Little woman, big waves.

(This post is meta. This is nothing. There are too many footnotes. Sorry.)

Whoa mistletoe
(It's growing cold)
I'm seeing ghosts
(I'm drinking old)
Red water

Caleb has replaced his fur blankets* with the most beautiful finely-knit cashmere and linen bedding from Ireland. The blankets aren't scratchy and the sheets aren't rough. It's a refined, understated switch from the brutal warmth and heavy presence of the former and I don't hate it, like I thought I might, expressing dismay at the abrupt change. The boys tend to be minimalist in nature. Skew viking, skew ancient. Finely woven herringbone is such a massive, progressive departure from all of that. Refined? Who wants refined? I want wild.

Easier to take care of, he said. This is correct. I needed to borrow two extra people to change his bed because I can't lift the blankets and didn't want to drag them across the floor. Why doesn't he do it himself, you ask? We have a system. If he pulls that card for chores he also needs to grab someone to help. If bedding is a two or three person job then maybe the vikings were leaving out a lot of relevant info but they also probably didn't change their bedding on the reg, methinks.

If only I could make a blanket out of waves, I think far too often to be healthy.

Those sorts of thoughts are Alarming but Lochlan worries about all the wrong things. I'm thinking from a beauty standpoint, from a striking distance. Imagine. I can match the colors of my sea but not that visual comfort. I can pull off a lot of things, frankly and this morning I am most proud that not only did Caleb chose Ireland to do his shopping (he used to default to Egypt or Begium for bedding) but he's asked to step in a little harder to make up for Sam's absence. And he asked formally, on his fucking knees, waves threatening to crash over his head, drowning him in hell, darkness and high water for all eternity.

I was so pleased that he asked like that I forgot to say no.

And now I'm fucked.

(That's literal and figurative, if you're keeping score.)

(There's a brain-emptying for your post full moon, Friday the thirteenth. Figures.)

*(The fur bedding has gone to four different wildlife rescue centres in the states. To snuggle up baby animals in need. I'm DYING here. I love that thought.)

Melting our faces off over lunch.

Today we are listening to Skepticism (omg so beautifully slow holy COW PJ), drinking flavoured coffees (found the keurig pods with the GOOD SHIT) and wrapping presents. Both the kids are at work and most of the boys are out so PJ is babysitting.

It's like old times when he would come over to the castle and make us lunch while the kids were in elementary school. He would take very good care of me but Jacob was alive back then and I thought I had it all figured out. Cole was already gone and I thought I found a replacement father and that life would be smooth sailing. I wouldn't have to be sad or afraid any more. I wouldn't have to deal with Caleb. I wouldn't have anything bad happen ever again.

Now the kids are grown, working, cooking, taking trips with their friends, driving and saving money, building credit, being awesome and PJ is ageing but in the way you would expect from a PJ. He has a few wicked streaks of white in his Mark-Morton-would-be-jealous hair and more lines around his eyes now. He quit smoking, is attempting to lose the beer pounds and wears nice button down shirts instead of endless rock tshirts (they are underneath the button downs). He wears sensible walking shoes and has been the rock of my existence, holding me up when I'm a limp noodle, keeping me going when I want to give the fuck up and ensuring my safety at all times. Sometimes I see him when he's having a good hair day and I think damn because he's adorable and handsome all at once.

He's the best best friend a girl could ever have. He's had some benefits over the years and he's lonely but not lonely at all and doesn't wish for change, oddly enough. And he's always quick to remind me that bad things happen and how you react is what matters. It's life. Put on some metal and get the fuck through it and out the other side.

He would have been the perfect husband except for all of the dealbreakers and red flags.

I know, he laughs.

Hey I held out for almost a month so fuck off.

Hope stopped the heart
Lost beaten lie
Cold walk the earth
Love faded white
Gave up the war
I've realized
All will become
All will arise

We sense each other. I'm a tingling-spidey and he's...just the Devil. I could call him something else, as he has asked me too, but it's embedded in his skin and his very being, just like my label, and we're too old to change them now. Grief and time have worn me down, I don't have enough sharp edges to hold onto something new.

I cocked my head and went to the door. Lochlan stirs but only half-wakes as I open the door in time to see Caleb reach the top step. Jeans and a long-sleeve thermal shirt that's a perfect fit. It's a kryptonite of a different sort watching a millionaire try and be 'casual'. He'll never be casual and I'll never feel comfortable in my tattooed skin around him when I probably should be in a ballgown just for tense and context.

