Sheltering in place.

It's the simplest thing. A list. Make a list of everything you love, Peanut. It's a suggestion he's been taught to make, and he knows exactly when it's going to work and when the time isn't right.

I smile weakly. I love these. They remind me I am just as important as everyone else, even as I founder in the surf, treading water while everyone else swims easy laps, closing the gap between their physical form and their legacy, and I'm busy looking for an unreachable star to hitch my wagon to, to quietly ride out my life in the quiet of the dark.

You. I love you.

He smiles back. I trace his mouth in the dark. Halfway through he parts his lips, taking a breath in. It's profound and he's rocked by how incredibly deep we run. Uncharted ocean floor. Sky isn't even the limit. How we found our way back to each other I'll never know, when it seemed like fate was determined to cleave our futures in half cleanly.

I get caught up on loving this one thing, looking at his face in the dark, needing nothing else right at this moment. This moment that reminds me of when we were so much younger and we didn't know life was coming at us like a freight train and we wouldn't have time to get out of its way.

I love This Beautiful Life and Falling Slowly. I love House of Leaves. I love the color green and I love Vietnamese food. I love my children and my boys and my garden and my pencils and I love these mornings when we don't have to rush. Lilacs. Eating vegetables straight from the garden without washing them first. I love paddling on the ocean and the dog and music-

You love coffee too?

Yes. Of course.

I supposed you'd like to have one.

I would, but only if you'll have one with me.

I'll be right back.

Bi(valve).

I cut my foot this morning, waking in the wake at the edge of my life where experience threatens to flood the sea because it knows bettter, but the sea laughs and covers it anyway, choking off its air. I slipped on a rock in my tiredness and jammed my toes into a crack that was chock-ful of mussels. I flung my arms up for balance and recovered, not falling in the water, sacrificing my flesh instead, making for a deep cut underneath the edge of the three biggest toes.

I guess my sober-her-up beach walk is over.

Ben hoisted me up for a piggyback ride back up to the house, where blood dripped off the ends of my toes all the way home, a scary ride as I turned around at one point on the stairs to look behind us and there was nothing but sky. I turned my head back around and held tighter to his neck. We stopped at the patio and he went inside to get the first aid kit but then I realized it had to be washed so I followed him,  limping and went straight to the kitchen. He lifted me up onto the counter so I could stick my foot in the sink and wash it with soap and warm water. Of course it's full of dishes. He puts them all in the dishwasher and then gives the sink a quick spray and scrub with bleach and then very tenderly cleans the cut and my foot and sings a little under his breath so that I am quiet, listening.

He's good at this. Lochlan would have hollered indignantly at me the whole way home to be more careful. Lochlan hasn't had the benefits of having his moods eroded with substances like the rest of us. Especially those of us who didn't realize she was actually fucked up on Klonopin and not easy-predictable Xanax and is still fucking high as a kite. I think I'll give the rest of them to Lochlan so he too can walk in slow motion through this burning building of our lives, not worrying about a fucking thing. 

Because it's glorious.

Ben dries my foot and holds the paper towel tightly over the cut to try and stop the bleeding. I bet it's small. They bleed the most, I point out helpfully. Like paper cuts or needle punctures.

Ben shakes his head. I think I may have to get a second opinion because this is going to split right open the moment you put weight on it.

What is? What's wrong? There's Lochlan. He used to be so calm and assertive. He could quiet my nerves and he knew how to fix everything. But that was then. Maybe we should give him the klonopin for lunch.

Just a nick from the shells, I tell him.

She's fine. Ben assures him.

Lochlan leans way down and kisses the bottom of my foot. He plays off Ben. Ben sets the tone, everyone tries to play it cool around him. It works well and so I'm sticking by him.

That cut seems pretty effective. And it's raining now so maybe we should have a movie afternoon upstairs.

Only if it's naked-pizza-movies!

Lochlan looks at Ben and cracks up. I'm in if you're in.

Man, I love seeing you naked, Ben says to Lochlan before he laughs and rolls his eyes. It's been three hours since the last time.

A lifetime, Lochlan says wistfully.

Should I find something else to do? I remind them I'm there.

No you can continue your detox with us but if we get frisky just stay out of the way.

Too far, Lochlan says to Ben.

Yeah, I know. Ben laughs easily. Worth a shot. He winks at Lochlan but Lochlan misses it entirely. His concern drowns all the jokes and the impending flood moves overland.

Self-awareness? Check, for once.

The sound of the rain tells me our sins are being washed away even as I sleep, heavy in dreams and drugs, content to waste the precious minutes of the day which stretch into hours, unchecked by sunlight or consistency. Lochlan left others in charge and they pawned off the chore and split it into thirds and that left the little monster to her own devices and her own charms. Give me the responsibility for myself and I do marginally better than if I have no input. Take it all away and see the fireworks.

For the eighth time in as many years Lochlan gave the entire point a lecture, a comeuppance and a dressing-down that would make a grown man cry (and has) and stepped back up as a full-time caretaker for someone who should be perfectly capable of looking after herself (but isn't) and the leader of a pack who should know how to work together by now (but don't).

(Caleb already got the most incredible rebuke, a reprimand that apparently was felt around the globe, as Lochlan has decided he is finished being Mr. Nice Guy.)

But YAY!  Loch's off until Christmas. A full six month plus leave which is all I ever want in a day as it is, and now it's here and I don't know what to do first.

Except he's incredibly angry and unbelievably pissed off that I'm looking at it like he got a long-awaited vacation.

Well, you did.

You're more work than work.

Well I know other people who would gladly take this on if you don't want the stress. We are bickering. Off to a great start.

The first thing we're going to do is have Joel come over and then you're going to get all of this stuff out of your system.

Hey, you're the one who gave me the drugs.

To sleep. You needed sleep. Instead you went and got more drugs from Caleb and then had a few drinks and Peanut, you're a mean drunk. Now I'm going to go make you some breakfast, and today we're going to hydrate, rest and talk with Joel and then after you've apologized to me and to PJ who tried to head you off early into your fucking destruction yesterday, we'll plan out a fun summer. But it's going to be dry and it's going to be ghost-free, so help me God.

What do we have to talk to Joel about then?

We need to do this without drugs, Bridgie. It's a shortcut and it's too dangerous.

Drugs are always the last resort though.

What if they aren't?

I stare at him. He doesn't get it. Doesn't seem to understand if you can't turn my brain off it will burn itself right out. It will plow right through the memory thief, through the walls, through the concrete tunnels and probably straight into the ground. It'll keep going until it finds a way to shut itself down forever and Joel knows this, at least, so maybe he is a good idea after all.

Can you have him here for eleven then? I need to get ready for the day. I smile weakly at Lochlan, who kisses my forehead, so content in his pragmatic, seemingly-logical solutions, treading water in a bottomless sea. He's so hopeful sometimes I wish I had never married him so that I could cut him loose and he could find happiness instead of this.

Hit a wall, here's a song. Sorry, maybe tomorrow.

Well I go to water to find innocence
Breathe deep the air to fill my lungs
And beauty sings his songs to me
Every note I follow to find out where
The voice is coming from

All that I know
Al that I see
All that I feel
Inside of me
All that I've done
All that I've tried
There must be more
To this beautiful life

Ethanol Jesus.

Church has reconvened and I'm...HA, I'm home getting drunk because Sam isn't watching right now and it's Sunday and for once I don't have to bow to anyone's schedule but my own. I've been dragging my iPad around the point all morning trying to find a good place to chill and it's probably going to be the stables for the duration because at least my studio has a fridge and in that fridge is a 24-case of hard lemonade because it's nice to have cold beverages when you're doing heavy yard work and there was no room in the house fridge and you can't put cans in the freezer so that rules out leaving them in the garage.

It's not a big fridge, it's one of the little retro Magic Chef ones but it's green. Also this is the place where the kids can have sleepovers or movie night. There's a back projection wall painted with silver screen paint, a couch and that fridge, since all of my art supplies and my easel pack up neatly and stow away. The children get privacy here, too. But they're only allowed one can of hard lemonade each and not if they're driving and their friends aren't if they're driving either and I check, because it's important.

So today I am sacked out in my studio day-drinking and drawing and listening to Oceans of Slumber and enjoying a whole two hour stretch with nothing to account to. My stomach growls. It doesn't want alcohol this early, it wants another cup of coffee, maybe a blueberry muffin and a long slow-painful stretch in the sun beside Lochlan.

But Lochlan is sleeping, it's about to rain, I don't want to go all the way back to the main house for coffee (on the other side of the driveway and down the hill) and besides, PJ ate the last of the blueberry muffins last night.

