We can all hate each other and we'll do it dipped in gold.

When Lochlan saw me he didn't say a word, he just pulled out his phone and called the old doctor. The one who is kind and does not question anything. He arranged a car for him and we waited in the front hall in silence. By now it's been a few hours. My ear is still bleeding but only a little. It'll stop soon I think. There's blood in my hair though. It's truly minor. Lochlan doesn't agree, based on the fact that human bites are dangerous though I've pointed out PJ can stitch me up or whatever. He's so angry getting the words out is rough but the anger isn't directed at me. Well, maybe it is. Every time I try to explain Caleb to my own mind things get worse. Every time I try to explain him out loud things disintegrate. Every time I try to put a definition down on a page to what this is he physically rejects it and we go back to square two.

Square one was when things were good, when I had a crush and he merely exploited it to get at Lochlan, before he found his voice, I mean. Before he learned he could use force in any area he couldn't use cash or law.

He is textbook.

Yesterday afternoon I got seven stitches. Three in my ear and four in my scalp just above my ear. On my left because that's where he goes. That's where he'll be, head ducked down against the top of mine, too tall to match up. I can't feel the head wound but the ear one throbs, making it even harder to hear for the blood pounding through it.

Last night's emergency meeting on the beach saw Caleb on his knees. Last night's meeting brought a whole new fear as Lochlan wondered if we should banish Caleb or just drown him. His words eventually got so tight and so low with rage that Schuyler had to take over because Lochlan couldn't get any more words out. More than once PJ tried to talk me into going back up but I needed to be there to advocate for Caleb. More than once Batman suggested Caleb have some real-world consequences, maybe legal ones since that's the only thing he seems to understand.

I stood there with my throbby ear and numb skull and cold hands and reminded them of everything they forgot, everything they try and revise and everything we are. That they know damn well the fault lies with the catalyst and that's me.

Stockholm-

It's not, Locket, it's-

But it IS. 

Lochlan can't do this. He's too close. He's got my hand in a death grip and that's fine. Ironically it's hurting more than anything else and you think he's going to let go if I ask him to? Not on my life.

Get help for this, Diabhal. You're losing her. 

Caleb stares at me. How do I fix this? I can let them drown me, if that's what you want, knowing I'll be with my brother again. I'm ready, if this is what you want. 

It isn't. 

See? Caleb stares evenly at Lochlan. She's not going anywhere. 

Lochlan takes his advantage and swings. PJ stops him, with effort. He's on his fucking knees. He's already where you need him. 

Pay her. At the very least. Lochlan barks at Caleb and turns his back. He pulls me with him, up the beach, up the steps, inside where it's warm and my ear really starts to throb now in time with my head.

 This morning Caleb has had a hundred thousand dollars for each stitch I had to have transferred to my account. This morning the throbbing has stopped. I don't know if it's related. But it's more than enough to go and get supplies for our Burns Night supper. I'll figure out the rest later.

Lies.

Here I stand, helpless and left for dead

Close your eyes, so many days go by
Easy to find what's wrong, harder to find what's right
I believe in you, I can show you that I can see right through all your empty lies
I won't stay long, in this world so wrong

The fever returned some time during the night between when the sun ran away and when I went out to call in the tides, hoping they might pull the sun back. They refused but at least the water is nice and cold.

The warning came violently, up against the door as I begged him not to keep me there. Teeth chattering, eyes drowning in a sea of despair I begged him. I whispered Gingerbread in his fucking beautiful face a hundred times over but he didn't listen, didn't stop, didn't put me down. He's lonely with no one to take it out on and so it stays bottled up until he explodes. He's angry that I was sick, enraged that I was absent, frustrated even as I threatened to tell stories about my life with him again. Let me rephrase that. He's scared. There's no statute here, no time limit if you do something as wrong as he did. No way out if I decide to call in my cards. No looking back, is there, Caleb? He says it's easy. That if it comes down to me or him he's not going to go out without a fight. He says I think he wouldn't hurt me but he shows me just enough pain to convince me, and then he goes a little further still, just so I don't forget. 

I've started calling his bluff. Just do it. Send me to heaven and I'll be with Jake and you can go to hell with your brother. That made him rage like I've never seen and I was pulled limb from limb, as he bit through the tough flesh of history with his teeth, leaving full marks this time, leaving streaks of blood and fear in his wake. 

We could do this all night but then the tide finally hears my plea, dragging the moon away, bringing the sun back up until I am wiping the tears from my eyes while squinting up into the light at him, wanting to hurt him back until he can't get up anymore.

I hate you. 

I can't mean this, can't reconcile it, don't want to say it but it's the only thing that leaves a mark on him, truth be told.

He smiles ruefully. No, you don't. That's what keeps me forever safe and you forever in danger.

