Justification.

You have at least five rings on now. 

Seven. If you count (I turn my hand around so he can see my thumb) this one. Three are wedding, then these ones-

Right so can't you just add it? I'd rather not see it fly out of a pocket or be sent through the washing machine because you have a tendency to-

Be careless?

No, I believe distracted is the word I would choose. Busy. Not really too concerned with the loose contents of your pockets. 

Well I am, don't worry. 

Are you really still carrying that key?

I reach into my dress and hold it up. Are you surprised?

Not at all. But I still think if you're not going to wear the ring I gave you at least let me keep it in the safe. 

Fine. I hand it to him. He takes it as his face falls.

I was hoping you'd put up a fight, at least.

What's the point? 

Passion. I guess, importance to you. If it's a treasured object that you carry I would think you maybe find it a talisman and would fight to keep hold-

It weighs me down. 

How so?

I want to sail on the wind over the sea and this ring is too heavy for that. 

Bridget-

The alarm on his face sends me backtracking. Like the girl in the book-

Oh. He visibly relaxes.

I'm not...being...(I struggle with my defence) literal, Cale. 

Hope not. I can hardly hear him. What if you wore it on a different finger? What if it just meant something but not as much as the other ones? What if you wore it on a chain or a bracelet?

Why is it so important that I wear it?

I need to..I need to weigh you down. Just in case.

Just in case?

Just in case.

(Hold your head up, Bridge.)

Just the other day I stared at the ocean
With every new wave another must go
One day you'll remember us laughing
One day you'll remember my passion
One day you'll have one of your own

Sometimes I carry a button from Jacob's shirt, too. I found it on the dresser top after he left and I kept it nearby in case he came back so I could sew it on his shirt. It's tortoiseshell, small and flat. He used to find it incredible how I paid such close attention to the orientation of the holes on the buttons when I sewed them back on his shirts.

It's important it look just right.

It's not important, Princess, he would implore, not understanding how I work, that if everything is orderly and perfect then everything will be fine. It still holds and I am militant, OCD, determined, though with so many souls here now it's hard to keep things tidy, let alone orderly. Maybe it's not that important anymore, Jake. Maybe you were right.

The key that I always carry is from the castle. It was from the door at the top of the steps, that led up to the roof to my glass writing room. They just roofed it over after we left. No more copper Victorian filials. No more beautiful prairie sunrises. Whoever lives there now has made it a happy home and that's good. I hope I never see that house again. I call it the key to my brain. I used to wear it on a silver chain but it's too heavy and so it stays in a pocket, chain still attached so I don't lose it. They've tried to talk me out of it but I say it's like a pocket watch.

It keeps perfect time.

They don't like that I say that. Maybe they're right.

The ring is Caleb's. The diamond ring he gave me. Maybe I'm crazy. Sometimes I put it on. It's a bookmark in my story to keep his place, in case I lose it (the place, not the ring). It's a beautiful diamond but I have Lochlan's heart diamond and two bands already and if I want to be able to bend my finger there's no room left but Caleb won't let me wear it on any other fingers and Lochlan won't let me wear it at all.

The phone is my GPS tracker. They always know where I am.

The heavy things at the bottom, pulling out the stitches with every step I take, are their hearts, complete. They soak through the cotton, blood pooling around my shoes whenever I stop to take in life, slipping as I resume my steps, leaving a trail of gore and rebirth in my wake as we try to reinvent ourselves every single day.

(Rachmaninov, if you're curious. Not my favorite by a long shot, but it will do.)

Crusted in salt, mired in concrete, I wait. Peace of mind is coming back. Contentment will return. They promised it would. I pace in the wind, a pretty mess, hair tangled around my throat, fingers icy and blue. The frost makes this perilous, my world set under glass. I can look inside. I could break it and cut through my veins, spilling crimson on a diamond glaze. I could turn and walk away but still I hold. I hold on to the frosty daydream, weighted down with the cold. I hold on to the plans I had, to my happily ever after.

I hold, and so music plays in my brain. My very own on-hold music that drowns out every other sound for miles. I peer into the cloying fog but I see nothing. I cue the light, sweeping it back and forth along the shore only to be met with a blank wall of soft white that drowns in a Holbein caerulean, pulling up the waves only to drop them against the shore.

My pocket rattles. There's a key, and a ring and my phone jammed deep down underneath my frozen fists. I pull out my phone, being so careful as to not bring the other items out with it and read the screen. It's Lochlan.

Come inside.

He doesn't know how far out I am, and that's okay. This is fine. I just needed to breathe. I'll go back in a minute. It's always just minutes, always enough seconds to count but never enough time, if that makes any sense.

I said I was letting the dog out when I came back from the loft and I did but then I kept walking. I was careful. I always am. I'm not in the water today but I'm as close as I can get because I can always feel everything from here but none of it hurts. I wish they understood that. I wish they could acknowledge that. I wish I could stay here longer but I made myself go back.

Couch-potato twins.

It's Tuesday! But more importantly since I wasn't keeping track it's also end of a tour leg! That means just before lunch JOHN walked back through the door and I forgot it was today and dropping my plate and screamed when I saw him, for .02 seconds before launching myself across the kitchen like he was Elvis and I was his biggest fan.

He told me I'm his biggest fam and I argued that Ben should get that honor since Ben is enormous but John said it's about level of obsession rather than actual size. Glad he clarified. Glad he's home, having signed up for the North American leg and now the overseas portions belong to his replacement. It actually felt a little like when Ben used to disappear for months. I kind of hated that he was gone but we have facetime and text constantly anyway and he wanted to earn some cash for the holidays plus he was returning a favor to a friend so twelve weeks out as a tech is a nice run for an old guy.

He clutches his heart when I say this. Ow, Bridge. You're so hard on me. 

I have so much work to deprogram you, may as well start right away.

This is true.

What do you want to do today?

Sit and not move for about a week. Then we'll do stuff.

Sounds like fun to me.

Maybe I'll just get fat.

Never settle
Make your mark
Hold your head up
Follow your heart

Want to go for some ice cr-

YES.

I had my bag and was in the car before he could finish the word. Getting ice cream has become synonymous with long car rides where I get to choose both music and flavours and Caleb just drives the car and pays the bill. I won't apologize for that as it's a form of escape that isn't bad for me, unless you note the facts that not only is highway ninety-nine a crazy risk on a good day, but the ice cream, when it's done hardening my arteries into solid blocks of ice and fat, begins to attack the rest of me as I don't process lactose nearly as well as I'd like. But I persist and we share a cone now, as he watches every single thing that goes into his face anyway, and with the amount of escapism I tend to like these days, well..

That's a lot of ice cream.

I wish it were cake but I'm not allowed to bake cakes unless it's a birthday (the sugar) and since I bake a good fifteen to twenty of those a year there's technically almost always cake anyway.

Thank God for that too.

I'm trying to find a little zen here. I'm grateful for all of this and yet so unsettled all the time too. Sam and Loch share the same mind in that they say it's a natural progression that after grief comes a massive need for change and rebirth but I don't know if that's what I need, or what I want. I just wish things were better.

Like ice cream. Ice cream makes everything better but when it's gone so is the good feeling.

***

Ruth has a lead on a future career, which may be beginning before she finishes her degree. Holy shit.
Cross your fingers like mine are, this will be a doozy. If I can't live vicariously through myself then I will stand on the sidelines and cheer her to the fucking moon.

Post consumerist nightmares.

Yesterday I braved the lunch crowd at IKEA and hated every second of it, escaping with four hundred and some dollars worth of cabinets because for a house this big and this nice, there is precious little in the way of built-in storage and the clutter sometimes gets to me, especially on the edge of beginning to decorate for Christmas. Lochlan had this one under control and I fought and hissed and snarled the whole. way. through.

We snapped at each other until late last evening, but got everything put together and organized and now it's done.

We made up. Sam played referee. It was great.

Then today I braved the after-church, after-lunch mall crowd to pick up a few presents that need to be in the mail shortly for the faraways, and I did it even as it was busy and stupid to have people walking at a snails pace in front of me (Grrrrrr. Snarl.) when I need to be somewhere. I can't slow down and enjoy the lunacy of it all, in spite of Sam's advice to do just that but I was treated to the worlds most perfect Banh Mi afterwards.  Lochlan had one too. That made it worth it. I feel in control again. I also found the INC.redible crystal ball gemstone rollerglosses at Sephora. I bought the jade and the rose quartz and I love them. Chakras beat makeup any day of the week and I'm hoping to turn my mood back from exceeding cranky to fakin' it eventually here.

A Caleb, a coffee, a crow.

What's happening this morning?

Reading about parallel lives.

And?

I am the female Steve McQueen. Partially deaf, abused as a kid, ran away to join the circus, dropping out of life to tour the country in camper vans, playing pranks on my friends, turning down roles etc. 

Anything else?

Yes, I'm best friends with Bruce Lee, supposedly. 

Name one of his movies. 

Lee or McQueen?

Well, Lee, obviously. No one's going to quiz you on McQueen movies. 

Better they don't. Um..Ah. Dragon. 

Enter the Dragon. 

Okay. 

You're funny, Bridget. 

No, I just love old movie actors. Remember my Ingrid Bergman phase? 

Yup. 

Saw everything she ever made. 

And what was your favorite?

Gaslight. And I'm not being facetious. 