(I get it, the song is supremely uninspired and phoned-in so hard it was like someone held up a recorder at a payphone it was playing through. While I will defend them until we're all standing in ashes, you can't deny Ben's (not my Ben) voice doing that thing, that pseudo falsetto he does, like when he sings Heaven please let me through is always fucking beautiful so sorry, not sorry for leaving it on repeat now.)

Caleb looks up and almost goes backwards down the stairs in surprise. Sorry, I-

I know. It's so late though. 

Bridget. 

He doesn't even need to ask further. I turn and hold the door. He may be the Devil but he is ruined and sometimes unable to cope. That's the theme of the Collective, how hard we need to lean on each other to help navigate the damage we have done to each other.

Ironic, but in the dark it's just devastating and now, here we are.

When I wake up it's still dark and he is sleeping peacefully. No more worry lines creasing his face, no more trembling with clenched hands. No more Mr. Evil Guy.

(That's my other fear, that we'll become a parody of ourselves with characters for nicknames, locked in a stereotypical storyline we'll never escape from but one that isn't good enough for a redemption arc or even a re-imagining.)

He is sleeping because he is locked around me and Lochlan is locked around him, a Devil sandwich, already gone bad but still something we crave when we should know better.

Muse ick.

Take it all down, Christmas is over
Do not despair but rather be glad
We had a good year, now let's have another
Remembering all the good times that we had
Oh, no more lights glistening, no more carols to sing
But Christmas, it makes way for spring

Why, yes, if you're asking. A Relient K Christmas continues. I need this music to live through the driving, as both Ruth and Henry are sporting fresh new careers, in and around their post-secondary educations, which thank God are on hold for a few weeks as the semester is over and doesn't resume until early January.

I need to put more music on the Jeep harddrive because bluetooth and I aren't actually friends. We will be as soon as Apple lets me override the notification settings while it's on to default to what I need and in the meantime I wait suspiciously.

Bridget, do you-

Not now, please. I am busy suffering.

For what?

For my art, dumbass. 

I'm coming back in an hour and I expect you to be civilized. Time starts now. And he leaves. I can't count so it's fine. Had no intentions of being civilized until I'm out of champagne, eggnog and REASONS (Champagne is only after all the driving is done).

Come back on January sixth! I throw a rock at his retreating form, missing by a mile, not on purpose.

Sam asked for a barometer (in writing) and so this is what I made. Enjoy.

When February rolls around, I'll roll my eyes
Turn a cold shoulder to these even colder skies
And by the fire, my heart it heaves a sigh
For the green grass waiting on the other side

It's always Winter, but never Christmas
It seems this curse just can't be lifted
Yet in the midst of all this ice and snow
Our hearts stay warm cause they are filled with hope

In spite of August taking over the Christmas playlist with his never-ending love for Kelly Clarkson, who does indeed put out a tremendously emotion-filled Christmas album in comparison to (most of) the others, I pulled rank, since he lives elsewhere and have parked Relient K's Christmas album. The boys are not impressed because I've played In Like A Lion at least fifteen times until PJ stepped in with his rarely-glimpsed impatience. It's profoundly sad and it takes them forever to realize that's why I love it.

Enough, Bridge. I'm going to change it for a little while.

The camper was a cage, walls making up the bars, door never left open lest I fly out and away onto the summer sky to somewhere new. New is a pipe dream and I can't see through to the other side. Freedom is a myth, told around a campfire to a small but eager eight-year-old girl with a sticky face and a reeling head from too much cotton candy after dinner, one who was never sure if a myth is a real thing like history or a dream-story like Treasure Island or Les Miserables. 

(Wait-)

He didn't wake up, didn't budge, didn't move a muscle with me in his arms last night and I'm sick this morning, overheated and under-comfortable. I'm already plotting to go somewhere else, anywhere else because Lochlan's fear is claustrophobic, suffocative, and terrifying in its strength. The eight-year-old is no match for it. The adult who hides her down deep inside even less so, as she had the most precious, incredible gift of ignorance and naivite on her side and I don't. Not anymore.

I can't find enough words to make that fear go away for him. Ben says Lochlan has to get rid out of himself, that I can't do the work for him. That I can't make him dependent on me for that, that he needs to figure it out and until he does, he will take it out on me.

He tells me to go-

I know. He'll figure it out. Just do what you want and it will either be enough or eventually he'll break and then he'll fix it. 

My mind flies out from my skull (bones are bars too) and finds Jake on a rooftop. Jacob couldn't fix it-

Aw fuck, Bridge, that's not what I meant. Loch isn't like that. 

"Like" what? 

But Ben has walked right into my trap. It's a widowmaker and Jesus Fucking Christ, I can't even set it up properly. I just walk in circles in the woods and every now and then I come across it and there's a man in it and the jaws are closed and I act so surprised, as if I had no idea this would happen.

