My flannel best.

PJ has spring-cleaned his closet, deep-conditioned his hair and beard and is playing Saudi Arabian grindcore right now and it's not half-bad. He says he's going to clean and condition his boots and wallet and coat today and I was going to join him to clean up my Doc Marten boots and switch the winter coats into storage now that they're all clean and mended but it's freezing and they're calling for a little snow tonight so instead I'll just marvel at how pulled together he is and now how glossy his hair and boots are. Damn. He would have made the best husband if only he didn't find me so fucking annoying all the time.

(Likewise, dipshit.)

What is this? Caleb walks in and indicates the music, bursting into a goofy smile when he sees PJ's head wrapped up in a huge towel. Did I interrupt a spa day?

Join me, Brother, PJ asks him earnestly. We're spring cleaning our very...existences, man.

Depends, what's in it for me? 

Clear skin, shiny locks, and an eerie calm feeling like you don't have to wonder if your deoderant's working or when you last washed your jeans. PJ looks so pleased.

These are things you worry about?

You don't? 

Not really. Caleb is back to business, dismissing PJ with a wink, addressing me. Ready?

For what?

It's Tuesday. We're going for a drive to see the cherry blossoms and I need to pick up some paperwork. 

It's 2020. They can email it. Or hell, take pictures and text you. 

Not everything can be done that way but I appreciate your efforts. They are, however, having someone run it out to the car. And I need company for the drive. 

Okay, let me get my things.

And change. 

Why? 

Because Hello Kitty pajama pants aren't all that cute outside the house. 

Pretty sure you're the only one who thinks that, Caleb. Aw PJ. I really do love him to pieces.

Paul Barton, I'm coming for your job.

That's all I'm looking at online these days. Piano for elephants. I can play piano, hell, I can play a mean Pachelbel or a Liszt , if you prefer and I'm going to take over for Paul when he retires. The piano is closer to my size anyway. It'll be great. Packing my shit now, see you soon.

***

August is moving in effective this morning. The only thing he'll miss about living alone is not sharing a kitchen (no one's going to eat his weird chai pudding, I don't know why he's so concerned) and his beautiful hanging bed, which will be abandoned however briefly for a sturdy pine four-poster that will hold him just fine.

(Gage has his own bed, don't worry. We always keep a furnished spare room for guests and such. This room is removed slightly from the living quarters so it's a true guest suite. It's tucked off the library with an ensuite and separate entrance into the front garden. It's nice. I hardly ever see it.)

He is relieved but a little surprised at the strange turn of events. I mean, they all are lately, aren't they? Every event seems like a mockery of real life these days, every new story a caricature of  something tangible, but not quite.

He is firmly in the 'Against' camp but was an easy approval to bring in only because he doesn't leave the grounds. At all.

I'm in the Against camp too. Don't bring me a Collective and then rip them away without closure. Don't deny me my boys. Even to bounce ideas off for writing or deciding on paint colors or just sharing music.

Others in the Against camp are Batman and New Jake, who don't go out either. Batman has groceries delivered and works nonstop from home. New Jake polishes his motorcycles and kitesurfs all day long (we're...not sure exactly what he does anymore but he's a mean chimney sweep and also has his gas ticket now and is helpful and fun and a good conversationalist and I guess he works for Batman and sometimes Sam but I no longer see how, truth be told. They tend to be happier when we're apart.)

Daniel is Against. He needs people. He's like me. Affection is oxygen, touch is blood running through our veins.

Andrew and Christian are For isolation. They're concerned and they're newlyweds.

Gage doesn't care. Hahahaha. I'm not surprised. Gage flows like a river.

Schuyler is in the For camp. He's travelled extensively this spring already. He picks up groceries and take-out. He's scared to death he's going to give it to Daniel. He's scared he might get it or have it or transmit it. He was the first one to bring up the idea, apparently, even though I'll go to my grave blaming Caleb for it, but at the same time if now is the time to do this, then it's far too late.

I am their biggest fear with my endless colds. My penchant for pulling pneumonia out of thin air every eighteen months like a parlour trick. My intense wanderlust, my need to get out of the house and at least get what we need at least twice a week and do stupid things like forgetting about germs or replying politely when people speak too close, because I lean in in order to hear them better.

So this is for me. 

Everyone in this house is in the For camp, in other words.

It's not as if I'm going out and trying to live business as usual. The only time I leave the house is once a week for groceries, with help and once a week for drugstore/sundry errands, most of which have been cut back so far I may be able to roll that in with groceries. My wanderlust shouts at me in the background somewhat constantly and sometimes it's so loud I want to drown myself.

We need food and we're perfectly able-bodied so I won't be putting a strain on delivery services or any other human beings right now. This is my family, I will get our food.

Caleb's right. Schuy's right, Bridge. You can't go out anymore. 

What am I supposed to do, Locket. Risk someone else? 

No, PJ and I will go. We're healthy. We'll take precautions.

You won't buy broccoli though. 

That's right. It's disgusting. I'll get corn, though. He laughs but he looks concerned.

The irony. This is the same man that more than once brought me to tears, threatening to ground me from the nightly fireworks show at close of day if I didn't eat the broccoli trees that were still on my plate. The same one who told me the world wasn't safe and to stand behind him and we're still struggling with this decades later.

I'm now home for the duration of whatever this is, or until the elephant videos and the music runs out.

Then I'm running. Screaming.

Jake would have hated this turn of events in the world. But he would have hated everything that happened before it too-

Bridget. Ben says my name, a warning as he watches my brain derail into a field, blowing the townsfolk to kingdom come.

WHAT?

All the same.

Early Jesus Brunch this morning to replace early service, as it's cancelled indefinitely and we're making absolute epic feasts over here these days, but only once a day so if you miss it or want something later, you're on your own. The house is spotless. Now the gardens are spotless. The trucks have all been washed, waxed and detailed and now I'm looking at learning how to give better haircuts at home because I'm a novice by far and not everyone here wants long flowing locks.

In the meantime, Sam stood at the centre of the long table on the patio this morning as we all reached out to take the hands of the people on our left and right, clasped tightly, bowing our heads for his words of grace. He asked for patience, protection and peace for all of us and for everyone we love and know and everyone suffering or afraid right now, he said a prayer for contentment, fortitude and acceptance and he spoke about helping and then he asked that we all take a moment sometime in the coming days to seek out the person most generous in our lives, pointing out that for him and many others, that person is me, for allowing the Collective to be together in good times and in difficult ones, for providing a roof over their heads, food for their hunger and companionship and leadership for their days. Cultivating friendships such as this is a gift from God and so is Bridget, apparently.

Caleb stands up, drops Ben's and Duncan's hands and walks away, heading inside without a word. Sam says that people deal with stress differently and that we can also seek out Caleb and anyone else who is struggling right now but that we should thank God for what we are about to eat to replenish our souls and our bodies, for strength for the week ahead.

We ate, we talked, we passed the honey jar and the raspberry jam and we all cleaned it up together, taking dishes inside and talking in small groups. Once the dishwasher was started and everyone seemed ready to drift off to the four corners of the point, Ben to a virtual meeting, Lochlan to the camper, where he's cleaning it up for summer, I went to find Caleb, who was on the phone. I turned to go back out but he motioned for me to wait. When he's finished I pay attention. Today, it's free.

That was Schuyler. 

Is he alright-

He's fine. We've made the decision to isolate the houses here, from each other, just to be safe. That will include the Boathouse and the Loft-

I have to address the immediate glaring emergency and do the rest in order. August will move in, then. This morning.

Where are you going to put him? 

Gage's old room. Poor Gage, who went to Schuyler's, then the Boathouse then back here then back to Schuyler's. He's easygoing though, God bless him.

Caleb nods.

Nice way to try and keep Sam away. 

It's not. 

Okay. Whatever, I'll go say my goodbyes. 

It's effective immediately, Neamhchiontach. No goodbyes. Facetime only.

Oh my FUCK, Diabhal. 

Lochlan and I have been talking about this for a few days now. 

You're really going to drag him into this? 

We're all in this, Bridget. Except maybe your selfish preacher. 

He isn't selfish-

The hell he isn't. 

You are, though.

Maybe I'm just reflecting you, Bridget. 

Everyone is generous (to a fault).

Lochlan held my face and my eyes flew open. It's so late. I was just about too deeply asleep to notice when he touched me but not too deeply, thankfully.

He leans down and kisses me and tells me to be quiet. Then he laughs, and puts all of his weight on me. I cry out and he swallows the sound with another kiss, pulling my arms around his neck, forcing his hands underneath me, pulling me up away from the bed. It was more forceful and less sweet then usual but not too unusual because sometimes he is extra-hungry. He finally ends up with one hand around the back of my neck and one around my hips and we find our common ground. He bends his head down against my forehead and gives me one long kiss, says he loves me and then he's gone.

And then Sam is here. Pulling me up to a sitting position, Lifting me into his lap, giving me a whole different kind of kiss, one that says I didn't touch you yesterday or even the week before. It's been five or six months and he isn't about to waste a second. I cry out and he shifts position, lifting me up again, putting me down on my stomach, pushing my head down with his hand, while his other hand pushes against the small of my back while he drives against me. I want to cry. A pattern so familiar but so far away. I didn't think he would touch me again, never expected him to, frankly and I wonder how he got to this place tonight, and where Matt is, and what happens tomorrow.

