His are blue glitter and I said they looked nice so now we match.

Daniel is painting my nails to cheer me up. They are red glitter and I love them. We're not even going to discuss the part where I'm deathly allergic to nail polish and that half the boys hate my glitter tendencies anyways. Caleb called Daniel a glitard in passing so Daniel offered to do his too and Caleb didn't even respond. I made a note to address his rudeness privately later.

He should be happy that someone cares for my happiness the way Daniel does, in trying to teach me self-care, giving up and doing it for me.

We should cut your hair, Daniel suggests but I'm not ready for that. It's grown into long points that are long enough now to braid easily and I love it. Haven't cut it for a long time, don't intend to any time soon.

Maybe a bubble bath then?

For how many? 

One, girl. Jesus. 

Boring!

Right? Okay maybe I'll leave that for someone else to handle. 

Story of my life.

Oh look, a hole.

Lay your heart into my perfect machine
I will use to protect you from me
I will never let you see what's beneath
So good for you and good for me
We told ourselves we're right where we ought to be

Pretty sure in his dreams last night Lochlan let go of the bar before he was anchored securely in a bid to grab me before I fell into the net, because he knew the net wasn't ready yet and we were in a hurry to get a single final practice in before showtime. It's when you rush that everything goes horribly, terribly wrong.

And he hollered my name as his hands grazed my fingertips but it was too late. We both fell but we weren't connected and so we died twisted, preventable deaths alone. I woke up in a cold sweat and practically clawed my way out of bed and down to the coffee maker to find a way to keep the dreams away forever, if they're going to be like that. Fuck that shit. I'm crazy enough without my brain betraying me even further. A mutiny multiplied by the numbers on the calendar.

Twelve years ago tomorrow Ben showed up, staked a claim and Jacob met him easily, tried to minister to Ben and we fed him dinner and he left without a struggle, without a fight but with some sort of harbinger that the army was right there, watching every move Jacob made. I guess they knew deep down he would leave. I guess none of us knew the extent to which he tried to manipulate me, tried to control access to everyone who knew me better than he did, who tried to show him using me as a project for his thesis would only serve to blow him to pieces. Maybe I didn't know then what I know now. It takes a village. A beautiful village tucked into the hills by the sea, wrapped around a massive hole that fills with water when the tide comes in but you can't see the bottom even when it's out.

And that's the way it is. Caleb is better at this than Jacob ever was but Lochlan is best of all and throw Ben into the mix and Jacob never had a chance. It was when he figured this out that he tested his wings and they worked and since he couldn't do enough here he decided to flex his wings in heaven. I guess it's working, as they rarely send him back.

Jesus FUCK, Peanut. It's not your fault he did this. Lochlan picked a bad time to look over my shoulder but I note he speaks in present tense as if this is an ongoing, present event.

It is, Lochlan snaps at me and now he's left the room and I can climb back down into the hole and pull the dark up over my head. Now you can't see me either but I'm here. It's an inky black vat of oxytocin and I only need it for a little while until the courage floods back into my veins to dilute everything else and then I'll come out.

I swear I will.

Mavericks and dreamers.

I'm excitedly wandering around telling anyone who will listen that the Montgolfier brothers not only invented the first hot air balloon but they did it using paper from their family's paper company, a company still run by the family today that we know as Canson Paper.

I only knew it was the Montgolfier brothers because of that scene in the Highlander movie. What I didn't realize is that there was a connection to one of my favorite sketchbook manufacturers.

Though, let's be honest. I have just as many Gumbacher, Strathmore, Legion and Moleskin books in my art cupboard because sketchbooks are my kryptonite. I get weak when confronted with a wall of them and I'll always buy four or five at a time.

I will never run out, at this rate.

In the meantime, Ben has finished his project, just slightly over the wire and has surfaced once again with apologies and late-movie-nights and even-later-Ben-and-Bridget nights and even accompanied me on a small grocery shop this morning to stock up on some of the stuff we ran out of too soon. We gassed up the jeep and got all our errands run because it's supposed to pour rain for the rest of the week and I don't want to be out in it, much. I'd rather be home.

The biggest news of the week is that after dinner was devoured and cleared away last night I went down to the storage room, found the bins of Halloween decorations and put them all up. Usually I don't put much effort into it, though we have morphed from very adult violent themes of dismemberment and serial killing, jumpscares and flashing lights everywhere to a softer sort of rustic Samhain vibe of grapevines and silver-painted skulls and soft LED pumpkin lights. It's kind of weird but also doesn't feel nearly as stressful. I feel like I'm outgrowing horror but I also don't feel like I've participated enough in Halloween proper for so many years now it's too early to make a statement like that and feel good about it.

The house looks much nicer though. Or maybe that's just because Ben has been in my sights all morning long.

Dinner dates.

I finally got to the point in life where I attended a beautiful wedding and didn't raise my glass in toasting the happy couple all while thinking 'Gosh, I hope he doesn't jump off a building some day to get away from your happy life you're pretending to have'.

I call it progress, Joel. 

I call it highly morbid. That's disturbing, Bridget. 

It's inevitable. It's just residual bitterness. I wasn't wishing them ill or assuming all marriages implode, it was more of a...protection...spell. 

A protection spell. Now you're a witch?

Sometimes, yes I am. 

This makes more sense than most things, oddly enough. Now tell me about the wedding. 

It was lovely. Very smoothly produced, though in my next life I think I'll be a decorator because the weddings I've done are breathtaking, while the ones I attend outside of the Collective seem a little more out of the box. 

So you're not still struggling with crippling self-doubt at all. 

Oh, I am. Don't get me wrong. But renting stock centerpieces are different. Most decorators are probably too busy to walk a beach for five months collecting a certain shade of driftwood. 

Obsessive. 

Stop labelling me! 

Just trying to get a barometer, here, Bridge-

Then ask for one. Don't take random thoughts from a conversation that's all over the place and try and diagnose me. 