And my brain will say, Oh! A MAN. Whatever shall we do with him? And then I pick his bones clean, cast a spell of resurrection, and we do it all again in the morning because what am I if I'm not some magical, carnivorous bird to sweep into this glorious nest at holiday time and get. fucking. stuffed.

Honey water and sweet sauce.

I'm sorry, I spent today on the drive with King of Donairs because you can't get a real Halifax donair here in Vancouver and oh, don't they know it. But that's okay. I bought an armload and then we sat in the car with copious handfuls of napkins and shitty cans of Diet Pepsi for the full 1987 effect and ate them off our laps, bringing the rest home for later.

(Spoiler alert: 'Later' was as soon as we had our coats off.)

I missed a chance to go to Rosemary Rocksalt (my second favorite love, just kidding, I love everything technically) and now I'm perusing subscription New York bagel deliveries online.

I've had four hours of sleep. I am a fucking mess but a Full and Content mess, fuck you very much and Sam says I'm going to go to hell because I haven't been to church at all and advent is just flying by, picking up speed as it heads downhill.

You should be the one to talk. 

I'll see you there. 

Good, because I've missed you. I give up the fight and let him have it only so he gets my point, shoved deep into his chest. I don't like Matt. I used to love Matt but then he hurt Sam over and over again. Matt is Sam's Cole and someday one of them will die from heartbreak. It can't be Sam. I will shelter him with my spindly arms but he won't be the one. He was meant for a greater life than this.

Or maybe this is the greater life. After all, we have donairs. Real ones. Not ones with lettuce, cheese or chicken. Christ, Vancouver.

Postevil.

I was kidnapped briefly last night for a nightcap. Caleb made us a couple of concords (so good! Violet tea, grape juice, gin and a bunch of other bits and bobs), and had a fire roaring away in the great room off the kitchen. I'm game. I'm always ready. Except he sat down after putting our drinks on the table and patted the space beside him on the big wraparound couch. The lights are off, only the fairy lights and the flames showing me the room, empty save for him. I move to sit next to him and instead he pulls me into his lap. Old dog, old tricks. I anchor my knees against his hips and lean forward for a kiss as he tucks my hair behind my ears.

Up close the fine lines of time melt into a crinkled, delighted grin and he is eighteen again. Up close his fingertips are soft against my head. Up close is the habitual, historical stubble that burns my skin so readily, flaying me open so he can suck the meat right off my bones, leaving me deconstructed, limp on the floor.

I turn and fetch our drinks, twisting at the waist without leaving his arms. A sip confirms it was worth accepting this invitation. He follows my lead, tipping his glass up without taking his eyes off mine.

This is so good. 

You're so good, Neamhchiontach.

I should be asleep. 

Come stay with me tonight. 

I tilt my head, watching him. What's in it for me? I tease him. It's an old tease, going on decades now, but only when things are good.

Whatever you want. 

I want some fresh baked bread. 

I'll head out in the morning. 

Right now. 

Let me make a call. 

I don't actually, I just wanted to see how you were going to pull that off. 

I was going to call the Keg and see if they could do take out. 

Oh my God, I love Keg bread. 

He laughs. You really don't ask for much. 

Have you ever made that offer to anyone else?

His eyes darken. Of course not. Actually, that isn't right. I did make the offer to Lochlan, and to Jacob. 

Were they on your lap? I make the joke before my brain can register the meaning and I want to cry suddenly.

You're worth absolutely any price to me. That has never changed, Bridget. You know this.

I finish the drink in one gulp, putting the glass on the table. His is only half-gone but he does the same. I move to get up from his lap but he holds my wrists, my hands against his heart. I lean in once again and give him a very soft, very light kiss.

Goodnight, Diabhal. 

Don't call me that anymore. 

I shall be my own lyric transcriptionist, and boy is it getting frustrating.

Remember this playlist? I think I've done it again.

When the broken fall alive
Let the light take me too
When the waters turn to fire
Heaven please let me through

Oh. So beautifully done. It's like The Great Divide and Psycho had a baby and named it Far Away. I wondered for a while if it would be a cover of Nickelback's Far Away and that had me a little worried because Jacob LOVED that song but this is new, thank God. And new Breaking Benjamin music is always an amped-up especially-excitable thing to a Bridget.

(If I had Spotify (I don't because industry reasons), my top artist would always read BB, because I default to them constantly. Not sorry.)