Matt is sleeping, Sam says and I don't think about it anymore.

So is Ben, I point out, and he laughs.

Grief is a one-way street, she said and I didn't forget that.

I missed all of the movies last night, including The Outsiders AND Footloose. I'm so disappointed at myself but I settled in tight between Ben and Lochlan on the couch and I was out. Asleep hard. Fuck. I didn't get any pizza (Henry helpfully ate my slice after Lochlan pointed out I was zonked) and was sent to bed when the credits rolled. This is nothing new but I'm hoping to stay awake tonight for 2020 movie night. I don't know what's out though, except for The Hunt. I'd like to see that. Hell, sometimes I'd like to participate in it. With circa-2006 Bridget, not the shell of her that exists now. I don't think she could wield a weapon, let alone find her way out of a wet paper bag. Things have changed.

And welcome, listeners to a sunny Friday morning here on the point. Your girl Little Bee has had no sleep, save for what took place when I could have been watching Kevin Bacon dance (God, Lochlan was SO JEALOUS of my Kevin Bacon infatuation when I was 12 and Loch was 17 and now it seems funny) and I'm feeling a little down this morning, opening a browser with a wail that every inch of every thing I read each morning is covered in a virus. 

Caleb promptly banned me from the Internet. Lochlan quickly amended it to the news and social media parts of the Internet. Fine by me, my blog is also a one-way street though after listening to so many podcasts as of late (I am struggling with Limetown because the player wants to jump to season 2 episodes all the damn time and if I get distracted and let it load automatically I can't follow it because it's at the end suddenly.)  I'm so tempted to try my hand at it, and just talk to you.

There are problems with this plan.

Firstly, if you've ever heard deaf people talk you'll get this. My hearing was there at birth and not as bad as it is in adulthood so I can pronounce my words more easily than you might expect. But I'm loud and highly inflective because I can't hear my own voice, which means not only will you think I'm yelling at you and way too enthusiastic about whatever it is, but it's ridiculously expressive and almost comically sing-song if singing was always a sharp or flat and never on key or on time.

Right. Off-key sing-song with weird timing and loud. I've been assured it's compelling and sweet (RIGHT). I can quash it half to bits when necessary, like when meeting someone new and I feel like I make myself sound like a robot.

Secondly,  if I started a podcast what would I talk about? Myself? Nothing? Grief? Sure, it's the only thing I'm an expert on, unless you count my award-winning multi-time consecutive Sugar-Babying gigs that are ongoing. I could talk about that but Caleb wouldn't appreciate it and would probably draft me a C&D before supper.

If I did a podcast, what would I talk about, Locket? I ask him mid-word.

He doesn't even hesitate. The show. Talk about your time on the circuit. Talk about the highwires and the crowd and the costumes and the mental preparation. 

Only with all of Cirque newly laid off I bet I wouldn't be the only one.

Talk about Jacob. My brain screams and I smack it back, hard. No. That's for me. 

Talk about boys, PJ offers helpfully.

Right. So I can just read my blog out loud then?

If you want, he shrugs. I don't think PJ understands me at all anymore.

Sam comes in and a surprise kiss lands on the top of my head. Talk about secular faith in trying times, he says and Caleb says his name, drawing his attention.

We're not talking about news today, he warns.

Ah, Sam says. Neither was I.

Get tough and nothing can hurt you. Not even the bread shelf.

A distortion pedal and a pair of wings
An anthem played on broken strings

The distancing is for me. Want to hear the shopping-cart-handle-licker story?

Well, I cut my finger just as I started shopping two weeks ago for groceries. The shelves are sharp and I reached back to one side for English muffins. When I pulled my hand out with my prize I had sliced right down the side of the nail on my index finger on my left hand. It started bleeding straight away so I did what I always do, I stuck my finger in my mouth. With my other hand I frantically checked all of my pockets and my bag for a stray tissue or a bandaid, finding neither. And the store was so hectic I didn't want to commandeer an employee to deal with the sharp shelf or find me a bandaid. I don't need to buy bandaids (I have thousands. At home!) and so I did my entire shop with my finger in my mouth. By the time I had to pay it had mostly stopped bleeding and yeah. If anyone caught a virus from a shopping cart handle at this point if it isn't me I'd be surprised. But that was two weeks ago and I have since recovered down to just a mildly-stuffy nose and there are five bandaids and two folded up tissues in my purse all the time now. But yes, I've probably single-handedly murdered every senior or compromised person with my germs within a forty-mile radius because I made an automatic motion. So it's manslaughter, not murder, in my defense. I'm sorry.

Never said I wasn't a walking calamity now, did I?

***

Today's special activity is brought to you by Dalton and Duncan, as we are taking turns trying to lift each other's spirits and make being home even more magical and wonderful than it is on a daily basis by planning surprises or out of the ordinary things. This is Retro Weekend (but on a Thursday) and it includes all eighties fun all day followed by eighties movies and snack foods tonight in a giant new blanket-fort we have built in the theatre room.

We're all wearing eighties fashion (which is funny, except for Caleb who came down as a greaser, and pointed out the Outsiders film came out in the eighties, sparking a huge debate on films versus books (the book came out before Lochlan was born even). Anything goes, I guess. I had to steal one of Ruthie's ringer t-shirts and rollerskating shorts. The shirt says Let's All Summon Demons and Caleb questioned that too, saying no one did that in the eighties.

That's what you think, Lochlan says and I wonder right now if we'll even make it to the movie activity part of the day or if they're just going to murder each other first.

Perhaps I should threaten to lick them.

We pretty much always live like this.

I have news fatigue and therefore have put on a pretty linen spring dress, no shoes and left my hair to curl up lazily around my shoulders and it looks like Lochlan's hair when it gets so long the curls come out, weighed down by the length.

And freeze my toes off in the kitchen because it's minus two outside and PJ burned the eggs and so he's opened the windows.

Peej, Christ!

Gimme a sec, he rumbles. PJ isn't conversational until at least his third cup of coffee. I finished a second cup yesterday at three pm and took a sleeping pill and was still up all night. I don't know how he does it.

I wait five seconds, eyebrows raised. He goes around closing all the windows and points out a little fresh air if good if one is properly dressed and someone definitely isn't. 

If it's like yesterday it will be eighteen degrees by after lunch. I remind him, since yesterday I was wearing lined jeans and a black hoodie and was so hot I practically melted.

You have a cold. You should stay warm.

It's getting better. 

Right and rush too much and it'll come back. 

He's so bickery I turn my attention to Caleb who does a small double take at all the tattoos visible suddenly and the dress and asks me if I'm warm enough as he makes a coffee. His altruistic demeanor is amusing considering a week ago when I developed a runny nose and the world's driest cough he lost his mind, mostly because Lochlan wouldn't let him near me.

I am. I may go get socks and a sweater though.

If you put on some warm things we can take a walk.

Where? 

Beach, field. You decide. 

Both? And the pool. And maybe up the road towards town and-

Let's start slowly. Go.

I run upstairs, chuck the dress overhand into the closet and find black fleece leggings and a longsleeve black Lamb of God (perfect timing!) t-shirt, black socks and a black clip for my bangs, which are driving me batshit crazy.

Ah. You look like you now. 

I almost wipe out in surprise. He hates these outfits.

I meant defiant and dark. I'm not condoning the choice of attire, just pointing out it's predictable. 

I wait for more. What a backhanded compliment.

It's warm, he settles on finally and I nod.

It is.

Let's go then. 

We start out on the left side of the property if you're facing the sea, walking up the driveway and out onto the road, and past Schuyler and Dan's, past Batman's house, heading down around Batman's driveway to the yard, through the trees, and across to the pool, then down to the cliffs, across the fence and then finally to the beach. Smart, as Caleb knows I'll comb every inch of the beach and if I start there I never make it anywhere else, running out of time or patience or oxygen (the coughing). Or he runs out of time. Or Lochlan runs out of good graces or patience or common sense.

The waves are crispy, icy and fresh. The wind on the water takes bites from my soul, leaving tiny teeth marks in halfmoon patterns, tasting the despair and the hope too. Bittersweet. I dunk my hands in the water and sit back on my legs, hunched over to be as close as I can without soaking my shirt or my leggings. Caleb stands back further but close enough that if I pitch face first into the sea he'll be able to reach down and pluck me out of the surf.

I stand up finally, not looking out into the ocean or into his eyes (close enough with their medium blue today) but at the smallest rocks to sweep for glass or shells when my eye catches light.

Is it jewelry? No, it's a silver dollar. From the eighties. I used to have one actually-

Look for more, maybe. He looks amused.

I stare at him briefly and then do as instructed. All OVER the beach he has tucked silver dollars into the rocks, under logs and into holes in driftwood. At one point he asks me to count them and I fail to clue in. At another he offers me his hankerchief, and I tie them up in a neat weighty bundle.

How many do you have now, Neamchiontach?

Nineteen, I tell him and he nods.

So, a final sweep and then we'll go up and show off your treasure? 

You think there's more?

Possibly.

How many more could there be?