He pauses for a moment in one of those Joel-clarity lightbulb moments that illuminates the entire planet. When Joel pulls a mea culpa you'll absolve him just because he does it so adorably. I'm not sure if it's manipulation or self-protection but it works perfectly. You're so right, Bridget. I'm sorry. I just try to get a feel for how you are when I visit in case you need extra support but you have so much in house and I think you're in good hands right now. 

I do too. 

Then I should probably go. 

You could stay for dinner. 

I'm sure you have a full table, but thank you. 

We always have room for you, Joel. 

I didn't bring anything. 

You brought you. That's enough of a gift. I don't need presents, I need your presence. 

You and your words. 

Yup. Do you want to set the table or get the cranberries underway?

Turkeys.

I alternately want to make another cup of coffee, build a bigger fire and go kayaking, if only to come home and have one of those blisteringly-hot showers you can barely feel because your skin is as cold as marble right until that moment that you stop shivering, wrapped in wool, finally warm. Then someone will bring in some Vietnamese takeout and you can cue up that horror movie (hopefully a good one, we're not going to talk about last night's choice Don't Breathe, which was honestly one of the worst pieces of absolute shit I've ever sat through.) and then go to bed at a still-decent hour, because it's smart to do so.

It's an echo of yesterday almost, though we did go and vote, we did go and see the Joker movie (absolutely fantastic with a side of WTF uncomfortableness) and we did eat our body weights in popcorn, which is always a bad idea but late last night I popped a huge cookie sheet full of hashbrown patties in the oven and distributed them to much appreciativeness, as nothing says I love you like the person who delivers a hot potato into your hands at eleven at night.

I think I'll skip the kayaking, as the rain is coming fast and steadily. It's definitely a typical October, though not for here, and I'm so incredibly grateful not to be living in the Prairies anymore, as I've heard Mother Nature finally shut the power off with her skills.

No thank you.

I'm glad I live here right now, in any case. I'm thankful for a lot of things today, not the least of which being the hole that sucks me in seems to be nowhere to be found right this moment.

Caturday.

It's Saturday of the long weekend and we had our big turkey dinner a week ago due to houseguests (I know! I don't talk about my life at all) and so right now I want to have breakfast and then go find the advance polling station so I can cast my vote and get it over with and then I can feel released in tuning out the endless rhetoric online and in the neighborhood, though some well-meaning or malicious (not sure which) candidate has peppered our gate area twice in the past two weeks with signs and so I called their office each time to come and collect them because well, please. We're so obviously not Conservative, if you know what I mean, but I'm speaking literally, as you probably know by now. I wouldn't dream of talking politics because it's something I figure everyone needs to educate themselves about and avoid the rhetoric as much as possible. Your friends will be skewed, your newspapers heavily skewed and the internet as a whole? Completely misinformed/directed altogether.

So that said, today is a day where I'm skirting around the hole somewhat easily. I just have a lot on my plate.

Lochlan made us coffees at the Keurig (which weird! I have a drawer for it but then I bought these McDonald's coffee pod things that don't have bottoms and come in big foil packets so I can't even put them in the drawers and I guess they can live in the box but they're so good and he laid a big fire because it's freezing this morning and I'm enjoying this comfortable camping sort of foggy quiet morning.

We're finishing up the laundry. We're going to go vote. We're dropping Ruth at a friend's house for the night and then we may see the Joker movie. Lochlan needs to call his mother to fix something on her computer and I really really want my scary movie night (still pending). I was hoping to sleep in but one of the cats (and my body) won't let me, too much and so I'm trying to rest my body when I am awake (exceedingly difficult) and just get over this cold, get over being tired and somehow pull myself out from under the crushing weight of the calendar and everything I have conditioned myself to feel from it based on the dates on a square on the wall.

I'll try harder, I tell Lochlan and he kisses my forehead.

I know, Peanut. You're doing fine.

An audience of none (Operation: Stay Out of The Hole continues).

It's some ungodly early hour and I'm spending it with Ben, who is working hard on a project he wanted to finish by Thanksgiving but honestly when he spoke of his panic I pointed out he could have easily meant American Thanksgiving in which case he has more time.

Tons of time. Months! Isn't the US Thanksgiving right on top of Christmas?

I woke up at five, long before sunrise, still in the studio and flew off the couch. The lights are still on. He still sits in his chair, headphones on, concentrating madly. I wrap myself in a blanket (who needs clothes?) and come over to see what he's doing. I put on headphones that are hanging on a hook but they're hooked in to something different and music plays from a CD. Cream, Sitting on Top of the World. Fair enough. Good song for a twirl and a spin.

Between the blanket dress and the quiet absurdity of dancing to music only I can hear I wind up giving him a sultry, ridiculously hot and extensively x-rated striptease to the song, not stopping until it's done, veering wildly from pure to downright filthy. When I finish he is still looking down, not having seen a thing. I think he's forgotten I slept here last night to be near him. Sam always says not to look to others for approval for your actions, and so I'm giving myself a 10/10 for my performance.

Carve me for Halloween.

I am dozing against Caleb's hard-as-a-rock shoulder. For some reason he isn't as bony as Ben but he's also not nearly as comfortable. It's probably the workouts, as the one thing Caleb refuses to be is the weakest in the bunch. He's a walking Hammacher Schlemmer catalog. Everything has to be The Best or it will never be good enough, and so this quiet morning with a fire crackling and my favourite teal and grey stoneware mugs, long empty is exactly what he wants. At least in this moment he does.

Tell me your thoughts. It's never a friendly curiosity with him. It's always an order.

But I'm ready because there's nothing I like more than to spread my insanity around like a sticky trap within which to catch my men. Or so some people will tell you but honestly I don't get the gossip. Most men don't want 'a handful', they want 'capable'. They want independence. In this day and age being a Knight in Shining Armour is exhausting and they have their own shit to deal with anyway, so put that to bed right there.

I'm wondering what would grow if I were planted right now. 

