sure. No one's going to invest kilometres of energy to stand in awe of the raw power of grinds sweeping over a ceramic vessel with a perfect blue-red lipstick print at the top. It's not Instagrammable. It's not wondrous. It's as pedestrian as one can get and you'll never see it but it still exists and that's somehow the important part today.

It's quiet and easy and not beautiful. The opposite of everything we reach for, everything we want, as always.

Oh, here he comes. Old eagle-eyes (blind as a bat these days) knows I'm faking and so I suppose my time here is up.

Upside: I didn't get eaten by a bear.

Yesterday's adventure wound up consisting of a long waterfall-laden hike yesterday. I ran ten kilometres to pull this off, as everyone walks a brisk pace when we hike to keep an even distance from other groups of hikers, even faster when we need to overtake, and since the average stride of the long legs of anyone in the group span several meters easy (might not be hyperbole), I therefore must run. When I begged them to slow down in the humidity they did but only enough so that I had to walk so fucking fast I ran out of breath eventually and got teased endlessly for being out of shape. Ben offered a piggyback. Lochlan offered to take me back to the truck to wait for the others. I swore at both and continued my medium jog as walking fast wasn't keeping up and the flat out running is really hard in the close air of the woods. I also needed enough stopping power to avoid horse poop and huge banana slugs making their way home, something I don't actually have the reflexes for when I run.

My reward was a giant beer and a monte cristo with a mountain of fries and two dill pickles. WORTH.

It also gave Lochlan a chance to regroup and rally back around instead of starting off offended at my allegiances of the morning, wanderlust speaking for me without permission or information, obviously as it is selfish and singular and I am generally not. He isn't mad, and has vowed to make the next week exactly perfect and beyond, as we can manage it via these uphill battles. We're attempting a full-fledged effort to throw history into the sea. Or the woods. I may miss the spectacle since I can't keep up.

Sight/seer.

Watching Caleb sleep. I'm jammed in the corner between the wall and the window, knees up, weighing down the duvet so that if he turns, he's going to wake up, as he won't be able to take the duvet with him. He's my wanderlust cure, my adventurer oddly enough, always suggesting exactly what I need to fix the weird propensity to want to run when things get good. I think it's a holdover from the days when Lochlan would sneak us out of a gig or a town with a saying about always leaving on a high note, when things are good, before people start looking for you. Lochlan is a homebody at heart though. He always wanted to just stop moving, for chrissakes.

My brain has her bags packed, all the shades are drawn and the lights are on automatic timers so that no one will know that I'm gone.

You're like a little bear. The only thing missing is a honey pot. He laughs sleepily. I jump at the sound of his voice. I thought he was out like a light.

Did I wake you? 

Yes. You didn't think I would feel a hundred-pound weight on my blanket? I've been paralyzed like this for over an hour. He grabs me, pulling me in against him, throwing the duvet over top of both of us. His skin is so warm. He kisses the tip of my nose and then pushes his face up toward the light to fall back asleep.

I close my eyes but I don't sleep.

Where do you want to go? 

Day trips. 

Where though?

Exploring. 

Ah. Close enough to be safe but far enough to get away. This is the story of your life, Bridget.

Waiting for the wind to change.

Sam felt the urge this morning to wake us all up at the crack of the dawn and march us down to the beach for a private service by the water. He vacations just about as well as I do, which is to say he hardly does. I will proudly report that I sat outside for a whopping ninety minutes with a glass of wine and Kitchen Confidential, churning through almost a quarter of the book proper and I didn't hear a peep from the house or the sky or the neighborhood. I think they put an embargo on contacting me for that time period and it was nothing short of surprising and completely unexpected.

I did forget to water the lawn too, which was going to be part of my evening but the book was too good to put down and so it waited. I'll do it today.

I was having a good sleep but I am finding that it doesn't actually matter if I go to bed at ten or at one in the morning I will wake up exactly seven hours later ready to roll. Usually that's five but since last night was so late due to an attempt to cram two movies into the later part (Rezort and IO, respectively, on Netflix. IO was far better but Rezort had the best chase scene since Vanishing Point, not even kidding. I screamed out loud.) I went to bed at one-thirty and was up promptly at eight-thirty, or maybe that was Sam's soft knock urging us to follow him.

He had coffee in thermoses at least. Bless him. I sucked almost a whole one back and then decided I was ready to listen but he was almost done. It was cold, about seventeen degrees and I'm up to my ankles in the icy Pacific, short-shorts and a huge sweater and bedhead because that's fashion for me as of late. Underneath it the ever-present pink bikini.

I look around as the caffeine lights the fire in my veins and I think this is my life now and it's awesome.

Moonicorns.