He doesn't believe me, but that's okay. I have to go to IKEA and I don't have time for this.

Here's exactly why this happens.

(Here's a little holiday story about living in what I've come to call The Province That Hated Books. Our libraries have NOTHING. Our bookstores have LESS. Holy shit take me back to, well, any of the other provinces.)

I have a huge list of regular mass market paperbacks on various Christmas lists and since our Chapters store is a little weird in that they never have the books I want but instead seven hundred thousand copies of the latest political biography I figured I would order online.

I picked the smallest of my local bookstores to try first, Book Warehouse. I'd rather support local if I can, even if going into the actual brick and mortar shop, they have nothing. I find everything on my list and quick realize all of it is marked 'special order' or 'may be hard to find' and they couldn't guarantee access to any of it in the next month and a half.

Fine. I head to Indigo.ca. They let me choose everything. I use a coupon and it's all in stock, even items that haven't been released yet (interesting), and everything is going smashingly until I try to pay. Paypal? Failed. Credit card? Failed. Black card? Failed.

LOL

I try Chrome (which oddly enough plucks my paypal password out of thin fucking air, since I don't save passwords, so a note to figure that out later) and still nothing. I wait a day and contact their live chat, who ask if I've tried Internet Explorer (WHAT), tells me to refresh the page (seriously) and then it should totally work. If not to wait an hour and try then, the website will be fixed.

No, did and it definitely wasn't.

For fucks sakes. This is why people shop on Amazon. Even though I *just* got an order from Amazon this morning (Ben ordered something), delivered by a random man who popped out of a mustang parked sideways in my driveway with his hood up. Had he not been holding my amazon box I would have been a little concerned. So the thought of ordering again leaves me a little cold, just based on the professionality (okay so apparently that's not a word unless you're Scottish which explains why I know it) of the delivery...uh service they chose.

But I guess I have to go with hoodie guy, or no one's getting anything to read this Christmas.

In other news, I'm not panicking at ALL so far this season on how behind I already feel with my shopping.

(Update: Amazon let me ship it all to the post office. Sorry hoodie guy.)

The most wonderful gay of the year.

(Fun fact: When I look at Lochlan, seventeen-year-old me plays Def Leppard ballads at top volume inside my brain. Secretly he LOVES that.)

I don't wanna touch you too much baby
'Cause making love to you might drive me crazy

I got some sleep. Schuyler and Daniel took over operations here at Bridget Corp., inviting us over for Christmas movies and champagne in bed, taking matters into their own hands, as they sometimes do when they find out we're struggling.

(I love it when they host sleepovers. Get an invite to one of those and your social circle is solid gold.)

We happily accepted. Those two are cheese personified, and generous to a fault, sharing their massive bed and their big new TV, wallmounted so it's visible from everywhere. And it's always on, always playing something exciting like a romantic comedy or a documentary on saving the planet.

I think Lochlan had exactly one glass of champagne, poured half full and he was out like a light. I don't know how much longer I followed after him. I just know he was warm and Schuyler was warm and I woke up at five and Lochlan was gone and I was on the edge, Schuyler having gone around the other side to crawl in beside Daniel. They were still asleep so I left as quietly as I could, locking the house on my way out and checking for bears before I make my way down the path.

I could see Lochlan sitting in a patio chair waiting for me. His silhouette is easily recognizable (it's the long flowing curls, Jesus, they're beautiful) plus I knew he'd be around here somewhere as he's not one to allow me to venture anywhere alone, whether on the property or not.

I figured you wouldn't be far behind.

Did you get any rest though?

I think I got up ten whole minutes before you. Maybe I woke you when I left.

Or just admit our brains are fused now. The drift compatibility is complete. 

Yeah. He laughs and I start shivering. It's hovering around zero and if he wasn't walking fire he would be cold too. Let's go up and sleep for another hour. No movies though. Those were bad. 

Those were amazing. 

So fake and predictable. Girl has difficulty in the big city, girl moves back, meets hometown guy and falls in love and lives happily ever after. That doesn't happen. It's wishful thinking.

It is wishful thinking. That's what everyone wants. 

To have difficulty and have to move home?

No, to fall in love with a nice guy who's totally adorable and live happily ever after. 

Ah. Sorry to fuck up your plans then on the adorable part.

But you didn't! I grin at him and he figures it out, grinning wide right back at me in the dark.

Permission to rival the nearest airport.

I still woke up every hour on the hour, or so it seemed but every time I did, Caleb had his arm locked around my shoulder, holding me close against his chest, his chin against the top of my head. I would jolt, he would tighten his hold and eventually my heartbeat would slow to match him once again and I would drift off in the quiet dark.

When I got up this morning I still lamented the lack of meaningful sleep but he noted rest counts, at least for my body if not my mind, and that today will be better and I'll probably sleep tonight. Then he took the spoils of daybreak and I was left wanting nothing as I stepped out of his room and made my way back to my own rooms to start my day.

A hot shower, a different choice of perfume, my cross back around my neck from where it was in a little dish on the shelf and I let my hair dry by itself so it will go wavy and crazy instead of straight today. Straight feels heavy. I don't like the way anything feels. My skin is so sensitive you can breathe on it from two provinces away and I'll get hives or a rash. It's dumb but that's life.

(It's not the perfume, I promise. I put one drop of that in my bellybutton and one drop behind each knee. Otherwise I...get hives and rashes.)

Lochlan is downstairs reading. Home today. Tired, more than a little. Drinking his second cup of coffee of the day, which he hands over to me like it's ransom paid to achieve morning.

You okay, Peanut?

Restless night. I keep waking up. 

We'll fix it tonight. But you good? 

I'm fine. Better than usual, even. 

Satisfied I won't turn sideways revealing massive bite marks where my intact profile once was he goes back to reading. I give him back his coffee and make my own.

Is it time to decorate for Christmas? He says it out of the blue.

Oooh! Can we turn the lights on tonight? 

He nods. They've been up all year anyway, no point in taking them down but every night when it gets dark my hand hovers over the switch and so so badly do I want to fire them up but I don't.

YES. 

Then will you sleep, Neamhchiontach?

The nickname startles me slightly but I don't react so that he notices. I hope so. 

I think you will. The lights are like a comfort to you. 

Then why don't we leave them on all year around?

Then it wouldn't be special. 

Clockwork.

I didn't sleep last night, waking up constantly, Lochlan's elbow in my face, Ben's cold hands around my shoulder, the blankets ripped down to the floor, mostly. So cold. So uncomfortable. They sleep so easily. I'm sick with envy. My mind races ahead from one sunset to the next sunrise, afraid of the dark, afraid of everything.

Everyone is up and off early. Lochlan and Schuyler have meetings. Duncan has a meeting (still sober!) Sam has work to do. Dalton is still asleep. PJ is up and ready to get the day underway. We ran out of milk and cookies yesterday so there's a push to grocery shop and yet I am quicksand. I can't seem to get going. I feel like the world is caving in but everything is bright and fine. I wonder if it's a sign. I wonder if it's just me. I can't picture doing anything save for running back to bed, jumping in and yanking the covers up over my head, letting them find me later.

But I don't. I send Christian a text instead.

Why are mornings hard?

Just because it's dark. Get ready, get moving and you'll be OK. 

He's right. I know he's right. I leave my phone on the dresser and go have a shower, taking extra time to shave my legs (I never do this), underarms (okay, a little more often but not enough), stand underneath the hot spray for a few moments and gather my thoughts toward a different direction. I dry my hair out straight and choose a perfume. I spray my tongue with Rescue Remedy. I brush my teeth and leave the bathroom, getting dressed. All my jewelry hurts today. I don't like any of my clothes. I find something black, leggings and a long shirt. Passable. Add an enamel ring and my favorite bracelet. Lipstick. Okay. So far so good. I can turn my brain down just a little.

I can do this.

I manage to get outside and get all of my errands run even though my mind seems to scream the entire time. Distracting. Too many people. The lights are too bright. The traffic is too heavy. People are in my way. Lochlan isn't here. He makes things so easy.

And then I'm home again. It's okay. Everything's ok. I put away my purchases and finish up some chores. I find Henry and see what he has planned. I talk to Ruth who is already at school and I get a message from Sam asking if I can help plan a little Christmas dinner for the church staff. I take a deep breath, make a coffee and get busy.

A kiss lands on my shoulder as I make notes after hanging up my phone.

You okay, Bridget? I turn my head, looking up into Caleb's blue eyes. My safe space became a dangerous one years ago but I still even out my heartbeats without thinking when he's around.

I lose my thread of composure completely. No, not really. 

He sits down on the floor beside my chair, pulling me into his arms. It would be comical if it wasn't so kind. Tell me what's wrong and I'll fix it. 

I just feel awful. 

Last week was a tough one and you worked hard. You're probably exhausted. 

I nod and the tears just start to roll. Soon we're up to our necks and he finally stands up, bringing me with him. I'll take something tonight so I can sleep, I promise but I don't know if I'm making it to him or myself.

Come and stay with me for a night, I'll fight off your demons so you can sleep for a while. Before he's finished talking I'm nodding eagerly. He smiles. I'll let Lochlan know so there are no surprises.

Okay. 

It'll be okay, Bridget. 

Hope you're right because this is almost worse.

Oh my heck. WHY.