Pardon?

If I were a seed and you put me in the ground, what would grow? Would it be a tall beautiful flower? Or a little weed? Or maybe an exquisite vegetable like an eggplant or a turnip. 

His shoulders start shaking with laughter and I'm awake now. I have to shift my head because now it hurts to press against his muscles. You're amazing. 

I'm a turnip. 

An amazing turnip. 

Best you ever saw. 

And how.

Overtime.

(Three steps forward, eleven thousand four hundred miles back the way we came.)

You're exactly what I see
Maybe that's exactly what I need
Your heart is working overtime
and your brain is racing out of your mind

the hardest thing about this
is that I can't let you in
You know I need you but I can't see you
without losing everything

It's like a flashlight is being shown in my eyes and I squint, looking away. A throbbing starts in my head, somewhere far back, I can't place it exactly but he squeezes my fingers hard in his hands and says my name. I look back warily. I'm present. Yes, I'm paying attention. If I wasn't I'd be screaming, scrambling backwards, returning to the dark of the cave that is my mind, at once warm and comforting but ice-cold and frightening. He doesn't want to run down there today. He doesn't even want to put a foot in the door.

So he's got it propped open.

Hold the door, I laugh. It's an inside joke, if you know the provenance. I wasn't a Game of Thrones fan overall but that was one singular shining moment, wasn't it?

Three things about the day, Bridge. It's an order. He can do what Joel can't anymore and I love Sam for rolling up his sleeves and standing here in the cold while he tries to call a foolish freedom dog to heel, watching her run the fields in the sun, wholly ignoring him.

The new Wildernessa EP. Espresso. Cole's sweater.

Those are things. I need more. He says it gently. Like I'm trying to remember the answers on a verbal exam and it means my entire future. Okay, so exactly the same thing.

The sun is rising. I am safe and loved. We are okay.

What does 'okay' mean?

Everyone is healthy except for this cold. We're all doing well for the moment. Making plans for the future. We are blessed and have what we need. The pantry is full. The door is secure. The house is warm. The dog sleeps on the big rug in the kitchen. The children smile. We have movie tickets. Music plays all the time. It's really good.

What are your worries?

That my memories will drown all of this.

Can they? Do you give them that power?

I don't-

Bridget.

I try not to-

Bridget-

Okay, let's say I don't. Then what?

Can you drown them with an ocean of gratitude and blessings and maybe even faith that things are getting better?

Well, logically, yes but when did that ever work for me?

And Lochlan starts laughing. That's the best thing about all of this. It doesn't matter how dark it gets, doesn't matter how far down Sam peels my protective layers to get to the dimmest bulb in the garden that is this Collective, Lochlan is right here. Even when he was gone he was always available, never wavered, never put anything above this. Not God, not his own marriage, not anything. It's maybe a faith I have that I put above everything too because we always said we'd be a team and we've burned everything away but this and that's enough for me. I'm not independent and no, I'm not doing this for myself. There is no self. Just us.

I can do that, and I look into Sam's eyes with a determination he doesn't know is from something deliriously unhealthy as I try to please him without even budging. I can trick him by shifting his definitions for my own benefit.

But then he catches me.

Do what, Bridget?

What you said.

What did I say?

I've forgotten-

No, you changed it.

Survival mode? I offer up helpfully while he frowns.

Right. Survival mode. He looks at Lochlan with frustration and decides that's enough. At the door he turns before leaving. She's all yours.

Yeah, I know, Lochlan confirms. He takes my hand, now freezing cold from where Sam let go. You have to work with him, Bridget.

I thought I was.

You're grifting him. It isn't really fair and you don't need to put up a wall right now. Don't play games. It's Sam. He's a gift.

I'm sorry.

Tell him that. And don't start grifting me. Jesus Christ. I created a little monster.

I told you that decades ago.

I'd probably be fine if someone would take away my Sirius XM.

Every time that song comes on I reach out with one finger and turn the radio off.  Sam laughs and points out I've never turned off a fifties-era song before and I raise my eyebrows at him.

That's George Thorogood. 

He covered the Bo Diddley song. My bad. It came out in the fifties. 

Wow. Must have had a whole different sentiment. 

Name some of your loves today. 

Ginger kombucha, tattoo flash, power ballads, TED talks, painting tutorials-

People, Bridget. 

Not George then. Or Bo. 

Go on. 

Lochlan. Ben. You. 

You didn't say Ja-

I reach out and turn the radio back up, all the way. Forever Young by Alphaville is playing now. I wonder if anyone's ever covered it. I don't know if I can get through it. Hits too hard. Like every other eighties ballad I come across, which is why I was listening to this station (80s on 8) in the first place. If Lochlan and I hadn't imploded before I even grew into adulthood that first time around things would have been so incredibly different right now.

I walk down the same path as ever. I never know this fork, that bend. Nothing ever looks familiar though they have shown me the way. They led me down it. They stood at the end and called my name but I never heard them, not even once as I stumbled along, tripping, feeling that cold lurch as my heart, broken and shrivelled, slipped out from between my ribs with their claw marks from the wolves trying to get in and the blown out holes from the light trying to get out. At first I would cry out in alarm and fumble for my heart while they helped. Now I just scramble to collect it and shove it back in painfully before they notice.

This path scares me. It's never daylight. It never leads anywhere. Just when I think it gets to the end, it turns the corner and keeps going. The brambles scratch along my arms and legs, the rocks threaten to dump me on my ass, the mud tries to suck me down.

Lochlan comes charging back, picking up my heart as it rolls to a stop at his feet. He shoves it in his pocket and takes my hand, tucking it against his chest, under his arm and turns to continue on.

Come on, Bridgie. It's not long now.

Leave me here. 

I'll do nothing of the kind, Sweetheart. 

Seriously.

No, I am. I am seriously. Seriously not leaving you here in the dark.

He's drunk. I'm insane. We're perfect for each other.

