Extra zinc for turquoise, just for me.

Last night the weather cleared just long enough for us to cook and eat outside, down on the beach over a fire before it was fed enough to roar up into the night, sparks turning to fireworks to the point where I couldn't tell them from the stars. There were six acoustic guitars in attendance wielded by five established bards and one court jester, who continues to learn at a pretty good pace, truth be told. I grew sleepy from the red wine and the roast beef, my belly full of homemade bread, my body warm under a blanket, sitting on one of the driftwood logs we have dragged into a loose circle.

These nights are the ones I love. We've just moved from the woods to the lake, from the ocean to the other ocean, from childhood into adulthood, from ignorance into character, scarred by time. The guitars are better quality and worn. The faces lined, the hair beginning to turn grey for some of us, white for others and not yet for the rest.

Lochlan heralds the end of the evening with a generous sprinkling of cooper sulfate, copper chloride and a polymer that he mixes in small batches to make the flames turn colour. Sort of like Mystical Fire packets but he uses a slightly different blend to garner deeper colours and longer lasting flames. Don't try this at home, he laughs, because in real life the packets you buy at the last-stop stores are engineered to be thrown into a fire without being opened first.

It grows cooler soon enough and the rain threatens a swift return and so by eleven we are all up and inside, with new glasses of wine, beach blankets draped up along the covered railings. Everyone scatters to the far corners of the point and the spell is broken by the fat cold droplets that begin to fall, soaking the darkness, washing away our sins.

Thief of hope.

You've taken all of my roles and redistributed them to the others?

It's not an accusation, just an observation. He's right, though. I have begun to mourn him while he is still alive, the glaring absence of his presence a fresh new pain that I've worked doggedly to bury somewhere in with everything else.

No, I haven't. I don't know what you mean. My voice is fake-bright and brimming with the lies spilling out of my face like a waterfall. (Oh, I know what you mean, Sam.)

Bridget, please. I'm just looking for what you already have. 

It was there all along, Sam. 

Selfishly we'd all like to be number one, though, don't you think? Don't you understand that? Maybe...Duncan or PJ are content to simmer on a backburner but I always needed more than that. Just. like. you. 

The forced focus on the inflection of his words annoys me. You're further diluting it, for. your. information. I match it, just to be a jerk. Just to twist the screws. We're about to embark on the first romantic fight of our relationship, and I intent to win it. If I don't it will kill me and I already died yesterday.

You're jealous.

Of Matt? I laugh. Matt is shallow and temporary. What we have is deeper. It's EVERYTHING.

It's nothing, Bridget. There's no promise, no commitment, no giving of oneself to it whole. No bringing it before God-

Oh Sam. Why do you get so hung up on marriage? You've done it twice. You know the saying fool me twice-

Third time's the charm?

What?

It's the saying, Bridge.

You think marrying Matt again will work?

I can marry him or I can marry you but I didn't get this far in life not to be happy.

You can't marry me, I'm already- And then I realize he got me. He's right. Oh fuck.

Right.

When?

Easter, maybe. Someone told us we shouldn't rush so we're listening to her.

She's a puppet though.

Oh, I know.

Would you have, though? Where were you when Jake flew?

I was still married, Bridget, or I would have offered.

Sometimes I wish you had.

It would never have worked but it would have been fun.

Don't say things like that.

Don't go around missing me when I'm right here. If you need me just come find me. I'll never abandon you.

Thank you, Sam.

For what?

For saying that. I know you mean it.

He nods. So can I be the thief again?

No, sorry. I need to do this. If the same things aren't working then they need to be different.

Couldn't have said it better myself.

Let's welcome a new memory thief in 2020.

When I die there won't be any show. No one will remember the girl with all the gifts, save for the ones I gave them to. There won't be any lights, no sandwich boards with my talents written on them in cheap acrylic paint, no drama, no wailing, no flinging of oneself into the sea or sky, no open sobbing, no wringing of tissues in dry hands. There will be some punched walls maybe, a few quiet sulks as they figure out how to go it alone with a missing presence but otherwise I expect things to remain quiet.

Until they cut me open, to find out exactly why I died.

There will be the horror, the tenderness, the unprofessional exclamation and surprise. Yes, they will confirm, she did indeed die of a broken heart, but look at it! What an absolute masterpiece! And they will heft it aloft into the light to see the heavy black parts, to see my neat, even stitches interspersed with Ben's hasty duct taping and Lochlan's cauterized seams, to see the parts so light they are almost clear-pink like candy, and to reflect on the fact that life does find a way, because shoots and stems are bursting from it, leaves curled up almost (but not quite) ready to open, flower buds tight and delicate, ready to bloom, ready to start over, ready for something, up for anything.

And what feeds those is this black underneath, they theorise. I wonder what's it's made of. It's not rot, exactly, but it's not alive either. 

It's her memories, Lochlan says from the corner. They weigh more than the rest so they've settled to the bottom.