In a completely unexpected twist this Remembrance day Monday, I received a random dick photo in my email. I don't believe I like surprises like that. It wasn't from anyone I know. I guess a reader? The boys don't do that sort of thing so it was dismaying to say what is...wait, is that? What the fuck..and go through all of the stages of surprise to discover yes, it's someone's penis right there on my screen.

I don't even know what I'm supposed to do. Can I report this? Unwanted nude photos? Is it spam? I mean, it looks like spam. Pink and...compact and not very good. I forwarded it to Schuyler for advice with all caps warnings and he passed it around the point, collating a fine and hilarious list of unkind reviews. If whoever owns that was here in person they might have burst into flames for the level of humiliation in absentia the boys have levelled on someone they don't even know.

Before you decide we're mean, remember I didn't ask for that photo. I don't want your intimate pictures. I don't know you. And as I said, we don't do that kind of thing. We're not twelve or even twenty and sending nude pictures on the internet is asking for trouble.  Just ask the guy who sent me this one.

My policy was always if I wanted and deserved to see someone without their clothes on I can just go and ask. No one's turned me down yet.

Christ. This is why I don't like the internet.

Spiritual frost.

This Sunday morning in particular, Sam took PJ and Ben out for an early breakfast and then straight to church, where we joined them for a quiet memorial-type service, everyone in black, everyone with poppies. No one with coffee today, as we had church on the beach and really the only caveat is that you bring a warm coat, an umbrella and boots because the sand is messy. PJ led the hymns, an honor Sam rarely deploys to anyone but used to follow Jacob's lead in picking the person who seemed to need the most God that week from his observation. PJ didn't mind and did it with enthusiasm. Especially ending with Amazing Grace, a number Ben brought his bagpipes out for, a sound that reverberates right through my bones and into my brain in the best way possible.

I was impressed, anyway. I may also never be warm again, antsy as I held both the hands of Lochlan and Caleb, bounced on my toes, leaned against one and then the other, wishing I had worn the proper gear but opted for waterproofness over warmth.

I was not a distraction though.

Now we're home and I have Ben's hoodie on over my church clothes and we are plotting Japanese food for lunch which is fine by me, I'm excited. I did the laundry quickly and I'm ready and somehow I'm stuck waiting for everyone else. I feel good right now. I had eight hours sleep. I didn't wake up, didn't leave the bed, didn't wish for ghosts or see them anyway and I want to get on with the day before I fall in the hole I can see from here.

If monsters are real then the ghosts are too.

We've gone over Lochlan's Christmas list for what he would like to see me fix and as it turns out the only really significant things are less love for the Devil and less pedestrian, every-day ghost sightings.

Those are the only times he worries that I might have truly lost it, when he remembers that I am still indulging in a fucked-up romantic and sexual relationship with the person who abused me throughout my childhood (and beyond) and I talk to Jacob like he's still here (because he is) and let's face it, even that one makes me worry just a little bit, as I always feel like I'm one short conversation with him away from returning to that stupid place where I sat in a room that contained nothing I could use to end my days and spoke very little until I realized if I talked maybe they'd let me come home and so I did and here I am. Also a huge memory is that the sheets were so rough they gave me hives and no one seemed interested in my sensitive skin issues at all. I recall being the source of amusement when I asked for organic sheets and sensitive skin bandaids but when the hives came they just added benadryl to my cocktail of drugs and then I talked even less because all I wanted to do was sleep and-

*deep breath*

Why the FUCK am I telling you this? It's just a memory, just a thought. I can put the ghost away but he is stubborn and stuck, just like the rest of us.

Joel wants me to address other things, and not with him. He is subjective. I don't listen to him. But he has connections.

So do I, says the Devil, as he lifts my dress over my head. He plays his own advocate for brownie points here in the dark. Lochlan just wants you to be strong, he reminds me. These are things I know.

I'm not fixing it if it ain't broken, I whisper into his mouth.

I think he'd like things to be less intense with everyone else and more intense with him-

If we get any more intense we'll just burst into flames-

He wants the kind of love you had with Jake. The usage of past tense makes me cold.

We DO-

No, you don't. He's worked his whole life for this and you didn't mourn him as he left you, you simply moved on. 

He's alive, Diabhal. Jake isn't coming back. If he had just left it would have been the same. I would have been happy for his happiness. He had moved on and I would as well. And that's what Lochlan and I did. 

Then how does having Dalton, Duncan and PJ in your bed make you feel better?

That was Lochlan's idea- (Caleb forgot Ben, Sam and August, which I found so interesting but also none of your you-know-what).


Grand gestures to keep you happy, Neamhchiontach. Like roomfuls of roses or hot air balloons-

DON'T. 

See what I mean? His hand is warm against my back but I am stiff and cold now. The moment has passed and it's not going to come back around. The love isn't the same incredible crushing romance you and Jacob shared. This is more like routine-

That isn't fair. Lochlan is the one constant of my entire life. I would die for him. 

Maybe he needs to know that. Then as an aside, please tell him it was my idea and perhaps he'll resent me less. If the worst thing I represent in your life is a clean, safe, financially sound way to indulge your issues then he should be grateful. 

Since when are you safe? I smile at him in the dark, into his soul, through his lips, apart only a little. I love these conversations with him when we are nose to nose.

He returns my smile, eyes flashing dark blue. As long as you keep a little of that stubborn, twisted streak for me, Bridget, I'll be whatever you want.

Turn black, drop off.

Is that my post today? I don't know. Maybe. Does it matter? Do you want to know that my hair grew last night while I slept? Or that I cut my finger rather badly chopping onions (it's always onions, and no, I don't cry when I cut them -onions, not fingers, I mean) and the bleeding didn't stop for like two hours and finally Sam took over and sat on me for twenty minutes holding a towel around my finger and finally it stopped but only when I stopped. I made a joke about my blood stopping and then my heart and all I had to do was not move and I could finally die and earned myself a trip to the library to talk to Joel about my gallows humor and how I'm not allowed to indulge in it forever and ever, amen.

Joel's being a total asshole. Just thought I'd mention that. Can he leave now?  

No, Lochlan says. I indulged you. Now it's your turn to indulge me. 

(God, give this one WHATEVER HE WANTS.)

I wait with a smile and a bandaid, wrapped far too tightly around my finger.

He takes me in close, lips against my forehead, hands on my face and tells me we have to do more. That we need to make this easier, somehow. That it's time I resume the hard work and leave the play for a bit. It hurts worse than the knife and each word slows my heartbeat down until I'm standing there dead.

We tried that-

There are some things we could do, Peanut. He says it so gently. So hopefully.

It's broken-

I know-

Not my heart, well, my heart too, but my head-

Bridget, don't say that. 

It's true. Maybe you should move on. Go back to the living and leave me with the dead. 

I made that mistake once already, Peanut. I'm not making it again. Go talk to the asshole. I'll be in with you in a bit. He turns me around and gives me a gentle shove in Joel's direction. Fine. But I may just listen and not talk. Talking rarely gets me anywhere.

Yeah, right, Jake says from his place leaning against the wall, laughing.

Hush, you.

It's appropriate behavior if I drown Joel out with Christmas music, right?

Schismatic.

Brought a knife to hell and saw
What was left down there and more
Hide and seeked for far too long
Kept my treasures with my bones
Lived for lies, lived for tales
Lived for good and hit the rails
Love you, boy, with what I know
Hid that love up with my bones

Instead of letting me linger in my grief, hanging back in the dark, tripping over my own regrets, failing to keep up, Lochlan ripped out a single page from our history book, folded it neatly, secured it in his back pocket and unceremoniously tossed the rest of the book into the fire. We watched it burn and I wanted to ask which page he kept but I have a feeling I know.

When I woke up drowning he was there, in the dim light of the overnight, still quiet but newly crowded. Each way I turned there were limbs and skin. Everywhere my mind tried to hide there was a form to chase it back into the light. Every time I tried to catch my breath a new set of hands or a mouth would take it away again. The minute I touched earth I'd be pulled back up away into the night by my hair or my neck or my hands. Every time the cold rushed in it was blocked, replaced by warmth and intensity. Each time I tried to pinch myself my fingers were taken into someone else's, each word I tried to speak swallowed by a long lingering kiss. Each attempt to front flip into a hole met with a practiced recovery to keep me out. Each knife I sharpened to protect myself from my own mind wrestled out of my grasp like taking candy from a child.

Each time I tried to wake up I was brought back into dreams. Nightdreams. Different from daydreams in that they come true, eventually.

I woke up with the sun, sitting up abruptly, taking a deep breath into Jacob's birthday, the only one left behind to mark it. Forty-nine. On the cusp of what we thought might be greatness but turned out to be nothing instead.

At least I thought I would be the only one but as I look around at sleeping men, most of whom have at least one hand on me, I realize I'm not alone anymore. It isn't me against the world, me against the dark. My eyes light on one face after another and I can place touches and sounds from the darkness before. It wasn't a dream but it feels like it.

Lochlan climbs to the top of the hill in this new day and drives a stake deeply into the ground. He's claiming this day back from what it once was. The wind unfurls the design on the flag at the top of the post. Freaks, to be sure. Just so everyone knows, in case it wasn't very clear. I watch from the edge of the patio.

Happy birthday, Jacob. I pour out a morning whiskey I'm not going to be allowed to drink anyway and watch as it soaks into the earth. I told you who I was and you never wanted to believe me but here we are. And you're nowhere to be seen.