Deep, deep breaths today. That's all. I keep holding my breath until my head aches and I have to focus really hard not to do that.

Soul reversal.

Jacob was waiting for me when I came down this morning. Just wanted to see if he's in the same place. Just wanted to see if he's aged. Just wanted to know if he remembers me, or knows who I am, or misses me too or regrets any of this at all.

I am. I have. I do. You're Bridget. Of course. I can't answer that. God doesn't allow for regrets because what's done is done and I've made all of my reparations to him and I have been absolved. 

Well..that's bullshit because I haven't absolved you. 

You aren't God. 

Once, you told me I was. 

That was foolish. I've said and done many foolish things and so have you. That's why I'm just a man. We are just human, and there is only one God. 

Right. That lets you off the hook. 

What else do I have, Bridget? 

Solid gold memories. That's what you have. 

That's what you have, you mean. 

Yes. They're priceless and worthless all at once. 

That's a beautiful way to put it. 

No, it's ugly. 

Not coming from you. You can make anything beautiful. 

Flattery won't get you anywhere. 

Where could I go? 

This is true. 

Speaking of which. You should go. 

I just wanted to make sur-

There are no guarantees in life, Princess.

I know that better than anyone, Jacob.

Then go back. 

Wow, you sound like August. 

Well, good. It used to be that he sounded like me.

Deconstruct.

Caleb is there, in close, mouth just about level with my nose as he ducks his head down against mine to talk quietly.

Time this weekend?

I shrug. I'm currently not in charge of my own itinerary, figuring it would be better if I leave Lochlan or Ben to guard the door. If they think I'm up to it, then I will too. If they don't then no harm no foul, no expectations and no hurt feelings.

Ask Loch. 

I was hoping you could come to me. 

I'm sticking close for the next few weeks. 

That isn't necessary. 

It is, actually. I've navigated one successful anniversary out of a dozen. I'm trying to make that a pair. 

Then come and stand behind me. I can protect you far better than they can from your...ghosts.The way he says ghosts gives me pause, makes me crazy, forces me to doubt everything I've ever known.

Not this time. I'll find you before winter. 

I'll be right here. I'll be within reach, Neamhchiontach. 

Not this time, Diabhal. I need to try this and I need your support. 

You have it. They do not.

Never better, I say when they ask, and they haven't realized it's the truth.

It's too early for this. I can't do this for this length of time. Something's not right and they don't see it. As it gets colder and darker outside they all hold on a little tighter but that's all. Sam isn't far. Lochlan won't even move out of breathing room, Ben has been keeping to a steady nine to five for the past few days and I know it will continue for the next few weeks and Caleb has his phone ready to call in an overpaid expert at a moment's notice, failing to register Joel sitting perpetually in my great room (who invited him), sipping coffee at all hours, making notes because the one thing I can't take back in my revenge on him is years of training. Claus remains on speed dial, retired but with numbers and people and the good drugs, easy to get.

The ghosts, easy to get to, not so easy to keep.

He would have been turning forty-nine. Can you picture Jacob on the verge of fifty? Deepened lines around his eyes. Maybe wearing shoes. Probably not. Sandier, whiter hair. Probably a slight paling of his white-blue eyes, or maybe they go darker. There's no room for the color to fade from his eyes. Still not wearing shoes. There's no space to breathe in here, I need Lochlan to move so my brain can explode. I need to do it quietly. I need to figure out a way to get through this. I've had ONE good fucking year since navigating this most holy of anniversaries and I can't do it. This is the twelfth time I'm trying here. How many chances do I get?

Made of sunlight.

Ben pulled a fast one, kept us guessing, took a gamble and I fell asleep last night to the tune of his steady heartbeat, walking six paces away from the day, turning and firing from the hip at the lights and when it went dark I went with it, safely into dreamland where I dreamed that I cut my hair again and then tried to drive the Jeep but someone had put the steering wheel on backwards and it was facing away from me and it went from the occasional death-wobble to a whole new skillset as I tried to keep it on the road. When I woke up my brain was already four or five numbers into Miss Saigon, a spot Ben was able to jump into without hesitation, singing back the parts of Chris to my Kim.

It's always been a requirement that they be able to return the parts of the male counterpart in Once, Phantom of the Opera, Hair or even Rent. What's garnered an odd acceptance is not my love of musicals but the level of insanity that my brain displays at any given moment but most especially in the darker hours where no one is supposed to see. They do (they must have night vision. Goes well with my SLIder nonsense or the telepathic and telekinetic and psychotic tics too DOESN'T IT?) and yet they ignore it, or worse, feed it. Gosh, she's so thrilled to have a familiar and be able to sing the whole song without having to sing both parts, so it must be a sunny, gleeful and crisp Tuesday morning and I'm just about ready to be carted off to a farm somewhere, except the place I went to that one time (okay twice or three times shhhh) wasn't like Ben's five-star rehab and I didn't get a chef and nature walks and music nights. Oh no. There was none of that. I sat in a very ill appointed room and people came and talked at me and I slept a lot and ate shitty cafeteria food and they wouldn't even let me draw because apparently you can hurt yourself with a pencil.

Could I.

I would write myself right out of existence, I told them, confirming their suspicions. But that isn't what they meant and no, I never got the pencil. Now I have five mugs of them sitting on the island, a stack of sketchbooks nearby and we draw group photos or people draw beautiful things and I write words all over them, telling stories, describing beauty, letting it all out like the rain we're not going to have today, and it works a whole lot better than the soft rooms and bad food and endless, endless talking. If you're not singing, I don't want to hear it, I told them and it just made everything worse and I still don't know why.

Pearly plights.

I have a headache from hanging upside down in the dentist's chair this morning for twice as long as estimated due to the fact that drugs don't work on me. Four needles later I gave up and just started lying when they asked if I could feel the pokes and tests. Two hours after I left the chair my eye, forehead and entire right side of my face was frozen solid, thanks very much and I take it all back. They work, they just take fucking forever to do anything and by the time that happens you'll be done.