Those are in her mind, the examiner says to him, almost dismissively.

Look for them, then, Lochlan challenges. You don't gatekeep Lochlan, there isn't a thing he doesn't already know except how get through this part.

Well, of course, it's right here, don't be ridicul- And he stops because again, there is that unexpected surprise. She doesn't have a brain.

Oh, she does. But her heart ate it, along with everything else. 

That isn't possi-

You tell me what you see, then, and I'll tell you what I know. And Lochlan settles in, getting comfortable. This is a new-old role for him, and he plays it better than anything else he's ever done.

Ruled by oak moons and Neptune.

Wake up, Princess.

I swim out of the depths of my dreams, toward the bright lights at the top, lungs bursting for air. I gasp when I break the surface, filling my lungs, feeling Lochlan's arm tighten around my ribs from where he has pulled me close. It's okay, everything is okay.

Jacob is kneeling beside the bed, one hand out, smoothing my hair back from my forehead with his thumb, a gesture so missed, so familiar that I want to cry.

It was just a bad dream. 

I know. I'm suddenly inconsolable, cranky. I smack his hand away and turn away from him, back towards safety as Cole snickers in the blackness behind Jake.

Lochlan wakes up when I move too much, programmed by years and years of being both a parent and a lover.

Okay?

I nod against his chin and he mumbles fuck off ghosts and holds me so tightly it's hard to breathe.  Close your eyes, he orders and I listen. Sleep, he barks and I try but fail. I wait until his breath evens out and I slip out from his now slack-grip and dress in the dark, watching through the holes in my sweater as I slide it over my hair in case the ghosts have snuck back in. Ben never came to bed. I'm pretty sure Ben came home in the middle of his meetings and now has to figure everything out from here so he's downstairs working.

I toss a coin inside my mind and promptly lose it as it lands on an edge, rolling away into a dark corner where the cobwebs are too thick to venture and the shadows too long to risk. Then I remember Matt lives here now and I make a left down the hall, knocking on the door softly before letting myself in. I climb in under the covers and a gentle startle wakes the Devil, who lets his surprise shine as he makes room for me, tucking his arm around my ribs, chin on top of my head.

Now I can sleep, he says.

Me too, I assure him, since the ghosts won't come anywhere near someone this frightening.

Me or you? Caleb asks, holding me harder, but I am already too far gone to answer, fast on my way back to my dreams.

Seven hours in and I've already broken every rule.

It's a beautiful sunny morning. A new day. A new year and a new decade even. I brought my music and my coffee down to the water to greet the Pacific properly, alone and with my hands, icy cold plunging outstretched into the sea as if I could put my weight on the surface and do a handstand. My coffee sits on my favourite flat picnic rock and Ben Howard shouts folk laments into my skull, his accent pervading his words so sweetly I get briefly distracted and miss the fact that I'm no longer alone exactly.

I startle and pitch forward onto my knees from where I had been crouching on my feet. I cry out and sit back.

Going to greet the sea with a kiss, are we? Bit extreme in this weather. 

Ben is home. Though his words sound like something Lochlan would say. They've rubbed off on each other to the point where they are burnished, blinding in the light. I get up and run to him, jumping into his arms and now he can be soaked with saltwater too. But at least he's home at last.

Happy New Year, Bumblebee. Or maybe I should change your nickname to wolfbait? 

(Oh. He's been bored and reading.)

Happy New Year! Why didn't you tell me you were on the way?

Surprising you is more fun. 

Happy New Year, Benny.

It will be, Bridget. We promise. We might be wolves but you're one of us and we look after each other.

It was a visual-

I know what it was but I also know how things are-

I hear a sound and turn to see Lochlan coming down the beach and when the sun hits his hair I forget about Ben, though I haven't seen him in days. Loch is smiling when he gets to us, hugging Ben first, hard, before turning to me.

Why didn't you wake me?

You looked peaceful. 

At least you didn't come down alone. But why are you soaked?

To his credit Ben didn't even rat me out, God bless him.

The plan.

It's going to be different, 2020. There's going to be more laughter and fewer tears. We're going to become adventurers again. We're going to get more and give up less (take that either way, if you will). We're going to be fierce and unforgiving, pillaging everything we see, taking our due, noting our worth, stroking the fires of our bravery and might so that others will fear our names.

It's going to be incredible.

I have half a mind to stand out on the point in the snow, face defiantly raised toward the light, feathers woven into my hair, Ben's brass knuckle rings firmly shoved onto each and every finger as I punch a hole in the winter sky to find the sun.

I have the other half of my mind which falters behind like a simple child, pleading with me to wait while it catches up. I turn, sneer on my lip, shaking my head. No. Haste, my child. Keep up or you'll be eaten by the wolves, lost forever.