Maybe one more.

You think I missed one. I clue in, at last.

Yes, you've missed one. He laughs and indicates the last bonfire and I run to it. Sure enough, in the centre, under the ashes and cinder peeks out another flash of silver light.

Twenty.

That's it then.

That's like an Easter egg hunt but way better.

I thought you might enjoy that.

I did! Except I think I made a terrible mistake.

How?

If I had left the coins where you planted them, the tide would have come in later and watered them and they would have grown into money trees. 

God. Your brain.

The whole thing is like a parable for greed-

Neamhchiontach.

Yes?

Coins don't grow into money trees.

But WHAT IF THEY DO and we never knew?

Fake glass in case of emergency.

I am stocked up on bird feeder suet and furnace filters and LED lightbulbs for the foreseeable future. I forget to change the furnace filter for almost a year and wow. It was almost black. Oops. I can't remember everything.

The eye doctors and dentists and piercers  and stores have all closed that I enjoy. So no upcoming medical appointments or shopping and I refuse to go for my mammogram, because the first time I went, two years ago, it came back all wrong and the followup appointment was for after Christmas and it was very stressful. Somehow it feels less stressful to do my own self-checks. Something I never forget. Your health is not a furnace filter, and health seems to be all anybody talks about these days.

We went grocery shopping this morning and faced a large amount of vitriol from the gathered crowd, even as we left a lot off our list, as items were limited and are limited, with or without signs so we carefully took one of each thing instead of many. But we buy a heaping two or three carts every week so suddenly people think we're hoarding. Which is horrible and I never want to go back but honestly we go through a lot of food here on the point. There are twenty adults living here fulltime. If I need three packs of toilet paper rest assured it will only last a week.

But you can only buy one, so the other households have been splintered off to get their own.

And no. 

Don't suggest Costco.

I won't go in there. I hate it so much. I've had memberships twice in my life. The hassle isn't worth the savings, even for a household my size. Superstore is good for bulk and the other little stores scattered up and down the hill good for everything else.

What else? This is the first day everyone is home and I didn't have a plan for the extra meals so I may have to go back to the store tomorrow. Help me.

(For those saying Let them get their own: Have you seen how the average guy grocery shops? Some frozen chicken wings and a loaf of bread. A case of chocolate ice cream. Naw, I still have a centimetre of toothpaste left. Oh, chocolate milk too. And Froot Loops. 

But no plain milk for the Froot Loops. Dude, you'll run out of toothpaste on Wednesday and hey, did you forget you're lactose intolerant? Oh, and those twelve chicken wings will feed one person one meal. But you were saying?)

At least the new Lamb of God single is out and it's fucking delicious. I can eat that. Perfect. It's called Memento Mori, which means Remember you will die.

What timing.
 

This is what I mean.

I  would say the majority of people hate the things I love. Anything that makes you hurt. Makes you feel. Makes you scared or angry or sad. Makes you feel something for someone or something else in time, and that to me, as referenced by my title yesterday, which made perfect sense to me and no one else, is the hallmark of an incredible creation.

This week I finished the third book that made me place it on the table, smooth the cover and then promptly burst into tears.

(The others? Sole Survivor by Dean Koontz (don't knock it til you read it) and The Girl Who Loved Tom Gordon by Stephen King, a book I recently reacquired and can't wait to reread.)

This third book? The Tattooist of Auschwitz by Heather Morris. I saw it in passing over Christmas and put it on my Must-Read list and Lochlan bought it for me, as he has always tried to foster a love of reading as big as his own in me and not only am I slow on a page but I'm narcoleptic so I sleep more than I read when I pick up a book and stop moving.

I read this sitting up in bed late at night with all the lights on in order to stay focused. He had to sleep somewhere else because I couldn't put it down and then when I finally did I cried so hard. So hard.

I didn't know it was a true story, refusing to read a thing about it until I had read it, proper. I didn't even register the dedication at the outset, on the page right before the story begins and I am crushed. It unfolded more in the acknowledgements, the interview at the end and the aftermath and if not for a curiosity about the author's need to write this I never would have found out.

What a good book. Holy. Give me more of those.

My favorite everything is moving, profound.

Though the winds of change may blow around you
But that will always be so
When love is pain it can devour you
If you are never alone
I would share your load

Church is cancelled for the next three Sundays and Sam is hoping for a Palm Sunday miracle to resume services, as his congregation is evenly split between rich young money and very old people who still disapprove mightily of Unitarian hippie Jesus vibes while demanding tradition hymns in with the Christian rock music, at least. Sam's been walking an easy tightrope for years, able to manage both groups and conduct a fun church environment overall but at the same time there's fifty percent of your flock that don't even know what a podcast is, let alone how to google something on a computer.

If you sent them a link to their hotmail they'll call you on the phone and yell Now what? It opened a purple window and I heard God talking, or maybe it was Reverend Sam and it startled me so I threw my computer out the window. You owe me a new one. 

(This might have been an actual conversation, I'm not telling.)

I'm glad he cancelled. I wanted to get day-drunk anyway, after wasting an hour this morning transitioning back to my winter coats and bag, as it's below zero and still windy. I'm not interested in being cold. I'm waiting for endless heat, sunshine and forest fires to complain about and I was trying to embrace the nippy bonfire season with newly lighter sparkly nights as we march toward Ostara and every night I triumphantly announce that the sun went down two whole minutes later than last night, thank you very much and I feel so much lighter. I was trying to embrace but it's hard, so I'll go back to bed for two weeks and then try again in April.

Except I can't, because Matt is making us Socotranian breakfast wraps featuring spices from the port of Comandante Ferraz (going to have to rechristen them The Geography Boys but I didn't recognize either place so I'll rechristen myself Sheltered and I'll do my research after I'm done here, I only asked him for the spellings) and I'm pretty sure both my juice and my coffee hold more Devil than God at this point as he is famous for helping his guests relax by mixing lethal incendiary cocktails, with permission, of course. But they're good and I'm possibly the only one on the point who still drinks (we won't even talk about Ruth who came home around one-thirty this morning, set the alarm with a flourish, threw her leftover beers in the fridge and came up stairs calling good night.) and the food smells delicious, and I'm suddenly starving.

This is Matt's belated housewarming/welcome. Maybe it's a celebration of another, albeit hopefully smaller and less beautifully devastating wedding to come. Maybe it's confirmation that Bridget getting day-drunk makes her so easy to love you back or maybe it's because we've discovered strange new worlds we can daydream about running off to, with more time to get there now that the days are longer.

Breakfast is ready.

Social distancing but only from strangers.

Happiness comes today in the form of a new podcast* to start, an evening brandy planned for late but not too late, wind that never stops (just like at home) and the news that as of Tuesday, all the boys will be working from home.

Every. last. one.

Which I don't mind one bit and we are fully-stocked and full up on everything else that we might need and then some, in order to happily self-isolate here at home until the risk of this pandemic has abated. No one has it here (that we know of, except if anyone is likely to, it is I, your favourite shopping-cart-handle licker, and that's a long story) and frankly it's getting so crazy out there that it's better to stay put and not take chances when the thought of getting really sick again with a side of permanent lung damage makes me a little fearful, and a lot more careful, though it almost feels as if now is the safest time to go out. Everything has been cleaned to bare metal and no one is anywhere. We went to one of the larger malls because Lochlan needed some computer parts and holy cowwwwww it was empty and the Apple store was closed with four workers standing in front of the doors talking to anyone who approached because their motto is IT ISN'T FUCKING INTUITIVE Touch All The Things, but not today, because Coronavirus.

No one wants to touch anything, least of all me the pneumonia queen, and so I washed my hands once while I was there and used two different hand sanitizer stations because I have to hold on to escalators for dear life and not through a sleeve or jacket cuff, sorry.

I have a sharpened axe, some bubble wrap, a tiny keychain-sized pepper spray (it's for the feral hogs, Officer) and a piercing scream so stay the fuck away from me until Jesus emerges from hibernation and we'll be right as rain, okay?

*(Podcasts while drawing are a wonderful thing! I finished Gaslight first, then Blackout (which was SO GOOD until I turned on talk radio AM 98.0 and the announcer said Tell me what's happening where you are and it was the same thing Rami Malek said in Blackout and I almost drove off the road) and now I'm starting Limetown and I love it. Bring me all the dramatic radio shows, and please suggest more via email if you like.)

Walking backwards towards you.

Oh, ominous place spellbound and unchildproofed
My least favorite shelter bear alone
Compatriots in face they'd cringe if I told you
Our best back pocket secret
Our bond full blown

I have barely taken a sip of my coffee, heading over to the desk to work at budget stuff and shopping lists when I hear the intro notes of (Oh god, cheese) a slow song I love (Wunderkind, okay shoot me already the Chronicles of Narnia has an amazing soundtrack) playing over the sound system. Caleb is dialing it louder and louder and then he takes me in his arms and we have a waltz through the great room, him beginning with room for Jesus and by the time the song ends I figure if I take one more step closer I will have walked right through him and out the other side.

At the end he gets to his knees.

I'm so sorry, Bridget.

Which one of them threatened to kill you?

How many names did you want to hear? But that's not why I'm apologizing. Their words bounce off, I knew after I left you that I had crossed a line.