Story of my life, or one of them anyway. One of the more scientific, fascinating ones like the ones about me being so full of negative energy streetlights go out when I pass them, doors slam and people randomly leap off tall buildings to get away from me.

All of it a shame. It's not negative energy, it's just what I have and I can't contain it. Never could. People have been talking about it for years.

I'm down to one and a half amalgam fillings and hoping to soon be free of them and then I'll stop picking up radio signals, at least. Maybe my rashes will clear up. Maybe the stress will leave. Hey, pigs are flying, would you look at that.

In any case, my dentist did a lot of work and I still have a headache and half a frozen face but I'm done for the year. My teeth look very nice. That is all.

Whitecaps and sight lines, and oh, here comes October.

Skipped church this morning in favor of coffee on the cliff, out by the telescope platform in the glorious rare morning wind. The telescope has been brought inside for the season, and we're slowly winterizing. I'm so glad I don't live in the prairies right now as they seem to be running a disaster gamut of fires, floods and freezing. It's the price they pay for that endless sky, for sure and even though it's cheap to live there I know I'll never go back.

The waves are huge. The clouds roll and he remains, clutching my hand in his, against his chest, keeping me tripping over his feet and being the only thing in my current tiny universe.

Instead of winterizing the property, he's working from the inside out, tightening bonds, battening down hatches, patching any holes in our relationship, strengthening the weak spots, the openings, the ennui, making things tight and fierce and able to withstand the coming storm, procuring provisions, weapons and shelter. I'm helping as much as he can, gently letting souls down, passing him tools, being open to being closed. I know what he's doing and I think it's going to work.

I hope it's going to work.

Coastal moon.

He didn't let go while I slept, didn't let go in the shower (I had to rinse my hair with one hand) and then when I went downstairs and hugged PJ I had to do it with one arm (PJ only raised his eyebrows) and then Caleb too, the spell was finally broken.

Fucking seriously? Caleb asked, stepping back, arms up in surprise.

It's just something I feel like doing, don't mind me, Lochlan says. It's like one of those on-the-lam comedy films where people attempt to run away but they're handcuffed together and must keep each other going, keep up and hide the cuffs with a coat or whatever so no one catches on. Lochlan just has his fingers threaded tightly through mine. I held out until my hand fell asleep and then I pleaded for release and he said letting go was going to be implied but not actually. I don't know if he meant literally but not figuratively but I held to his wishes and we had an amazing day. I drove. He rode shotgun and was kind of cranky and out of sorts all day. I don't know why. Maybe he was mad because I let go.

I stopped at the mall and bought an outfit. I'm very happy I did. Things wear out, plus I wanted a tiny little leopard print bag and if you can even believe it, I found one. It holds my phone, keys, lipstick and a small card case with my ID in it. Which is all I really need anyway and sometimes I just don't want to cart around my giant Rogue bag (Coach, teal with baby-green suede and I love it soooo much but I have a tendency to put everything and then some in it when it then becomes a thirty-pound nightmare that hurts my back and needs its own seat in the truck and then what?

I think it's some sort of weird throwback to diaper bags, when I had to cart everything around, including spare outfits and extra meals, toys and whatever else I might need, although truth be told, I rarely needed anything from it and absolutely envied those moms who threw a single diaper and a bag of cheerios in their purse and off they went.

I learn slowly, if I learn at all.

So yeah it was fun to buy a little outfit (the rest of it besides the purse was plain black leggings and a plain black cardigan, very predictable, I know.) and it was fun to drive Lochlan around, even if he was cranky, and now that the day is done he's resumed holding my hand, tucked in habitually against his chest to the point where I can't do anything, and he seems so happy to hear that, it's difficult to argue my point. I get a brief slow dance through the kitchen after we finish the dishes and then a long embrace as the song ends and we wait for the next one that never arrives and at this point I'm really hoping that tomorrow brings more of the same. He's already made excuses to Sam for wanting a lack of company this evening and something tells me that's not going to change tomorrow for Jesus, either.

Weeks that begin with me running in one direction and end with me running right back.

Reassurance weighs more than oxygen some days.

Lay your heart into my perfect machine
I will use it to protect you from me
I will never let you see what's beneath
So good for you and good for me
We told ourselves we're right where we ought to be

Lochlan had enough with the bickering, yelling, the one brief struggle where Caleb decided not letting go of me when I was ready to leave his vicinity was well enough and gave a warning as only he can, with that expression that can flatten mountains with a clap that startles everything within a thousand-mile radius, birds taking flight, everything else running for cover. I'm the only soul who doesn't, holding my ground but waiting quietly for whatever's next.

He tilts his head and gives me a look like what the FUCK are you doing, and then he pulls me back inside, just as Caleb forgets he lives in this house and not the other one. It happens with a comical frequency and sometimes worries me just a little.

The rest of the day I spend within three inches of Lochlan because he's had it up to here, wherever that is, it's too high for me to see clearly and then once the dark settled he led the way back to where we're supposed to be, hands sliding up the back of my dress, lifting it over my hair, biting his lip, curled in slightly in thought, eyes reflecting light from nowhere, hands so warm I made a note to check for burns in the morning. Just one single kiss from him sends me to outer space and I know damn well the door was locked and he didn't let me breathe or sleep or come down from the dark until long after the rest of the house stirred and left for the day.

Only then did he let go and I resented it and told him so.

And he laughed cruelly. For the moment you do but that will change. 

Will it?

He nods. Every. fucking. time. 

I'm sorry. 

Don't be. I get off on it too. Then I feel ashamed and I get angry about it. 

He hasn't talked like that for years. Decades even. Not since I was very young and not understanding what he was trying to tell me. I make a note to work harder at that because it's an albatross we keep resurrecting because we don't know what else to do.

I love you, Peanut. 

I love you, Locket. 

More than him? 

No idea who he means. Not like it matters. You never have to ask that again because I love you more than everything. 