She listens, mercifully. I don't want to watch that ever again. Her scars are all over, bites, claws, marks from where they have almost caught her as she stumbles through the dark, grabbing branches, losing footing, losing ground and then making it up again with my help. Maybe I will devour her and then I can get where I need to be.

Wouldn't it be nice.

But they have asked to keep her.

And so she stays.

And if you look out toward the point you'll see her already there, dirt streaked on her cheeks, mixed with the snow that melts on her face, mixed with tears too, feathers and leaves tangled in her hair, torn pockets on her dress from where she keeps her treasures, blood soaked through the fabric for her treasures are wolf/human hybrid hearts and it's rare if you catch her standing still.

Frozen, too.

The snow is incoming. It's already all around us, dusted solid white across the mountaintops, fading to a powdered-sugar sprinkle to the treelines below, and stretching all across the country, names on a map obscured by flakes as big as pennies, heavy with the almost-rain we've been having up until now, a reprieve that we'll soon wish for when everything is made so much more difficult by snow. When we'll have to find warmer boots and matching gloves, when hat-hair becomes a thing, and icy beards thaw, dripping down onto crisp dry shirts. When the furnace runs near constantly and the cats appear after dark as if by magic, looking to curl up against warm sleeping bodies.

Though, as PJ points out almost every single morning? The days are getting longer, even if only by minutes at a time. I'll take that but I will fight the snow with every resource I have. Which would be, at this moment my sheer hatred of the stuff, a Jeep and lots and lots of fire.

Lochlan laughs. Just let it go. We'll manage just fine. 

Where does it absolutely never snow? That's still Canada? 

Oh, uh, still in the country? Maybe Victoria? 

Alright can we move?

You don't want to live there. 

I know, I just hate this shit. 

It'll be gone in a week or two. 

Right. Wake me when it's done. 

Bridget, you used to love it. 

That was the old Bridget. The new one isn't nearly so flexible. 

Honestly the old one wasn't so much either. We'll get through it like we always do and you will see. 

I look at him for a long moment, studying his face. He's right. I know he's right and I trust him and I'm never sure why every molehill is a mountain in my mind and every molehill just another hill to climb for him and he's tired and we're getting old and maybe old dogs don't new tricks and maybe this is the way it is, snow and all.

Lochlan, I love you. 

He looks surprised. I know you do. I wish you'd focus on that more though, and less on everything else.

That will be my resolution for the New Year. 

I have to wait until then? 

I just want to be together! I just want to be DISTRACTED.

As the Devil's advocate my role is to work for him to point out everything that could go wrong with the previous post, in case you found it (as I did) pretentious, lofty, tone-deaf or whatever range of beautiful, introspective compliments I read on my mails when I deign to venture into them, as I did today blindly, stupidly in an attempt to distract myself.

Firstly, I am lactose intolent, and so all of this camembert needs to go.

Secondly this house is full of recovering alcoholics and close-to-becoming alcoholics and so all this champagne? It needs to go.

Thirdly I have no earthly idea what anyone actually got for Christmas because of the private exchanges, I'm tired of the dim lighting, dead batteries from lanterns and melted, dried wax on everything from candles (not to mention the massive fire hazard) and sometimes a girl just wants to have a big ol' blistering bubblebath by herself. 

Fourthly, guess who just informed us he needs to be on a plane by midafternoon to put out a fire somewhere else?

That would be Ben, who still sometimes can't figure out what 'family' means.

 But it's okay, for my advocacy on his behalf, the Devil has gracious agreed to take Ben's place until he returns.

Rituals of Yule, in chiaroscuroic, if not tenebristic, form.

(People keep asking for a window into our lives, so here's a glimpse, if at all.)

The traditions surrounding holidays for the Collective have evolved breathtakingly over the years to the point where if anyone moves to alter or ignore certain customs they are met with swift and gentle reminders that we're doing things differently now. If something absolutely is not working for someone they either separate off and don't indulge or they appeal for a rule change or tradition-tweak at the still-regular family meetings, held just about once a week in order to keep chore lists, budgetary considerations and raw feelings acknowledged, affirmed. It's the way we've become. Living together as an intentional family we remain unconventional and yet put extraordinary effort into forcing convention.

Some of my favourites I will detail for you, first and foremost being the one where everyone is home, present and accounted for. Without that there would be no rituals, no special moments, no warmth in a room.

Everyone calls in holiday vacations, ends travel plans a little early, pushing the next ones back a little later, making sure to be here so that we are all together. All meals are held here at the big house, and so August, Matt and Sam, Schuyler, Daniel, Christian, Andrew and Batman, New Jake and anyone else who is here or home join us around the clock to partake at the big table, actually three tables now or outside on the heated patio for the biggest, most formal meals. It's covered, there is glass above the pergola, and the heaters are moved as needed.

We don't use lights unless they are of the fairy, Christmas or carnival sort. Candles and lanterns rule the roost, inside and out, right through until the New Year. Anyone reading a book takes an LED lantern and otherwise it's just more beautiful without the bright lights and blinding glares.