My dark favorites of music and metal in particular are thick and heavy like cream pouring over glass, like the night settling in over the trees, layers of inky opaque purple punctuated by random tiny flashes of light, fireflies or stars to decorate the black. Just the way I like it. I tried to commandeer Ben's big headphones for the morning but he needed them and so I made due with my airpods (finally in again after three months less one week using corded phones due to the ring through my ear.) and it wasn't so bad, honestly.

Besides, Mark is here so I'm not listening to music right now. Right now I hear the hypnotic drone of his machine, the power supply humming away on the floor underneath his doc boot, the needle a higher pitched vibration as he deposits color into Lochlan's skin.

I'm always horribly jealous when someone else has work done and I can't be the one. There's something so cathartic and relaxing about focusing on the pain of the needles for a few hours. I have to watch very carefully. If I am distracted my brain forgets to stay still and I will be overwhelmed with the urge to rip myself away from that pain. If I watch I'm fine.

I'm not having any more work done. Think I'm full up. Mark has changed a few small things, touched up things and finished me off and the only parts remaining that are not tattooed are not places I would like to be tattooed so I'm done but I miss the process. And so I have my books and wine and I'm chilling out this weekend at home while they get things done. I will garden and cook and bake and maybe nap but probably not and I will Netflix and chill and Schuyler promised to take me for ice cream at a place they go since we can't get to Cows up the hill in Whistler this week and it's better if you buy it by the cone instead of by the tub.

(Whistler is overrun with mountain bikers this week for Crankworx. Not my all-time favorite season on the ninety-nine but better than ski season, oddly enough. And Cows is the best ice cream in the known and unknown universe, as ever.)

Nutshell.

I've got new Slipknot music, new tattoos to plan and rain and red wine in my upcoming weekend, a nice change from everything else as we head into the dog days of summer, ignoring the Burning Man elephant in the room. The countdown is on! The invitations are open! And for some stupid reason I have FOMO about it. Fear of missing out. Even despite the relative glamping luxury I was thrust into and still managed to catch a fucking lung infection and a whole heaping pile of misery.

I feel like I'm a part of it now and I'm supposed to show up, but honestly sticking close to home, seeing through the huge harvest of our garden, those new tattoos (not for me but for LOCHLAN who is covering some very old things that he got on a whim and should have dealt with long ago), 3/4 of a cheap red (Vintage Ink whiskey barrel aged, if you're looking. Medium dry, very mellow. Kind of good, actually and I'm not much of a red girl unless it's merlot or shiraz) and my sketch book and headphones.

I don't know why. The other part of me wants to go go go and DO THINGS SEE THINGS GO TO PLACES HAVE FUN but truly I am a homebody and I don't know how to deal with the wanderlust parts that scream so loudly. I make myself more miserable than those around me at least, so there's that. Trying to force contentment when there's no contentment to be found. It's all around us, as always and as always it's just out of reach.

Next year I'll plant epinephrine, just in case.

It could have been a lot worse. 

I hate that phrase. It makes it seem as if what happened wasn't bad enough, or catastrophic enough. It's almost a gleeful sort of schadenfreude of a comment, honestly and I smacked it out of my range of hearing with the back of my hand as soon as it came out of Caleb's mouth.

 Right. I'm fine. Really, I am.

I have no stings. I walked right into a wasp nest, tucked into the middle of the huge oregano plant that I let grow crazy and bolt like fury in order to appease the bees, ironically enough. While the bees were happily buzzing around the giant four-feet wide by three feet tall shrub I had stepped to the middle of it to pull an errant weed, and at the last second I saw the nest, before stepping directly into it. Angry wasps swarmed out in a tornado of disruption and instead of screaming I closed my eyes and my mouth and hoped for the best.

I heard shouts and didn't move. I could feel them landing on my legs, my hair, brushing my eyelashes, wondering how to fight back against this giant of a human that had just levelled the house they spent all summer constructing.

Lochlan ran right into the oregano and grabbed me and I flew out of it and into his arms. He was promptly stung four times in the space between my chest and my back through his t-shirt. PJ used a blowtorch to destroy the remains of the nest and was stung twice on the arms for his efforts. Caleb stood with a curated concerned look on his face and Duncan had his phone in hand in case someone did indeed turn out to be anaphylactic (We're not. Hell, we've done this before. A few times now.) but everyone is relatively alright.

As Caleb said, I guess. It could have been worse.

Once back inside, using baking soda to treat Lochlan's stings, he undressed me slowly, untying my spare linen dress. Two wasps fall out and hit the floor, squished. A bee falls out, crushed the same way. Lochlan starts to laugh, a relief in his voice that surprises me for it's intensity.

It would never be from something like this, I tell him. He stares at me and it makes me so uncomfortable I turn the light off with my mind. He looks toward the dresser and notes the light and asks if I can not do this sort of thing so much.

The day seemed a little dull, I tell him and he laughs some more, not in amusement but in disbelief.