None of this is to be confused with anything else in my music catalog, like  Farther Away by Evanescence, Never Far Away by Chris Cornell, Deepfield's So Far Away (this shares a name with Avenged Sevenfold's So Far Away but the second is original while the first is a cover) U2's Stay (Far Away, So Close), So Far Away by David Gilmour (not related to the Deepfield or Avenged Sevenfold songs), Over The Hills and Far Away (Zeppelin, naturally), or Coldplay's Postcards from Far Away.

Intentional blur.

Lochlan looks at me when I come into the kitchen. He waves an imaginary flag. I would have forgiven him but he's playing a beautiful rendition of The Killing Moon and I hate it. Not his version, it's the best I've heard of that song, I just hate that song. It's one he plays this time of year. Sort of like Fairytale of New York, they're two songs that make up part of his fabric and he thinks immersion therapy will make me hate both less.

He is wrong but that's okay. He's not a huge fan of You Give Love A Bad Name and yet he tolerates me blasting it through the house like dynamite.

I can't believe an Irish person hates a song like this, he remarks at least once every time.

Well, believe it. I'll remind him, every time in return.

We actually have made up. He's articulated his lingering issues with Ben and with the fact that people don't change, that none of us have, we're still the same people we've always been, and that while time softens tempers and evens out moods, dulling memories, pulling them out of focus ever so slightly, certain personality traits and prevailing emotions will always be right there, in your face, at the forefront.

He's right. I told him that and his eyes lit up. But that doesn't mean we shouldn't fight for this anyway, fight to be better than this, fight to put a shine to what we have, fight to sort it all out once and for all. 

You're right, he tells me and that was when I knew the fight was over.

Aggressive Macaroni Penguins.

After Caleb and Lochlan's literal but brief tug of war over me, over their own fears, over all of history, past, present, future and beyond, I left. Ben has been absolved, or has he? What's the point of all this hovering, posturing and lying if everything is fine? Figure it out, you know where I'll be.

I didn't know where I would be when I left. I thought I'll go to the loft but instead my brain walked me down the path to Daniel and Schuyler's, where I apologized to Christian for coughing all over his new shirt but where is Schuyler?

Portland, he says with a frown. He and Daniel went for a quickie romantic weekend. 

But it's Tuesday! I wail and cough some more.

Maybe we can help. Andrew smiles at me and by eleven I am installed in the centre of their big bed, watching documentaries about penguins and drinking the ever elusive, always forbidden red wine. No one at my house lets me drink red wine in bed. Christ. By twelve the wine is taken out of my hand and I am asleep, dreaming of not ever going to the Antarctic because there's virtually nothing there to see and I think I would hear phantom raucous braying all the time after I left.

I am woken up at seven, gently, with orange juice, tea and a croissant and then lovingly sent home to sort my shit out. It's a message in itself. Andrew and and Christian do not have an open door but in a crisis they will step in and I love them for both of those points, frankly, and sometimes wish I did have an aggressive, penguin-demeanor when it comes to organizing my loves.

They did both separately text me later and thank me for the human-hot-water-bottle aspect of my visit, pointing out I may have had a fever.

Still do, actually. Time to slide off an icebank into the sea.

Much ado about everything all the time.

(We all have that one friend. The one who convinces you to go skinny-dipping/dance on the bar/marry him/get in so much freaking trouble all the time, the last one to grow up, as it were. Ask anyone on the point who that is and we all give you the same name: Benjamin.)

 I was sitting by the woodstove, tea in hand, virtually voiceless today from this cold and sore throat and Ben came down and sat in front of me on the side of the couch (it wraps around the woodstove. Not a bad seat on it that way. Custom designed and I love it. It's a huge curve), effectively blocking me in (which they love to do) and every time I tried to get up and go around him or climb over the back to get anything he would grab me and gently pull me back. This went on for quite a while and finally I waited until he was ever so slightly distracted and I launched myself the other way and failed miserably, as he caught me by the knees and pulled me back again.

With each boy that greets us Ben is protective, ashamed and facing forward. It's really not that big a deal, we've done it before. Go a little too hard, love a little bit too much and someone gets hurt. He tries to be careful. It wasn't on purpose but at the same time he didn't pay enough attention, as he misheard a word that rhymes with absolutely nothing else and can't be misheard. Lochlan had left us for a bit, trying to give Ben a little time to reconnect and look what happens.

They made up after a few false stops. It's fine. We're fine. Everything is fine.

I'm not sad about being tethered to Ben either right now. It allows me to see some of things I normally wouldn't, as watching Caleb lean in against Ben's head and whisper that if anything like that happens again in our lifetimes Caleb's going to tear Ben limb from limb was frightening and unnecessary but they all want to flex on Ben and be sure that there's no room here for oopses and uhohs.