(He puts it so mildly. As if he conducted an impolite joke instead of a violent attack.)

A line, I repeat.

I broke all of my promises, Bridget. Again.

You did. She never trusted you anyway so it's okay. I let him off the hook. He can't actually do any further damage and this is the saddest part of our relationship, divided equally into two distinct time periods. Her and I. The child and the woman. And while I stand here I realize he can't even tell us apart.

And that's what scares them, and suddenly it scares me. 

Lochlan comes in then, startling when he sees Caleb on his knees, arms wrapped around my waist.

Go, he says abruptly, but I don't know if he means me or Cale. Caleb leaves and I watch Lochlan for a correction that never comes, mercifully.

He hurt you again? He's not allowed near you anymore. 

I'm fine. 

Right. Lochlan laughs with such a bitter edge I begin to bleed.

Love in the shadow of the pandemic.

His hair is wind-tousled from being outside, his belt buckle is skewed all the way to his belt loop on the right and his shirt is wrinkled. His grin is all teeth, however and I can't help but grin back at him. He is contagious.

I just want to say it's nice. Being wanted, not feel like the unwelcome Jesus-slinging reprobate all the damn time, instead everyone is fighting over who gets to cuddle me. It's like winning the lottery and I see now where some of them get their swagger.

Like who?

Lochlan.

I burst out laughing. Right.

Maybe Schuy.

Fair enough. I'm sorry about church.

If I had looked at that dress, Bridget, I would have turned to stone.

Oh I know. That's why I wore it.

I'll still be here. I'll even be available a little here and there. We're just getting reacquainted. And I didn't want to force Matt on the house before I knew if it would work this time.

And?

So far so good but as you can see we're trying to take it slowly.

I nod.

Do you want me to stay tonight?

What about Matt?

He understands if I leave for a crisis.

Is that what you're calling me these days?

Bridget-

Things were going really well and then you vanished and I didn't know how to handle it.

Why didn't you come to me?

You were busy with Matt. I make air-quotes around Matt's name and roll my eyes to be a brat. Sam ignores it.

Maybe I went about this the wrong way and I should have moved all the chairs and brought him right in and put him in your laps.

I mean, maybe? I don't know. I understand that you have to take it slowly. 

Logically you do but in your heart you're shouting. I can hear it from here. 

I'd rather be fixing you than me. 

About the Devil-

It's fine. He's fine. We're fine. It was just a moment. 

He keeps slipping up. If he can't control his emotions then what?

Then I dodge hellfire all damn day. At least he's hot. 

Is that an excuse to put up with things you shouldn't?

You tell me. I stick my tongue out and Sam laughs again, nodding, even though I'm pathetic as fuck.

Yeah. Well. I hear they cancelled hockey. 

They've cancelled everything. 

So what excuse will Joel have to come over now?

Oh, my own minister called me a crisis, so that's enough right there, for a bit.

I do love you, Bridge. And I miss you like crazy. But I do love him. And I think we got it figured out at last.

I'm happy for you, Sam. 

I'm happy for me too.

Swing from the endless trapeze.

Do I think Caleb will make good on his threat to lean on Lochlan to pressure me to stay away from Sam?

Of course.

Will Lochlan do it?

No. He follows Ben's School of Managing Bridgets and Home for Wayward Boys. Let her do what she wants, set her free, yadda yadda. Secure in the knowledge that I've never ever actually left Lochlan he rests. Will I leave him? Of course not. We're in this for life.

It'll probably kill me anyway so life could be days, could be weeks. And it's not so much that I've magically fallen in love with Sam but hell, the attention is nice and sure, I was infatuated pretty quick once he joined the Collective but he's not Jake and Caleb doesn't (er...didn't) have to worry about his own role or space within. (He might now, for no one takes kindly to violence. Or threats to deceive, for that matter so we're both fucked.)

They're pretty mad, and I'm still looking wistfully across the drive.

I want Sam to acknowledge that he isn't going to disappear forever. I want him to still be over-easy affectionate and scrambled love. I want him to be my breakfast snack. I want Matt to stop breaking his heart. I want Caleb to stop breaking mine. I want to be able to control other people all the while being completely unable to control myself and I want....

I want..

I want Caleb to stop giving me orders and remember that all of this is his fault.

Firsts (Don't read).

(They were concerned he might fall in love with me. While they were busy doing that, I fell in love with him. My fault, as ever.)

You're everything that's so typical
Maybe you're alone for a reason
You're the reason

Caleb wasn't as understanding as Lochlan. It's not so much that I don't want my Collective to find love on their own, without me, it's that Sam is fairweather in deed but loyal to the bone in words, it's that Matt has proven to be selfish and shortsighted. It's that Sam has already had his guts ripped out three times by this man and when he needed comfort he came to me.

All Caleb saw was that maybe I needed something that was missing and he took advantage. Locking the door, holding me against it, off the ground, by the throat, taking things I wasn't planning to give him, setting me back a thousand years in distancing myself from who we were back in the day when those things happened regularly, and there was a different power dynamic. He never fails to remind me that he is bigger, meaner, stronger and that if he squeezes hard enough he could put the lights out forever.

And I am to forget about Sam (slam, against the door).

And if I need anything I'm to go to him (Caleb). (slam again, I can see birds flying around my head).

And to stop teasing everyone when I'm otherwise committed to him (slam, and a world of blinding pain that kind of feels a little good, to be honest).

The squeeze is just hard enough to make breath the only thing I suddenly care about and everything else darkens into the background. When he is finished he just opens his hand and I drop to the ground, losing my footing, falling into a heap on the floor. He pulls me back up by my bad arm, squeezing it in the worst place and stands me up again. In my face. Rage still present and not dulled at all, typical Caleb, who can hold a grudge easily with one hand while punishing you with the other. You're supposed to let it go once you've made them suffer.

I snatch it out of his hands and tell him to leave me alone.

Waste your energies on someone who doesn't even have a stake in this and I'll leave you alone alright. I almost killed you just now. Don't think I won't. You're making us look like fools, Neamhchiontach.

Right. Neamhchiontach! Sam won't listen to reason so I resorted to visuals. So he doesn't forget what he already has here.

Stay away from them, Bridget.

You don't get to tell me-

I'll bring your husband in on it.

I'll cut my whole fucking ear off and tell them you did it. 

He comes back and puts his hand out. I flinch violently and his eyes soften as he tucks my hair behind my bad ear. Neamhchiontach, they wouldn't believe you anyway. If I wanted to hurt you, I would. If you keep up this tantrum over Sam, I will.  

You should have done it years ago. 

Would have missed too much fun.

Circles.

What did we talk about, Bridget? 

Fear of abandonment, Joel.

Cling forward.

(Hi, I need a therapist.)

(Actually, I told you I needed a lobotomy but you haven't listened.)

It's as if my brain and I have never met this morning, as it specifically chooses a teal wool, somewhat tight dress that will be warm for church that's also a little too much for church, if you get my drift. Sky-high nude patent heels and a loose chignon complete the look.

And my brain tells me, a virtual stranger, that we'll make that fucker salivate the entire time he's giving his sermon. As if Sam will be caught off-guard or even distracted by my looks when he has Matt sitting front and centre.

My soul sucks it up and reminds my brain not to be stupid, that three months into Matt's return, after almost a decade now of them running hot and cold (resulting in a tepid, untenable bath, I say) I am going to be professional and wish him the best and facilitate their relationship any way I can and not fuck it up because I'm missing Sam as a casual friend-with-benefit, or something like that.

Lochlan will agree with professional-me, but then again, they both tend to be jerks sometimes, and very disapproving when it comes to Tiny Wild Bridget, who was once told and then told again, in case she forgot, to do whatever she wanted. 

Lochlan and I are both cranky though. Losing an hour of sleep is like losing a lover (HA, drinking doubles over here), and Lochlan spent all night doing wet work, scraping my heart off the highway, off rocks and trees, off the sky, revealing the stars underneath, twinkling again. He brought the pieces home in a cart and spent the remainder of the dark hours putting them back together, welding some parts strongly while delicately stitching others, resulting in a tenuous organ that he presented to me at sunrise, with a stern reminder that I am going to continue to be happy for Sam and Matt, that I can suck it up and still get as many hugs and talks as I like, but that Sam needs this and wants this and I need to get out of the way. That any leftover energies wandering around the point looking for something to attach to can be turned inward, to us.

It was a jarring, stinging, harsh lecture that was sorely needed for perspective and my heart is grounded now, obeying a curfew and a crushing set of rules that it finds comforting and protective while my brain screams to LET HER OUT.

It's like Freaky Friday is taking place inside me, and my heart and brain have switched sides.

It's just grief, Lochlan says, but he can't take his eyes off this dress.

So wear it for him, my heart says kindly to my mind and I nod to no one in particular.

And then after the sermon, during his wrap-up notes and reminders and schedule for everything from the further cancellation of Children's Church and Walk In The Would programs, and considering putting sermons online (oh dear. We aren't techy. A podcast maybe?) so people can worship in the safety of their homes if need be right through Easter, Sam announced that he and Matt, after reuniting several months back, would be getting remarried this summer and to join him today in celebrating love in the modern age, a difficult yet rewarding journey that has been a rollercoaster-test of his faith and that he is very happy and wishes to share that happiness with everyone in his congregation. That they have worked together to forge a new future after several false starts, and he wanted them to hear it from him, instead of a mill churning out endless rumors, as our congregation has been known to do in the past.