Why am I not in church? Lochlan is sleeping, I said. He woke up long enough to tell me he didn't want me to go at all and to wait another week or two and as much as I didn't want to miss Sam's in-person announcements about his and Matt's wedding, Lochlan is right and sitting in a room with a bunch of other people, even if it's far apart, even if it's a shortened service is kind of the last thing I want to do.

And for the first time in a long while my knee-jerk impulse isn't to throw myself from the cliff into a fire until you can't tell I was ever there, it's extreme self-preservation. This is probably the 'perspective' everyone is always talking about, or the Xanax is giving me tons of unusual clarity instead of the usual opposite.

Either way, I'm sure Jesus misses me. He told me this morning when he waved from the orchard as I was on my way up the hill. He called out something about not mixing alcohol and pills but I couldn't really hear him. I think he forgets I'm deaf. Everyone does.

Life in Larghissimo, as always.

If there is one thing I have learned in my life (besides don't use bleach regularly on things with gaskets), it's that funnel cakes and Xanax letdowns cause nightmares. Oh, and that Lochlan will tell me anything in the dark, anything to make a nightmare go away, anything just to make it so I stop shaking and go back to sleep.

Jacob rang the doorbell last night. He rang it and he waited on the front porch for someone to answer, sleeves rolled up, hair in his eyes, full beard and no shoes. He was a dream, a mirage but he was as real as I've ever seen him. I haven't forgotten a line on his face, the white of his teeth or the way the part in his hair always gave up early on, leaving a zig-zag of straight waves that was hard to control. Henry has the same hair. Same beard. But not the same fake charm.

Blind, like a fool, I went to answer the door when no one else did. Someone probably buzzed the mail truck in through the gate and then promptly forgot to go to the door.. Someone really needs something and doesn't have clean hands or shoes. One of the children forgot their key.

I open the door and he's there.

And I woke up screaming. Not because I miss him so much (I do. Jesus, I do) but because it's a better place if I hate him instead of love him. It's a better place if I condemn his memory to ashes instead of missing him. It's a better place if I spent all my time thinking about him calling him soft-hard names and listings his shortcomings and flaws as a human being instead of acknowledging that when he flew, my heart was with him and it shattered all over the pavement and it was never right again, much as I lie and say it's fixed.

Lochlan gets an earful between the screams and the justifications. And then he does what he always does except last night I was more awake than usual.

I told him to come back tomorrow and we'll talk, Lochlan mumbles. It's a panacea. It's a verbal benzodiazepine. It's an unhealthy crutch and a shortcut and a curse. It's dangerous, is what it is, but it works really well and we're all about getting it done here on Perdition point.

I lay there silently exploring the dark after that. Eyes open, pupils wide. Waiting. Waiting for Jacob. Waiting for light so I could get up. Waiting for the sugar in my blood to burn off and be replaced by exhilaration. Waiting for something that would never come, as it was a lie told in the dark to soothe a small child.

As always.

Today is a profoundly sad aftermath. I even went out and looked at the porch and tried to picture Jake standing there. I wondered if he would like it. If he would appreciate our point and the four houses here and the army that never stands down. I wonder if he would like that fact that the biggest gifts Caleb ever gave me besides suspicion, distrust and complete ruin were a beach and a commune of my very own because it is quite literally the least he could do. I wonder if they would still try to kill each other on the spot. I wonder if Jake would tell me I've changed. I wonder what he would think to learn he was a father after all. That's probably the biggest one right there. The irony above ironies. The straw that broke my heart over again. The thing he wanted most.

But now he is a prisoner inside my dreams and Lochlan's lies and there are no windows or doors so he can never get out and I'm making a weird peace with that, even if it's only moment by moment, instead of year over year. The tempo runs slowly. Too slowly for my liking but also way too fast, always.

Jesus hot rocks.

I had a rare date planned with Sam this morning and almost flaked on him wholly. He suggested we have an early sauna talk and then a quick swim. It's been eight degrees and threatening rain for days so of course I said sure. 

Then this morning I stalled until I knew he would be there and have already fired the sauna up until it's so warm I want to throw up. Getting there, however, was still difficult because I put on my bikini and the usual routine is to just stroll over but I'm not strolling in a bikini when it's eight degrees so I grabbed a wrap from the hooks by the patio doors. It's a mess of random life jackets, pool noodles, flannel shirts, someone's hoodie who doesn't live here (probably one of Henry's friends) and gardening tools. Plus a very expensive pashmina from Italy for chilly nights on the patio.

I frown at it. It's beautiful but it's not a pool wrap and unless I can put it on over my whole body forget it. I briefly contemplate making it into a pair of footie pajamas, which would be far more practical-

But there's no time. Sam is waiting for me.

My next thought is I will wear the inflatable T-Rex costume. Those are super-hot inside. But what a pain. (Though it would have been so funny to run across the lawn and jump into the sauna door in that, let me tell you. Always good for a laugh.)

So I trudged back upstairs and put on all of my clothes. Two sweaters. Lined jeans. Socks. Fuck it. Going in warm. Lochlan looks at me with half an eye open.

Cancelled? He mumbles. Comebacktobedmmm.

What? I say. At least that's what I think I heard. But he doesn't answer, he's out and I head back downstairs, throw on sneakers and head across the wet grass. Now my feet are wet and my hands are freezing. I get to the sauna and Sam is sitting inside like a vertical lobster, broiling himself silly. He looks so happy.

Purging evil? I laugh as I strip outside the door, leaving clothes all over the wet grass.

It's seeping out through every pore. He grins. Going snowshoeing after this?

If this cold brings snow then yes. I join him on the bench and we have a de facto therapy session, which involves him asking pointed questions, me telling lies and then finally changing the subject before he can call me out on them to being newlyweds and how everything is going.

Great, if you consider the fact that I got up at the crack of dawn to make some time to minister to you, pulling myself out of a warm bed containing my sexy husband to sit in a suffocatingly hot room and listen to you spin your yarns at me like I just fell out of the sky yesterday and don't even know you at all. Insulted is what I am right now.

I get up. About to slam some doors and break some hearts but the heat has sucked all the snot out of me. Fine. I am defeated. Let's go swim so you can at least be insulted from the deep end of the pool. And just so you know, Jesus would have let me off the hook minutes ago.

He bursts out laughing. Not in that bathing suit. Jesus would have burst into flames.

See all the people.

How can love survive in such a graceless age
The trust and self-assurance that lead to happiness
They're the very things we kill, I guess
Pride and competition cannot fill these empty arms
And the work I put between us,
You know it doesn't keep me warm

 You know when you wake up cold, nightmares and ghosts clawing you back to the dark with them, and you fight to get to the light, to get away from them? That was my morning, five or so, up with the birds, ghosts and 'mares, brushing the cobwebs of sleep away and then Lochlan pulled me in against his chest and I couldn't breathe there so he settled on his back, one arm around my neck, making tiny steeple-flames with his index fingers while I watched through bleary, teary eyes and sniffled constantly. Eventually he got too tired again and dozed and I slipped out of his arms and got ready for the day, ducking under a hot shower, then into clean warn clothes to head downstairs.

My phone is on the desk beside my laptop, lined up perfectly and the Devil sits at the kitchen island, sipping coffee, reading the market news. A second cup of coffee sits ready beside him at the next stool.

PJ up?

That's for you. He nods toward the cup. So what did you end up ordering?

An 11 pro max. Gold even. 512. Every bell and whistle I could get.

He laughs loudly. I would have expected no less.

You can't dole out pills. You're not in charge of them.

Maybe your husband gave it to me to give to you. You don't think we coordinate our efforts?

Of course I don't. Unless it's an emergency and it's not. Not right now anyway.

His eyes bore a hole into the side of my head while I climb up on the stool and get comfortable, taking a sip of the coffee. It's still hot. I'm still cold. Even without looking at him I can see how sad he looks.

Ironies and wine.

Sorry. Somehow I was assigned my own personal demon at a frighteningly early age and he's been here every since. It's hard to get around him to say things and so today's post is late. I also drew the 'mow the lawn' card which takes like five hours so take what you get, okay? Mowing consists of some brilliant idea I had to clean the mower first so it was shiny, then to wrestle it around. Then to get a rhythm only to have it broken by doubt when I look up to see six sets of eyes 'checking in', a trip out to me by Henry who offered to take over, a refusal to let him take over and then the finishing, which takes longer than the mowing, in which I hose down the whole point because it makes it look pretty.

I have a new rule, in case you noticed: Any time Caleb puts drugs in my food in the present tense, I will tell one of his past-tense awful stories. And the night before last I stopped in to see him, to return a book, his sweater and bring up his glasses, which were still on the table in the front hall. He offered a drink, red wine, as it was supposedly what he had on hand, in two different glasses, which should have been a red flag, and then Bridget got red wine + xanax and a quick trip to snoresville.