How many was it? Joel is so curious. He came out first thing to check on me and is taken aback.

Seven. At least. I'm not entirely sure. It never stopped. Not even for a moment.

Jesus, Bridge.

Well, it worked, so that's all that matters, isn't it? I snap at him. I don't mean to. I just didn't get any sleep.

Presence.

(I hate today and it's been so long. Four hundred and ten hours at least. So far.)

Eat, Princess, he reminds me from the chair that looked empty a moment ago.

I push the plate away. Cold pancakes hold no appeal. I get up and walk outside onto the patio and all the way down to the sea.

You should have finished your breakfast, he scolds from the rock wall.

I take a deep breath with me on my running start, launching myself off the overhang, doing a magnificent front flip that no one's going to witness, plunging into the cold November sea. When my head breaks the surface on the way back up, Jacob treads water beside me.  

You should wait a half hour before swimming, he instructs and I roll my eyes and duck back under. I open my eyes into the brine and he is there, pointing up. I shake my head and I am suddenly, violently pulled back up regardless.

The emotions that funnelled through me like water through the holes in my sweater were as follows: anticipation at the thought of going to heaven to be with him forever, shock that he's come to life and is saving me and dismay that it's Lochlan, now in the water (bye, iPhone) and angry that PJ turned his back for just long enough for me to do it again.

PJ is on the beach by the time we come around the corner, me actually being pushed and shoved and dragged along while Lochlan hollers and shouts at all three of us, Jacob included.

WHAT THE FUCK. 

I was taking a fucking piss, man. 

SO GET A REPLACEMENT. 

PJ looks at me as if I betrayed him too and I keep staring at Jake. Why don't they see him? Was he trying to save me or kill me? Didn't ANYONE see my front flip? Why am I still so insane? How long is this going to go on?

Forever- Jacob says, a subject he is an expert on and Lochlan cuts him off.

One of these days, Bridget, I'm not coming. And then I can become you, and maybe that will make you happy, since nothing else does. And he pushes past me, heading back up to the house, leaving PJ and I standing on the beach in the early morning sunrise of a day I wish had never ever happened but it did and I can't live with this pain.

***

I wasn't going to post it but it happened and I was so so proud of doing that front flip, something I wasn't allowed to do on the highwire, though near the end of the run he relented and I did several front walkovers. They're not the same, though. And this was off a cliff, no less. No net. No witnesses.

Figures.

Maybe you can show me in the spring. Lochlan lingers near the door. PJ dragged me back to the house, kicking and screaming and promptly got me day-drunk so I was able to deflect Lochlan's frustration just enough to see it through. PJ was a saint. Honestly after this week he should have been the one to turn his back on me but as he said once I persuaded him to drink with me,

My allegiance is to my queen and no one else. 

Who is your queen? I ask him, genuinely concerned that I've been replaced by one of the boys.

You, idiot. 

Oh, I get it. 

We finished a bottle and opened a second forty before we were rudely cut off and then once I stopped spinning in place Lochlan had dinner ready and made sure I ate (something Jacob wasn't able to pull off this morning) and then made me help clean up and then sent me to sit by the fire with a cup of tea.

He comes over and kisses the top of my head before sliding in beside me on the couch.

I'll show you tomorrow. 

Tomorrow of all days, Bridget, you won't be jumping off that cliff. 

I need something to do instead. Some plans. Something to keep busy-

Tomorrow when you wake up, I'll be there. And I'll have my arms around you and my heart against yours and you won't be afraid or alone or in the past. We'll be in the day that it is, and it's our day. And we'll pour out a drink to mark his birthday but then we're going to do something else, something for us. And we're going to go on. And we'll do it together. And I feel really sorry for PJ's week but today is the only day that should have mattered enough for him to not risk it, and there has to be recourse for that-

Don't be hard on him. I promised I'd stay put. 

He should know better than to believe you, for the only tales you tell are lies, Bridget. And I love you for it. 

I love you too. 

God, I hope that's the truth, but I think I can believe you. He pulls me in close, pressing his lips against my shoulder, arms around my back, just below where Jacob's hand remains flat between my shoulder blades to brace me against this endless goddamn storm. Jacob's face holds no jealousy towards Lochlan. Not anymore. I can see him in the reflection of the glass doors, clear as day.

I love you cause I need to.

To the open arms of the sea
lonely rivers sigh
Wait for me
Wait for me

I've decided the opening shot of the movie of my life will be a helicopter or drone long zoom in from far across the water, toward the houses on the point, all the way in to the main house through the windows. U2's cover of Unchained Melody will be the opening track, Bono screaming the lyrics as you have nary a breathless minute to register everything that's about to go down. The whole thing will have a shattered lens over the top of it to represent the fractured brokenness of my life, but still mostly visible. My favorite part of that is that Unchained Melody flows seemlessly into the spoken-word intro of Walk To The Water, which is a beautiful song, frankly. It works for me, anyway.

As I talk Lochlan is frozen in surprise, staring at me in one of those moments where I'm not really sure if he's going to be blown off his feet by my creative day-dreamed revelations or burned off them by his desire to flat-out run, screaming, away to anywhere but here.

I have lists and lists of the soundtrack in my head. If you haven't heard Walk To The Water it's the absolute best example of Bono's voice and the emotion he can cram into every single note. A beautiful, imagery-filled slide through the notes and into the void, especially the fade at the end. For years I tried to use it to time falling asleep to music and I don't know if I ever succeeded.

Both of these songs are followed by Luminous Times, a song which remains one of the biggest betrayal of my young life and one I can't play the whole way through still, which is a tragedy in itself. It's a beautiful song but it just makes everything flare up fresh and new, hurting so bad I just can't do it. Lochlan won't allow it anyway. His efforts to let me navigate this anniversary at my own speed with my own ideas does not extend to watching me peel my skin off slowly while I scream, beginning with my skull and ending with my heart, ripping out the valves, blood pumping all over the floor. No. Just no. Sorry, Bridget.

 This is where we switch records to something else because the tempo changes and it's not time for that yet.

***

That was interesting. 

What do you mean? 

It was fascinating to meet everyone officially-officially. Formally.

I'm glad you finally did. The gallery shows are so dry. I pack them with friends and it's easier for Cole. He doesn't like strangers. 

I'm a stranger. 

Not now, you're not. So you like everyone? 

They're all great. Do you think they like me? I find they all watch you very closely. Are they not used to having new people at the shows? 

The shows are full of new faces. My friends keep an eye on me. They always have. We've been together since I was about eight years old. 

That's a long time. How fortunate to keep the same hearts close. 

It is. I am. 

Are any of them...new friends? 

Ben and Duncan we met as adults. I've known Andrew since I was in diapers. Lochlan and I were childhood sweethearts. This you know already.

What happened? 

A lot happened. 

Off limits?

Maybe. For now. 

I feel like you're a history book and I haven't even opened the cover yet, but I've been carrying the book around my whole life. 

That's a beautiful analogy. 

Is it? Sometimes you just meet a kindred spirit and I think you are the closest I've seen. I'm a little intimidated by that wall of big brothers who follow your every breath, though. Will they allow for a new friendship? 

He looks so hopeful. I want to die for the fact that somehow I became so sacred to the boys I became untouchable, exempt. Revered. Worshipped. But only touched by Cole and Caleb, and not even Caleb much anymore. Cole has become possessive and closed. I'm grateful but at the same time he was never as affectionate as Lochlan, something I absolutely need to breathe.

Jacob takes my hand in his, rubbing the backs of my fingers with his thumb. His hand is huge. Mine is so small. He's warm and solid and he can't take his eyes off me.

I think they will. I smile at him while my now-voice is screaming that I should have flipped the chair in my haste to get away.

Noted with interest, both books came out while he was still alive, and that's where I remain mired forever.

So come pull a sheet over my eyes
So I can sleep tonight
Despite, what I've seen today
I find you guilty of a crime
Of sleeping at a time
When you should have been wide awake

I walked in on a conversation I didn't even know was taking place, hot cider in hand, book in hand, hoping for a whole hour of Daniel's Famous Self-Care ideas that don't extend to extensive beauty routines that leaving me wishing I was a boy. I'm struggling to finish Ishiguro's Never Let Me Go, the only reason being that both Ruth and Loch read it and said it's incredible. I love books that end leaving me breathless and in tears for someone else's situation as it takes me out of mine. But I'm struggling to get into it. Struggling to like it, even. So I persist. On the other hand, Sharp Objects by Gillian Flynn, the book I read before this, saw me going to bed at eight at night just so I could have more time to read.

Maybe it's a serial killer thing. I always love them too.

Maybe I'm just a masochist.

Okay, all of the above. So I stepped out onto the front porch and registered a whole new dynamic but all the old faces I remember. Caleb, Lochlan, Ben, PJ and they seem squared off with Sam. And August is behind Sam, just to his right, not that the placement of all the men matter but the names do. PJ is so done with Sam. So, so done. I can see it all over his face. He's annoyed. He already told me earlier. If I had done anything besides pull you in close I could see his spite, but this is ridiculous. At least next time make it count, Bridge.

I get that, but this is also something I don't entertain. Jealousy has very little place here anymore. Be content or get the fuck out. I don't waste my time with anyone who isn't at least half in love with me, and they shouldn't either. If they're posturing, climbing ladders or paying each other back, I don't want to be the object they use to do it with.