Everyone clapped and cheered and I burst into tears. Lochlan looks at me and said, See? You're happy for them. You're crying. 

(Right. Because he didn't even tell us first.)

Fealty to, and from, a fool.

And you promise me
That you believe
In time I will defeat this
Cause somewhere in me
There is strength

And today I will trust you with the confidence
Of a man who's never known defeat
And I'll try my best to just forget
That that man isn't me

Sam left my heart burnt-out on the side of the road, abandoned in a remote part of the mountains so it will be days or even weeks before it's found, rubber all over the road from where he swerved, driving it without a license, without insurance, without permission.

No, I didn't.

Sure you did. I'm biting back tears. I refuse to let him see that I'm crushed and not angry.

I'm trying to fall in love. Like you did. And Matt's a stranger to the rest of you and since Lochlan's still on the fence about that and about me in general I knew it would be okay if I pulled back for a bit.

The smoke is pouring out from under the hood now. The doors are all open, flames lick the windows from the inside out. She's going to blow, better get back-

Right. Got it. I am clipped, biting my tongue so hard I'll be able to use it for an excuse if I can't dam this impending flood-

That's not to say that I don't miss you, Bridge. I'm just trying to make this work.

This is fine. (Taylor Swift quotes can stand in for me losing my shit.)

We can talk. It doesn't sound fine. I think you need-

I know what I need, Sam.

Everyone wants what you give them on a permanent scale. Give me my chance.

I am. I did. Matt has nothing to do with me. I feel used. He comes along and you don't love me anymore.

Oh, baby, no. I love you. Look, you still hold precedence over him. Burning building, you know. He smiles kindly, that's how I know they lie.

My heart blows up then, a homemade bomb, sending stitches exploding outward, blood soaking the trees, turning the dirt road black underneath his feet, my furloughed, original memory thief, no longer trusted with my thoughts, my body or my faith.

And it hurts.

It hurts a lot.

Fucking up birthdays, part two.

The small Jeep is much like driving a roller coaster, as I've said, with it's incredible level of death-wobble that is perfectly normal and readily fixed by simply relaxing a bit. I'm so used to luxury trucks and super-tight sports cars that I forget these things. 

I took Caleb out in it last night and we drove up the highway in the dark and the rain, windows down, blasting The Gorillaz' Clint Eastwood on the stereo because I keep forgetting to bring my own music out and there's no blueteeth in sight with this thing. The song was announced on the radio, and after listening for a few minutes I found it somewhat hilarious.

Now picture it on the beach, I told him when he finally unwound enough to smile, instead of hanging onto the bar strap for dear life while staring at me as if I were a stranger.

I mean, I am sometimes. Right?

He nodded, picturing me as a stranger, picturing us in the Jeep on the beach maybe, as I had asked him too and now I think he gets it. Or at least I hope he does. Either way it's fun. Either way it makes me feel like me and not some sugar baby rolled in edible glitter.

He asked repeatedly if he could buy me a new phone, new Jeep, new life, whathaveyou, refusing to acknowledge the answer that I'm good, thank you. Money can't fix twelve hours of your life setting up a busy personal phone for use, unless you pay someone to do it for you. Money can't make you feel like you're driving in the dunes, alive for the first time in years, it seems.

Sure it can, he interjects.

Money can't stop the rain. 

Oh, but that's where you're wrong. 

It can't make your birthdays what you want them to be, I say ever so gently, fearing a rage that could just eat the stereo, rip the top off the Jeep and throw me off the side of the cliff into the water.

Sorry, what was that? God, this thing is loud, Caleb says, sitting back and shaking his head.

 I think he likes it.

I think he'll come around.

Ten hours later and I'm...not done yet and I hate everyone.

Shit's about to get real. After five faulty devices in a row I (meaning Lochlan) has had enough and I have to reset my phone as new. I'm a huge fan of just restoring from a backup oh...forever.

I'm also a SLIder (or a witch? An indigo child? A...WEIRDO?) so huh. Phones, watches, streetlights, car fobs, televisions, they don't work around me. Not the way they should, anyway.

I guess Loch will get his (not at all redundant) confirmation of that soon.

Did you back it up?

Yes. I synced my photos and then emailed myself my notepads, period data and soundhound searches. Then I wrote everything else down.

HA.

Want to keep these?

What? No.

Kodi?

Uh.

For the tv.

Right. No.

You used to need it.

I don't know how to turn the tv on anymore.

There's a button on the fr-

The input, I mean! I can't find the input. I's fine. I can watch things on my laptop or the ipad.

True. What about-

Do they still sell flip phones?

Bridget.

Yeah, I know.

Bensday, my favorite day of the week.

Hah, come on prove me wrong
Tell me I'm not crazy
Or maybe just a little bit
Maybe just a little bit crazy
But mostly prove me wrong

Last night Ben put his t-shirt on me to keep me warm but that's always foreplay for him, me in one of his giant tees, bare legs, neck of the shirt falling off one shoulder. He pushed me gently back down and climbed over me, and just as we got rolling he grabbed the front of the shirt, twisting it up into one hand until I lifted right off the bed and then he sat back and did things the easy way, pulling me into him. When things got too crazy, he pulled me upright, ripped the shirt off me and finished me off in his lap, joining me for a little serendipitous Ben-dark, which is the only kind I like, truth be told.

That's a weird thing I realized a long time ago. I'm terribly afraid of the dark. But not with Ben. With Ben it's his default. Everything looks better. Everything makes sense. It's so normal. With everyone else, Lochlan included, I hold my breath until I can turn the lights off and still see. Lochlan had to resort to forcing me to focus on the tiny coloured lights of the fair and fireworks and flames until I could find a way not to back myself into a corner and cry until sunrise. I don't even want to say definitively that he succeeded, the jury is still out on this, depending on the day.

Ben puts his shirt back on me, snuggling me back down into his arms, whispering words I can't even make out against the top of my head. I can use his heartbeat to fall back asleep and the soreness in my legs to warrant more rest, and we are out.

 In the morning he gets up early, kisses my cheek so gently I want to cry and showers and leaves, heading to a meeting and then returning only to disappear into his actual world, as this one is a dream in name only.

At least that's how it usually goes.

This morning he went to a meeting and then brought home egg mcmuffins and hash browns and coffee, and we had breakfast in bed, me a walking t-shirt with legs, him a huge handsome fully-dressed-in-bed kind of guy. We stretched our legs out straight from sitting up against the headboard and if I point my toes my legs only go to the bottoms of his knees if you draw a line straight across the bed.

His eyebrows raise but he says nothing, enjoying sipping his coffee and giving up his favorite t-shirts.

I think I'll take the day off. 

Really?

If the rest is as good as the past few hours then I'd be a fool not to. What are your plans?

Spring cleaning, taxes, painting. 

So I should or are you too busy?

You definitely should. Everything else can wait. 

Or I can help you and we'll get it done twice as fast. 

Okay, do you want to paint pictures for the book or do taxes?

I can clean. 

Do the windows? 

On it. But he isn't. He's on me again, because like I said, he loves me in his shirts.

How is this doing windows?

Window to your soul or something, he says, pushing the hem of the shirt up to my neck, starting all over again.

Good enough for me.

Rushing to sanctify my soul.

What happened to us
I heard that it's me we should blame
What happened to us
Why didn't you stop me from turning out this way

And know that I don't hate you
And know that I don't want to fight you
And know that I'll always love you
But right now I just don't

Champagne bottle in one hand, other arm outstretched for balance, I am reliving my dreams walking the tightropes of saltwater-soaked logs on the beach while he watches from right out on the point where the tide threatens to touch his bare feet.

The bottle is heavy and I'm drunk at five am, off-balance and ready to be applauded by the sun as it crests the mountains, picking up speed on its plan to illuminate my heart.

I take another drink because fuck it, if the bottle is lighter I can stay up here longer and Jesus, I miss my life. I miss sleeping until noon, stealing food and charming the lost souls that came looking for entertainment, not even realizing that we were about to grift them for every spare dollar they could find.

I close my eyes and the room goes dark, the crowd noise fading away as I focus on Lochlan's voice.

Until he starts yelling.

I open my eyes and he's halfway down the steps, hollering about something, but probably about the fact that the sea stacked these logs on my behalf and they're not safe.

Caleb turns around and tells me to continue, that Lochlan's going to pin every last wrong of the world on him and really we can choose to cower at the sound of his anger or we can live free. He's fifty-seven today and this is our third bottle of Good Birthday Champagne because?

We can, he says and laughs, stepping backwards into the surf and soaking the legs of his jeans.

Wow, I might not be the only one drunk down here. Cool.