Better.

I'm cheering myself up this morning with the first full cup of coffee in three days and a healthy helping (with seconds, thirds and tenths) of the first five (okay three), America records. Lochlan doesn't mind. He loves them.

Now it's embarrassing story time for him, as I share with you a fun thing about how this band came to be for us.

Lochlan was born here (in British Columbia) and then when he was still in diapers but not yet walking his family moved back to Edinburgh. He didn't come back to Canada until he was in grade school and therefore has a massive accent still that pops out like fire when he's mad or excited or talking with someone else who doesn't have an accent and you hear it so much more strongly.

But anyway, while over there, as a child he became obsessed with American music, or as he put it, 'music from America'. All of the records have it written on them, he said, and specifically he assumed everything else he heard on the radio was from somewhere else. He had an argument with Caleb around age ten (Caleb was fourteen by now and FAR more sophisticated) that he could SHOW him music from America because he had the albums! SEE?

The story goes that Caleb may have been responsible for opening Lochlan's eyes to a world of music, something Lochlan would later do for me, as soon as he got past the mental hurdle that the only vinyl records his parents owned were the first few America records. Namely America, Hearts, Homecoming, Hat Trick, Hideaway and Harbor, having been obsessed with the band as youngish parents.

I can identify with that, except I do it in gigabytes instead of vinyl because I'm impatient and I jump around alot between songs and I can't really catch the quality difference anymore without my hearing. Besides, I'm chasing down a feeling so format is less important than you think.

But yes, Lochlan sang Sister Golden Hair to me once and I was hooked. On him and on the band. He still sings it, though my hair has risen in value to platinum at this point. God, we're old.

Anyway, song's out, Bridget's up and I can't wait to see the warzone this house is after not venturing downstairs for a day and a half. Yes, I will do it slowly. No, I won't catch any boys along the way. I said I was better, never said I was perfect.

Earning my degree.

All told I've had nine offers of sleepovers when I'm 'better'. If you're wondering how I get so run down this is a clue. Caleb, Schuyler, PJ, Batman, August, Sam and Matt, Duncan, Dalton, Gage. Maybe they think offering me affection without rules is what makes me feel better.

Well, they would be correct. Though a stack of new Archie/Betty comics and Lochlan stripping down and coming to bed at seven pm to hang out helps a lot too. There's no 'when I'm better' with Lochlan though. I think he likes it when I run as hot as he does.

One hundred. Still alive.

I was told that I was nothing
Yet I was told that I was so pure
And I was told that I was dirty
Yet I was told I was the cure
I ask myself, am I God or shit?
Am I the high, the low? I'm fucking worth it
And I ask myself, am I love or hate?
You are the reason I have and why I can't quit

 I really want to have a warm bubble bath this morning and I tried to be stubborn but then I didn't have enough strength to turn on the hot water tap on the tub and Lochlan took that as a sign, he says.  I was steered back to bed, given my laptop, phone and a glass of diluted apple juice and a plate of crackers.

I really wanted to drink five glasses of the juice but I have to sip it until my stomach gets used to it so maybe by tomorrow. I really had all kinds of plans for today but PJ cancelled life and Lochlan cancelled everything else so the next few days are pajamas and lots of rest. I go at a hundred miles an hour doing absolutely nothing of consequence and so I'm always the first one down.

But that's neither here nor there. Caleb came in this morning to see for himself that my fever was way down. It is but he didn't believe Lochlan, of course so here he is. He is tender and affectionate and close in spite of the risk of germs. He holds my fingers and the side of my face and jokes that he's trading the car in anyway so may as well do it today. After a few minutes he tells me to sleep and get better and he'll be back this afternoon to check on me, or sooner if I need him. Just call. And as soon as I'm better we can have a sleepover.

We rarely text, he and I. He likes calls. It's faster, he says.

Ben comes in with the good headphones so I can listen to the new In This Moment single that came out on repeat until I get tired of it. I don't think I will, actually but he says to take it easy, not to rock too hard. He came back from the depths to make sure everything was good and told me not to worry about the restaurant, that very rich men will abandon a sick whore who's loaded so fast it's as if they were never there. I ask him how he knows and he said he's seen it. He says he's done it. That if you disappear no one asks questions, you can brush it off as a fan who had an issue or something, that you just sat for a moment as a courtesy and that she's not with you.

It made me sad to watch the way he described it. The look on his face says none of that life was worth it for him. He confirms, saying he's so much happier working away downstairs knowing he can come up for homemade bread or a hug or some time with his brothers or the kids.

It fascinates me though and I want to know why it wasn't empty from the beginning. Ben says it was always empty, that's the point, and then he's gone again and I doze off only to feel another hand on my forehead an hour later. I open my eyes to Schuyler and Daniel positively hovering in concern over me.