Not like the rules are all that stringent. The house isn't uptight and we don't play games. I don't think a poly household could endure that kind of immaturity for long and yet we are legendary for our sophomoric relationships, because that's what happens when you form such deep relationships at such tender ages. Who you were then follows you. That's how they see you. That's how they treat you, know you and love you.

That's why I'm forever eight or twelve and not included in conversations about me, like this one.

And God Bless August, who in my soap opera has taken over the role of Jacob, who managed to suss out Sam's issues (which surprisingly I'm not going to spell out this morning) without blowing it up further, who managed to get PJ and Sam to mend their splintered fences before my very eyes to the point where I forgot my teacup, cider dripping onto the boards. Lochlan saw it a mile away, as ever. Careful, Baby, he says quietly and I righten my cup almost automatically.

Caleb looks out into the woods. He's not a nurturer, and oh how I wish he was. He's only here to make sure his stock doesn't wind up further divided. It won't. If we indulge the pun, he has a controlling interest.

This is my life now. I look around and just on the periphery, where the night blends in with those woods that hold Caleb's interest so succinctly this evening, I see August's features blur into Jake's, to go with his hair. I watch him fix my life on my behalf so I can continue to fuck it up. I watch him put himself out on the very edge, making sure they're all in a safer place. Making sure no one's going to fall. Putting them all between us to keep me safe from him and him from me. As if I am dangerous somehow. To him and not just me. To them, to everything. To all of this. He has an much of a vested interest in keeping it going, and the way he does that is to pretend he has none.

I surrender my cup (and my life, I fear) to Lochlan and turn and leave. I don't think it matters what they think. I know different.

Matthew 18:5. Hebrews 12:15? I don't fucking know (Now updated, with the whole thing).

Sam was thoroughly unimpressed with the fact that I randomly crawl in bed with PJ when I really can't sleep, frustrated and angry that I didn't visit him, at least or even Caleb.

This isn't your place to-

I was right there! I'm right here. His hands are underneath my t-shirt, pajama pants low over my hipbones. He is dark and bothered and flustered and it's late and we have to get up early for church. I try to push him away so he pushes me down, turns me over onto my face and pulls everything off, breath hot against the back of my head, words gone. He puts his hand over my mouth, pulling my head up against his chest as he finds his way into me, pinning me against him, his word against mine. He's rough, it's dark and cool and I fight him only because I hate it when we're like this. I like him soft and gentle, more like the Sam I know and love, less like the monster who comes out when his needs overtake his good sense.

He never does turn me back over, never takes me with him, never makes sure I'm okay, he just slows back to an agonizing crawl, presses his face painfully against the back of my skull as he whispers I'm sorry and he's gone because Lochlan told him to go.

I went to first service this morning, walked right past him to crank the heat on the thermostat on the wall by the hall door and sat down in the front row. I left enough space and PJ came in a few minutes later, a tray of coffees in hand, holding one out for Sam, an offering in already-established peace time, made the way he likes it. He took it and PJ clapped him on the shoulder. Not a Hey Bro clap but an I was here first, don't forget that clap. Sam nods and takes a sip, burning his tongue the way he burned my resolve last night.

We're three days away and it's all going to shit now. What the fuck is this.

***

What I didn't tell you was that Sam thanked PJ publically for the coffee and then reminded the whole congregation that one small gesture can sometimes do worlds toward beginning to repair the damage caused by colossal, deliberate mistakes. That you can take something that belongs to someone else and finally begin to repay them. That you don't have to share everything, and you shouldn't take what doesn't belong to you.

Which is rich considering Sam isn't exactly my husband either. I think at one point Lochlan laughed out loud, as he has the right to be annoyed where no one else does, for Sam's jealousy and then his selfishness and violence. And PJ had enough of the whole thing finally and when Sam handed him the collection plate he fucking flipped it and left, yelling Thanks for the coffee?That's what you say?

He didn't look back, I didn't look behind our pew and Lochlan scooped up the few envelopes that fell when PJ lost it, putting them back in the plate and passing it on. I think PJ is banned now, but he won't care. He does care about Sam's misappropriated anger but he also only answers to me.

On the way out Lochlan shook Sam's hand at the doorway (having come in behind PJ and yes he's here and home and aware) and told Sam to fucking cool it. In front of people. Sam let go and moved right along to the next people out the door, wishing them a great week, not even missing a beat. I watched as the red flush of embarrassment flooded from underneath his collar and up his neck onto his cheeks but he didn't look at me again. He's not like this, he doesn't become uncharacteristically jealous and absolutely nobody picks a fight with PJ (and lives to tell about it) so I will go see him later and find out what's happening. Maybe he'll apologize for it. Maybe he'll stand his ground. Should be interesting, anyway. I will be sure to thank him for the incredible distraction from the ghosts.

Up all night.

Let me touch on all of the pertinent parts of the night here.

-The Linguine alle Vongole, the endless white wine and champagne (Caleb did indeed squire an extra case away for me, as promised), the chocolate cake for dessert and the toasts (and roasts!) to Schuyler and Daniel, now eight years married after what seems like a hundred before that.

We're very proud of their loyalty to each other, their deep appreciation and respect for each other and their efforts to continue to keep things happy, fresh and deep so many years in, when a lot of people become complacent or neglectful.

(I wish I could write their complete and fully-detailed lovestory here for you but I feel that action might dilute it or spoil it somehow.)

-The airplane fuel smell that I find cloying that no one else even notices, still present in my nose long after Lochlan washed his hair, had two separate showers and put his travel bag outside. He and Schuyler got in from meetings in California (still burning) at two the previous morning, which was why he came to bed at four and got up at ten to get ready for the party because everyone has jobs when we entertain and they aren't for nothing. He is good at hard work but I still had a haze of fumes in my brain late last night heading to bed and eventually left to go downstairs and crawl in with PJ, who never smells like planes because I swear some entire months he doesn't leave the house. He is the biggest homebody alive and he's so comfortable he's never going to find a woman.

That isn't the problem, he tells me. The problem is finding one that's okay with you doing this. He laughs but it's only half-strength as he falls back asleep almost midword. He is warm and solid and I am asleep again in minutes but then awake again when my phone goes off. Someone is pinging me for location and I begrudgingly kiss PJ's cheek for the snuggle and he doesn't stir so I take my phone and a stray glass and leave him to sleep.

-The leftovers. As long as everyone's content to eat seafood, champagne and chocolate we're gold. We're going to spend the remainder of the weekend recuperating and eating those things because they have a short half-life and are easy to make because they're already made, as such. No one has a single plan until at least Monday and this, THIS is what I've been waiting for.
 

It's alright.

Show me how defenseless you really are

It's a really good day for a ferocious new recording of So Cold. Eight times over, my brain registering one of the most familiar songs it knows (PROOF twelve years on) and at the same time noticing every new sound. Ben's big headphones are on eleven but I'm still in bed and they're cobbled from one plug into four different jacks to make it into my phone. I can't leave this bed, Lochlan's in it and that's a new rule from four this morning or so, when he came home with Schuyler, barely making it in time to get ready for the huge party they're throwing tonight next door for Schuyler and Dan's anniversary. Schuyler asked me at least four times already if I was okay to attend, that I could come and go at will, as if I will meltdown and fall apart right in the middle of hanging back by Batman and pretending I'm good at social situations or something, while eyes bore into my skin.

Sure, I'll be fine, I lie. After all, if shit goes south, plan Bee is to run and jump off the cliff in my cocktail dress, glass still in hand. Perfect, I reassure him to his doubtful expression.

He knows. Lord, they all know. Just let me listen to this song five more times, at least. Each rotation is a wheelbarrow full of dirt on top of my cold lifeless bones. As soon as you can't tell where I'm even buried, maybe I'll turn it off.

I said maybe.

Lochlan's arms are so tight around me I kind of want to scream or fall asleep. Maybe both. Maybe neither. So far I'm just lying here in the familiarity of his form that I needed so badly last night and the night before but he wasn't here. I tried not to fall in love with Caleb (that doesn't do anyone any favours) and he tried not to consume me alive and I was able to reassure Lochlan that I'm fine. Physically I'm peachy. The cold is gone. The aches from raking leaves are finally abating and I haven't cried in, oh, at least three minutes. Okay, two.

Must be great.

He sleeps like a log, as he does when I am finally back in his arms, safe. We are predictable. An hour ago he kisses the back of my head and almost cries with relief. I should have brought you but I didn't want you to be alone in a strange place. 

(No, far better to be alone here.)

He pulls the headphones off my head when I thought he was asleep at last and I swim out of my mind when the music ends to see what's happening. My brain is screaming to PUT THAT BACK because that's what it does.

Peanut. It's so loud. 

It's So Cold, I correct him, take the headphones back and close my eyes. It's so early. Go back to sleep.

Nicknames and necromancers (Daylight time).

Baby Mac. He greets me at the door with a warm smile, holding his arm up slightly, though I can walk underneath it easy to enter his rooms. He can be the Hades to my Orpheus. I just want that one shot, no looking back.

Only Caleb has other plans and the freshly-minted nickname makes me laugh, if only because it isn't one he would voluntarily choose and it took me a moment to understand he didn't say Babydoll.

Who came up with that?

Duncan, actually. 

Amazing. 