Right now you do.

Every moment, I do. 

Promise me, Bridget. His voice drops to a hoarse whisper and it breaks my heart. He rarely shows fear, rarely seems to show anything but overreaching common fucking sense and ridiculous affection and never lets me know it's getting to him, that it bothers him, that he really wants it to stop but at the same time wants it to go on forever.

I promise, Locket. I whisper it back, because it's too heavy to speak out loud. It weighs a thousand tons and it means the world.

He nods. Good. Just making sure.

Parallels to Midsommar, an elegy in the key of B.

Good morning.

(Mild spoilers ahead but not really).

Screaming at Caleb turned into an effort to salvage the day with whatever that thing is that people call 'self-care'. To me, it's akin to attempting to carry on a long, deep conversation in a language I don't know, having hurriedly looked up a few key words in a battered thesaurus I keep in my bag. I don't know what I'm doing but I guess I can try and go through the motions.

Ruth took a hold of whatever ruinous mind I had left, inviting me to watch Midsommar with her. It came out on iTunes this week and while she's seen it, loved it and has been anxiously awaiting the director's cut, she was game to watch it again, still feeling guilty for encouraging me to watch Ari Aster's last movie, Hereditary, which, while it illustrated grief and shock in a way you just never see put to film properly, I wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy and therefore did not invite Caleb to watch it with me. As it stands I was wrong, presently he can serve as my worst enemy and depending on how the rest of today goes, I may suggest he take in a double feature.

Midsommar draws many parallels to my own life. We have a commune, an adorable blonde girl in a flower crown, a bear featured early on, not to be seen again until the bitter end, some handsomeish men arguing nonstop, fighting for supremacy, understanding and common sense. There is some singing, some crying, more than a handful of vicious suicides so graphic I think I'm perhaps not as jaded as I once confidently assumed, and then a metric shit ton of human sacrifice and an exceeding weird uncomfortable sex scene with an audience.

So basically my life, in a two-hour celluloid extravaganza of colour and beauty, set in the mountains of Utah, I think. I was told, anyhow.

I'd like my flower crown now, please. That's the only thing missing. I'll be your fucking May Queen.

It was definitely almost a three-hour departure from all of this bullshit, only spanning three hours as people would walk in to see what the ungodly sounds were, and Ruthie would patiently pause the movie and explain it to them. I wanted to laugh and then I wanted to cry. Then I was sad it was over because it seemed as though the right people were truly getting their due and otherwise I'm almost relieved Aster is going to move on, apparently wanting to make a comedy so that I never have to go through one of his movies again.

I'm still thinking about it and how it made me feel. That's the best part, the measure of success to me, not in making a masterpiece but finding something to evoke a feeling so intense in your viewer that they are rocked back in their seat, changed somehow. That's the hallmark of a good job, to me, be it movie or music. It's the feeling I get when I listen to Pachebel's Chaconne in F Minor. A sort of weightless, melancholic, hypocritical joy that takes hours to reabsorb.

Maybe I can't explain it properly. Maybe I'll just pull my sleeves down over my fists and resume my argument with Caleb instead, as last night we indulged in an angry, overheated, wordless reunion of forgiveness in which we let history decide our roles and he wore the bear suit while I burned him alive in my mind.

Guess I should have written out the whole thing, moment by moment and then wow, the whole world would have been so much happier.

Grateful for an early foggy walk on the beach this morning because the Devil decided to pick a fight and I never saw it coming.

Is he..kind to you? Caleb turns and stares at me, his eyes haunted. I would say maybe he's just mirroring my usual expression but this is honestly so much worse.

Of course he is. Jesus, think I'd be-

No, Bridget. That's not what I mean. Is he..is he violent?

Like you, you mean? He's slightly less rough than Sam but he's bigger so it's inevitable-

Oh my God-

I don't know what you're asking. 

Everything. I'm asking everything. I want to know what he gives you. How you feel. 

You've been there before. With him-

It's not the same! 

It is, actually. He doesn't put on a show like you do when someone else is around. 

What do you mean? 

You're not violent if there's someone else in the room. 

Bridget- His voice is strangled, muffled. I just want to make sure you're safe. 

Then bring back my ghost. 

Which-

YOU KNOW WHICH ONE. HOLY FUCK STOP PLAYING WITH MY FUCKING LIFE HERE. IT ISN'T YOURS TO HAVE.

I knew an entire household or three were on exodus as I screamed at Caleb. I guess I just don't care anymore. Appearances make no difference if he's never going to change. I changed for him and he won't return the favor and it's killing me.

Egos and outlaws.

He wakes me with a kiss. It's dry. My cheek burns from his lips and he says he has to go.

Can't, I say sleepily. I locked the door. 

August laughs softly. That's going to keep me in?

It's symbolic. You should stay so you don't wreck it. 

The night or your symbolism?

Both. 

He stares into my eyes without expression (or at least one that I can read) for an eternity and then my heart sings when he crawls back into bed, settling on my right, covers up over his shoulders, arms around me, spooning my back against his chest while Lochlan has my hands held in his, elbows up between us in dreams. I'm asleep in seconds and then when I wake up again, it's still dark out but he's gone. 

It's a new record, I only called him Jake once yesterday. I didn't say I didn't picture him as Jake though, just as fucked as ever, literally and figuratively while he tries to pretend we're good, everything's good and nothing is hideously unhealthy or wrong in any way. When pressed we'll throw out the 'consenting adults' excuse and back it up with a hard stare. When doubtful we make arrangements, promises to do better, be better, work towards changing everything. He tries to be more proactive in forcing me to see him for who he is and I steadfastly undermine his efforts with my hideous mind. He doesn't fault me for it, knowing full well I love and respect him for who he is and how much he means to me but then I close my eyes and the little hypocrite steps forth and sets it all ablaze. It's such a spectacle I can't even minimize the damage or tell you it's fine.

It's just something I'm working to change, albeit not hard enough.