You look terrible, Daniel tells me. Your eyes are all blackened and sunken into your face.

It's actually kind of cool, Schuyler says. I know he's teasing me but I laugh anyway. They leave flowers and kisses but not on the lips because germs, suddenly and only stay for a moment. Schuyler tells me to come over as soon as I feel better for a sleepover.

I look at the clock and it's only nine and I forget we're up early as ever, hours and hours before normal, regularly people.

PJ comes and takes my plate. There's only one cracker left. He eats it. He leaves a fresh water bottle that's more ice than water, the way I like it and orders me to sleep until Lochlan comes back at lunch time.

Where did he go? 

He said something about getting Archie comics and not to let you have too many visitors so you're cut off for now. 

Something something cocaine, something something another restaurant I can never show my face in again.

Over the past few nights I managed to get very sick and today I am not only lagging behind Caleb as he heads down the sidewalk towards our breakfast reservation but I suddenly have an exceedingly runny nose and need a tissue. I make a last ditch effort search of my raincoat pockets and find one, mercifully, just as Caleb turns to see where I am. I  am stopped in the middle of the sidewalk folding a tissue around my nose. I can't even breathe. He looks irritated and comes back to me, putting his hand on my back to scoop me along faster now. Not an 'Are you alright?' or a 'Hey, let me wait for you'.

Instead he takes advantage once inside the restaurant, settling into old routines. Ordering what he wants and what he thinks I want, while I stare out the window and wipe my nose. Saying my name repeatedly while I pointedly ignore him until he begins with civility or at the very least, compassion.

What's the matter with you. 

I shrug. I guess I have a cold. In the mirror I can see how red my eyes and nose are. I look like I've been crying for days. Luckily this is not a new look for me. He reaches over and pulls a long lock of hair away from my mouth where it is stuck to my lip.

Who gave you that.

I don't know. Lochlan maybe? Maybe Henry. I'll start asking for spit samples so you can have a definitive person to blame.

He softens slightly at my words, reaching out a hand to gauge the warmth of my forehead before raising a finger. The server leaps toward him and he asks to add chicken soup to our order. They haggle a little and finally lentil soup is agreed upon. And tea. A pot, if possible,

If I had known you were this ill I would have rescheduled.

If we didn't do it now we'd have to wait until April.

It won't be that long but maybe it will be better than you being out in the rain. I'll call ahead once our food arrives and see if we can't truncate this to an hour or two tops.

Thank you. He could have done this anyways. I hate lawyers. Well, most of them. He's alright, though he no longer practices so I don't think it even counts.

The soup, tea, juice and fruit arrives first and Caleb excuses himself to make his call from the mezzanine. I'm not even hungry suddenly, the heat swirling my vision, clouding it over completely. I throw my hands out to steady myself and catch the rim of a bowl, sending the most colorful bites of a pretty fruit bowl to the floor and some poor server tries to catch me as I slide off my chair somewhat gracefully, considering. It's so quiet as if this happens all the time and I bet they think I'm some coked-out sugar baby starting her weekend on a Tuesday and that pisses me off.

I just have a cold, I tell anyone who will listen, as they steady me back on the chair, picking up dishes, whisking things away again. Maybe they're afraid I'll start throwing things? I don't know what coked-out babies do, I haven't been one for years (STORY FOR ANOTHER DAY). Someone goes to get Caleb and he's back, right beside me, gathering our things in one arm and me in the other. He tells the manager to contact him for his details to cover cleaning and food costs and we're out in the cold, his arms steel and my legs rubber. Wow, this feels weird. I'm not coming back. I feel like I'm going to black out at any moment. 

He puts me in his car, buckling the seat belt for me, putting my bag on my lap, and then putting our coats in the back seat. My shivering wakes me up a little more but I somehow can't ask him for the coats to warm myself up. I don't need to. Once he's in he blasts the heat at us until I am way too warm. Oh no.

Oh no.

Pull over!

He starts to tell me why he can't and how it's fine. I shake my head, lean forward and throw up on the floor of his beautiful Audi.

 I'm sorry.

Neamhchiontach, it's okay. Let's get you home. He presses a button on his steering wheel and the sound of a ringing phone is the last thing I hear before Lochlan's voice pushes past the noise in my brain. I turn and swim towards it but everything is so fucking dark.

***

I wake up with ice on my forehead and fresh warm pajamas on. It's dark outside and I'm still wearing my pearls. My face has been washed and Lochlan is sitting on the edge of the bed holding my favorite mixing bowl and a glass of water. I take the water.