He knows. Lord, he knows. It only takes a day like yesterday to remind him of the reasons.

Lochlan's been really great. He even ran me a steaming hot bubble bath last evening, and once I was safely in it, went and got me the largest glass of wine I think I've seen this decade. Then I promptly took a big swallow of Nyquil and had a hell of a night in a sleep consisting of concrete and iron. I'm barely awake today and perfectly content to be here by Ben, and to be kept from falling into the stove or into my daydreams or into some false sense of security that anyone is perfect, ever, because we're not.

Safe from the outside world.

As you lay to die beside me, baby
On the morning that you came
Would you wait for me?
The other one would wait for me

There's a layer of icy-cold mist on the stormy teal water and everything is soaked through. Another day of muted half-light here on the ocean and I have a new handmade coffee mug, a treasured second (and mostly forbidden) cup of coffee and Wildernessa's cover of Fleet Foxes' Your Protector in my broken ears, a chosen repeatable offence designed to stroke my brain until I can't stand it anymore. I'm at sixteen listens and no sign of stopping it yet, though it spills right into Jake Houlsby's Howl and I don't mind that either, on a day like this.

A day like this.

(Ben is fifty-one today. The old man. I removed the previous crack about throwing a forty-ninth party because he chose to pick a fight about it, until I finally reached my limit with alcohol and patience too and I said YOU MIGHT WANT TO STAND HERE AND SHOUT ABOUT CRUNCHING NUMBERS BUT I WAS JUST HAPPY TO SEE YOU, FUCKER. And then he started laughing and got a grip, bitter because he had to miss a huge chunk of time for something stupid he could have done from home. Because travelling around especially right now is stressful and awful. Told you Americans you really should shift your Thanksgiving forward in the year to match ours. It would be so much easier.)

He took his birthday spoils early this morning and I haven't slept yet. I'm trying to walk without limping, trying to drink my coffee while cushioning my bottom lip against the warmth of the cup to hasten the healing from swelling from where he bit into my mouth in a kiss that saw me push away from him long enough to throw out a safe word but he chose to ignore it. No one can be that hungry, can they? No one can ignore an obvious mode of distress whether the lights are on or not and if you devour someone whole without leaving anything at all, well then how are they supposed to grow back?

So I get my second cup of coffee and a few moments of exhausted peace, he gets a restless sleep now, finally at home where he can cradle his guilt in his dreams. If he's smart he'll sleep right through and not have to deal with the rest of their anger after we worked through most of yesterday in spite of snow and ridiculously late flights to see that he still had a birthday dinner for the books, as celebrating on a Monday of all days is absolutely no fun at all.

He is still sober, in case you're looking for the reasons. There are no reasons sometimes, other that the crushing loneliness and stress of life itself. That's why. That's freaking why and that's why I'm not even mad. Just focused. I need to get this weird little fat lip down by the time anyone else walks in and I need to walk normally and I really don't think that's going to happen easily but I can stall for a bit at least. None of it's bad. Compared to Caleb it's barely on the radar. I'll just deflect the criticism and say that I asked for a degree we don't usually turn to and it will be fine. I'll just say I sneezed really hard and bit my lip. I'll say whatever I want but they won't believe me and I'm not about to spend today at war. I missed Ben too much to fight back, felt his absence so glaringly I drank right in front of him to be difficult (out of respect I don't) and let him rain his bullshit down around me until I had to swim to get out of it. It's fine. Not every moment is happy. Not every homecoming is hearts and flowers. Not every day is perfect.

That much I always knew but it always gets better.

I just sneezed again and actually crunched on my stupid lip because it's in the way. What do you want to wager I can say to get a third cup of coffee and just sit here all morning trying to be unnoticeable?

Birthday boy.

Ben is on the way!

Flight is listed as on time, I am losing my mind. Planning a homecoming/birthday party for tonight and he's going to be tired and yet elated to be home and half of us are sick and the other half are tired and Christmas is right around the corner and today is the first Sunday of Advent and yeah, I think I'm too busy to post. I have to go to the airport. Bye!

(I think I thought I saw you try.)

Sam likes a seven-ten wake up on Saturdays and since I'm usually the only one up I tend to knock softly on his door on Saturday mornings, wait for a muffled, unintelligible reply, let myself in and crawl up to the top of his bed where I unearth Sam from a mountain of blankets, going by the soft waves of his hair, usually the only part of him sticking out. I don't know how he breathes but he's always happy to see me, happy for a brief hug and anxious to hear how I slept, how I feel, what I'm thinking, asking me if I need him.

He's always working. Always getting a barometer, ministering constantly. It's his default. He's chosen the right career path, that's for certain He doesn't have many hats, he has one.