I drank the wine fast, because I had somewhere to be and then I wasn't anywhere, I was so dopey I asked if I could take a quick nap and when I woke up far too early in the morning with shaking hands I knew instantly what he pulled and we had a sunrise shouting match followed by a whole lot of threats, I went off and wrote about one of our Vegas trips, then we had a mid-afternoon shouting match followed by an evening of threats and I went to bed in tears and woke up to find all of my devices missing this morning.

So after mowing I had to go find them. I found my ipad, my laptop and my headphones. I did not find my phone yet. Ben can get it back for me later if it doesn't turn up. In return I left Caleb's bed full of grass clippings and have resolved to tell more stories louder if he doesn't fuck off with doing dangerous things like putting benzos in my alcohol and then not telling me. He insists my fighting weight means I won't make it off the bed let alone out of the house and it's perfectly safe and then in the next breath threatens to end it all just to make a point. I hand him off to the thug-boys (those who do my dirty work) and go cry while I look for my phone a little more and then I give up and go next door to wait out the day with Daniel.

Then I get madder so I come back, demand my phone, we reach an agreement about unwarranted drugs and unwarranted stories that don't need to be told (don't worry, I lied about agreeing to anything. Caleb probably did too) and it's been a long day so I'm probably just going to go take a xanax, have a glass of wine and go to sleep early.

Right.

Maybe if I do that I'll reverse time and my phone will appear back in the pocket of my dress. If not I'll just take the credit card he gave me and order a new, better one. And maybe a better demon, if I can find one.

When it's Love by Van Halen was playing on the radio when I woke up, that's why. Deja-fucking-vu. NOT TAKING IT DOWN. SORRY CALE.

Caleb's day at the tables proved to be lucrative. It put him in a good mood. We went up in the elevator to have room service. He had more champagne then food delivered and I mostly ignored my glass until he took my hand as I got up to go and get ready for the evening out. Fun time. My choice and I always choose dancing. It's the only time he ever loosens up. He pulls me in and picks up my glass, holding it to me.

Finish your drink.

I'm good.

Drink it, Neamhchiontach.

He's not being generous or sweet here. It's an order. I drink it. It takes me a couple of minutes to get it all down. Then he tenderly wraps his hand around the back of my head, gives me a kiss and then grips it hard with his hand. He's pulling my hair. I'm almost off my stilettos. He swings me in against his chest, locked in his arm and forces his hand up under my nose while he twists my hair harder still.

Breathe in, he growls at me and I sniff hard as he shoves his knuckle hard upward. Euphoria floods my bloodstream within minutes and I'm ready to go. But instead of taking me out he takes off my clothes and puts me up against the wall of glass, where he holds me up by the throat long enough to get off, and then tells me to get dressed.

That we have VIP at some club and we're late.

Do I care? I don't know if I do. He's thirty, he cares about his image. I'm nineteen and high as a fucking cloud right now. I don't think I care about anything other than being able to walk in these heels after that onslaught without looking like a limping colt.

And he's smeared my mascara in the process. I want to fix it but he says to leave it. That I look helpless and perfect. He holds out my silver slip dress and I put it back on. I grab my tiny purse and we head out. The only thing in it is a lip gloss and my lucky $100 chip.

We dance for hours and do two more bumps in the lounge between deliveries of more bottles of champagne. I feel like I could go for days. When we come back from the club he puts me up against the glass wall again but he's coked out and tired. We crash on the bed, enough energy to strip but nothing else. I fall asleep in a snow angel of discarded clothing. A cufflink imprints a pattern into my cheek while I sleep. A squared-off cylinder shape and a bruise.

When I open my eyes I hear him thanking someone. I roll to one side and he appears in the bedroom door.

Breakfast is here-Oh my God. Look at you.

That bad? I croak. My blood is racing. My head aches.

No. On the contrary. You look so small. As if the bed has eaten you alive.

I wish it would swallow me whole.

Don't wish for that, Neamhchiontach.

***

Almost thirty years later I watch him sleep and I still wish for the same damn thing and with all his money he still can't (or won't) give it to me. Sucks.

Communal efforts.

I picked up a new planner while we were out running errands on the weekend. I like to have a physical Calendar, a physical list and be organized and cute so I found a beautiful one from Recollections that says Shine Like Stars on the front and has a laminated cover FILLED with glitter. It comes with stickers and is good from July 2020 to December 2021 and it's all blues and greens and purples but pastel.

The best part is that I can't find the leak but every time anyone even looks at it it spills glitter everywhere.

Kind of like me.

We do share a Google calendar for important things and I have a big wall calendar that also holds important things but I am lo-fi, analog and always happier to use my pastel fruit-scented gel pens to record things in my own printing in an actual book that I can carry if I need.

I keep petting it and it releases more glitter into the room. This is great. I bet when the last spark of glitter is gone from the cover is when the book is finished.

***

We rented The Lodge last night. I had a mad crush on Thorin Oakenshield in The Hobbit so I figured a movie with Richard Armitage might be good. Also Alicia Silverstone is in it! She's great!

But no.

It wasn't great.

Well, it was great in an icky-feeling of dread kind of hey Hereditary and The Shining had a baby and it's The Lodge kind of way but I know one thing for sure. I'm never going to a remote cabin for Christmas. Ever. I also will never use laminate flooring on the walls, ceilings and doors because that was very fucking weird, dark and distracting during the movie. You know, WHAT WE COULD SEE OF IT because it was dark.

A solid 3/5 for rushing the predictable second-half plus Alicia was in it for two whole agonizing moments.

Definitely not a feel-good movie, but then again, I'm not a feel-good princess.

***

Bear poop in the driveway this morning. We think they came through the orchard. Caleb has turned the electric fence back on for the season and I am now forbidden to do gardening on the whole east side of the property alone which always makes me feel claustrophobic and childish.

I'll wear the bell, I plead. No one wants to go.

I'll go, he says. But wear the bell anyway. The look on his face says he is a bear, and that it's spring and he's hungry.

***

We ordered a new bed today! A new California king. Okay, three of them that get pushed together. But it was overdue, there are very obvious valleys and hills in ours because the springs are popped and the support is gone (HA). They should make heavy-duty mattresses for poly-sleepers. I need a bed that can hold up to five people on the reg, but at least three or four every night and that's a combined 450-550 or even more in pounds but after speaking with a bunch of salesman apparently all we can do is replace our mattresses more often than 'normal', which is 8-10 years.

So every four or five years? I ask

They were too red in the face to venture a guess. Lord! Some people are so uptight.

Down to the sound of a heartbeat.

Lucky for me I can't hear heartbeats. I asked Lochlan if he could and he looked at me rather strangely for a moment and then asked if I thought he could.

I shrug. I kind of hate it when he remembers that I can't hear regular things, like leaves rustling in wind and then there are other things that I think should make actual noise but apparently don't, like bubbles popping in a glass of champagne or combing your hair. Like curly hair would be crackly and rustling and straight hair would be a whooshing sound like a waterfall but not as thunderous.

I can hear fire if I listen very closely. I love the snaps of dry wood and leaves and the popping sound of oxygen bubbles in the flames so don't feel sorry for me, as I still have that.

I also have a lovely rendition this morning of Surfer Girl, sung in harmony by Lochlan and August with the ending howls and refrains by Sam and Matt, who arrived at the perfect moment.

Lochlan's been hover-ish and affectionate as always and I want for nothing more. He's goofy and entertaining and he doesn't let go. Most people will accept a hug (for a moment) or hold my hand until they get hot/weird/distracted but Lochlan's always been on a different plane of existence with tenderness for me. A hug means suddenly you're walking into someone everywhere you go. You have four legs and no arms. You can't see but shirt buttons and curls. You're warm all the time. Holding my hand means I am permanently connected. He can go without letting go of my hand for an entire day or a whole night, in his sleep even. He will excuse himself to let go to deal with something and then he's right back. At least once a week he will absentmindedly try to put my hand in his pocket for safekeeping.

It's endearing and it's very necessary as over the years it became as important as oxygen or water and he's never once failed to hold up his end of a lifelong promise in that it didn't matter who I was in love with or how angry he was at me, or to be fair who HE was in love with or how angry I was at him, that affection could still be counted on however long or whenever it was needed.

Our love story is a circle, full and round.

It's Sunday which is the Most! Righteous! Day! Of! The! Week! according to Sam who is anxious to get off the mic and back into the church but that is next week. Every second bench has been taped off and people have been divided into groups according to the alphabet so if your family name is A-M, please come to the early service which has been moved to 1030 and if you're N-Z please come to the 1130 service. Both services are going to be a lot shorter than usual and there will be no greetings in the vestibule. Any requests for home visits or hospital are now on the community minister which puts Sam out of the line of fire for getting sick and Matt is relieved.