We actually stop doing chores and those that can't be held off on are doubled-down to finish much faster. Everyone pitches in, no one worries about the master lists, preferences or unfairness of it all.

Meals turn decadent. I think some of us have been living on champagne and chocolate. Everything is cooked by all of us working together, and we pull out the oldest dearest recipes and make enough for all. Four turkeys. We made ten tortieres and three pies. Five cakes and dozens of cinnamon rolls and cookies.

In comparison, gift-opening was done separately over many days, a private engagement as the gifter sought out the giftee, a newer tradition I love, as we take the time to explain what the other soul means to us, what the gift means for them, what we hope for the new year moving forward. This way there is time to smooth over a rough year or shine an already-bright one, there is time for gratitude and time to discuss relationships instead of rushing through discarded mountains of wrapping paper and forgetting what gifts you've been given.

We have plum pudding and Christmas tea every evening before retiring to the theatre to watch movies, series and specials en mass. We had caroling on the beach by candlelight and champagne well-attended bubblebaths and long naps in front of the fire. We've talked late into the night on the front porch, drinking mulled wine, watching the woods.

I have rolled miles of pastry dough and baked close to a dozen wheels of camembert. I've opened so many bottles of champagne and fielded so many kisses from the Devil I lost count over the past week and Lochlan and I are finally thoroughly slept and sated, salted and sealed. We still have New Years to navigate, the beginning of yet another decade of our lives together and somehow I think this one will be better than the last.

As long as we keep finding our own traditions, keep finding ways to love and keep finding what truly makes us happy, it most definitely will, Peanut.

Onward and upward, Dóiteán

Ag obair air cheana féin, Neamhchiontach. 

(He said he was already working on it, if you're curious.)

Now I don't have to ask to borrow theirs anymore, and I'm really happy about that.

It's always nice to look out the window
And see those very first few flakes of snow
And later on we can go outside
And create the impression of an angel that fell from the sky
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

By Christmas Day after dinner we were scattered around the livingroom, full and slow from way too much dinner, listening as Sam read to us from the book of Luke, and I tried to keep my eyes open, nodding my chin down against my chest to the point where Lochlan gently reached over and took my wineglass and then I just surrendered to the sleep, letting my face come down and rest against Matt's shirt who I was using as a leaning post until then. Matt, to his credit, can sit for hours if someone is napping against him. Pretty sure we've all done it at this point, even Ben and Caleb, though Caleb refuses to admit he nodded off for a moment there. Sam sure appreciates having to share his comfort object, but at the same time he beams from morning to night these days, making up for the absolutely zero hours of sunlight as of late. Hell, at this point I no longer smell pine and cinnamon at Christmas, just petrichor, twenty-eight hours a day.

I got a kiss on my cupid's bow yesterday with a reminder that the days are getting longer, Lochlan smiling into my eyes. God I love him. But wow, was that ever the last thing I wanted to hear.

Just what I need. I roll my eyes and he pretends to be taken aback.

I'm surprised Santa brought you anything at all with that attitude. 

(Now is the part were we won't talk about how I had to be convinced to come back inside on Christmas Eve for I was sitting at the bottom of the pool in the pouring rain trying to conjure the ghosts of Christmas past and the Bridget of Christmas future all at once.)

Santa was incredibly good to me this year, and Lochlan is right, I don't deserve any of it. They have opted to bring me into the 2020s kicking and screaming, unwilling to pry my own fingers from around the abacus, washboard and kettle for the woodstove that I consider my operating tools for life or whatever it is that we entrenched Luddites take inspiration from.

I got an iPad*, a massive professional one, with a keyboard case and an apple pencil because he is determined. SO determined.

And I love it, secretly, but outwardly I went around for at least a day pointing out it didn't fit in my apron pocket and oy, what if the goats chew on it or it gets damp in the barn, hand across my forehead for effect. Finally last night when he caught me in bed with Apple (Well, I had to name the iPad something, right?) instead of August (or hell, pick a name) he laughed until he cried. What are you doing?

Learning Procreate. 

Ah, you don't know how happy this makes me, he said.

Weirdly I do. 

*( I was also given two incredible beautiful bespoke rings from Lochlan which far outweigh the iPad in my eyes, from both Pyrrha and Peg and Awl but I know damn well you don't want to hear about that. This man knows me so hard he's burnished my soul in a way I'll never be able to describe. They are incredible. I couldn't decide between them, Peanut, so I just got both.)

Merry Christmas!

We're pulling the plug on the outside world in 3..2..

See you soon! Be safe and have a wonderful holiday.

A Palpatine is when you touch someone all over.