But this morning as I came out of the bathroom to find clothes and jewelry after my shower, Lochlan is awake. Sitting up in bed, the light on the bedside table making the room soft and yellow, bathed in warmth.

Sam doesn't need a wakeup this morning. 

Oh, did you talk to him?

No, Matt's car was in the drive when I came up. 

Oh, well, he probably stopped by for their chat and then he left-

Check it before you go down. 

Fine. I turn and walk out on the balcony. It's minus three this morning and I am still naked. My skin turns to frosted glass and I hear Lochlan swear and crawl out of bed. Bridget, what the fuck-

But he's right. Matt's car is parked in the driveway. Would have missed it up in the guest spots on the other side of the stables but I knew where to check.

Bridget, Sam is lonely, that's why he skews harsh-

I'm doing my best!

It isn't your job, Neamhchiontach. You're not responsible for this. If Sam wants to entertain Matt every Christmas without strings you don't have a say in it. 

Every time Matt leaves Sam's heart has a harder time healing itself, Lochlan. 

But it's still better than being functionally alone. 

Is it?

I would chose it. I have chosen it before, if you remember. 

I stare at him in the light. He did. He spent years taking whatever he could get and it was enough, or so I thought but if it's less hard than being alone who am I to fight for misery when temporary joy will do.

Lochlan smooths my bangs out of my eyes as I nod. You get it. I know you get it. 

I stare at him. We really did fuck ourselves over for those permanent connections, holding them so precious when everything else seemed so fleeting, so violently brief.

But why can't he just stay? It's a whisper in the morning darkness.

Some people are birds-

Jacob was a bird, I blurt out, interrupting Lochlan, who at this point remains the most patient man in the universe.

He was a bird, Lochlan nods thoughtfully. But who knows? Maybe Matt will stay on after Christmas. Christmas is about believing in magic, after all. Maybe if we wish hard enough for Sam, it will happen. 

You're getting my hopes up, Locket. 

I'm getting my own up too, he reminds me with a laugh. It would be better for me if he did.
 

Not about Sam because wow, let's talk about something else and we'll deal with that tomorrow.

After a blissful morning doing little other than laundry catch-up and painting my nails for Christmas (I'm allergic, remember? It will last til maybe tomorrow, if I get that far but stupidly I am determined to look pretty and pulled together and if I can't pull that off I will at least attempt to always be decorated) and drinking coffee by the bucketful I stupidly offered to drive Dalton to the mall to pick up a parcel at the post office. He got a final notice, which is neato since there was never any other notice, thanks Canada Post. So off we went and I took parcels to mail home to Nova Scotia and Newfoundland too. Just in case it was a mistake, I didn't want to go that far for nothing.

We listened to the Fiction Family Christmas album on the way. The mall was packed. I drove around the lot three times before I found a spot that I could fit in. The Jeep is huge and I can't see over the front end. I may splurge on a booster seat for myself. I read a funny article the other day on how everything is designed around a male, 5'11, 150 lbs and I laughed and laughed because the absolute only times in life my size has been a good thing are when I'm indulging in commercial airline travel and when I played hide and seek as a child.

That's freaking it.

I can swing my legs in your average airplane. Be jealous. But I do feel your pain. Airplanes are only marginally better than Black Friday, which I didn't really clue in to until we were home and I was telling PJ about the psychotic crowdage at the mall and he said no wonder, being the day it is and I'm like okay, yeah, Friday at lunchtime yeah yeah and then I clued in all at once like WHAT.

I was all set to participate in no-buy Black Friday or whatever because I despise things like crowds, malls, traffic but I did pick up dog treats (on sale) and keurig pods (also on sale) and there was indeed a package waiting for Dalton (where did the other notices go?) and so I fucked that up but I did survive and now all of my away stuff is Fully Sent and Christmas is officially underway, bitches.

Also the dog was very happy his crunchy treats are back in stock.

Happy Buy Nothing day! *covers face in shame*

Holiday Matt, round four.

He showed up before Thanksgiving turkey was even served. Nevermind Thanksgiving was last month, and Americans are behind (as usual). Nevermind we told him never to come back. Nevermind history or broken hearts or loneliness. Just forget about all of that and live in the moment.

I think I understand it now. As an environmental scientist working at a major university he has a lot of time off that coincides with the semester and the department changeover and so he promptly packed a bag, planned some romantic bullshit and showed up on our doorstep, hoping that Sam is somehow free, somehow not dating someone else, and somehow willing to let Matt set foot inside.

Who cares if Sam will. The question is, will I?