New Jacob even brought home the collection plates and instead built a box for envelopes that will be at the back of the sanctuary so offerings can be made as people arrive. That's how to shorten a service, let me tell you. I think passing the plates is stupid and lengthy and that's why we fill them with silly things. But instead of helping sway Sam to give up the practice (I don't think hardly any churches do it anymore) it encouraged him to continue it to see what we come up with next.

So Sam blessed our heathen foreheads and gave me an extended dance around his outstretched hand, like a true ballerina and then they were off for a Sunday drive and maybe some take-out to finish out their final honeymoon weekend and I am twirled back to Lochlan who doesn't like church anyway and will have to be cajoled back to worship, which won't be hard if the rest of them go, honestly. He used to love sitting under the tent outside at the show listening to the preacher who would come and give a twenty minute service to the performers early Sundays. We would sit in the heat and fan our faces, his arm looped loosely across the back of my shoulders and nod with each heavy thought but then things happened and he stopped believing that God even existed and it's been a battle ever since.

Then what makes your heartbeat so loud? I ask him triumphantly and he surprises me.

You do.

In charge of finding treasure in the dark.

Caleb and I had a war with our words last night after dinner, he fueled on cognac and me on gin. I haven't actually put the gin bottle down, truth be told, and it caught up with me in spades last evening. He picked at me, I retreated until he was shouting at me because I was retreating and we came full circle, shoulders up, claws out, eyes flashing.

Abruptly he turns and leaves the room. I think he's going outside so I figure I'll wait for a few minutes and then go back to my own room but then he's back.

Let's get some sleep, Neamhchiontach. It's hot. We're tired. Sleep and tomorrow it will look better.

I think I'll go.

He says nothing, and after a beat of waiting for something I turn and head out, down the hall and go to open the door. It's locked and the key that hangs in the lock is missing. It's not a bedroom lock, per se, it's an apartment deadbolt, as this is his self-contained flat and he needs to be able to lock it from both sides of the door.

In case of fire there is a balcony though. I turn around at the door and come back down the hall, walk right past him and head out to the balcony. I can climb down from the balcony or just jump. It's only on the second fl-

He grabs my arm as I pass him. Bridget. I would like you to stay.

I rebound to face him. What if I chose not to?

Then I ask you to reconsider. Stay with me. Let's rewin-

Can't take those words back, Diabhal. I whisper it. We are eyes wide, noses touching. He still hasn't let go of my arm though, and it aches.

Then let me hold you until they dissolve in time in the dark and tomorrow we'll start over.

You fucking blew it-

I know I did. Now just go to sleep! We'll figure it out tomorrow.

I start off with my arms crossed and my brows furrowed. I'm not sleeping. I'm going to lie here and be mad. I'm going to lie here angry all night and tomorrow I'm going to get up and leave without a word, even if I have to go over the balcony railing to get away from him-

After an hour of that he takes my hand under the covers. It's too hot to breathe. The air conditioning is going full steam but it's still hot. He kisses my fingers and says he loves me. I don't answer and after more time I hear his even breathing as his fingers go slack.

And eventually I give in to sleep. All the gin finally shuts me down in spite of my efforts to rage on quietly through the night. When I wake up in the morning it's cool again and raining. Caleb is already awake and staring at me.

May I leave? I ask.

Not until you listen to me.

Oh, I think I've heard eno-

Please, Bridget. He pleads again and again I relent. I lie there and he says all the things he needs to say. I know it was hot. We were drinking. Our hearts lie so close to the surface they get bruised, they grow cold when you would think the opposite will happen. He apologizes. He makes amends.

I don't doubt him and appreciate his words because we don't lie to each other these days. Our hearts might overhear, they might get confused.

When he's finished, he reaches over me to my bedside table and picks up the key that's lying there. On my side. Within eyesight. Can I walk you out?

No, get some actual rest now. I lean over and he kisses my cheek. He doesn't plead for a mulligan or a time scheduled for later, he just looks sad. I head back down the hall with the key, put it in the lock and let myself out.

Love you too, I say.

Frironies.

In which the moment the pool reaches optimal swimming temperature, Bridget is thrown off the cliff into the ocean instead, chased down by Christian and Lochlan while she screamed her fool head off, sure she could outrun them both, foolishly.

Instead I got the first unintentional dip of this new summer, as the moment I made my way back to the top, Ben threw me off again, overhand, which left me shrieking all the way down telling him to come in. I'm strong enough to swim around the point once, not twice.

They only got away with that because Gage and PJ were down on the beach rearranging the logs for summer. In winter and spring we make a wide open square further back on the beach, slightly underneath the cliffs and in summer we move them down closer to the tide, in rows, so when we have bonfires our backs are to the water, and every now and again whoever's tending the fire closest, facing the sea will get wide eyes and a slack jaw, scrambling backwards away from us in surprise and we'll whip around to see if the creature from the black lagoon is coming out of the surf behind us but there's never anyone there and yet we always look, just in case.

I didn't even get to finish my coffee but I didn't mind. It's twenty-seven degrees in the sun and I am not a big fan of being hot.

When I came up this time, Ben ran at me like a footballer but then veered past me when I screamed for a time-out and launched himself off the cliff in a front flip. It's dangerous and he's not allowed to do that but since Henry wasn't around to try and copy him I let it slide. A whoop and holler and a quiet splash and then Lochlan asked if anyone else was going, or he had to go back in.

She'll burn. No sunscreen. He means us, as in I need to go in. He's always been really good about trying to keep me in the shade. I love him so. So he'll get golden god status by August and I'll still be a little pink monster.

(I've tried to tan. It worked one year. ONE. I have a single photo. DAMN.)

For lunch we made toasted salami sandwiches with pickles and sugar snap pea pods and pomegranate popsicles dipped in gin. It was delicious.

I love summery Friday afternoons. The boys drift out to the pool, to laze about and nap and swim laps and drink cans of ginger ale and talk about nothing and everything. The sauna remains unused. Full of spiders, I bet but it's too hot to even think about it though when I do I picture it being overrun with spiders the moment we step out of it. I've never found a spider in it. It's just a fear.

The pool shed is stocked with clean pool towels, new sunscreens and various snorkels and fins (and probably spiders even though I swept it out pointlessly before filling it). The outdoor kitchen is stocked with drinks, fruit, cold salads and ice and I am indeed ready to go read in the shade until dinner. Dinner is with Caleb who is probably peering at his numbers over in one of the covered chaises on the other side of the pool, having been out here when we piled in from the far yard and I'm a little excited as he seems very balanced today too, waving and smiling, getting up and coming over to chat readily. We seem to do best together when I don't need him, which is the polar opposite of absolutely everyone else. Somehow it makes sense.

Brightly, spiderly, beggarman, thief.

I am beautifully recentered this morning and well aware that Caleb's reassurance sought is merely an act, in that he pretends that I wield the power in our relationship because it's prettier than the knowledge that he is the captor, and I am his victim, for all eternity. That we skew it so it isn't awful at all and maybe that's better than the alternative. I love him and I shouldn't, but I do. Accepting that removes a huge weight from all of our shoulders and God and everyone else knows he has worked hard and shown face to outcome our past instead of hiding from it.

Last night Lochlan and I were detailing a list of everything we love about summer. It's only the end of May. The most exciting season is incoming, like a freight train. Now, don't get me wrong, my favorite season is fall, but for completely different reasons. Summer is lucrative and opportunistic. Fall is quiet and cool, still and dim. Fall is cozy and handknit and colorful. Fall is the last breath of nature before winter shuts the whole thing down.

But summer has it's own perks. So here's my top ten little things I love about it.

1. The lights. Amusement lights, patio lights, dock lights, fireflies. I like them all.

2. Fireworks.

3. Sand on the bottoms of my feet.

4. Campfires/bonfires/fire-pits, barbecues. I'm not picky. Light it up.

5. Coming inside for a warm shower after an icy swim.

6. Fresh dry beach towels.

7. Eating outside (I love it so much they put glass over the whole pergola and installed more outdoor heaters so I can do it all year around but there's something amazing about a plate of toast with jam down in the orchard.

8. BUGS. They don't scare me anymore. I have butterfly friends and snails everywhere and sometimes more ominous crawlies but that's okay too.

9. Stars. We're closer to them in the summer and I will never forget the nights we slept in the back of the pickup truck or on top of the camper and Lochlan taught me all the constellations and I fell asleep with them (and him) watching over me.

10. Boys. Without shirts but with lots of tattoos. Preachers in short sleeves with collars on Sunday. Man buns. Bare feet. Skin. Sundresses without underclothes. Laundry on the line. Maybe that's eight things instead of one but I put it all in the same category.