And at the end of the day, he allows for it, which makes it even more difficult. When he puts pressure on me to change I will but only for him and then Jake barges in and overrides it all and August lets me get away with everything. We're not stupid. It's a dangerous game, playing with hearts and fire and history all at the same time. We're burn victims, heartbroken and revisionist and horrible and perfect all at once. It's intoxicating, debilitating and easy to shove under the rug as I slide forward mere inches and I am tightly against Lochlan, who recognizes in his sleep that we're alone again, turning onto his back, clutching me against his chest and side with his right arm.

Ten more minutes so we can have time alone, he mumbles and I nod into nowhere.

Can't get comfortable (let it go).

A little pressure relieved on the army at last as August emerges from his decompression exile, a light on the horizon, so to speak, and it hasn't gone unnoticed that it took him longer to come down from his trip than it did for it to take place, including travel time.

He wades into knee-deep water and takes my elbow, gently.

Come on.

This is fine. I am frozen solid and quite content, thank you. My army has relegated me to the ocean in my mind. At least this way I can pick and choose.

Come, Bridget.

What are we doing?

We're going to go out for breakfast and talk a bit and then we'll come back and make some coffee and watch a movie.

Really?

If you would like.

I would. I've missed you.

I'm glad to hear it.

Did you miss me? 

You know the answer to that. 

Will I be back home today? 

You know the answer to that too.

Finding a home along these crooked seas.

I don't know if we're building a midway park or not, for they'll say and do anything I want on any given Sunday before I remember that I still wasn't good enough, wasn't welcome, wasn't a force to reckon with, in the long run. My headphones are fused to my skull, I'm blocking out the world, feeling someone else's pain, letting my brain be stroked by emotions that only touch me via sound. And it cues up a mirror feeling inside, matching pain for pain before overtaking it completely and I no longer hear the words anymore, no longer can separate their objective pain from my deeply subjective pain.

All of it. I watch as the waves surge forward, higher and higher, fiercer, stronger, until the saltwater washes over me. She's only trying to help. She's trying to wash away my unintentional sins, my indelible heartbreak, she's trying to drown me to put me out of my misery.

I appreciate the thought, consider the efforts and the source, and press on, stepping back from the spray, disappointed when the music stops, headphones caked with salt and corrosion, head caked with decay and old memories that shouldn't have so much importance anymore but they do. The renewed silence brings the shouts and I turn away from the waves and see them coming. An army, deployed down the beach. Good. Just in time for B-day, storming the shoreline in the name of what's right. Centuries from now no one's going to mark it. Do we just die? Does it all just stop and then as the people who hold the memory of you die too everything just fades to black?

I hate it.

Lochlan's always the fastest, by virtue of being the smallest. It's a fact no one could ever deny, though he will tell you he cares the most and he will always get to me first. He's yelling something to me but he's only ten feet away and crashing into me, his arms out to pull me in just as my mind registers what he's been yelling all this time, his hoarseness masking the words.

Too close! Too close! You're too close!

As if I am a small child that's not listening. I suppose that I am, through no fault of my own. Caleb brings up that valid, undeveloped point on such a regular basis now in such a grand efforts to make and keep his amends and all it does now is serve to remind me ever so painfully that I'm not, nor have I ever been emotionally equipped to deal with Jacob and that Jacob should have known this and in his absence has put too much pressure on the army, too much responsibility on this army to deal with me, and it ages them before my eyes.

I close them so I don't have to see as I am violently crushed against Lochlan's chest, his arms a heavy vice around me, keeping the sea from her murderous thoughts, keeping me from mine, and his lips brush against my forehead and he says you're okay now, as if I am. As if I ever was, or will be, or might have been.

The Revisionists.

Reading about neural style transfer (God help us all) and The House on the Rocks, which I'm still not one hundred percent convinced is a real place, but we blissfully began Season two of American Gods last evening (at last) and I couldn't be happier.

The show is a masterpiece. It plays out exactly like my brain. Perfect. Everything is over the top and intense at the same time. It never once veers into campy or unbelievable.

What's on for today? Caleb picks the worst time to intrude into my thoughts. I have finished my coffee and went straight for the hot chocolate. Thanks Keurig. My robot coffee server is doing a brisk business on the countertop. I just need to find better coffee for it. The coffee is the only bad part of this, but at least the whole cup is useable. I got some Starbucks pumpkin spice but on it's own it tastes like you're licking the inside of a tire coated in nutmeg. With whipped cream it's fine. Only I don't want whipped cream for breakfast unless it's being licked off me.

I would like a carousel room. 

Decoration?  

No, an actual carousel room, and I show him the images on my computer from where I've looked up the not-quite-believable house.

Oh. We'll need to build a large addition. I'm not sure we have the space for that. 

It doesn't have to be the largest. Say one for five people?

One of the miniature personal carousels, like you looked at before?

Yes. But INDOORS. 

Outdoors would be nicer. Picture the lights on a summer night in the dark. 

You're absolutely right. Forget my idea. Yours is better. 

And less invasive. I didn't recall you being all that thrilled while the work was being done here. 

Where should we put it? Will they have to crane it in?

Oh, probably. Or construct it in place. 

Equidistant from the gazebo in the backyard? 

Sounds fine to me. 

Oh but WAIT. Instead of pinks and gold and cream and all the traditional colors, I'd like pewter, bone white and teals with green. 

That sounds incredible. 

Are we actually doing this?

I'll see what I can find. Bridget you ask for nothing and I've been wanting to spoil you for some time. You just never afford me the opportunity. 

What's happening? Lochlan comes in and steals my hot chocolate.

We're building an amusement park. But in my favorite colors?

We're what, now? Caleb looks surprised but keeps his game face on.

 If we start with a carousel we can add things as we go. A mini Ferris wheel. Then a rollercoaster. Playground-sized but reinforced so y'all can ride with me. 

Hell, I can have it done by the end of the week if you're finally ready for it. 