And I did because I believe in love but I also believe in bullshit and it's sucky to be lonely at Christmas but it's even worse to pick a hefty New Year's Fight in order to make a clean exit.

Except this time the king of booze has been sober for over a year.

And he thinks that's the golden ticket.

Actually, it's not your drinking, it's just your whole...vibe. I don't have the words. They can't find the holes in my disdain for him to escape so he knows what I mean. Your drinking problem is the least of your worries. 

Then could you help me?

Do what, exactly?

Figure out how to fix it? All of it so that he'll love me again?

He never stopped, Matt. 

No boyfriend? 

No. 

What about...you?

I am not his boyfriend (I told the truth, okay?).

Matt visibly relaxes (wow) and asks if he may come in.

You may not. I'll tell him you were here and if he wants to see you, you may leave your contact information. 

He has my cell. 

Does he? I keep him right on the edge, hanging out over so he can see the earth below. I hope he pees his fucking pants.

I think he does. Here, I'll give it to you in case. 

I put it in my phone and then pocket the phone.

Bridget-

He stops but I wait.

Please tell him I love him. 

Tell him yourself if he contacts you. But Matt, I wish you would remember something. Love isn't a holiday thing. It's all year around. You can't just show up and have a Christmas fling and no one gets hurt. If you think I'm going to allow you to do this to Sam again, you're mistaken. 

How many times did it take you and Loch to get it right, Bridget? 

That's different. 

Right. You have your history, please let us have one for ourselves. I thought he was being facetious but then I looked up into his face. He is stricken, ashes and regret.

I'll tell him you were here, I promise, closing the door in his face.
 

Wasting nightlight.

I found a little bee today, cold and stiff and a little lost in the bottom of the pool. I carried him up and lay him in the flowers and he seemed far happier, though still cold. I don't know why he was way down in the pool. I don't know why I was either, truth be told, so we can be lost together.

Maybe we're dead.

I found a new song today. Orbital Grace by Grin. It's a sludgery-drudgery piece that speaks to the feelings I have regarding the two whopping whole hours of daylight today and fit my mood perfectly. Plus PJ loved it, so there's a bonus. Yesterday he gifted me Silvertomb's new album with instructions to listen to it in reverse track order first and I'm forever grateful. It's so good.

I found a new way to live today. Quietly. On the edge. In the sun. One foot in front of the other. Lifejacket on, just in case though the water seems to be knee-deep it's always deceiving. I need to not be doing that. I need to not be at the bottom of the pool. The water here is symbolic but then again maybe so is the bee.

Living saints, hungry wolves, stupid girl.

(Here's how it works. The moment I stop talking the ballads spool up in my head, blindingly loud. Maybe I'm not deaf. Maybe the music's just in the way. You should hear the incredible screech when someone says something and the music stops so that I can respond. Please make sure that gets put in the movie, that loud ballads play constantly while she walks around, while she thinks. It'll make more sense that way, I promise.)

I got cornered. It was around midnight, the house was dark and quiet, tiny fairy lights the only lights I use to make my way around. Since Ben is away we can have nightcaps in bed, Lochlan and I, and we really need our rituals tonight. It's been a long and difficult week and it's Monday so that's something right there.

When I step out of the butler's pantry Caleb is blocking the door. I startle but steady my arms and I don't spill even a drop. Lucky for me, as it's the very best stuff.

You're not wearing August's ring. 

No. See my hand? Right now it's only Lochlan's and Ben's. Yours is in the dish already because I don't sleep in it. 

You wore it with him-

I look at the floor. We were in a rush, Diabhal.

He sets his face and looks at the ceiling. I don't want to miss my chance, Neamhchiontach. 

You didn't. You're right here. 

I don't want to be on the outside. I don't want to be alone anymore. If I don't push this, if I don't take this chance I'm dooming myself to a life alone. 

I stare at him in the dark. Forever. I finally take one of the drinks, pressing it against his chest. Let me talk to Lochlan. Lochlan who never gets a break. Lochlan, who's been so patient I may as well change his name and press him into a medal to wear at this point. Lochlan, patron saint of wolves.

Caleb lets out a visible rush of stress, passing me back the glass. No, tonight is his night. Knowing you aren't willingly shutting me out, as if on purpose, is all I need to sleep. 

I stare at him once more. I can't decide if he's overdramatizing this to secure his intent or if he's just being real with me.

Bridget-

Listen. If you can't sleep or if you can't stay asleep come find us. Ben's away. There's space-

I know. Thank you, Neamhchiontach. He kisses my forehead, takes my glass again, drinking a sip, and then he's gone into the night.