I don't want for much. Just lights, magic and skies. Some spiders and clean towels. A book of matches and a kind word or an arm to curl up in. Lochlan's top ten was virtually the same, save for number 10.

His last one was seeing my hair in the sun. He said it shines like a beacon in the night.

So lights. I need something different, I tell him and he thinks for a moment.

Watching you eat carnival food, he says with a laugh. Best thing ever. Though sundresses without underthings is up there too.

A day I probably don't deserve.

This morning I harvested boatloads of oregano, lemon balm and rosemary, tying big bunches up along the rafters in the stables, under the big suspended patio umbrella and along the strings of lights in the gazebo to dry. In three weeks or so I'll take it all down, crunch all of the leaves into clean dry jars and do the next round. I almost ran out of oregano this spring so I'm starting early this year and am going to try to stay on top of it. I pour handfuls and handfuls of crushed leaves into my famous spaghetti sauce and honestly if no one was looking (like that ever happens) I would be snorting lines of it off the kitchen counter.

And I've been known to break open a few leaves of rosemary to rub along my wrists and collarbone as perfume. I make my own rosemary shampoo and liquid soap to use as well, though we go through so much of everything I can't keep up with demand and trade off with my grocer's much-coveted supply of Avalon products (not a plug but damn, if you can afford it Avalon is the SHIT. A bottle of their lavender liquid hand soap is $10 at the store I shop at so yeah, I try to make my own as much as possi-

Right.

I know.

You're clearly not here because this is some sort of kitchen-witch blog, I know. But some times I like to talk about other things. Because it's a good day. I'm in a really good mood. Happy is not my default and yet today I feel happy.

Yes, I'm sober. I made a promise to Sam and I'm keeping it, though to celebrate finishing the end of The Hobbit movies, which followed The Lord Of the Rings movies, I had a gin and ginger ale to sip while it was on and he approved. With a sprig of fresh lemon balm.

No, Caleb didn't lose his shit about PJ. He took his cue from Lochlan, who came home late last evening, tired but finished, because he said he didn't want to have to go back today so he just worked through and it's ready, kissed me on the forehead and asked if I was okay (yes) and then said today we could garden, paint and maybe have lunch outside, and that tonight would be just for us. Maybe a cool shower and some love songs. Maybe some stars exploding. Maybe everything.

And we've been having a wonderful day. Food tastes better outside. I know it does. We even made sure to invite Caleb to come and have lunch in the shade on the patio. He agreed and lingered around a bit, asking a few questions, feeling me out to see if he was still in the loop.

I assured him he was, ready for his inevitable question, which came like clockwork next.

Then can I request some time with you? Would it be a lot to ask if you might come and nap with me? Or stay in my quarters? Pick a night. Give me a little reassurance here, Neamhchiontach.

Are you busy Friday?

Not that I know of. His eyes are lit now.

Can we...have a horror marathon and some Indian takeout?

We can. He breathes in and then kisses the top of my head, nods toward Lochlan and is off.

HEY, I yell.

He turns around, already halfway across the stones, eyebrows raised.

WHEN ARE WE FILLING THE POOL?

This afternoon, he winks. It was going to be a surprise.

Because someone's always fucking the nanny.

Lochlan had to leave early this morning to set up a thing for Schuyler so one of his new projects can get underway. A hard kiss on my philtrum and he told me to go crawl in with PJ and sleep for a few more hours.

PJ is awake reading when I get there, light on above his bedside table. He lets me change the music and I put on A.A.Williams, turn it down to a soft drone and crawl in beside him. His sheets are clean, he smells like sandalwood and jasmine and I drift off on the notes from the stereo. I wake up an hour later and he is asleep too, book on his chest, music having looped around to the beginning again.

I climb higher up, gently kiss his cheek and slide out of bed. He grabs my leg. He pulls me back under the covers underneath him, making short work of my tank top and pajama shorts. For good measure he pulls out the elastic holding my braid together and then wraps my hair up into his fist as he pulls me off the bed toward him.

He sits back, turning us so he's against the headboard, lifting me back down into his lap gently then not so. I wrap my arms around his neck, holding on for dear life. He leans me way back abruptly until the top of my head is touching the bed again, back arched hard against the morning, not letting me back up until I've been satisfied all over and then, only then he pulls me back into his arms, wrapping his hand around the back of my head, keeping me down against his shoulder, going hard. It's all I can do to not scratch him or bite him, or even scream from the intensity of his movements, but I keep it together and finally he hits the sweet moment too and he slows to a crawl, a soft growl against my neck.

It takes him an eternity to let go.

When he finally does, he finds my clothes and gently dresses me again. I get a kiss on the forehead and he heads off to his ensuite to have a shower. Not a word is said between us. It's a first.

Smaller people get colder faster.

There is an incredible bliss to having coffee and big homemade bagels with homemade grape jelly on the patio while it's pouring rain in sheets all around me. It drums on the glass roof and I have two of the heaters on low. It's twelve degrees and not meant to go any higher today and so denim overalls, a pink t-shirt and a fuzzy pink cardigan are comfortable and warm, though it makes me look like a highschooler from the eighties. I was a highschooler in the eighties so I don't mind so much.

I may have to make another bagel though. This jelly is so good. I made it last fall when it turns out we got some decent grapes, though not enough to make wine with so I harvested what I could and got four good-sized jars of jelly. The first one never set and we used it up but I just opened the next after ten months and it's perfectly set and delicious.

I love to can. I do old-fashioned style in a big stock pot in small batches and I make everything from pickles to jams to tomato sauce to preserved vegetables to applesauce.

Lochlan agrees. He's just poured us each a second coffee to sip for our final hour out here before the chores start. It's Monday after all. The incredible amount of rain means no running with the Devil this morning. I haven't run enough, I think but at the same time my body is far happier if I don't anymore. Ruth goes back to work today. Henry doesn't work again until the weekend. A lot of businesses are opening today and yet I plan to help the boys clean the house, maybe do some baking and then tackle my mending pile while I watch Win The Wilderness on Netflix.

It's very good. I wonder how I would do in a challenge like that? Not like I'll ever find out. I have stupid things I love too much to give up like the heated floors in the stables and really fast wi-fi thanks to Lochlan and my stand mixer for when I do bake (I have a very weak elbow on one side that has never fully recovered) and I really love the motorized retractable glass windows across the kitchen wall that I don't really talk about because then people will think I'm spoiled.

(I am spoiled, though but also self-aware so I hope it counts for something. In my defense while you spent your teens and twenties living at home borrowing mom's car and shopping I was singing for my supper and it wasn't much, let me tell you.) 

I don't think I could give that wall up to regularly get visits from grizzlies. We do get visits from black bears, does this count? It's my little luxury-Alaska, I guess. Our bears are used to people though and not nearly as terrifying as grizzlies. On the show they say it's the other way around. Huh.

Hoping to finish the mending today though. Lochlan's getting low on flannel shirts. He wears the elbows out so fast because he doesn't roll up his sleeves all year around like some of the others. I darn some of the least damaged and patch the most. It suits him.

(Also a fun fact: I embroider the initials of each boy on the sleeve cuff of their flannel shirts or I can't tell who owns what. We don't do our own laundry separately in the collective. We do whatever needs to be done.)

Heart (and hand)warming.

And today I went kayaking with Matt.

Matt was nervous, Matt tried to be at once a father, big brother and best friend. He wasn't sure if I could lift my kayak, wasn't sure if I could push off on my own from the beach or the dock, didn't know if he should warn me of anything like wakes or sea monsters and wasn't aware that he's been watching me do this for YEARS and no one does anything for me. In fact, I'm fine. I tend to pull instead of push when I paddle if I stop thinking and start thinking (as one does) but otherwise you don't have to teach, warn or babysit me. Not there. Not on the water. I was born on the sea. I know what I'm doing. 

We looked at logs, seals, jellyfish and tourists. We paddled silently halfway down the coast to the end of my comfort margins and then turned back. He thanked me for reminding him to wear a hat and sunglasses and he said we should bring Sam with us next time.

Then Sam and I interact and Matt stays on the fringe. I don't know if that's a better idea? I'm trying to get to know him in reverse.

I point that out to Matt and tell him we could have a Saturday morning 'yak with just the two of us and a Sunday evening one with Sam included and he seemed to like that. And by the time we returned to the dock I think he realized that I don't bite, I don't rule this point with an iron fist and I don't hate him. I hate some of his previous actions because he hurt someone I'm incredibly close to but otherwise he is a new blank-canvas boy and he seems to fit in here well and still toe a line of respect that some of the boys would be well to adopt. He held my fingers in his hands to warm them back up. It was a sweet gesture.