Wasn't sure which one you'd go for. He smiles. Glad it wasn't my truck. Caleb backhands his curls gently from just behind him. Doctor's on the way. He didn't believe me when I told him you spiked a fever and he asked me if I was used to treating you like a small child.

What did you tell him?

I reminded him we raised you. (He said we. Not I. We.)

I hear the door chimes and then a commotion on the stairs and then my dignity ends up in my favorite mixing bowl but not much else because I haven't eaten all day anyway. It's foam. Stomach-acid foam.

The doctor comes in, takes my temperature right away and says it is high and did they give me anything to bring it down. He's not talking to me. I'm not sure if I'm delirious or just unimportant. Caleb says I've been mostly out of it and I'm still doing more throwing up than breathing so it's not going to work anyway.

The doctor concedes this and gives them diet instructions (which they know) and tells them to continually check the fever. If it goes any higher to take me somewhere, I couldn't hear. Probably to the ER.

At this point I fall asleep as I'm tired and I don't care.

***

Now it's mid evening and the pearls are away and I'm down to one hundred and one degrees! Just naturally like that. I don't feel great. Lochlan brings toast and more water but I can't.

I can't.

Apparently it's the flu and you'll be better in a few days or a week.

Great.

***

The lawyers meetings are rescheduled for April. They were annual things, nothing too riveting but it would have been nice to have them over with before tax time instead of after. Caleb squeezes my hand.

Sounds like something I would say. 

We'll figure it out. 

Indeed.

A hundred shades of blue.

Lochlan had it all planned before I woke up.

I'm taking the day off, he said. We're going to go shopping, see a Bollywood movie and then go for Indian food. 

What are we buying?

I don't know yet but when I see it I will. Maybe....um...chapstick. An Archie comic. Candy. He grins. (When I was very young I loved to go to the drugstore and buy those things. I never bought anything else. Still don't, to be honest.)

Okay. 

Okay?

Sure. Sounds good.

I didn't think you'd want to do any of that. He deflates with relief.

Oh, if you don't want to we can do something else-

Maybe the movie is negotiable but the rest sounds fine. Maybe I'll even get a chapstick too. 

Just use mine. 

Shhhhhhh. I already do sometimes.

Icy slush, up to one's knees (if one is as tiny as me).

Thanks to localized road and parking lot clearing and the fact that the church has a rather steep driveway that was still all ice until late last evening Sam cancelled services for the day and so he staggered over to our kitchen in pajama pants and an Opeth t-shirt (who gave him THAT omg HOT) and blessed the tops of our heads sleepily before staggering back across to the boathouse to sleep.

Not sure how he would have managed had there been actual church today. I guess he would have filled his body with coffee and then he would have acted completely normal, though with a slight tremble with every word or move. It's how I operate so I imagine that's how it would be.

Lochlan and I are up and having an extended coffee date, then as no one else is getting up early since there's nowhere we have to be. It seems our neighborhood is back to the heavy habitual rain I enjoy so much here, which is good. I can drive in rain. Well, not at night I can't (hard to see) but it beats driving in a blizzard or on pure ice.

Tomorrow is Blue Monday but there are only five work shifts to shunt the kids to this week, which is great.

I need to start pulling taxes together for February.

I'd like to start spring cleaning but I need to be motivated first.

I'd like to find a new job.

I need a new coat. I realized a lot of my misery lately stems from the fact that I wear a sixteen-year-old barn jacket that I wore to get from the castle to the stone garage in the Prairies, because my wool coats hurt my neck so much and scarves only go so far and my hair isn't quite long enough to make up the difference as I do leave it tucked in but it's just barely past my shoulders and will be another six months before it doesn't untuck itself when I look around.

(I'm not really into fashion or anything like that. I'm sure you've guessed. Anything spectacular that I own was bought for me in desperation by someone who cares far more.)

Maybe that only makes sense to me, but I'm at that stage of winter where my skin is so dry I want to scream and so everything has to be soft, including clothes, sheets, towels, boys and my environment.

Am I rambling? I am. That's the joy of  Sundays at home. Lochlan just brought me a second cup of coffee so now I get to truly relax and savour it. The first one is always just for courage for the day and since I think I have enough of that now to move forward I guess we're good.

Watching my beautiful redhead read the paper out loud and sip his coffee. I'm so lucky.

I want someone to make a movie about OUR marriage.

Lochlan did not sleep in this morning. I heard the rain around four and turned over to breathe all over his face, and he did his usual move of pulling me up higher, sticking his face into the crook of my neck, wrapping his arms around me and drifting off again. I did too, wrapping my arms around his whole head and didn't wake up until eight but once we were up we were running. It wasn't until hours later that we stopped for lunch and looked at each other thoughtfully, for a moment.

We're getting that printer, he said. It will pay for itself in two years.