I got a fun early gift from Benjamin and I can't stop using it. It's a virtual bluetooth projection keyboard that you can put on anything and type. I wondered if it would even work. So far I've used it on Ben's back, which was confusing as fuck trying to find the letters superimposed over his tattoos, I tried it in the empty big bathtub (weird) and I also tried it in the backyard in the grass which wasn't nearly dry enough and did not work at all.

He said it's not exactly a gift, just a thing one of the execs gave him and he figured I would love it. I don't, I actually hate technology and have already had a moment where I wondered if for 2020 I should go completely analog and write my journal on hammered tree bark with a quill that I could then roll up, seal with wax and a lock of my hair and deliver it via carrier pigeon subscription.

Who's in?

I wasn't kidding when I said technology is hard. I like humans. I like tactile things. I liked Blackberries but I think that was it, everything else seems so exceedingly complicated and completely overwhelming. A few times last night I even asked Lochlan but what happens if they're holding the lightsaver the wrong way and hit the button and it goes RIGHT THROUGH THEIR LEG? in horror but he hasn't answered me because he is too busy being embarrassed or maybe now he understands the definition of Too Young For You because right now he could be having this conversation with someone who got to see the first Star Wars in their preteens instead of barely out of grade two and maybe then he would be happy. I'm going to go type virtual love letters to him on his fucking forehead until he lightens up a little, I think.

Maybe I'll even post one of them.

Dear Fuckhead, it will read. You're probably wondering why I'm contacting you-

I crack myself up. Still no spirit. Heading out looking now. Sidetrip to post office included. Wish me luck.

In my defence I only fell asleep when everything onscreen was exploding.

We survived the not-bad traffic and terrifically-behaved audience to go see the new Star Wars, and loved every second of it. I won't post any details but definitely a great way to spend a Sunday morning, there at the church of popcorn and celluloid, and don't worry, we went to Jesus beach at eight this morning in the freezing cold long before wrapping up even more to brave the morning theatre. It's always freezing at the movies and holy car commercials, Batman, stop it already. So many ads now, it makes it hard.

What a great event though and now the Internet is embiggened again since no one has to worry about spoilers.

Geez. Now I just have to run the gauntlet of groceries, garbage, post office (one more time, with feeling) and Henry's work shifts and then I'm safe. I would like to sleep in but nope, none of that on this horizon line of mine.

Pacific Northstressed.

I'm just here trying to turn Christmas around. I can't find the spirit this year. I was ready early. I looked everywhere. I've been on walks through neighborhoods full of lights and driven down festive tree-lined streets. I've see Santa, more than once. Maybe he's replacing Skateboard Jesus, whom I haven't seen at all. I bought some cheap wine and fruitcake but that didn't do it either, just as the champagne and French hand-milled and decorated cookies Caleb flew in didn't. Surprise on that.

It's on, what, Wednesday? So don't mind me over here beginning to panic. It's been raining heavily, nonstop even, and I feel like I'm slipping. Maybe it's not even me, maybe reality is eroding and around the edges you can see the black where they painted in your happy life. Maybe they fucked up the painting and it's not so happy, and no amount of holiday movies, cinnamon rolls or wrapping presents for the ones you love so dearly, so desperately can fix it even though presently, nothing is wrong that isn't always wrong-

You're just tired, Bee. 

And that.

Stop doing so much. 

Admittedly it's been a marathon of a week and here it is Saturday with another few days of marathons to go. Henry pulled a surprise three days off over Christmas at least, but before that happens there are three shifts left, a few more groceries to pick up, some errands that will not wait, and the boys want to see Star Wars, so we're going to maybe attempt to fit that in. I sat for a moment and tried to remember anything about Star Wars. I swear I've seen at least nine or fifteen of the movies, though apparently unless you read all the books and watch all the tv shows you're not a fan which is fine, I don't know what's going on anyway. I don't know why things have to be so complicated for me yet hell, even Duncan, who watched at least the first five movies blind drunk as a teenager can rattle off all of this information and I can't even remember the character names.

(Snopes? He's the big creature you go to and ask if something you read on the internet is true or false, right?)

I think something might be wrong with my brain.

But name virtually any song written after 1942 and I can probably sing it for you.

I need to fix this. I'm heading out now. I have a map and a marker and I'm going to do a grid search until I find this fucker. If I see Santa I will ask him where the spirit went, though in all honesty it's probably somewhere sheltering from ALL THIS FUCKING RAIN. 

(Soundtrack? Bledig. Perfect for this day.)

For the birds.

What are you waiting for, Peanut? Lochlan slides another cup of coffee in front of me. It's Friday, I'm allowed to have a second cup, plus I have a shitty sudden headache coming on from either the air pressure or the time of the month that it is or maybe just the stress of being me, as he calls it.

Indeed, and he did call it and I just want to feel good.

PJ thinks he saw a cedar waxwing so I'm waiting for it.

Well, either he did or he didn't, there's no thinking about it.