He nods his approval, a rare event when it places Lochlan first. I like your dress. He changes tactics and it's bullshit. I'm wearing a faded sage cotton slip dress he hates, with a long smoke-coloured cardigan because it's surprisingly cool, bare feet and my gold cross necklace. I look like anything but what he likes. I roll my eyes and his hands tighten around my arms ever so slightly. Then he looks down and takes a big breath. He lets go of me, dropping to his knees. His head remains bowed to look at the floor, if only his eyes were open.

Caleb-

At your service, he says quietly.

Oh, wow. If I were only a queen instead of a high-tied broken-crowned princess from the worst nickname I ever earned. What is this?

You need to be in charge. Tell me what you want.

So I did. I told him everything, as if he were Santa Claus but in black, who could give me everything on my list as long as I'm a very bad girl instead of very good.

We can do all of this. He looks fierce and reassuring all at once and I exhale violently, making him laugh. Now, Neamhchiontach, tell me what you want from me. 

Forty-eight hours later I am returned to my real life, away from the cool steady heartbeat of the one silently wondering how he can buy my affection when there's no price on my head but at the same time happy to dash my dreams. No Halloween party this year, the times clash with Schuyler and Daniel's big anniversary party tomorrow. My Eurydice isn't getting a second chance and neither am I so I need to learn to be content flush against the unforgiving night, restless in the fur blankets against the second love of my life, if not the first actual, painful crush of my childhood that still surprises me when I think back.

When the darkness lifts and I stir he is grief-stricken but grateful. We'll get everything done. You'll have the life you want. Hades comes around with the sun. Eurydice rises with me and I am victorious. It's a brief faith that will be shattered within moments but in the meantime it makes it all worthwhile. Go back to Lochlan. Tell him I was kind, since I was. 

For once, I remind him.

Cancel whatever I was going to post today.

Because THIS happened.

After playing this dumb game for three years and three months I *finally* caught the only Pokemon I ever wanted.

A Snorlax!!

He's now my buddy but honestly, I'm done. I live in the middle of precisely nowhere and we don't have a blue thingie for balls anywhere nearby let alone any good characters around. This was caught on the way home from the dentist, but not really. I drove eight blocks out of my way and Henry helped keep it busy until I could pull over and take over actually catching it.

He's MASSIVE.

Now I can get on with my life! Thank fucking Jesus says PJ.

5101.

The Devil is concerned, as I went and crawled in with him at five this morning for an extra hour of snoozles and I passed out hard against his neck and if you listen to him tell it, he basically lay there and panicked as I would stop breathing for ridiculously long periods in the dark, gasp for air out of the blue and then do it all over again three minutes later.

It's just a cold, Diabhal. I've been fighting it all fall. 

That's not a cold, Neamhchiontach, but it's usually not this bad. 

Time of year, that's all. 

(I've found my solid gold excuse for everything, as of late. Bad day? Time of year. Feeling not up to doing something? Time of year, I tell them. Didn't laugh at a joke? Time of year, for sure.)

That doesn't work on me.

What doesn't? I play dumb, batting my eyelashes just once so he catches me.

You're adorable, he smiles. I'm very grateful you brought your snoozles to me this morning. It's been quiet in my wing.

Sam's free.

Not that quiet, he corrects with a chuckle. I am concerned about you though.

I know. I say it quietly.

He plants a rather violent kiss on the top of my head, taking my hands in his and pulling me right up to his face. Tonight you spend with me, okay? I just want to see if it is a lot worse or if it's just been a while and I'm misremembering-

You can just ask, you don't need to find an excuse, Diabhal-

Time of year, Bridget, he says and I get it.

Whitman Mondays.

A sharp intake of breath and I'm awake, tense and suspicious of the light. The dust motes dance in the sun shining through the curtains, opened as a way to wake me when the dawn breaks instead of by force.

My first thought, as ever:

He's gone.

I reach out with both hands for my redheaded life raft instead. The tangible. The waking dream. The saviour in a strange land, this place of profound grief. It's so bright and clear. White sheets. Blue skies. Yellow and red leaves up to our ankles, crunching as we walk toward our inevitable demise.

A detour, Lochlan smiles, pulling me toward the lights instead. Toward the happy screams of people who don't know that hungry, unrespected, lowly-compensated people are putting their rides together under the duress of a ticking clock. That your life goes into their hands the moment the bars are lowered.

Do you care? No. That's the thrill part. And when you survive you'll come back for more, until we've turned your pockets inside out and all that's left are three nickels and a single corner-bent ride ticket.

I've been resurrected by those lights so many times and it's devastating that they only work for me.

Not only just for you, Lochlan corrects as he pulls the quilts up to our necks, turning me away, pulling me into his arms against his heart, closing his eyes to sleep a few moments longer, his breath exhaling against my hair.

Sleep a little longer. The rescue boat has high sides, warm lights and capable captains.

I nod against his head. Sleep. Sleep is that elusive shoreline I can never seem to reach, floating just offshore as if a giant anchor is keeping us from getting anywhere, but no one is strong enough to lift it.

He is, though. Oh captain. My captain. Steer me from the endless elegies and drowning grief.

Come take a ride then. I fall into my forever dream where he's standing in his jeans and a green Atari t-shirt at the operator box for the Ferris wheel, a smile on his face, curls sticking to his neck and forehead in the hot summer evening and I run in his direction, knowing I'll get the last ride of the night whether it's on this trip or the next.

I suddenly am keenly aware that it's not only Jake I'm missing, but that heck of a life we lived before everything got so sad, when I was so little Lochlan would whisper some of the lines from Walt Whitman's Spontaneous Me into my ear until I would blush, overheating and scramble to get away from his warm lips against my skin, wondering how dirty the words were going to get and he would laugh and pull me back in close and God I wish for that again so hard it hurts.

He pulls me ever closer. I can't remember any of the words but we're still here being wild-bees, he says and we start to laugh until we shake.

Nothing but a good time.

Tonight we're raking the ginkgo leaves from the front gate, where they pile up in the wind from the neighbor up the hill who has the trees. I don't mind. I love raking leaves. I do it slowly, though, as my elbow has never been so happy about it, but I do it anyway. The sun was setting, it was around eight degrees and mild, I was wearing Lochlan's work jacket and my belly is full from a single brunch meal today at Troll's (where, no big deal but pretty sure Bret! Michaels! was eating at the next table over), which was crazy-busy but always perfect and worth the wait.

Last night when Sam came up Lochlan let him down gently and then Ben appeared at less than eleven, surprising me with lighting the candles by the time I came out from brushing my teeth.

Hey, little tiny stranger. 

Hey, big huge stranger. 

Hey guys, remember me? Lochlan says and we all laugh softly. Sometimes this feels weird, but not tonight. We enjoy our own inside joke and then Ben pulls me in for a long breathtaking kiss and I never want it to stop and then Lochlan is on me and Ben distracts me constantly to the point where I can't concentrate and I'm losing my mind by the time he takes over, pulling me up away from earth, into his arms, off the bed so he's controlling our movements and he finally puts the focus back where I want it and by the time Lochlan returns and touches me the hair on the back of my neck stands up and I explode in a burst of goosebumps and release.  

Boom, I whisper in Ben's face and he laughs, again so softly I almost miss it.

Boom, he nods.

Oh my God. So good, I reassure them. They don't want me to get weirded out or overwhelmed or too tired. Overstimulated. Overunder. Upside down and inside out.

Lochlan gives me a final kiss. Sleep. We can sleep until late tomorrow-

Church-

Don't worry about it. 

Sam's going to wonder. 

We talked to him. Doing a little less work and having a little more fun this time. See what happens, Lochlan smiles at me with his We're about to have an adventure smile, something I could never resist.

Still can't.
 

(She was a right violent thug that came in the night loaded for bear and ready for a fight.)

It worked a little too well. Maybe I grew to expect it, to even think I deserve it. That my happy ending was going to come. That this make-believe beauty in dirt was real. That there was something that made it worth it. All the dark, all the tough parts, that there would be a field of flowers at the end and instead it's just more dirt. As if someone came in and dug them all up in the night.

This fairytale has a knife to my throat and the ransom it requests is my heart.

(So give it what it wants.)

(No.)

It wasn't the real fairy tale. You can't sustain that kind of love. It doesn't stay fresh. Only when it's weighted down with preserves and paint to keep it pretty long past its date does it last. Sometimes it's not as blinding but who wants to be blind when you can see the potential.

Anyone can grow a field of flowers. I proved it here, where everyone from the real estate agents to the landscapers to the longtime residents said not to grow anything save for native hardy tropicals and even then it's a struggle, because we're too close to the sea and there's too much wind and it's salty and the soil isn't so much soil but sand and then clay and then rock.

But I did it.

Everything grew. Again. Year over year. I don't even know if I'm good at it but I'm so stubborn. Who needs a gift when you have determination? I wondered if maybe I forced him to love me. Forced him to stick around and grow and flourish and dug my own grave in the process, looking over my shoulder every second shovelful to make sure he was still there. And when he was ready I picked him and then the season ended and the snow came and it covered over everything so you never even knew there was ever a garden there.

It doesn't snow here, and that's why we came. It was a fresh start in the warmth of the sun but back to the sea (even if it's the wrong one) and we had some loose ties to the place (Lochlan was born here, I've been here, Schuyler and Ben had some work here and Caleb didn't want to be somewhere cold when he retired) so the garden will grow because it has every chance and it should.