It's still super expensive. 

See that tank on the side? It holds one litre. You can fill it with anyth-

HUMAN BLOOD. 

See? I knew you'd come around. 

***

Let's talk about A Marriage Story. The acting was top notch, Adam Driver was incredible. Scarlett is always incredible when she has material to work with (Lost in Translation, Under the Skin, this) but the part I didn't like? The fact that the characters had unlimited budgets with which to get things underway, and the fact that in the end they all lived happily ever after. I didn't like the fact that they blindsided each other with the big stuff while having the little things about each other nailed down, held fast. I didn't like the strange intimacy portrayed by someone doing something as tender as tying a shoelace when they didn't at any point actually have a real deep conversation. I didn't like Laura Dern's loud speech about women needing to be saints, even if it's true because it screamed Supporting Actress Monologue to me, and Alan Alda made me super sad in a way that worked very well, because he was ironically wrong even as he was right.

I guess I'm relieved I didn't see myself in this movie. I guess I'm thrilled to have witnessed a beautiful bit of acting without losing sight of my jaded analytical approach to writing in film and I'm happy to have ticked this one off my list, truth be told. The longer I waited to see it the more I was dreading it, oddly enough.

The spoons were brutal but the weather? Beyond.

I capped off yesterday by driving through an actual, prolonged blizzard in which the horizon fell away from me, followed by the sky and then finally the road, and I made it to my destination by memory, using the track of a small pickup truck far ahead of me for orienteering, and the row of cars behind me for sludgerish haste. I don't think I've ever driven fifty kilometres an hour down the centre of a busy valley highway but I fucking did yesterday. Thankfully by the time it got dark out (oh GREAT) the snow had ended and I could (almost) see the road for the trip home.

I'm never leaving the house again. Actually, I lied. I already did. The sun is fighting to come out and we're supposed to get more snow tonight so we went out and cleaned off all the vehicles and the driveway and a spot up by the gates and the walkways and a good labyrinth for the dog to do his thing in the yard but still have fun and everything is ready.

I even graciously shovelled Sam's steps all the way to his fucking front door. People who are depressed wouldn't bother, right?

Right. I think.

Everybody puts baby in the corner.

Mornings like these I miss running. I miss ducking out of the house in my gear and booking down the street in a familiar path. I don't run here. There's nowhere to go, even if there were enough sidewalks. I don't have enough hearing anymore to risk the road, even against traffic and besides, my knees hate me for it-

So let's go anyway. Caleb arrives into the kitchen to read my brains, placing a kiss hard against the top of my head, rubbing the back of my neck gently. With two of us we can take the trails. 

(I'm not allowed to run alone in the woods anymore.)

Oh my God. DEAL. 

I run back upstairs to get ready. When I come in Lochlan stirs. Come back. He holds one arm up and then it drops in slow motion as he falls back asleep mid-plea. I kiss his cheek and tell him that Caleb and I going running. I don't think he hears me but it's okay, I'll let PJ know too.

I lament not getting new winter runners but the old ones will do. They're not one hundred percent waterproof anymore but maybe feeling the cold seeping up in between my toes is exactly what I mean, considering it's not like I ever wear shoes on the beach, winter OR summer.

And we're off, driving out of the neighbourhood carefully. I wonder if it was a bad idea because of the roads and maybe because the trails turned out to be full of snow far too deep to run in, but good for walking for men over six feet tall. We switched gears early on, coming back out and walking unfamiliar neighbourhoods instead, but thankfully shovelled, fully-sidewalked neighbourhoods. My runners are now encrusted with road salt and dirt and my fever has abated for the time being.

Good?

Good. An hour and a half is lots, as it's still tough going and it's cold and damp, below freezing so we call it a day. Caleb suggests breakfast, a moot point as I adore going out for breakfast. We find a new little place that is less of a hole in the wall and more of a dent, settling in, placing orders after a glance at the menu and being given hot cups of fresh coffee.

How did Jake do it? He asks me abruptly. I check his expression but it's open and concerned. He's not one to turn screws or even invoke He Who Must Not Be Named, as he's loathe to remind me of anything but himself, true to form.

Do what? I ask in my surprise.

Keep your cabin fever at bay. He's the only one, as far as I can tell, who was able to keep it from being such an albatross. 

Jacob kept up a near constant narrative that God was so good we should be endlessly grateful for every little thing we had, that God had provided for us and we were blessed and complaining would be bratty and selfish. So I bit my tongue. He also made such a huge effort to be over-the-top fun, always singing or finding something creative to be doing so it wasn't so serious. He knew how to pull the surface tension of life taut enough that when he broke it it made such a huge impact. He had a good balance anyway. 

That's the frankest you've been. 