That's what I said! Truth be told, I think I conjure things. Upon moving to the West coast, I wanted nothing more than to see a Stellar's Jay, the dark cousin of our East coast Blue Jay. Now I have one that comes to visit, bullying the chickadees away from the feeder, hanging out until I go out and say hello.

I'm pretty sure it's Cole, but let's see if he appears in tiny yellow and peach waxwing formation and then I'll know for sure. The birds are pretty amazing here. I guess they don't like the snow either.

ਯਿਸੂ, ਪਹੀਏ ਨੂੰ ਲੈ

It's raining and I've been forbidden to leave this bed and so you get to bear witness to my rumbling belly, burgeoning headache because I've gone past coffee o'clock, and a whole host of hits by Parmish Verma, who I discovered last night while watching the trailer for his upcoming movie Jinde Mariye. Dude's amazing (acting AND singing) and so this Christmas I'm just going to blindside everyone with his particularly fun and catchy brand of Punjabi pop, because that's what I do.

Lochlan wants one more hour, which I don't blame him for, and this is so nostalgic, reminding me of the good old days when he childproofed the camper so I couldn't leave without waking him up completely. This way he can keep an eye on me, but also sleep as apparently I have gone out of my way to find danger or trouble, or even more exciting, both at the same time and that isn't going to happen today.

Pretty sure he's planned a trail of cotton candy for later, and at the end is a giant girl-sized beehive. I'll pluck the last piece of floss off the floor and he'll pull the stick away from where it was propping up the hive and I'll be trapped inside, right where he wants me. Then he can, as he told me last night, relax for five minutes for fucks sakes, Peanut. 

Geez. Okay. Just do it then. I have no place to be until eleven and then Bridget's Taxi Service begins, ferrying kids to jobs and then home again, picking up August from the airport at the end of everything else and yes, I refuse to farm it out because I need to do this or I swear the agoraphobia will just take right over and I'll never leave the point again. I'm fine to leave the house, it's just the driveway I don't want to venture far from. Because highway driving in the dark, in the pouring rain can kiss my little ass.

The good thing is that we're basically ready for Christmas and so I don't have to venture out other than for rides and maybe a few odds and ends that I will pick up Monday morning at the grocery store and then I'm not going near a shopping centre for the next three months because it's getting so crazy out there and I don't have any patience left. I'm hoping that the more I listen to Parmish the more I will adopt his devil may care attitude. Or at the very least maybe I can grow a beard like his.

It's magnificent.

Walls painted in gold.

It's a marked contrast to the casual summer-heat unrefined wild of Lochlan, everything unexpected and magic hour all the time to the punctual formality and predictable neatness of Caleb, ironed down and dark. Perfect.

And then in the middle there's Batman, still off-limits, still playing emotional hooky, still mysterious but somehow just playful and engaged enough and just enough of a safe haven to see me unwilling to choose sides when life is a dodecagon anyway, and I don't have to so long as I defer to the hierarchy they made and gosh, I'll never not be twelve and having the list drilled into my head of who I go to first and then who next if they're not there and never go to x when y is around because x would be jumping a very cemented seniority that began for them in grade school but never seemed important at all until I showed up.

But Batman wasn't even in my life until my early twenties and so he isn't really a part of the list or the hierarchy and there is no rhyme or reason to this poem but maybe that's why I like it. And maybe his refusal to put away his checkbook in spite of me asking him for clear direction on what sugar he wanted makes this less daunting than keeping up with Caleb, overall. Caleb has a passionate, crushing, needy and dangerous way about him that keeps me more scared than excited. He's that bad boy you know damn well will mortally wound you but you can't stay away.

Batman? Not so much. He doesn't give a shit, though he lies and tells me exactly what I want to hear. He is content maybe moreso than he lets on. He is fine. And yet here I am, and there is his checkbook. Though it's digital now. He just has to log in and press a button and all of my immediate problems are solved. He just has to extend an offer of some time and I suddenly have hundreds of minutes to spend.

For Christmas this year I got another deposit. More than he gave me for summer vacation, more than Caleb has extended in a while, enough to change my name and fake my own death save for the fact that I'm too curious for my own good. I got a lecture on market growth that I didn't even need. Batman went into full dad mode which made it even weirder. Maybe I'm always going to be twenty to him, always wide-eyed at the sight of more than a thousand dollars, always hungry and one missed cheque away from being homeless, always ready to sell the only thing I have that everyone needs but no one wants because it's the way they raised me.

Smile for them, Bridgie, and the world is yours. And so I turned back toward Batman and gave it everything I had.

I was gone before the ink was dry but it isn't smudged, and I definitely don't have to worry about being homeless now.

Blackberry smoke.

Caleb's eyes match the blankets in this halflight of a Tuesday morning. He wonders aloud if the pool has filled again, thanks to all of this rain, or when the snow will reach our part of highway 99. He worries about me driving, though I didn't see a lot of worry last evening when I left at eight to pick Henry up from his job and we arrived back at ten-forty-five to find a darkened house. Even the dog had gone to bed. Henry is learning. It took a long time to finish up. It will be better from now on, I hope, but at the same time this job is a gap-filler until the summer only, unless he loves it and chooses to stay.