Lochlan takes the other end of the log, crossing to me in seconds. He takes and tosses the bottle at Caleb (not overhand but I bet he thought about it), grabbing my hand in a death grip and then his weight shifts what was a perfect good challenge and the whole thing begins to slide sideways. He pulls me with him and we're off the end and back on the rocks just as the logs collapse back into the water. Had I remained where I was I would have been crushed or drowned. Had he not added his weight to an untested wire there wouldn't have been any danger to begin with but if there's blame to place Lochlan's going to bury you in it. He has no room for semantics, he's as black and white as Jake used to be.

Wait, he's the original and maybe Jake was a lot like Lochlan and Lochlan wasn't there anymore and maybe that's how I got sucked in, like I would have gotten sucked into the sea under the logs as they shifted, throwing my whole routine. The sea lions don't mind, but they're not paying for entry either so I don't put any stock in that.

As always. Go for the marks, he said and I did and now he's mad.

Punch-sleepy, more on the bees.

Baking cakes at six in the morning is a love affair of a whole different kind, perfectly normal in my snowglobe-universe, and if you shake it today you'll see nonpareils float down through the air instead of glitter. Pearl sugars are my other favorite decorating medium when it comes to kinds of sprinkles, as edible glitter leaves a weird texture on things and you know what? I missed my calling. I should have been a cake boss.

I am a cake boss, of here anyway, but mostly when it comes to eating.

Tonight's dinner is a surprise but a solid favorite and something I can make. Tonight's dinner is a relief after the lack of contact last night left everyone breathing easier, no longer concerned that I may return in tears with my other ear bitten half-off, no longer tense and clipped with each other as olive branches are easier to eat than betrayals. They are less tough with no hard outer shell to crunch through. They digest, as it were and for the time being everyone is jovial and kind. Brotherly, even.

Which is sad to say because brothers are brothers no matter what, except for in this family, where the moniker of Brother is bestowed and kept only if you make Bridget happy. 

But I don't fault him for that. He's really doing his best.

Stay in bed, Bridget. I'll make it worth your while. He's kissing bees again. He's named them all. Beauregard, Wyatt, Luke. Butch. Butler. Will. Earl. Cowboy names.

They're all boys?

They're all worker bees, and you are their queen. 

Oh my God, that's so cheesy, Locket. 

Cheesy-bees?

Are you drunk?

No, I'm tired. Why are we up at six in the morning to bake cakes for the Devil again? Dinner's not til seven tonight. 

They need time to cool. 

HE needs time to cool. 

Hey. 

Yes?

Not today. Let's make today nice. 

I wish he'd step in a swarm of be-

Lochlan!

Fucking up birthdays, part one.

The unmistakable sound as Sam said my name, calling me back into covenant, bathing me in the light of Jesus before I even set foot in the church. When we arrived I (all but eight years old here, as ever) took off to visit with the overly-friendly chickadees that enjoy my pockets full of sunflower seeds stocked on purpose for them now on days when I go to church. For once it's not cold and pouring rain but based on the general state of spring here in the rainforest, Sam is keeping church indoors to save himself the liability of someone slipping on the rocks. Our own steps at home are dipped in green and murderous with moss. You would think it would be great since it looks so incredible but it's simply nature's deathtrap, a fight back against building inorganic shapes in an organic setting.

Caleb has graciously deferred and I let him. Now isn't a good time. We'll host a family dinner with cake and speeches but a private birthday date is off the books for the time being. He's not short on basic affection but I'm trying to hold myself together here and the boys are still skittish about his teeth and based on everything and nothing lately we're just going to maybe wait until later in the spring. He is concerned that he'll end up as Batman has, being pushed off indefinitely.

I gave up Batman the same week I gave up haircuts, and it has indeed been over a year. My hair is almost halfway down my back and I don't have the complication of yet another man to muck  up all the things that seem to be going to well right now.

I can skirt around the hole. I can pretend I don't see the ghosts. I can appreciate and be so grateful for this one fiery soul who lays it all on the line, handing me his flaming heart, expecting so little in return.

So little that I gave him everything and exposed myself to him. He kissed every last bee in turn and pulled me in against him, not letting go until the dark faded back into the light. He's bit his lip and let me fumble, let me try and make decisions and let me learn and grow and figure it out and I love him for it. It would have been easier and safer for both of us had he just been heavy-handed and succinct but that's not who he is.

And I feel like I've grown. As messy as this is, with my heart handing off small pieces to break and share, a reluctant communion, my blood pounding through the veins of everyone here on the point or so it sometimes seems, with the offers to give it all up and hope for the best or lay it all out and see if it works he is cautious but open. I've never been able to figure this part of it out but he asked once if I remember the saying if you love something set it free.

You came back, he said. We've had this conversation before, Peanut.

Because I'm yours, I remind him without reservation.

Because you're mine, he repeats with a smile.

Self-aware? Nah.

The Collective is a mosaic, born of broken glass and shells, cemented back together into a beautiful image so distracting you forget the destruction required to make it. That's us. That's honestly us.

Caleb is thrilled with Batman's rare revelations, excited to be in first place, all the while knowing his brother is sick with a need no one should have.

I have half a mind to cancel the birthday as well, an impulsive desire of my own in which the evil isn't rewarded while the good remain unfulfilled.

But I never go that way. I never meet them in their games, truth be told, I don't manipulate one against another anymore nor do I look past the end of my fingertips to see anything other than what's in it for me. A problem in itself, mind you, but also a far less complicated one overall.

Batman came back around last night anyway and we spoke of it, biting back the difficult sins like lust and greed, trying to smother everything with a thin lacquer of values, opaque to the harsh sheen of the facts, ma'am and yes, it's a problem.

I need a clone, a spine, or a personal assistant. I need a megaphone or a billboard maybe. It will tell them how I feel. It will be backlit with my moods. Red for STOP FUCKING TOUCHING ME and blue for when I've fallen into the hole.

I need them to understand that things are going to have to change.

I need to stand behind Lochlan for a little bit while he fights a battle without a smug expression or a wounded heart, and I need everyone to just take a few steps back so I can run off in front, instead of running after everyone all the time.

It's so tenuously good right now and they're trying to ruin it, best they can.

Manifesting a difference (keep on moving).

There's beauty in the butterfly
But also in the moth
There's beauty in the sinner before and after he got lost
There's beauty in the traitor if freedom's on the line
There's beauty in the outcast if beauty saves your life
And I keep on moving

Batman smooths my bangs back and takes my whiskey, putting it on the side table while pulling me in closer on his lap. He hugs me against his chest and I feel a deep sigh from his as he exhales into my hair.

Your hair has gotten so long.

You saw me a week ago.

Touching it. I like it.

All millionaires have the same moves. The same abject comments on appearances, which isn't warranted or welcomed but they do it anyway as if their mere approval is influence. I secretly vow never to cut it again.

(Oh I'm KIDDING. Christ. They all have varying opinions on my hair. If I want it long I grow it out. If I decide I can't stand it for another minute, I chop it all off. It's just hair.)

It's been more than a week, Bridget. His hands loop around my hips. He seems so content and I reach over for my drink and bring it back so there's at least something between us other than my dress and his shirt and pants.

It's been more than a year. He continues as he picks up his own glass and empties it into his face decisively, as if he has been dared.

You have quotas?

Oh, it was a flip comment and there goes the glass, sailing through the air in slow motion, exploding against the doorframe in a shower of stars.

Turn off the music.

I bit my lip and leave his arms to do as he asks. I guess I hit a nerve and my spirit animal told him everything he needed to know tonight.

There's beauty in the knowing and in the wishing that you could
Like magic ain't a miracle
Just your cards misunderstood
Well there's beauty in our doing
Though diminished in our name
The same beauty in a snowfall is also in a flame
There's beauty in creation as there's beauty in its loss
There's beauty in the sinner before and after he got lost
And I keep on moving

*(If you need a refresher, my spirit animal is Matthew Good and he put out a brand new album that is likely the most beautiful one of all.)

Annual conversations, annual best-laid plans.

(I don't even think I have to name names so I'll let you guess and answer it tomorrow.)

What are you giving up this year?

Who, you mean?

Bridge-

I thought about giving up campfire smells or music or sugar or the Devil but then I realized I could work on myself a little.

Go on.

So I'll try to give up boundless worrying.

No more fretting?

Right.

How's that going?

It's really rough.

He laughs and pulls me in, planting a kiss on the top of my head, I'm just happy I'm not on the list.

So I gather you're not giving me up for Lent this year?

Wouldn't dream of it.

Mu-sea-um.

 I got lazy this afternoon while doing a warm-up painting and instead of going upstairs to my extensive collection of shells and sea glass, organized in giant glass jars on a table in a windowed hall, I googled for sea urchin shell photos.

To my dismay I found a whole heaping pile of sand dollar photographs, which is sad until I noticed a bunch of heart-shaped sand dollar ones.

And now it's my dream to find a heart-shaped sand dollar because I definitely need one of those. Please don't tell me it's an exclusive region-specific anomaly, I'd rather just keep searching. That's what I did with the glass fishing floats, of which I have three now. I'll go to the ends of the earth to find things and then I keep them dear.

Aristotle's lanterns, indeed.

I'm not so much a mermaid, but a scavenger. A collector, I assure Lochlan.

A beneficiary, he suggests, to be kind.

Updated with actual useful chitchat.