Is that even a word-

Bridget, can we do that? 

Make me fearful of complaining about anything lest I get a huge righteous lecture, you mean?

No, break the tension. 

You are. We got out for a walk, we're doing things. It's fine.

You never relax anymore. 

Wow. 

You live with your tongue still bitten, you still hold for our permissions-

Stop. 

Sorry? 

Let's just enjoy our food. I don't want to talk about Jake, I don't want to be psychoanalyzed, I just want to eat my breakfast in peace. 

I can do that for you. 

Thank you. 

But see? Again it was something I had to approve. 

I didn't say anything for the rest of the meal or the drive home. I paid for the food though just to assert my own will. I don't think this is how it's done though.

The Wonderlands.

My green and blue world turned whiter overnight as we've now received the mother of all snowstorms. Muted and heavy, the trees have quieted, taking the waves with them.

The highway is closed. Schools are closed, shops are closed, it seems like the province is closed. The ocean is wide open and grey, roiling just under a coating of thin ice, breaking the moment after it forms.

We're trapped here on the point, just off highway 99, in a blizzard, with an amount of snow I haven't seen here before and it's beautiful and I love it. I can reach up now and hit pause on life.

Just for a little while.

(PJ is making me watch Cooking With Paris and complaining that I don't cook wearing kitten heels and holding a chihuahua dressed in Chanel. When he does, I will for sure, I tell him.)

Maritime language.

Who am I kidding? I tell the girl who lives in the sea.I'm not fierce. I'm not wild. I'm not capable or independent or ready for this year. I keep telling myself I'm going to bite 2020 off in chunks, swallowing them whole instead of vice-versa, but the girl in the sea just mouths my own words back to me silently. She's like a frothy, choppy little mirror, and I don't like the fact that she looks so much like me anyway.

Maybe she has her shit together and can stand in (or stand up) for me. Maybe she can haul herself up on the rocks and up the stairs and drip in through the patio doors, seaweed in her hair, barnacles fixed to her flesh, green eyes diluted a dark teal and they'll never know the difference. Maybe she can fool them all.

But if she's fierce, if she's capable, using the moon to pull her sea in and out at will, they'll know. They'll know it isn't truly me, they'll know she's an imposter, they'll be disappointed, first in me, and then in themselves as they wonder where they went wrong.

This is what happens when you protect your young instead of teaching them how to fight. It's a mistake I won't be making with my own.

***

I need a list because Sam asked for a barometer and then promptly stole the parmesan cheese from my fridge, taking it back across the driveway, promising to replace it the whole way out the side door even as I told him not to worry, I have a new one in there somewhere.

I figured a list of good things was a good plan. 

This week the weather has been awful enough to slow things down a little, or maybe a lot though it's been stressful getting around the highways, which are always closed because people think they can defy physics or something. So I learned to casually use my 4WD on the fly, alone or with others and I feel so proud. It's always been one of those mysteries (like why we can no longer buy the squeeze cheese with the disc cap, the Kraft Squeeze-A-Snak stuff, WHERE DID IT GO?) that I wanted to conquer.

Nothing can't wait, as PJ says. Ah. A double negative. I love it. He is right.

We have cake. And new tattoos. And peaty-delicious-smokey whiskey. Tons of groceries, lots of wood, all the chargers are charged, vehicles are gassed up. We are warm. We are loved. We are together.

We have Sam for a little God, Ben for a little rock and roll, Duncan for his coolier than thou attitude, and Lochlan for his all-round entertainer status and his internal, eternal fire. Caleb for his ice, for his vast knowledge of everything and his unwavering capability in any situation.

We have slept. We have laughed and we hold each other damn-near constantly. We are exactly two weeks into this new year and we haven't kept a whole lot of this viking/wolf energy we said we would bring to it but we have a lot of time left, too.

I point that out, tilted forward, hands on my knees, talking to the girl in the sea but I don't even think she hears me, she's too busy talking right back.

Meghan can be my new best friend. She understands my life.

I'm patiently awaiting the announcement from the Queen as I learn that Harry and Meghan have shipped their dogs to British Columbia. You don't bring your dog until you're good to go so this is fascinating news. I'm also patiently awaiting all of the people with all-season tires who always proclaim the roads to be 'fine' to be at work or wherever and out of my way for safety reasons.

Last night I was given a solid course in using four-wheel-drive on my Jeep as I had to venture out in a snowstorm to pick up Henry after work at like ten. I usually pawn it off on the boys if the roads look bad but I looked out, saw the howling, raging blizzard, plummeting temps and rapidly-accumulating snow and thought, yes, perfect. Now is a good time to do this. 

I did fine. We lived. No problems at all.

It gave me confidence.