It's fine, I remind him. I have a jeep, and if things get really dicey PJ can drive or we just stay home. 

He nods against my head and it hurts slightly so I slide it out from underneath his chin. My hair drags against the new beard he sports, going a few weeks at a time without shaving. This is how I get such dramatic bedhead.

You look so beautiful. I laugh and he piles it on. I love your laugh. 

Stop. Geez. 

I'm just stupidly happy you come for sleepovers now. 

I wasn't actually planning to, but when I came upstairs, in their sleep, Ben and Lochlan had taken up all of the available space and I didn't want to wake either one of them to rearrange the bed so I put on my angel pajamas and went down to Caleb's wing. He was still awake, quizzed me about Henry's shift, resolved to pick him up himself from now on and poured us each a quick, stiff nightcap. I don't think I finished mine. I had a good solid sleep spooned sweetly against Caleb's chest and woke up hearing birds. The rain makes them think it's spring. I think they're about to get a surprise.

Me too. I turn back and get a morning-breath kiss that I truly think was far worse for him than for me. But now I turn into a pumpkin. 

Already?

Yes. 

See you tonight? 

Probably not. 

Later in the week, then. 

Sure, I lie and let myself out as he goes back to sleep.

No lying this time, he calls as I'm closing the door and I remember he can read my mind.

For life.

Last night we put on all the outdoor lights, fired up the patio heaters and set up the long table for the first of many holiday dinners at home, as we call them, as no one wants to go out anymore and yet we love getting fancy and entertaining. They all wore suits and nice shirts, though no ties. I finally got a chance to wear my dress with all of the sequins, and I felt like the night sky. Caleb got his hands on some far better champagne and a crate of incredibly large Atlantic (!) lobster (sent from home, I'm not dumb) and we made cold salads and warm rolls and a big casserole of scalloped potatoes to go with.

Reminded me of home. It reminded me of the early dinners, though we could not afford to eat like this and usually potlock would end up meaning a pizza from at least four different places and someone, usually Christian would buy a chocolate cake from the grocery store, because he never forgot how much I love cake.

I love to have Sunday Night Dinner and I missed it and so we've chosen to create some new/old traditions, now that Matt is back, now that August and Caleb are on speaking terms again, now that Lochlan feels in control of his life again and maybe Ben too and now that the ghosts seem to be squeezing a little less hard. Maybe Bridget isn't throwing herself into the sea on a regular basis and we seem to be beginning a new chapter, with the kids all grown up suddenly and everyone seems so much more settled, as of late. Maybe I'm reading too much into it or perhaps hoping too hard, but this works for me.

We did put the anchors in the table, though, because honestly table-flipping seems to happen so fast around here. Luckily last night it didn't.

Perfectly imperfect EXCEPT in the eyes of Santa Claus.

Sam isn't going public with his reunion until at least Easter. Sam has assured me if or when I need him at any given moment he will Be There. Sam is cautious but living life the way he always does and has said to Matt and anyone within earshot that he will continue to do so and he's not chasing Matt so if Matt wants to be a part of Sam's life he knows where he is.

Matt maintains that's why he came back, it's why he's here, but he can't actually go to church this morning because it coincides with his meeting this morning. He said he can find God on the beach or in the woods but he needs the structure and goes when he has to go.

I'm kind of surprised. I really thought once upon a time that he was perfect, that he had it all under control. I still find it surprising that the people who seem most together are usually just the ones who hide their self-destruction the best. Me? I've always been a written-all-over-my-face, heart-on-my-sleeve kind of girl and so if something's wrong you might even know it before I do. I wished to be something better than that but then I see how debilitating it is when people think everything is fine but it's not so maybe I know what I'm doing after all.

Matt thinks I am jealous and that's why I'm adverse to their relationship.

That isn't it, exactly though we had a good thing while it lasted but the hearts do complicate life over all and simpler is always better.

Lochlan says Matt is just lashing out and as the most obvious big-feeler his disdain for Sam's life without him in it makes me such an easy target. Matt has since been warned that if he tries that ever again he won't be allowed to stay on. That I am not up for debate, that everyone here is an adult and then he turned a screw of his own, telling Matt he has missed so much by not being here with Sam all this time. Matt, to his credit, is taking his knocks from the boys with far more grace than I expected.

I have told him we can help him with some of these feelings, that's it's normal. That he can cause pain and still be affected by it. That we'll figure it out together and move on from here. He was grateful and remains afraid that he might wind up on my bad side. I'm not sure I have one, as the soft spot for men who are hurting is so large if I press it blood pools right up until it runs over the sides, down over my toes and into the sea.

We'll figure it out.