He's okay. I told him that and he laughed and said I was okay too. He invited me to come in for a drink on our way up the steps but I have to get back. Lochlan and I are doing some things this afternoon.

Maybe come by later for it then?

Maybe tomorrow, I tell him and he laughs. Okay. Whenever. We have an open door.

Same goes for you both.

It's appreciated, Bridget. Thank you. It's been unreal.

What has?

Being home.

Get off my lawn.

We're not going to talk about how I spent almost two hours this morning trying to see what movies we've bought on the x-box. Nevermind trying to hack my microsoft account to see, or even which x-box I was supposed to check it on, or how to turn on the x-box. Then the dance of logging in. Then the which profile will show it. Then a bunch of random updates and I finally passed the controller (very gently, without even throwing it) over to Dalton with a mention that I may just throw anything with a plug off the cliff later today if I can't get what I need and he laughed and said he'll figure it out. Do we still have x-box live? Is it golden or regular? Do we even use these things anymore? Is this worth the hassle? All of these make up the great mysteries of the universe and I've decided I don't care.

Life was so easy when playing a game involved finding a quarter.

Edit: Update! 11:30pm. They couldn't get in either.

I finally tried to log in to xbox from my computer and found the password hanging out in Firefox. Then seven or eight submenus deep I could look back on ten years of orders which..well, who has time for that?

We had to rent The Hobbit, in other words. Also x-box is dumb. I'm going to live in the Shire.

Having shirts printed. One says Princess. One says Devil. His will be red. Mine can be pink.

Caleb heard me coughing through the night and lost his mind again.

I've been gardening a LOT. The poppies are blooming. The onions survived, as did the radishes. I somehow wound up with fifty extra tomato plants after burying a rotten tomato in the ground one night on my way out to see what was coming up. Better compost than garbage and there's room for a few odds and ends but the tomato disappeared and the seedlings shot up and the jokes about Irish gardening persist. Irish gardening is that you throw a handful of seeds toward the dirt and eat whatever ends up growing and yes, I planted an entire row of potatoes this year.

I was really excited about the poppies though. Two years ago I planted a sad little leaf and it did nothing until this spring. In February it quadrupled in size and then BOOM. It has five huge bulbs and one of them blew it's cap earlier this week and revealed a gorgeous papery red flower I can't help but visit fifteen times a day. This beats vegetables by a mile. I transitioned half the vegetable garden to perennials due to the sheer workload of a garden that size and it's gorgeous now. Full English with Irish planting.

But Caleb doesn't want to hear about my allergies. He holds his hand against my forehead and looks worriedly into my eyes.

You need to take a day off. We'll snuggle in and watch movies and get some takeout.

Ah. A Date.

No, a rest-day. Every time I see you you're like a hummingbird. You need to stop or this could get worse.

I don't think allergies can increase in severity any more than they already do for me. Same time every year. More if I'm touching the tomato plants.

They could help you, you know.

Or you could.

He smiles abruptly. Perhaps I could be your personal gardener.

Oh! That would be fun. But only if you wear really tight jeans, no shirt and be slippery-sweaty. Did you know gardening is a better workout than anything el-

Anything else? Yes, I've heard that. So what do you want to do, direct me? And I'll look after the physical part? He's still smiling.

No. I need to get dirty and dig in the ground or I'm not right in the head. You can move the rocks when I find them and wield the wheelbarrow.

But otherwise?

Stand around shirtless and look handsome.

Shouldn't you be shirtless? God knows, we can't keep you in clothes.

No I burn too easily. Naked is for nighttime.

Ah. A new mantra.

It isn't new.

Fear IS a mindkiller (Thanks Fear Factory, I get it now).

I broke all my nails trying to flatten all of the stupid cardboard boxes they (meaning NOT ME) throw into the garage to keep 'just in case' when they order things and now I'm in a bad fucking mood. I didn't have enough sleep, got a little or maybe a lot overwhelmed and Lochlan asked me how I was doing and I bit my tongue and said fine.

Practically with steam pouring out of my ears.

Want to talk about it? He asks quietly. Lochlan is trying to learn to help me in place of the others. I am still loathe to let him. Not because I don't want to but because I can't.

It's like little things are snowballing and I can't hold it together and I'm getting so angry lately over things that didn't use to bother me.

It's because of the added stress of the quarantine and the scariness of going out and running what are supposed to be mundane errands and trying to get what you want done with all that extra weight of the world.

Is it?

I feel like it might be.

Oh. Okay so I need to just distract and just go and do things and hopefully it will get better.

Henry took me to the grocery store to pick up a few things.

When I came home I had a shot of vodka and a chocolate bar. I read a book for a few moments and I'm going to paint my nails and maybe shave my head. I got a cascade of emails this afternoon telling me the dentist and eye doctor are opening back up, Ruth goes back to work on Monday, our favorite restaurants and parks flung open their doors this week and I want to run and hide. Not because I'm afraid of some virus but because I really embraced this lockdown hard. The only part I ever minded was the fear, as always.

And now it's almost over but I think it should continue. Just a little while longer. Just to be safe.

Breakfast with the Devil (because that's all he gets).

The afterglow of Sam and Matt's wedding persists, pushing back against the grey rainclouds of today, even though I have already turned into a pumpkin (a snack jack, if you're planting) and Caleb has already come back strong with a little Coldplay on the kitchen stereo (Clocks) and some incredibly incendiary Irish Coffees for breakfast. A small fruit plate to share. Plans. A late walk on the beach instead of a run. Some help putting away the decorations if I want it (because it takes a village to get him to give in to my whims) and lunch out, since things are opening.

I give a yes to the coffee + Coldplay, okay to all of the blueberries and kiwi on the plate, a beach walk instead of the run but then my day is Lochlan's. We've decided we're going to re-watch all of the Lord of the Rings and Hobbit movies this week and boy, are they long. Trying to cram them in around other things is proving difficult as meals are late, laundry is done during snack breaks and we've eaten ourselves round.

Someone asked via email if I've gained weight this pandemic. I don't know if it's appropriate or not but I fired off an answer as my emails are getting numerous again and I'm unsure why so it's hard to find much time for replies.

Six pounds. Puts me at 103. Lochlan's up about fifteen so you can't get cut by his chin anymore but he's still thinner than I'd like. He says the same thing about me.

What about your fabric and lights?

They're staying up indefinitely.

And lunch?

We have green salsa and nacho chips and tequila.

Sounds nutritious.

I had fruit! Just now!

Tomorrow?

Same. You can have until eleven.

Which day is completely free?

Next...Thursday I think.

Next Thursday.

Right. Not THIS Thursday, but nex-

I understand.

Then why do you look angry?

Caleb's face softens then as he checks his expression. The wedding made me have some thoughts. I'd like to share them with you. I didn't want to wait a week.

Sorry. Or we can talk right now. Or on the walk.

He starts to say something and then I am struck by the music. What is that? I interrupt.

He stops and listens. Warning Sign.

Oh. How appropriate.

I'm sorry?

Every time there's a wedding you have bridesmaid syndrome.

I guess I do.

Well, you don't have to.

That doesn't change how it feels.

I'll remember that sentence to tell you the next time you tell me not to be afraid.

Have tent, will perform.

Matt and Sam made everyone breakfast this morning as a thank you for the wedding, something they didn't expect but something we are oddly good at. They would have done it yesterday morning but we were up all night and this was the quietest property you ever saw yesterday as very little happened and no one woke up for hours and hours, until the day was almost gone. No point in trying to feed people who aren't awake.

You should be squired away having a honeymoon, I protested as Matt put the most drool-inducing plate in front of my nose. Fried tomato slices, back bacon, grilled English muffins and poached eggs with rosemary. Sam poured me a cup of coffee and said I was not to move, that he had organized a committee to unwind the lights.

Can't we leave them?

You'll get electrocuted, Lochlan pointed out. I'm surprised they still work after that rain. They're not outdoor lights.

I'll risk it, I point out helpfully and Lochlan frowns.

Then who would plan a beautiful funeral? He asks as he takes his plate to the sink. He was starving and ate while I was chattering, as always. Eat, he points at my plate. While it's hot. I dutifully pick up my fork and dig in while they head outside to unwind at least eighty kilometres of fairy lights and a hundred yards of tulle.

I actually had that all in storage to make my own circus tent someday, I mutter and Lochlan stops in his tracks, turning at the open door.

Say that again?

It was going to be my own circus tent. I wish you'd leave it.

I think he's decided I'm insane and he walks out the door. I hear him call Sam's name. Leave it up. We're leaving it, he yells.

Perfect.

He comes back in. You are not to touch those wires. Ever. If you do it all comes down. I don't want to come out looking for you and find a burned spot on the grass where you used to be.

But that would be neat-

Bridget!