I went all the way out to the valley early to clear my head, talking to Mark on the phone via bluetooth about a future project sometime soon (before my birthday, maybe) and stopped to deliver the Porsche's big summer tires, gas up where it's cheap and then I was home just a little while ago, voices quiet in my head, no one listening in (anymore, anyway) and big plans to have coffee with Sam on the patio.

What's up, Bridge?

I just miss you. Usually you would have come to me a week ago to make sure the pancakes were planned for tonight and that we were all ready with our pledges for Lent and this year nothing. The last time there was nothing I didn't know you and hadn't met you yet.

What are planning to give up this year? 

Apparently, you. 

Bridge, I've been-

Busy. I know. Matt has replaced us all. 

You told me to be independent. 

So you switched from needing us to needing him? I haven't even done that ever and look at my loves.

We're trying not to turn Matt into the point's unwelcome interloper. 

If he wasn't welcome he wouldn't be here. It's almost as if you two are skulking around in the off hours and we haven't seen you at all. 

A lot was said about him coming back, Bridge. 

And it's the end of February and all is still well?

All is well. 

Then come for dinner tonight. We're having pancakes. We'll go around the table and set our intentions and have a good time. 

Okay. 

Okay?

Yes. 
 

Not biting.

Lochlan's laugh is bitter and somewhat incredulous. So he's just going to go along behind me and appropriate my ideas? 

I don't know what he's doing. 

Don't worry, I'll be asking him. I'd rather he engage you on his big failure trips like last year. Works better for me. Fire is my thing, not his. His thing is money and he can have it. 

So that's a no?

Hell yeah it's a no, but I'll be the bad guy. 

***

Late last evening Caleb knocks on the doorframe. I look over my shoulder from where I sit wrapped in a blanket on the front porch, my Irish coffee all but forgotten as I draw while listening to the Blackout podcast. I finished Gaslight and I must say I'm really enjoying these while I paint. You get sucked right in but you don't have to take your focus off your work.

You can come out, no need to knock. This is a public space. 

I like your delineations on spaces here on the point. 

It seems to work. What's up?

You look very cozy. 

I'm enjoying the rain. 

So again I've missed the mark trying to plan an evening with all of your favourite elements, according to Pyro. I've chosen a bit of a re-do on your Valentine's Day and I'd like to plan something a little different with you now. I was mistaken in trying to keep it close to home, I think.

Diabhal. 

Yes, Neamhchiontach. 

It's your birthday, what would be fun? 

Dinner at a jazz club and some dancing, maybe a movie after.

Then that's what we should do.Though you know I'll sleep through the movie.

I know. Then you can stay the night. 

He's never going to allow-

It's just wishful thinking, Neamhchiontach. Let an old man have that. 

One of us is going down.

The new single, Hunting Grounds is out off the upcoming Mother album from in this moment and the refrain (the title above) made me laugh. The song is a direct descendant of Sexual Hallucination though, and I don't really love it. Not because I'm a prude but because I feel like an intruder when I listen to both. The In-Between (the first single) is absolutely stunning in comparison.

But one of us is going down.

It's true. This morning, shoved under the door conveniently after Lochlan and Benjamin left for breakfast and then church with Sam, leaving me to sleep as Japanese food still manages to give me a pounding headache at least one time out of every three trips (yes I drank a ton of water last night to counteract the possibility, I think I'm going to have to give it up regardless) I found a gray envelope. Wax-sealed with an X, my initials scrawled on the front in case a single B was mistaken and appropriated by Benjamin, who isn't home anyway and Caleb knows that.

BRC. 

He'll never get it right.

I don't open it, I just bring it with me down the hall in through two doors and he is fastening the top button on a dress shirt. Oh, someone's going to church.

Big date?

Depends. Are we going to the service?

I'm not. Ben and Loch did. 

They left you?

For three hours.

Was that smart?

Depends. I hold up the envelope.

You asked for more notice and so I have sent you an invitation. What do you think? Did you open it?

I'm not going on an Alaskan do-over. 

If we try that again we'll do Finland instead. Jesus. 

What is it then?

Open it and see. 

Just tell me. 

He stares at me wearily and then goes back to his own more affable reflection. It's an evening event a little closer to home. I'm not shooting so far to wind up far from home fighting with you, when I would just like to mark another trip around the sun with someone I love in a special way. 

I can't take the curiosity anymore and I rip open the envelope, scanning his handwriting.

Oh. Why didn't you say so?

I like to make things special, as I said. 

What time?

It's on the paper-

Oh, right. I will be there. 

I thought we could leave together. 

Right. Yes. Sorry. 

I'm delighted you accepted so readily. 

It sounds like fun and it's appropriate right now. (Appropriate, says the girl with one husband, two ghosts, two formal boyfriends and a handful of completely informal, casual ones.)

You and Lochlan are doing well and you don't have any screws to turn. 

No, jetting off to far-flung corners of the planet with a boyfriend who's in virtual jail for almost biting your ear off would be foolish and hypocritical. 

I am aware, Neamhchiontach, and that's one of the reasons I scaled things back this year. 

I like simple things, Diabhal. 

That explains Lochlan. He laughs and then rolls his eyes. You set up that joke perfectly. Give me some credit. 

You have to earn credit. 

Oh, I know, Bridget. I want to get back to good birthdays and I think this will do it. 

I always said a beach bonfire with dinner and slow-dancing by the sea fixes everything. 

Well then let's see if it fixes this. How is your headache this morning?

Oh, he knows me so well it's criminal.

If I burn all the suitcases they can keep all their promises.

Benjamin and Daniel came back early this morning, waking up the whole house thanks to their earlier vagueness on when the flight was actually coming in, when they were planning to leave and what the fuck taxi company they would take to get home since they couldn't give PJ a definitive answer. He would have picked them up, though probably not at four this morning. They were home by six, and I was so happy to be woken up early on my only day to sleep in it's ironic.

Schuyler suddenly had blinders on, giving Ben a warm punch-hug, closed fists against each other's backs before moving to Daniel to envelope him in the sweetest, longest hug I've ever been fortunate to witness. Tears even, from everyone as they are rarely apart and hardly ever for this long.

They head off with promises to return to head out for our big welcome home dinner tonight, already booked at a little Japanese restaurant that's happy to give us an entire room on a week's notice and we stop to marvel at Ben's presence in this house, a space he fills that was so sorely lacking all week. At the end of the day Ben is a constant now, a six-foot-four security blanket, a wall that we can close in or lean on or protect ourselves with.

He and Loch had an equally long hug which was beautiful to see. They were speaking softly in each other's ears and I couldn't hear the words. Then he came for me, finally. From largest to smallest, I guess and I was off the ground in his arms, still half-asleep and in dreams but half-awake and...still in dreams.

The airplane fuel smell hit me like a wall, catch in my throat, tears triggered again.

Going to make that the last trip this year. Embargo for 2020, Ben says to me. He puts me down and presents his little finger to my face. Pinky-swear, he says solemnly.

It's February. You can't say that yet. 

Oh, I can and I am. Pinky-swear me, Bee. Come on. Don't leave me hanging.

It's a pep-talk! It's rambles. It's a ramble-talk! A pep ramble! It's an attempt, fuck off.

I've said before one of the upsides of waking up, raring to go at five or shortly after is that the energy that comes from being a morning person enables me to get all of my big crazy chores done before nine a.m. and then (be asleep by 8pm, sharp, yegads) I have more time to job hunt, spring clean, draw and crawl right up inside my own skull, a dark and warm host to the parasite that is my mind.

Some day I'll find the off switch and it will be bittersweet because I'm pretty sure that Jacob already found his and it's death and nothing else.

So I'm doomed to fret and worry through my days, but I'm at once an escapee AND high-functioning.

No, YOU figure it out.

Joel figures it out but only after Sam does what he can. Sam told me to go tick through my list, so I did the chores, did the budget, paid the bills, folded the laundry (including ALL the sheets and towels) and called to order in the summer tires for the Porsche because they are of no use to me now and I need to take them over to be sold with the car.

I also still need to pick up the new Jeep but it's...not...ready. ARGH.

I wish everyone lived moved-forward like me instead of these slow late-morning starts which stretch into early evenings because that's dumb and I have an agenda to keep, which is to continue moving forward at a breakneck pace until I crash into a wall.

And I don't even want to be a sad read anymore. I've had enough. I cringe when bloggers happily parse their diagnoses, and talk about meds and suicide and depression and death, even. I did that. I've been doing that nonstop, frankly, for a damn long time.

So ha! Bridget picks herself up by her bootstraps now! Or maybe someone else does. They must be strong, and her boots are only a little worn, but still fit and are comfortable, and honestly we're going to move forward even if I have to put my back up against my own life and push with my legs.

You heard it here first. 

Also, please come home, Daniel, I don't have enough energy to keep up with them. I thought I did and I was wrong.

(snort).

Smell the roses. And the oil.

I am changing beds and waiting for the Jeep to be ready at the dealership. It's having some things done. I don't know what things, supposedly they will give me a list. They're going to make it nice. That was a condition of selling it to me. I am the sweetest, most polite cutthroat negotiator you will ever find. I want it perfect and I want promises so if you make any, I won't forget.  I think it will be ready during rush-hour. Sometime between when Henry has to go to work and when he needs a pick up. I may have to enlist every driver in the house tonight to get things done and I am tired of dealerships and garages and tire-smell and parking and being nice to people and generally I want to go crawl up into bed and keep drinking wine and watching Netflix and dozing off every five minutes with Lochlan and Schuy because at least that's relaxing.