Church was cold and somewhat quiet today. People are absent, off picking up last minute gifts and being lazy or just plain busy. Sam had a very short sermon, lit the advent candles and we sang two upbeat carols and he dismissed everyone to go and be warm with their families and be kind and work harder to keep the peace and to make sure everyone has a little peace. When he said that we all looked around at each other, meeting eyes, checking in.

Everyone can use a little reminder like that now and again.

Daily miracles and daily meetings.

Ben is tuning his guitar. I'm drinking more of the caramel coffee, though it smells good it's not what I expected in terms of flavor. Our grocery store used to sell these tall skinny bottles of English toffee, Caramel and some other flavourings I can't remember. Apparently at Starbucks you can buy coffee flavouring still but I haven't checked because it would be a special trip and probably overpriced and meh, not enough of a big deal. If you ask anyone around me I get too much sugar anyway.

He blocked Caleb's attempts to commandeer last night. I didn't even wake up, having bid my goodnights at probably ten and disappeared because the last few weekends I've been up so late and awake so early.

I had eleven hours of sleep so I'm not even interested in Caleb's sharp rebuke this morning for Ben somehow 'not respecting her wishes'. Ben just points out wearily that if I had wished to see Caleb, I would have gone to see him. That ends their conversation and I resume drinking my coffee, and Ben starts singing Lucky Man, though not the Verve version, this is Emerson, Lake and Palmer. I love it and I purposefully avoid looking in Caleb's direction for the next few minutes while his gaze bores right through  my skull.

It's fine. Really. Everything's fine. He's always the same. Give him a moment, he'll take a week. Give him a mile, he'll take you on a trip around the world.

But I have bigger fish to fry, because Matt has finally made an appearance. Up until now he's been ordering food in, slipping in and out in the off hours, and generally making himself scarce. But this morning the boys have come down, freshly showered and shaved, button down flannels and casual cords, almost a matched pair save for the fact that Sam is desperate for Matt's love and Matt is killing time or whatever it is he says he feels but then as soon as the Christmas spirit fades, his presence goes with it.

For fucks sakes. He makes me so angry, and at the same time I am somewhat impressed he's chosen this morning and is finally seeking me out.

Bridget. Can we talk outside for a moment? 

Sure. If Sam comes. And Lochlan, because you need accountability. 

He nods. It's been two fucking weeks since he arrived. I can't wait to hear this.

We organize outside, while at least five more sets of eyes peer through the glass at random intervals out of sheer curiosity. Sam looks rested and happy but I see caution in his face. Lochlan looks mildly amused. He was more than a little angry at Matt's comparing their relationship to our history and has been waiting on tense limbs to address it if it comes up again. I didn't have the heart to remind him it probably won't.

Matt addresses me. Sam and I would like to formally ask you if I may move back. 

For the season? 

Forever. 

Two weeks and you're going to get remarried?  (They were married in 2013. Divorced in 2016. Wow. Has it been that long?)


Down the road, if things work out, then yes. 

Things never work out for you two, though. 

We're working to change that. 

You can't just show up on the coattails of the Christmas spirit and tell him everything's going to be okay, Matt! I am suddenly composureless and far more upset than I thought I was over his arrival. You don't understand what it's like to have someone break your heart and then come back and do it over and over again. 

I know I have a lot of work to do to earn Sam's trust, and even his full love back but every time we leave each other-

Every time you leave him, you mean. Get it right.  

Every time I leave I die a little inside and I don't want to leave anymore-

So don't. 

Let him talk, Peanut. 

He's talked himself out of a perfect love. This is on him. 

Bridget, do you believe in soulmates?

Of course. 

Then let me earn Sam's trust back. I'm asking you because Sam says he wants to try, he wants me to stay, but that I have to clear it with you since this is your house. So I'm opening myself up to you. I'm asking for forgiveness and acceptance and trust. I know I don't deserve it but I want to stay. I don't want Christmas to end and to pack up and hurt him, hurt myself, leaving and living a loveless existence. I've changed companies and work remotely now, I've changed a lot of things. I've done a lot of work and now I'd like to come home. 

Do you want him here, Sam? Forever? Do you think this is a good idea?

Hell, yes, Bridget. I do. The look on his face is confident, he doesn't look afraid, he doesn't look hesitant or hopeful. Just sure.

Do you have belongings to move in? 

Yes, a few. 

Would you like the boathouse back? Gage is fluid. He will switch back, I'll speak with him.

Maybe in the spring. For now we're not going to uproot him. 

That's very kind, though I think it would be easier if you had your privacy. We have enough hands to organize this so when you move in you only have to do it once. But Matt, one thing.

Yes, Bridget. 

Look at what you've got in front of you and be so thankful for him. 

Oh God, Bridget, I am. You have no idea. I've fucked up and I need to fix this with him. 

Yes, you do.

I want to earn his love back. 

Then do it. And let us know if you need help this time.

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.