I spilled a lot of whiskey on the way upstairs because I ran. I was scared he was going to pop up again out of the dark and chase me all the way home. When I made it to our rooms, Lochlan gave me a look that said he knows that the music is pretty loud on the inside, especially after I see the Devil in the flesh and so he took both glasses, poured what was left into the other, drank the result and told me I was fucked in the head.

For every dream that is left behind me
I take a bow
With every war that will rage inside me
I hear the sound
Of another day in this vanishing life
Returned to dust
And every chance I pushed away
Into the night

Last evening after dinner I lingered at the table for a moment to finish my wine. Kids and PJ long excused, Duncan and Loch rising at the same time to clear dishes. Dalton puts the dog out. Ben is away (goddamit) and Sam took his plate upstairs to work because he's behind and Advent now breathes down his neck like a stalker. Gage rarely comes over for dinner. August comes over most nights but last night he didn't and I set down my glass, two sips to go and sure enough, across the table rests the Devil. No wine, just water. Eyes black and blue. I can see the rage boiling up toward the sides and so, for once, I throw down just on the other side of the line.

Jealous?

Of August? He laughs. No. Never.

The look on your face lies on your behalf, Diabhal.

You've had too much, Bridget-

No, but I've had enough. If wearing this ring gives me an extra few carats of weight then that's all it means to me. If it's peace of mind for you then fine but don't start in on me tonight.

I thought August-

August is off limits to you and your thoughts.

He-

Or your opinions!

Neamhchiontach, please let me finish.

Fine, go ahead.

Seeing August right on the end of a difficult season is a poor plan for progress. That's all.

Then you'll be happy to know I cried out his name instead of Jake's this time.

I couldn't resist. I finished the rest of my wine in a gulp, fleeing the room just as he made a grab for me. I heard shouts from downstairs as I made it up to my rooms but I didn't hear any of the words and I didn't care anyway.

August for August's sake.

August runs his fingers over my rings. He is sleepy, holding my hand up in the air, blinking slowly as he counts and notes each and every one.

I see it's back, he says darkly.

I nod against the side of his head. I want my hand back. It was busy exploring under the sheets, waking him up slowly, basking in a rare moment in which he didn't demand that I leave just as I was beginning to relax. I guess I passed all of his unspoken tests. I didn't call him Jake. I didn't ask for more or anything that isn't something from his personal repertoire. I didn't make him promise me I could stay longer, or stay over and maybe I've graduated with honors, as for the first time in a very long time I found myself texting Lochlan on a darkened screen early into the morning that I would be back before church. I should have done it far earlier but I was busy holding my breath.

August didn't even act like he was doing me a favor. He didn't acknowledge me jumping through his silent hoops or make any motion for me to leave when he finally let me go. He just readjusted his position and scooped me in firmly against his chest, wrapping his arm around my shoulder, resting his chin on top of my head and within seconds he was asleep.

It took me close to twenty minutes to hardly believe this turn of events and then to extricate myself to let Lochlan know I wasn't going outside to run the gauntlet of early-winter bears to come home.

Lochlan never replied. I probably waited too long. But that's okay. I close my eyes, reach up and wrap my fingers in August's waves and I'm out like a light. Still wearing my necklace, my rings and my socks, of all things. The bed rocks gently from it's ropes and I remember nothing until the sun comes up and he is stirring gently. I had turned toward him, gently stroking his chest, his thighs, his arms when he decided to check out the new state of affairs of diamonds on my fingers.
 
Does this mean I should have sent you away? His whole body is suddenly tense.

It's just for weight. I whisper it and his eyes tear up. My kingdom to not make them sad any longer. He pulls me in harder, kissing the top of my head and holds his mouth there against my hair for a heartbeat.

Even though I hate to, because I feel like this was a really good visit, based on this new development you should head home. 

They're afraid I'll disappear on the wind, it's just a metaphor-

I'm not fucking with him, Bridge. Go home. 

Now my eyes tear up and I climb out of bed, dress quickly and flee the loft. For the second time in a week he's reduced me to tears. I thought we made up but he's always looking over his shoulder at his shadow.  I don't know who he's more afraid of, Jacob or Caleb. I look at my hand as I cross the brick driveway and suddenly it comes to me: I just need brighter lights. Then when he turns around there would be nothing there.

Their, there. They're.

He's right. Just wear it. 

Not on that fing-

Does it matter? The rings aren't the point. The bond is.

I don't know if Lochlan means himself or Caleb but I'm not going to ask for clarification. I slid the diamond on my right hand ring finger and he nods, after a heartbeat or two before answering my unspoken question.

The bond may extend to the collective but you are mine and I am yours. And he can't come between that. Never will. Besides, he's right. We need to weigh you down.

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.