Just a note, yes, they offered to look after all of it but it's my mess, I'll see it through so I am. Even though I am mega-stressed but really it's just one little stick in a whole bird's nest over here.

At least the beds are all changed the final round of sheets and pillowcases is in the dryer. I should have used the clothesline. It's sunny and beautiful out today. It feels like spring.

Lochlan's other husband.

Schuyler has both arms around my neck from behind me, phone in front of my face while he tries to teach me the lyrics to Shallow, the song from A Star is Born, a movie I freaking loved and am never ashamed to admit that but I can't for the life of me hit those notes. He tries to coach me through a lower octave but I keep lapsing into the wrong part, as if I am now Bradley Cooper, he can be Lady Gaga.

I wrote Lady Gage there but only because Schuyler and Gage wear the same aftershave and the same kind of antiperspirant so they smell the same and it shouldn't surprise me this late in life but it does.

Schuyler is affectionate (as always) and In Charge today, as everyone is out. He's also stupidly lonely, as Daniel and Ben are away (yup, yeah, Christ) and Lochlan wants help with my endless sleeping and of course Schuyler can fix all of that and it's less risky than August (as ever).

If this is the level of affection that Daniel receives in my absence no wonder they are so stupidly happily. Damn. I'm on my figurative knees here from how nice this feels, and that's saying something because Schuy is always so generous with his hands/arms/kisses/AHEM UNPRINTABLES that we all benefit nicely all the time but this is truly next-level.

I love you, Bumblebee. His hand is wrapped around my neck, a kiss landing on the side of my cheek. I'm glad he's holding me up or that would have knocked me over. He really needs someone in hand to molest twenty-four-seven or things aren't right for Schuyler.

You miss him. 

Badly. 

Think we can keep you busy until they come back?

Depends on how much you stay awake, he laughs. You're a beautiful distraction. So is Lochlan. 

Oh. Don't hit me right where it hurts. That's a mutual feeling. 

Good to hear, he pulls me in underneath his coat collar. Makes it easier to ride out the end of the week without Daniel if I have you both. 

I smile into his coat. Not because of the analogy my brain finds in his words but just because double the affection in any given day makes a Bridget feel a whole hell of a lot better. Maybe I'll get my mini-vacation after all, if, like he said, I can stay awake long enough to enjoy it.

Broke.

You think it's all fun and games and romantic extravangances and new Jeeps and boys everywhere.

It is but it's everything else too and I'm not looking for sympathy I'm just telling you how I feel.

('You' being Sam or Ben or Joel or Christian. I don't know.)

The headache persists and I maintain, like I have for the past three years, that I need a long break. I need someone to take over and take care of me. I need to not be the one buying groceries, saying no, paying bills, keeping it all together. I feel like I'm losing it. The part where I gave up my car and came home with a Jeep flew. The part where it has to go back for something things is dragging. I haven't caught up to life again yet. I feel perpetually overwhelmed.

Maybe we all do. Maybe this is the new Spring Fever.

I'm at that stage of life where everything is so tough and my legs feel like they're encased in concrete and I don't know what to do except to marvel at how white my knuckles get and hold on until I feel better.

But they'll be concerned if I go to bed before dinner.

Not that I care right now. Sleeping is the only relief I have from my racing mind anymore.

Brighter, smaller, slower (Hey, like me).

The Porsche is gone at last and in it's place, a second Jeep.

A third, if you count PJ's, but he steadfastly refuses to let me rename them. They have names, though I thought we could call them after the three musketeers: Athos, Porthos and Aramis.

He said no but he laughed when he refused so it was clever, I guess. We put them out at the end of the lawn up on the rock wall flexing and had a little photo shoot and then he tucked his safely back into the garage because he only pets it. I'm kidding! Sometimes he pulls it out into the driveway and pets it in the sun.

In marked contrast, I promptly scraped the door on my (new to me) one but Lochlan said it was very fine and will polish out.

It will be for the kids to learn stick on. I can already drive stick and trust me, I was looking for a second Jeep, a two door but automatic and I wasn't finding what I wanted and honestly to me being able to drive a standard is a life skill, just like swimming and juggling.

(I am fun at parties. I think.)

They've had a few lessons and are really good at it, at least, and I no longer have to worry about Ruth wanting to borrow the Porsche (it was a standard and she learned on it too, a little though I had zero interest in her bombing up the Sea to Sky in such a tiny vehicle) because it's finally gone. I also don't feel like such a hack owning a fussy, high-end car that had such heavy connotations.

(Caleb says that's imaginary. Lochlan laughs out loud at him because it's...not, actually.)

Now I'm a Jeep girl X 2.

Perfect.

Mother of all headaches. Pulled off all my long pink fake nails even. Hate that it hurts this much.

Rich men purchase, poor men plan.

It used to be easier to say that before I forced the rich one to apply the laws of California (an expression in our house. It means half.) to my life just to stick it to him further at one point for the fiasco that was Henry's paternity suit and efforts to muscle his way right in on a permanent rather than symbolic level.

Lochlan was given equal everything for a time. If I got a deposit so did he. It was five years of misery for Caleb and by the time I let him off the hook Lochlan could have retired in the past, he had so much in the bank. I helped him invest it, I'm not a hundred percent sure he understands the gravity of it because he still grabs his cases and runs off any time someone needs anything computer related because he has ego issues, like everyone here. I keep pointing out his dividends, his compound interest, his capital gains, as if to show him, oh I think I fucked this up but here's what you kept (because I am also stubborn and probably doing this wrong) and he kind of shakes his head but he's said before it's blood money and he doesn't want it, a curse born of a tragedy and fuck that shit poor is better and I agree but the poor one at the end of this life isn't going to be him or me, it should be the Devil.

Last night Lochlan appeared quite suddenly just before dark. I had been previously warned that he was 'working' all afternoon (rolled my eyes, I did) and not to eat dinner as we would have a date when he came home.

He was home the whole time, someone else took his truck. Plotting and scheming and planning.

We had what he has chosen to call an inside-out bonfire. He made a huge heart-shaped bonfire on the beach, picnic blanket in the centre, laden down with sweet things and flowers scattered everywhere.

Ready? he asks. We are standing far back from it. It's huge. It's as if the entire beach is on fire and the flames are up to my knees. He takes my hand but I pull away. Honestly it was an amount of fire I haven't seen before, not since the camper and I was afraid.

I don't know why, things have changed. This was romance, not danger.

He did that thing where he waits for my confirmation that I trust him and we stepped into the heart.

I lived.

Inside the heart was cake. We ate the cake and threw the flowers into the flames one after another to make ad-hoc wishes and when the tide rose and began to put the fire out, beginning at the point of the heart, it was time to go. I didn't want to go, high on sugar with smoke in my hair and salt on my skin I wanted to stay all night but it started to rain then and he laughed and said Mother Nature is helping because we're late for the next phase.

The next phase was upstairs in our warm room with more flowers, more flames and some unspeakable, unprintable acts.

No one can do what he does to me. Not Caleb, not Ben, not even Jacob. He ties my heart in knots and then makes it bloom. He cleanses us with fire. He makes everything fun.

And he's surprisingly not excited about the bees.

Happy Valentine's Day!

They got me bees.

We pick them up in March or early April. Two hives and sixish pounds of bees.

I don't remember what six pounds of bees looks like but I'm so excited I could burst.  My grandparents had hives when I was a kid and a few other family members so I'm comfortable around bees but only to the extent that I could do minimal things to help out at honey harvest time and otherwise mostly left them alone.

Honestly if someone asks you what your polyamoric commune got you for Valentine's Day and you can answer Six pounds of bees you have to be having the BEST DAY IN THE UNIVERSE.

Lochlan and I exchanged gifts privately as well. He got me a booster cushion (!!!!!!!!) for driving (It's been a thing for oh, about two (okay three) decades and I've had enough. Driving all these oversized trucks is rough when my ribcage is against the steering wheel in order to reach the pedals. When I drove the Porsche daily I had to extend my legs far forward and use the tips of my toes to push the clutch in.

I had his (good, not the every day one) top hat repaired professional. In London. It took a leap of faith and seven months of nailbiting but they replaced all of the binding and the ribbon and replaced the very top circle as well as it had a...bite out of it (very long story) and could not be patched. Or it could, but I did a very poor job and they also cleaned it and it's beautiful again. He almost couldn't believe it's his, as he thought I  must have finally thrown it out or something.

That, well, that almost started something, as I would never do that.

So while our gifts weren't romantic in the least (presents rarely equal romance, something that has been promised in spades for later this evening, and boy am I excited), they were exceedingly touching and useful and helpful in everyday life and I'm grateful for Lochlan, grateful for all of the boys (who all got freshly detailed trucks-I ordered a whole team to come and do mobile detailing because they are very messy though far far better than we were when they were teenagers-

Wait, what do you mean 'bees and tophats aren't useful in everyday life'? Of course they are. Don't be ridiculous.