Dancing in the violet shadows.

(I have trouble describing these moments. Bear with me.)

We all walked in small groups down to the gazebo. Umbrellas and good suits. My favorite embroidered gauze dress and bare feet. Flowers in our hair from our garden. Flowers in PJ and John's beards, and in Ben's ears. Everyone is smiling, talking quietly and laughing, holding hands. When we reach the gazebo Matt and Sam take each other's hand and walk up the steps where Sam's second at the church waits for them. He reads a beautiful poem and then asks the boys to exchange their vows. I put down my umbrella in order to get drenched so that they won't see me cry. Caleb foils my plan by pulling me backwards underneath the shelter of his umbrella. Lochlan does not let go of my hand.

Now is where I admit that the rain on the umbrellas means I could not hear their vows.

Had I said something every umbrella in a forty yard circle would have been closed at once but I'm not one to steal a spotlight or break a heart that is only just healing in and so I didn't tell Lochlan that I couldn't hear and had to wait for cues from the boys to know what was happening.

You can't choose the weather for a wedding. If you choose a deaf girl for your witness you're going to have to fill her in. I saw their eyes. I know what they've entered into, once again. I could tell by the way my own heart sped up to a lightning speed, skipping along at a crazy pace as I watched their faces.

The remainder of the night was a whirlwind as we exclaimed over their beautiful bespoke bands (also with S&M2 engraved on the inside) made of pirate gold and dreams, stuffed our faces and I was passed from arms to arms to arm dancing dizzily fast sometimes and achingly slow at other times. We watched Sam and Matt dance together but mostly they just stood nose to nose, smiling softly into each other's eyes. We couldn't tear our eyes away from them.

After they cut the cake they made a speech, thanking us all for the night, for the space and for the understanding, the room to figure it out and the privacy to hash it all out and clear out the past to make way for the future. They thanked us for being so open to love in any form and for allowing them to be a part of something so special in this Collective and for having a voice at the table, a vote on our life together moving forward and an open door always. 

Sam pulled me aside later and asked if his vows were okay, that he was too nervous to share them before the ceremony so he let them roll.

I couldn't hear them because of the rain.

His face. Oh my God. His face. Stay here, he tells me so I do.

He comes back two minutes later with Matt. They recite them for me again. By the time they are finished the tears have turned to a waterfall. If only I could ever make words sound so beautiful. I would want for nothing else.

Yeah, they're okay, I tell him, laughing-sobbing as I try not to wipe my teary face all over the front of his suit. Matt gives me his hankerchief and pulls us both in by our heads so I can't help but get tears all over their suits. It's okay, though. You couldn't tell them apart from the raindrops.

Prequel, sequel, Preacherman, love.

We put Sam in the middle of a group hug early this morning as he attempted to record a short message to be played instead of a podcast this morning. The podcast will be pointed at one of the global broadcasts from the church on a unfamiliar, formal level instead, if people are missing a sermon that badly.

Because we forgot to record it and put it up a few days ago in the rush.

He had to rerecord it three times, overcome with emotion over the support and the love he feels in this house.

Last night offhand I asked him if he wanted to use A Thousand Years Part II for their first (second) song and we both cried because the words are so beautiful so that's it, that's the song. Perfect since this is the sequel wedding. We've stuck little number 2s on everything that they haven't seen yet, including the cake topper, the gazebo and even all of the tiny sparklers for lighting after dark are shaped like 2s after Lochlan bent them gently with a pair of pliers, having figured out how to do it without losing all of the coating.

And we're ready. Sam prayed for all the wayward single souls on the point with a laugh and then got serious, asking God for some strength and courage to move forward and the bravery to be able to secure this island against the storms. His hands are shaking. He is afraid and he doesn't have to be. Love is a cloud. You jump and then you realize so much later that it's on fire or it's cold or it's not big enough for two. And he already jumps so he knows this is his cloud. He knows he is comfortable. He knows he is home. But still, when he takes my hand his trembles so slightly it makes me cry.

Don't cry, Bridget.

So happy for you, Sam. I choke it out and he sends me inside to make sure everything is ready because he can't. Because he is losing it. This gift. This second chance. Planned for summer, pinned on Easter, now falling somewhere in the middle. We'll get it done. Six o'clock tonight and he will be back where he belongs as Mrs. Matt.

It's one of those beautiful days on the point that I always want to remember. Every door to the outside is wide open. Everyone is here. Everyone is happy and excited. The air is electric. The tiny lights are on. The table is set and the rain can come or not, we don't really care.

Lochlan takes my hand and squeezes it and I burst into tears. I love this. I can't help it. As much as I always feared Sam would never recover from Matt breaking his heart, I know first hand how sweet it is when the one who broke it figures out how to come back and fix it for good.

A lighthouse.

Suits are ready. Daniel and I steamed them and ironed all of the shirts and ties and made sure there are nice socks, polished shoes and multiple freshly pressed hankerchiefs for the inevitable tears. When all that work was done (we've become heathens in old madras shorts and soft worn t-shirts or should I say they have) I went outside to sit on the patio and take a break and Sam was out there sitting by himself, looking over the ocean.

Do you think Jacob would have liked Matthew? He asks me with so much curiosity. It took me by surprise.

Jacob would have adored him. He would have been so happy that you both came back together after so long apart.

Do you think he would have felt the same about you and Lochlan?

I don't know, honestly. Sometimes I think he understood the closeness of the Collective and sometimes I think he was happier when we were removed from it. When it came crowding back in and he saw the depth of it he was overwhelmed.

Do you blame us for his absence, Bridget?

I don't blame anyone but Jacob, Sam. I say it fake-brightly now, determined to make this a happy weekend. They can deal with me later. He would have had great talks with Matt about life overseas and science versus religion. He would have considered him a very close friend very quickly, I think.

I think you're right.

Why would you look for confirmation from a ghost, Sam?

I just wonder why we spent the past four years apart if this is so right.

There's a conversation for Lochlan, not me.

Your circumstances were absolutely insurmountable, Bridget. There's no comparison there.

And yet, we overcame.

And it's incredible.

Is it? A lot of the world says this is unhealthy and doomed to end in an epic disaster.

I think it already did and we've been rebuilding it ever since.

I hope you're right.

Do you?

Yes, Sam, I do. We're coming out the other side.

Then can you do me a favor, Bridget?

Anything you need, you know that, Samuel.

Can you sober up? This is heartbreaking to watch.

I thought I was being sneaky.

I've been in the program a long time. You're visible from a hundred miles away, shining way too bright.

Well, fuck.

Better a day and a half drunk then a few years, trust me.

Or a few decades, like Ben.

Exactly. He and I talked yesterday morning about this.

That obvious?

I don't know why you think it wouldn't be.

I figured you were all distracted.

That's the beauty of this Collective. We don't get distracted to the point where we don't see that one of us needs the rest of us.

Then maybe y'all should have a chat with the Devil.

As we speak, Bridget. Don't you worry about a thing.

Calculator, decorator, tailor, slave.

Welcome to my cage little lover
Time to rearrange with you baby
Still don't know your name miss honey
Let's go up in flames pretty lady

Caleb continues to be unimpressed this morning. He was taken outside yesterday after breakfast by Lochlan while they hissed at each other and in that moment I decided that for the summer of 2020 I think I'll become a high-functioning alcoholic because it's easier than this stress and I'm sure I can hide it since they don't compare notes on my diet or alcoholic intake unless something is glaringly obvious, like I'm falling down drunk or way too enthusiastic about something I normally avoid, like...uh...shrimp or anal sex or sitting on an airplane for an extended period.

We ran up the mountain in silence this morning while I did budget stuff in my head and he made offhand comments about hurting me to the point where even if someone did touch me again I wouldn't feel it. When we got home and parted ways he said he loved me.

Is it Friday? Who cares? I've already squired away half a bottle of Mexican liqueur into my coffee over three cups and I swear they wouldn't notice if I poured it straight over my head. Or theirs. For lunch I have unearthed another case of champagne because I needed it out for the wedding anyway.

On the upside before I decided to spend this hallowed weekend loaded for bear I already collected all of my vintage black iron oil-fuel lanterns and put them on the steps and the rock path leading up to the gazebo. I pulled out all of my airy tulle teal curtains and went and bought out all of the blue fairy lights I could find (early this week, not driving drunk. PJ drove anyway) and have big plans to drape the openings and line the whole thing with the lights until we're positively blind from the beauty of it all.

For dinner (this is taking place on Sunday evening) after the short ceremony (I called Sam's comm. minister and nailed down the time and already sent him a huge stipend so I don't feel bad about not inviting him to stay for supper since it's a small group only) we're going to do a lobster boil and have potato salad, rolls and champagne/pellegrino besides. I'm baking the cake tomorrow. Angel food with buttercream icing and their original cake topper which simply says S&M and sends us all into fits of giggles so I still have it.