Not every fairytale is a kind one. The brothers Grimm taught us that. What they didn't teach is that you can actually write your own instead of living someone elses'. Or maybe you can join one already in progress and oddly it's a perfect fit.

Stop daydreaming, Peanut and pull those vines, would you? Lochlan is up to his knees in dirt and happy as ever, that we're doing this. That I came out with him this morning. That we have a garden bigger than anything we ever dreamed, and even though it's a full time effort it nourishes us without any outside help. But we're growing love, even as we're reverting this field back to dirt, tilling it over for a fresh start.

And it's working.

You think it's working?

I'd rather be here with you now than anywhere else. 

What if Jacob walked through the gate right now? (Lochlan doesn't do this. Why'd he do this?)

It stings and my head buzzes but I don't wait to answer. I'd tell him to leave. He's not welcome here anymore.

I don't wait to see if he accepts my answer. There is rosemary to harvest. But it's the truth, even if no one believes me.

Still here.

Today is wind and sunshine, leftover warm pakoras and stilton cheese on crackers but there's only a tiny bit left. I took my feast out to the front porch with a notebook and my laptop to start making Christmas shopping/making/baking/cooking lists and Caleb followed me to hold the door, noting my snack with amusement.

You're missing only a glass of champagne, he says.

Do we have any?

I'll have to order a case. I can pour you some juice instead? 

Maybe just water. 

He returns in a few minutes and by then I am installed cozily on the swinging bench with the big Mexican blanket wrapped around me, my snacks on the table, laptop open, notebook open, new pen at the ready (the pen came in the mail. It says I LOVE ANIMALS <3 BCSPCA on it and I'm keeping it forever. I gave Caleb the donation form to fill out but he doesn't get the  pen.

He puts the water on the table and points out the irony of a laptop and a notebook.

I'm a tangible soul. I need tangible notes.

Indeed, he says quietly and kisses the top of my head as he makes his exit. I can be alone here. Four people at least are within earshot and I don't have keys for the trucks or my shoes so it's not like I'm heading out. They think it's self-care but really it's just a chore I have to get done because time is running out. Christmas is two months away.

Focus on that, they say. Good girl. 

Yeah, this isn't self-care, it's panic-mode but yes, I'm going to focus on it and Halloween can come and go and maybe by Remembrance Day (which isn't on the day you think) I'll exhale and can pull it all together.

Or maybe I'll lose my mind.

Honestly, looking around this wouldn't be a bad way to check out. Too bad I hate Joel's pills. I hate his advice. I hate that he's right all the time. I hate that he's cute. I hate that he's here. That's the hardest part. I hate that he won't leave, by Lochlan's request, and is staying next door but spending his days over here, just for a couple of weeks. Just in case, though Lochlan still gets Alpha call, and I'm still completely unaccountable for all of it, even as it falls to me now to fix myself or be fixed at some point before it all goes to hell.

Hell is the reason this is so hard, and so if the Devil wants to keep me in champagne for the rest of my days then I'll try and take care of myself every chance I get. He may not have gotten any points with the handbags but at least the boys can share the champagne. No one turns down champagne because there's always something to celebrate, even if today the only thing is the wind.

The perfect ending to this peace of shit story, he said. ( I wasn't watching Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind again, I swear).

Thou knowst how guiltless first I met thy flame
When Love approached me under Friendship's name
My fancy formed thee of angelic kind,
Some emanation of the all-beauteous mind
Those smiling eyes, attempting every day
Shone sweetly lambent with celestial day
Guiltless I gazed
Heaven listened while you sung
And truths divine came mended from that tongue
From lips like those what precept failed to move?
Too soon they taught me 'twas no sin to love
Back through the paths of pleasing sense I ran
Nor wished an Angel whom I loved a Man
Dim and remote the joys of saints I see
Nor envy them, that heaven I lose for thee

Joel remains unimpressed. You've gone backwards in time. I thought Baudelaire was your favorite but you're quoting Pope at length?

Baudelaire is my favorite. Always.

I would have thought you would go from Baudelaire to Frost, maybe. Not Pope.

And cross a whole ocean to do so? Never. Keats would have been a more mainstream choice.

Overdone.

Agreed.

Joel and I get along stupidly and like all the same things.Too bad we liked each other so much, or I would have maybe gotten better. Or maybe not. Not like he doesn't stick rigorously to his extensive training but now he can do it without the boundaries placed upon him by the field. Now he can do it on a personal level. What's on your mind, Bridget? Besides tears that delight, and all that stuff. 

She was moved-

We all should be that receptive of our thoughts.

I thought we were supposed to quash them and get on with it. 

Ah. Sam has been around again. 

Sam never leaves. 

Sam has a different take on things. He believes in faith and not things like Complicated Grief.

I laugh. At every turn Joel hauls out his labels like a mad filist. This grief isn't complicated, and I've told him that before. It's simple, exceedingly easy and has crushed me flat. Fuck life, I'm busy living death over here. Did Sam say something that's given you pause? 

Wow, you sound like Caleb. I gaze up at him in wonder. All he's missing the ever-so-slight English accent and he'd be there today but everyone is the antichrist right now because today Jacob is the King of the Kingdom of Sorrows and I'm the only Jacobian, as it were.

She was watching movies she shouldn't have been watching and now she's trying to decide if we should be permitted to hide her memories from her. She's worried she'll lose the rest and as ever, she still believes the Devil can bring him back. 

Joel looks from Lochlan to me and I nod slowly. Yup. Sounds about right. Sounds like a rainy Thursday twelve years later, though it feels like it's been twelve minutes and I'd like to peel my skin off and roll in salt just to get away from it, thanks.

Bridget, I think we need to talk about this. Can you call a family meeting? 

I look at Lochlan who nods and picks up his phone. Principals only from the Collective, for Bridget's Brain is a private matter after all.

Just like that, I'm a sideshow again. 

Nothing like that-

BOOM. I whisper it but they've moved on. I look at Jake for support but he's looking at Joel. There's no love lost from his side of the veil. Joel doesn't know Jacob knows and I'm certainly not going to tell him. Jake looks back and me as shakes his head. The problem is I don't know if he means Don't be worse, don't tell them it's this bad or Stop it and get on with your life, Bridget.

I watch him as he fades and then I realize they're watching me stare at the wall.

Sorry. I'm tired today. I zoned out a little just now. 

Have you been sleeping? 

Probably not enough, I lie. This the problem. I can tell them what they want to hear. They can check off all their boxes. I've moved on. I've done the work. I know all the realities of my life. I know death is an imminent visitor to us all. I'm logical and reasonable but I'm also something else in there that I don't want to address much that happily chucked a wrench in every last gear that was going to turn smoothly and now won't even turn.

When you want to do this? 

Now, if possible. If not then tonight. 

I wish you'd stop gathering my friends together to tell them I'm crazy. 

I wish you'd stop pretending you're fine when you're not. 

Can we at least charge admission? I'm tired of being the freak for free.

I love you like a love song Baby.

Duncan and I are singing this morning. Sappy love songs. Or maybe they're hate songs. I have trouble breathing through this song, especially when I'm getting over a cold and any part I can't pick up again PJ is filling in perfectly. I think this is the thing I love most about the boys, is their ability to be shameless in keeping up with all the lovesongs and broken heart songs out there, just for me.

This morning we're learning a new one, as the Internet is a beautiful place and while I'm sure you want to know I am so damn metal, drinking my coffee out of a skull mug that changes from black to white when filled with a hot liquid, wearing an Opeth t-shirt that's a size too small but looks amazing, hair in curls, mascara perfect since it's only six in the morning and it hasn't had any time to smudge yet, tattoos right up past my collar and into my hair behind my ears and down to my knuckles to the point where I look like I'm wearing a turtleneck from a distance and I wouldn't change any of them now, even as the ones that I was having removed and reworked stubbornly refuse to look different to me, I'm still a huge sap.

We're avidly discussing the diss from Hailey Baldwin to Selena Gomez. We've watched Selena's new video (Lose you to Love Me) again every time someone new walks into the kitchen and we have decided that Hailey is young and jealous and Justin totally married her to get back at Selena, who has thirty-eight million more fans than he does on Instagram. I didn't believe it either but then August showed me the numbers and if you bring receipts I will accept that I was wrong.

(For the love of God don't go hunting down August on IG. I'll kill you, just like Hailey said.)

But they don't have a prenup either which is a reckless thing in this day and age. I don't either, if you're curious. Justin and I both like to live on the edge, I guess.

(Or maybe it is true love.)

I'm only rich on paper and though you can buy my affections a little too easily when my magpie tendencies toward glittery pretty things (like Caleb) come out I also have ironclad peace of mind in that it's not just me now and Lochlan will never have to worry about money again.

It's the absolute least I could ever do for him, though warned that his jealousy is going to light this point and every last one of us on fire I'll still burn with a smile on my face. This is not to say I'm secretly getting back at Caleb by marrying Lochlan, it's more of an effort to point out that true love is true love and even as you change and grow and shit happens and everything goes to hell, you'll always have that soulmate and he is yours forever.

That's my Lochlan.

Though he's refusing to sing today. He's still mad about the purse thing, though I think he's secretly thrilled I'm singing instead of crying today. What he doesn't know is that the acoustics in this hole are incredible for singing today. I'm still down here, I'm just acting for the crowd. He taught me a little too well, I guess, as he's fooled too.

You'd be wrong, he says, just loud enough for me to hear. Ah. Okay. Figures.