This is our annual two weeks worth of West Coast Winter and I'll still be glad when it's over, though Lochlan has been ridiculously patient with my fears, cabin fever and claustrophobia. But at least it's light out later, right?

(You would never know that I am Maritime-born and raised. Jesus Christ. Actually you would, wouldn't you?)

In other news, the laundry is almost finished and I'm about to go out and help shovel. Not your usual Monday but actually it's absolutely a typical Monday, truth be told.

Fucking snow. LOL

The Sun was in my eyes (part one and part doom)

In church this morning and Mr. Sapphire Cufflinks (you know who I mean!) brings me coffee, which is nice because it's cold and I'll be able to miss at least five minutes of the service, as I'll have to pee and need to pick a good time to excuse myself, walk down the aisle, into the vestibule and then down the public hall toward the meeting rooms. There are two bathrooms just to the right when you start down the hall.

I put in my airpods and listen to a song by Woods Of Ypes (okay, two) while sitting on the counter, because the hymn Sam chose for this snowy cold Sunday was an unbearable Christian lament and the coffee turned out to be a great excuse because I'm really picky about what goes in my ears. Any music is better than no music, I always say, but also Driver picks the music. This is my life, I'll be in charge of the soundtrack, church or not.

When I come out, Sam is standing in the hall.

Are you sick?

No? I had an extra coffee so I didn't think I could wait until we get home to pee. 

I was starting to worry. 

I was only gone five minutes. Who's doing the sermon? 

George. He's ready. And you were gone for over fifteen minutes. 

Sorry. In a dreamworld today I guess. 

Let's return? He holds out his elbow. I take it.

Okay. And I want to ask him something but I don't. I don't want to wreck anything or start anything. I feel like he's brand new again and I need him in my life.

I don't have to ask because he answers me anyway. I miss you, Bridge. I miss our late-evening philosophical chats. 

Don't you have them with Matt?

Of course, but he has such a different world view. It's harder and more pragmatic. Yours is kinder, more imaginative. 

That's how I describe Lochlan and I. That's funny. 

Do you think Matt will be my Lochlan?

I think he already is. We walk back into the sanctuary to see Lochlan coming down the aisle. He waited twenty minutes because he knows some of these songs are even longer than others. He smiles when he sees me and I tell Sam at least I hope Matt is a Lochlan for you because it's wonderful.

Saturday lament (with bagpipes, if you please, Benjamin).

We watched It Chapter 2 last night and I'd just like to reiterate here that I remain the World's Biggest Stephen King Fan but only as it pertains to his written words and not to the absolutely deplorably bad treatments or adaptations from book to film. I don't even know at this point if I'm being punked or if they deliberately make everything campy and over the top cheeseball. Am I? Please tell me and I'll shut up, but it seems to me they could make a contrasting achingly-bright and incredibly dark film based on his words and have it be the most sinister and beautiful thing ever made but instead it is compelling story-wise but not that great visually and not even remotely scary. The only time I was scared was when I anticipated the part that was in the trailer, when Jessica Chastain's character visits the old lady.

But I knew it was coming and instead of leaving it dark and chilling they turned it into some brightly-lit, fully-visible slendermanesque moment and man, I was bummed.

Make Lisey's Story into a movie. I fucking dare you.

Better yet, make The Girl Who Loved Tom Gordon (My all-time favorite King book) into a movie. But make it good or I'll go to my grave disappointed, and that says a lot because I intend to have a viking funeral.

Girls can't be vikings, Lochlan helpfully points out.

Watch me, I tell him, looking straight ahead. If they can make It Chapter 2 and rake in four hundred and seventy-two million dollars worldwide in revenue, then I'm already a fucking viking. Because we're living in a make-believe world here, clearly.

Wolf moon.

Fun! The snow is starting and I've forgotten what it looks like to wake up to a world covered in white. I may as well live on the moon for how insular and isolated the point becomes in winter, or virtually all of the time, as my preference.

Sam and Matt had a whoop and holler as they came into the kitchen, stomping their feet by the back door and telling me that later, we will build a snowman.

Great, now I have the Frozen soundtrack in my head (haven't seen the second one yet, still) and that will flow seamlessly into Miss Saigon and by dinner time I will have plowed through Phantom of the Opera, Hair and Les Miserables, too. All you have to do is sing a note from a single musical (Broadway OR film) and I'll snowplow back into my extensive catalog.

Actually, no, I didn't like Hamilton at all, in case you're about to suggest it. The subject matter held zero interest for me, though the music is high quality, to be certain. Next up? Hedwig and the Angry Inch. I'm told it's a riot and all this time I thought it was the sequel to James and the Giant Peach (which is not a musical but a childrens movie). But my golden rule remains. The music has to stick with me long after the story ends or it doesn't get a second round.