Lochlan grins. What a riot. 

Every day can be a day at the fair! I get all excited and then Caleb pokes my joy-balloon so unexpectedly I almost tripped over his next words and landed on my face. There's no air left in the room.

You can finally have the childhood I took from you.

Keys + strings (Not piano and violin, but keyboard and heart, my friends).

Sometime around when Ben first fell asleep (threeish?) he woke up soon after and picked me up, moved me to his other side and turned away toward the wall, pulling me in against his chest so that I am almost falling off the bed, tight in his arms, not in the middle anymore. The middle is my spot. The middle is where I live and he had a bad dream or a moment and here I am, wide awake and hung over a four-foot abyss where the Baba Yaga can reach me because you can't tuck the covers in if they're no longer over you and hardly any of you is actually ON the bed.

And then I promptly fell asleep because old times.

And I woke up like this. Still hanging out, mashed sweaty and sleepy against Ben who woke up seconds after me and mumbled something about why I couldn't just sleep in the middle and he was comfortable.

You moved me. 

And he laughed and I got a kiss and then he threw me back to the middle and he cracked his arm good to get the stiffness out and I felt a little bad because that was a DAMNED GOOD SLEEP, you know?

I don't think Lochlan noticed.

He was sleeping great. We always seem to do a little better once the warm weather goes away and the new fall routine settles in. But I woke him up anyway, because the previous morning he was surprised that I didn't. I tangled my fingers in his hair and gently pulled his curls out, rolling them long on the pillow until they straightened. Then they'd spring back and I'd start all over and after a few moments his lashes fluttered open and there he is. My Lochlan.

Morning. Where'd you go?

North of Ben. 

He laughs. And?

Maybe too far North. 

He pulls me in and frowns. You smell like him. 

Aftershave?

Deodorant. 

Gross. 

If you were taller and didn't fit under his armpits this wouldn't even be an issue. 

I'll get him to use my Chanel instead of Irish Spring then. 

That could work. Hey, what should we do this afternoon? (He asks because we garnered the worst of the chore list this week and must work first, play later.)

Eat leftover pizza and watch scary movies? (The local pizza joint takes pity on us and gives us free extra pizzas sometimes because we seem to pay their rent. It has resulted in sometimes having a fridge full of leftover pizza. This is Henry's dream come true. PJ's too.)

Done. And he grins sleepily and I reach up absently into the air.

You can't pause time here, Bridge. 

Oh, God, I wish I could.

Three of a kind.

You're a storm-surge, a tempest in a teapot. 

Nice.

It's true, Peanut. You swirl up and mow through everything and then quiet right down again and we're left to clean up the mess. 

I didn't make a mess. 

It's on the inside, he says gently. I know this but I fight it. I didn't fail to note, however that Sam used Lochlan's nickname for me. Sometimes PJ uses it too but usually they refrain. It's not them, it's personal. It's private. I can only be a circus peanut for one elephant in the room at a time, and you know what happens when you don't feed that elephant, ignoring it instead. It withers and wastes and yet it's still there. Better to feed it, acknowledge it and then when it's independent, set it free.

Caleb laughs at this only I didn't say it out loud. Sam hears the ire in the sound and takes the opportunity to escape. See you tonight, he says, mashing a kiss against my hair. I'm late. See you, Brothers, he says to everyone/no one in particular and heads outside.

Don't be rude, I tell Caleb from my brain.

He sips his coffee, eyebrows up. Which elephant is it today, Bridget? The one where you can't tell them apart or is it the one where you try to keep Lochlan separate but fail because he doesn't stand out?

Someone's cranky. 

I didn't sleep. 

I have something you can take for that. 

Indeed you do. But right now, I am also late for work. He takes his mug and heads upstairs to his mini-office for a quiet morning of overseeing his projects and I am left to my own devices. No kiss. No hug. I make a cup of coffee and start a fire. I take a minute and count my daily gratitudes and then I pick up my book for a moment, because no one will mind if I read for fifteen minutes.

Five words in and Lochlan appears over the top of my pages.

You didn't wake me? It's not a complaint but a curiosity.

You were so deep into your dreams. I couldn't. 

Should have. We could have stayed in for a bit. He smiles. What's happening?

Sam left for work. Caleb went back upstairs to work. I heard crashing around in PJ's room. He might be fighting the raccoons he feeds. We should check on him. 

If he doesn't appear by lunch we will. 

By then the raccoons will have picked his bones clean. 

Serves him right for feeding them. 

True. 

Want to go for a long walk? It's not supposed to rain again until tonight. 

Just let me finish my coffee first? 

Take your time. I'll go grab a shower and then wake up Ben. 

He's still sleeping?

Same. Deep in dreams. 

Aw. 

Right?

Sounds like the only one who hasn't had a good rest is Caleb. He's crabby this morning. 

He hates fall. It's too dark too early. He always has.

I nod, incredulous. They dig at each other. Lochlan could have said something horrible or even mildly stinging but instead he pointed out a very subtle reason for Caleb to feel that way that I never noticed or stopped to think about prior to this moment but he's completely right.

Barometre, post-deluge.

I miss the way you felt to breathe
And it fills me with despair
Stratosphere
You fill my lungs and take away the air

(I'm sorry, Sam but here's what I have for you today.)

 I am a thousand years and a day old. The line that forms between my brows when I weep has deepened into a river carving a path through my alabaster flesh. I stand on the edge of the cliff each morning as the sun rises over my left shoulder, highlighting my black clothing from my neck to the tips of my toes. It's as if life was a dress rehearsal for this time in my life, grief being a feeling I never thought I would touch with both hands, let alone cling to in the face of every last breath by this Collective to knock me off. I would let go but then I might fall, and I'll never let that happen again.

I'm a tiny apple-doll. A gnome whose worries expand and contract like a iron lung, heavy and imposing, frightening, this breath of mine shallow and panicked.

I don't know what I'm doing here.

Do you?

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.