I actually found the brass knuckles in the old garage but he doesn't believe me.

The handbags were taken back. Of course they were. I'm currently allowed a shortened lanyard and my phone case that holds a few cards plus my childrens' graduation photos. I can put a lipgloss in my pocket, if I have one, or it stays at home. Anything else is relegated to a pocket belonging to one of the boys, because if I carry a handbag it will be full of weapons by the week's end and I'm not supposed to have any.

I plead my case a dozen times if not a hundred. The pepper spray is for dogs. The brass knuckles is for muggers. The knives are in case someone attacks me or I feel unsafe if I'm alone-

Lochan turns on one heel and is in my face. When are you alone? 

He's not wrong. A girl should be able to protect herself though. I've had self-defence classes but it didn't work. I manage a hundred pounds on a good day and while it's nice to say you can protect yourself or maybe I had a bad teacher I just can't. It was never enough. I had a big dream at one point that I was going to beat the shit out of Caleb the next time he touched me. I was going to get him to the brink, strangle him with his own designer necktie and then at the last second, just as his face was turning purple and puffy, let him live, always to remember that I grew up to finally fight back. So let's face it, all of the weapons were to protect me from him, and then I happily get into his car with empty pockets and let him sprinkle sugar all over me.

Who gave you the brass knuckles?

Incriminating no one that time, I lie. Ebay. 

Lochlan laughs, not nicely though. Make up your mind, Peanut. Protect them or yourself. 

Both. All of us. 

From who? 

Me. 

Each other, you mean.

No, me. 

He was supposed to take you for a drive, get an ice cream. Listen to some non-triggering music on the radio. Babysit until dinner and then I would be home. 

We did that. 

No, you didn't. He bought you a bunch of ridiculous handbags and reminded you that you mistakenly think you are beholden to him-

I'm not-

Yeah, I'm not either. I'm not buying it. I'm not accepting it. And your ten dollar bag is just fine. (It's a pink velvet corduroy tote bag. I put a zipper in the top. It's soft and huge and holds everything and looks pretty. Beat a Dior or three any day.) You're not yourself, Peanut.

 Because of Jake-

No, because of YOU. I think I'm done tiptoeing around the ghosts and am going to focus on fixing the living. Starting with myself and then with you. And you were never a fancy handbag kind of girl. Remember? I had your lifesavers and your library card in my pocket. Every day, Bridget. Every single day.

Not ungrateful, exactly, but impossible all the same.

This morning we were up and out early. A self-care day dictated by the Devil himself to nourish and appease the little freak from the high wire who still hasn't decided if she deserves this, or not.

I made the mistake of holding my breath early during the weekend over a new Dior bag. It's unique and beautiful and I wanted it, for a brief moment. Caleb asked me to wait in the car for a few moments as he disappeared inside a boutique, ostensibly to see the price or ask a few questions. I waited so long I got restless and began to write on the fog on the windows, random poetry seen by no one but there probably until he has the car detailed (soon).

Caleb comes back probably thirty minutes later with an armload of bags.

You do your Christmas shopping?

Maybe. 

I'm a little annoyed as I could have come with him. I want to be home and yet my cabin fever keeps me flush with frustration. If only I could figure out how to have it both ways.

We have a very early lunch and drive back across the bridge and up the highway. Things never look familiar until the bitter end. I am relieved when we're back and happy with the amount of self-care I let him indulge me in. I had an eighth of an inch of hair trimmed (to keep it straight, some parts grow way faster than others but again it's on my shoulders now, bangs past my eyes and I'm not looking back now) and had a neck and shoulders massage at same which ended mercifully just before I wanted to shriek and run right out, as I don't like to be touched, oddly enough.

Not by people I don't know, I mean.

But he proclaimed it a successful morning out, as we dealt with the fever, dealt with the two points of hair a good inch ahead of the others and the tension keeping a low-tier headache going (I thought it was the rain) has been eradicated and also...his Christmas shopping.

When I got home he handed the bags to me in the front hall.

I'm not wrapping things for you. The boutique should have done that. 

They did. He smiles.

You want me to hide these for you?

He rolls his eyes. Open them. 

You didn't. 

Might have. You're supposed to do this four or five times a year, not once every four years. You're so stubborn. Let me have this. I saw your face. Let me do this for you. 

Not only was the bag I exclaimed over (silently, so I thought) there but so were two others in beautiful colors I didn't even know they made). Now I have three new ones and I don't know which one to use first. No, yes I do.

Do you think Jacob's urn will fit in this?

Absolutely not, Bridget. 

I mean, it might-

I didn't think you had access to it anymore.

I don't (Sam's hidden it) but I always future-proof myself. Someday I'll get it back. 

Not at this rate. 
 

Garlic and rosemary and cajun and sea salt.

It's been the most peaceful Sunday. After a restless sleep in which bears did battle with blankets, which turned out to be some sort of allegory for Sam's fitful sleep we gave up and took ourselves out for brunch, leaving him at church with some sort of halfhearted instruction to call Ben for a ride home if we don't reappear in time to take him home (we did). We milked our coffees while the rain poured down the windows outside. They forgot several things. Got things wrong. The restaurant got loud so we finished and left and came home to the blissful silence of more rain and dampening of everything.

I threw in some laundry and roasted pumpkin seeds from last night's carving party. I added Cajun spice this year, but not a lot and real butter, melted and mixed and then slow-burned over the woodstove until they were golden brown. Jacob came and thrust his hands into the hole I live in but Lochlan pushed him back away from the edge so I couldn't see him and took over everything and I don't have to worry about seeing him again for a bit. Usually when he has a lecture he disappears for a brief time and yet I know we're now doing this absurd march toward anniversaries I wish I could forget wholeheartedly.

Almost cried walking into a store the other day. All the Christmas decorations were up, Halloween now relegated to a side table marked clearance. If only I could rush my memories, or at the very least, sell them.

You wouldn't want to do that, Lochlan says. Someday they will be fond, when the bitterness fades. 

It's not even all that bitter, just a vague aftertaste, I tell him. It's physically painful and it shouldn't be. 

It's figurative, you me-

No, it's physical. 

Bridget-

Let's do something else, I ask him. I don't want to talk about this anymore. Sam did enough of that with us last night. Before and after he fought for the warmest blankets.
 

Polar Ids.

The house is casted in charcoal dust and fog today, woodsmoke and dried berries and pinecones stacked up artistically around the pumpkins as we slide into a quiet Saturday. Ruth is drawing in the alcove, using my easel because hers is in her room and charcoal is destructively chaotic. I have just finished my first coffee, plotting a second. Lochlan reads aloud from the internet to anyone who will listen, everything from Trump's most recent war crimes to the way Osmia Avosetta bees use flower petals lined with nectar and pollen to make solitary nests in the middle east and I wish we had them here. So beautiful.

I want pizza. 

Lochlan laughs. For breakfast?

Yes. We usually get pizza on Friday night with tons left over for the next day or two. But last night we went to a Greek place for gyros which was delicious and different but fails to provide the habitual rummaging through the fridge I am spoiled by. Oh well. I started a bagel instead and Lochlan finished it for me, melting cheese on it just right and bringing it over to me as he potificates, wholly unwelcomely about American politics and Canadian voting day. I'll be glad in a bit when all that is finished. I carried another sign up the road last evening and I'm ready for barbed wire and electric fencing to extend all the way to the bitter ends of this point if only to know that while I sleep someone isn't planting large blue signs in the gardens by the main gates.

If it doesn't glitter it's not exciting.

The glitter began to burn (as always) and so I took it off this morning. My fingers don't like color, my nails won't stand for being pretty and chemicals and I will never ever get along. Lochlan theorizes that I have long-range heavy metal poisoning, that so many years of heavy theatrical makeup, chaulk and diesel fumes turned my system inside out and now it's delicate and sensitive.

Then why aren't you the same? 

I am. That's why I don't paint my nails or wear makeup now. He laughs at his own joke and it's a beautiful sound.

There's a point. 

So why do you persist with your nails? 

I want to look pretty for you. Besides, I found a gentle mascara (Body Shop Happy Go Lash) and lipstick (anything by Bite, but specifically their Amuse Bouche lipstick in Jam, for those wanting beauty recs from me of all people, but that's also the only two makeup items I own now ) so why can't I find a safe nail polish?

Because it's paint and it has to last or people would be mad. Besides, you refuse to wear dish gloves so what do you expect? Your hands are dry and burning all the time. 

Truth. But it looks so nice and pulled together. 

Why don't you feel pulled together?

I don't know. I just feel like I'm slacking. 

The showgirls. 

Yeah, the showgirls. 

(I always wanted to be twenty-five years old and five-foot-eight and wear all the bronzer and lashes and feathers and slinky little outfits of the showgirls on the circuit but I wasn't tall enough, dark enough, glamorous enough and I never felt like I belonged, even as I took the stage alone and not a single one of them could have walked the wire with the charm that I did. Not a single one of them could have held the collective breaths of an entire crowd as I let fire travel down my limbs.

There are perks to being tiny. Being cute is one of its curses though.

Get the sticker nails. 

Those don't last five minutes though. 

Then move on from it and be resigned to plain nails. Most men have made their peace with it. 

Ben still paints his na-

Ben isn't really the typical male stereotype I was referencing here, Bridge. 

Well, THAT's good to know.