(And the next person who sings Toss a coin to your witcher, oh valley of plenty in this house gets clocked. I freaking loved that part so much.)

Ghost conscience.

Nevermind it, I have my face in a big tumbler of Laphroaig, one ice cube that crackled and then exploded out of the glass, hitting the floor. Never had that happen before. Probably Jake telling me to stop drinking.

Yeah, no, fucker.
 

A provincial girl in a savage world.

I'm struggling with my words again today. It must be this slow alcoholic-chemical-SAD lobotomy thinking it's doing me a favour, shutting me down against my will. I prefer to be top-flight naive, difficult to engage but increasingly bright, shining like a beacon over the dulled lands of my-

(I just sneezed on my laptop. For fucks sakes.)

I wanted a word for the opposite of an anarcho-primitivist. Like I'm not ready to ditch authoritarianism for hunting and gathering per se, I would like to tone it all down just a little though. So in my research the only antonym for primitive that came up was 'chivalry' (no) and then finally 'modern'.

Anarcho-modernist doesn't really have a ring to it, though. Though it does sound like a vocational art style from the late seventies. I mean the 1870s. Boy. I bet they were with it.

(Wow. I just coughed on my monitor and PJ just shot me a look like he's never touching this machine again. It's okay. He has his own. They did say there's a plague in every twenties decade, right? Here we go. I guess I'll be patient zero.)

Then I looked up expat, since I wasn't superclear on that either. It seems to be if you're from away but all it means is 'a person who doesn't live in their country of origin'. I dug further, looking for a word that denotes someone who doesn't live in their province of origin but there was nothing, and then there's the 'snobby' definition of provincial stuck on the end of it so there you go, I'll be the provincial girl.

I'm just curious. It's a hobby. And it's far better to look up random words than to-

Why are you reading Kaczinsky's writings? 

He's fascinating. 

He's certifiable. 

Yes, but very high-functioning certifiable like me and not-

Bridget. 

What? Hey, technology isn't some neutral thing that we use how we see fit-

Oh my God. Stop.

At least he didn't call me Princess.

What kind of day is it, Peanut?

It's the kind of day where you tuck your t-shirt into your underpants before putting on your jeans. 

He laughed so loudly. Not sure if he expected that answer or another, but this is the kind of day it seems to be, after all.

Why did you call me Peanut? 

Sorry, it just came out. I'll stop. 

It's fine. And it is, as Lochlan rolls his affection out like springy pastry, flat and wide to cover a huge area before picking it up and dropping it on top of us. We are four-and-twenty blackbirds in a pie. Lochlan? He's the king.

His queen was beheaded though.

Not before she tucked her undergarments into her drawers, I bet. 

Wait. Undergarments means the same as drawers? 

I don't know, maybe. 

We are lying in bed, watching the rain pour down the windows in sheet after sheets. Those sheets are cold, mine are warm for August is almost as warm as Lochlan these days and he's made a rare shift to come and spend time here in the big house after a specific invitation that involved me crafting an elaborate story about how I am indeed made of sugar and will most definitely melt if I go out in the rain and also not letting go of Lochlan but we would love to see him nonetheless.

There is no method and there are no rules to this part of my life. We don't so much have secret code words as we do cyclical moods. He's free to accept or decline. He's free to leave in the middle of the night or sometime next week.

The only he can't do right now is tell me to get out, or tell me I'm not allowed to tuck my t-shirt into my underpants, because I'm a strong independent woman who needs all of her men, frankly and he had another laugh as he agreed to whatever I want. My little heart doesn't desire much but what it does desire is highly specific. My only regret this morning is that Lochlan left (WORKWORKWORK WTF) before I won our bet handily, in that he figured the minute he left (without his shirt tucked in, I might add, which is fine, you'll just BE COLD LATER), August would follow.

But he didn't.

Hoping he stays until February. At LEAST.

Tiny soaked thoughts, floating in a puddle on the drive.

Heavy downpours, flash floods, snow up on the highway. January in the lower mainland is a wet and messy affair, and I have come to loathe it almost as much as the same period in the prairies when the temperatures dip far below what seems reasonable, and the ice builds to a fever pitch right through until Easter.

This is hard on the mind, I think, though I don't know how exactly. The darker, shorter days aren't that bad, the rain is nice, actually, drumming on the windows to lull me to sleep, leaving all the rules broken so that there are lights on all day long and no one complains or turns them off.

I baked early this morning. Blueberry muffins. Seven pans worth and they were gone by eleven this morning. I forgot to take one when they were cool and so I don't get one, but it's okay.

But this rain. 

It's tough on a good day and almost impossible on a bad.

I need a vacation.

I need groceries.

I think I need a new raincoat.

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.