Their honeymoon will have to be in the boathouse but we have plans to add a bowsprit to it with a mermaid or a dragon or something to make it feel like they have bon-voyaged nonetheless because there's nowhere to go in these times anyway. Trust me. I tried.

It's going to be great.

Planning weddings, learning programming and escaping the grasp of the Devil. That's my Thursday.

Have I slept? No I haven't slept. Lochlan finally turned away and implored me to let him get at least some rest and we would deal with details tomorrow. The last wedding of Sam and Matt was a devastatingly poignant moment on the beach at night during the winter solstice. It started snowing. We had a devil of a time ferrying guests back and forth. Caleb ended up getting a plane. It made four stops. The work of dismantling the dinner on the beach took four days and I will never forget the beauty of that night or their words or the fact that I may not have cried so hard at any point since.

Sam says this one will be smaller. In-house with his community minister popping by to officiate in the foyer or maybe the front porch but otherwise no fuss, he says.

Oh, I'm making a fuss, I told him. A big fucking fuss.

Bridget, we're just undoing a mistake we made. Let's keep things light.

We will but it still has to be special. You need to mark this with-

Bridge-

Just let me whip up something beautiful. What's your limit on people? Who does Matt need? All I need is a guest list and I'm good-

Anyone who wants to be there. We'll need you and Lochlan and Ben but otherwise if anyone's free or not, it's fine. Short notice. I don't expect any bells this time. We're literally just re-legalizing.

Sam, don't you dare sell love short to someone like me.

Okay, uh...how's this? Make it beautiful but very small. Like you.

***

Google has done a thing to Blogger and I'm struggling, guys. I have no free time to figure it out so if my formatting gets weird it's not me. I am a Luddite, a basics girl. I don't know any HTML and they've smushed it all together with numbered lines and it's impossible so bear with me for a few years and just when I get it they'll change something else. I can't even figure out how to get my phone to stop taking live photos or how to turn on the television or the x-box anymore so yeah...sorry.

***

Caleb isn't too happy that I gave Matt and Sam a big old wedding gift of myself. No, he's not happy at all. He made an elaborate breakfast for us and just as I was about to take my first bite of eggs Benedict he asked me to detail what happened.

Um, what?

I want to know if Matt touched you.

Do you now? I return my fork to my plate and put my hands on the sides of the chair. I want to be ready to run when he flips this table. Or burns down my universe.

That's a yes if you're getting ready to bolt.

No, I'm just aware of your temper and how it translates to me.

Bridget, can't you just stay put?

Can't you just be happy they figured it out and are back together?

I just don't understand how you factor in.

I think for a moment. I could give him the slap in the face of the truth or I can blur the edges a little so that it doesn't cut quite so deep. It was probably just a impulsive decision to test their commitment. I don't know. I was home with Lochlan very early. I shrug for effect.

Caleb flips the table anyway with a reminder not to lie to his face. Not to break his heart. Not to Always. Put. Him. Last. Or at least that's what I think he yelled. I could hardly hear him for the thunderous sounds of footsteps running toward us.

Five days lead time? I can do this.

They tried to side me blind but I've been waiting for it all along. What I didn't expect was their delivery. No, I didn't expect that at all.

Someone brought my favourite gin to the table. I was the only one drinking it in the boathouse as the rain poured down on the skylights so hard that I briefly wondered, as I always do, if the glass will hold against the water. Then I wondered if the gin would hold against the night.

And then we went to bed.

(Spoiler alert. The glass held. The gin? It held too. Until it didn't but by then who needs alcohol escape when I can have figments instead?)

When I woke up Sam and Matt very gently told me they are getting married again. Victoria Day weekend. That it won't be big (first one wasn't) but they waited an entire holiday past what they set for themselves as a marker and they figured out how to navigate me (bring her over, touch her for a while and never say a fucking word about it again, every couple of...months or so) and here we go, boys. Time for another wedding.

Night birds and early owls.

I won't let it go
I'll stick to the plan
Deep in the throes

I won't let it go
I'll fight til' the end
And then you will know

When I took my coffee outside this morning, headphones, ipad and plans for half an hour of privacy in the pouring rain under protection of the glass-covered pergola, I was surprised to find Schuyler already there. He's ready for his day and waiting for me, clearly.

Where's Lochlan?

Sleeping. If you need him I can get-

No, I'll talk to him after.

Want coffee?

Oh, I want to talk to you as well.

With...coffee or without?

May as well stay here. Knowing you if I send you in for more coffee you'll go straight out the front door with your car keys because somehow over the past twenty years I have been 'scary'.

Not scary, just...foreboding? Maybe? I don't know.

All those pages and suddenly you don't have words?

Schuyblue-

No nicknames today, Bridget. We can't operate a Collective like this by force. We've learned that. So if I have some sort of vibe that's off I need to fix that.

Schuyler, I don't think I need anyone else trying to fix anything here.

You forget who you're talking to, Bridg-

THAT. That's what happens. Who am I talking to? Why do you stalk Jacob and know absolutely every single thing that's going on? I know you and Caleb somehow work together to keep an eye on everyone but at the same time you are far less but far more frightening for it.

We're all just trying to be strong for you. That's it. You know how it goes. We check each other now. So nothing goes too far.

So nothing goes too far.

Bridget-

I get it. Just far enough but not too far so that you can't live with yourselves.

He stares at me. It's six in the morning. It's too early for this and we're doing it anyway.

I am one with the wind and sky (if it's hot sing Frozen. At the top of one's lungs because they don't like it).

Schuyler and Daniel showed up very late last night with reminders that there are four strong men living next door, and they don't seem to have the mood swings of the ones in my house. I pointed out those four strong men don't have to live with me and Daniel laughed a little too hard and pointed out if I lived with them there would be nothing left of me and I half-expected Lochlan to go right through him at that point but Lochlan isn't going to fuck with Daniel because no one fucks with Daniel and besides, not like I went over there. They came to me. They brought an ice-cold bottle of wine and decided if I got just a little drunk I'd probably sleep and feel better.

What do you know? They were right. I was sent up after three glasses. Lochlan had already put on ceiling fans and opened all the windows and I was out like a light.

This morning the feelings aren't so sharp, the sunburn isn't very raw and he smiled at me when I woke up, instead of frowning. We've already got the laundry caught up, tackled the wasp nest on the porch and planted radishes. I need to water everything and hit the post office to send my parents masks and pick up some things at the drugstore and then the rest of the day will be slow-moving and cool-ish, as we don't attempt herculean outdoor chores on the hottest fucking weekend of the year.

Christ.

Lochlan still thinks he's sixteen or even twenty and can stay out all day in the sun, busting his ass and being clipped with everyone. He has a long history of yelling at me as I burn and whine and then feeling bad later. I HATE the heat. It makes me physically ill. I don't like the cold much either, but in-between is just fine. Rain is fine. Fog and wind is the BEST, but anything over about twenty-two degrees and I am NOT having it.

Sorry, Peanut.

It worked out. I'm still a little mad.

But not much.

Schuyler might be a better counsellor than anyone.

Only because we're all afraid of him.

True.

I picked a fight in my own defence and am ending this Mother's Day with broken fingernails (from helping to lift things like hard tops, lawn mowers and rocks), a terrible sunburn from the top of my head right through to the tops of my feet, a heathen attitude towards Jesus and a stomach ache that won't quit. I think I have heatstroke. I think I might be losing my mind. If you find it, don't even tell me, just kick it off a cliff into the sea and let it sink to the bottom like a stone.

Ben wants me to try harder. Lochlan keeps telling me to never be normal. Caleb just wants selfish hour after selfish hour and everyone else wants to watch.

Throw my brain overhand, please. Make it go far in hopes it will never be found.

Sunburned.

Kayak this morning, then gardening. We finished with the four-ish yards that remained. Ben came out and delegated the work and it was finished by one.

Good. In time so you don't burn. He smiles at me, pale and tired. Working in his studio he doesn't see the sun so this is good. Or at least he won't get rickets.

I'm already burning, I point out.

So I hear, he laughs. Rough night?

Who were you gossiping with?

Lochlan.

And?

He doesn't get it but he's trying to roll with it.

He's not trying and he doesn't have to like it. It's only like once a year or whatever now.

It's a cumulative problem, Bee.

Is it?

Maybe.

I don't think it is. I haven't gone anywhere except to Caleb's in a long time.

Lochlan's getting old.

Don't you think we all are?

I think he thought after a couple of years you might settle down.

Then how come he won't say that to my face. He flat-out encourages me, Benjamin-

He's trying so hard, Bumblebee.

To what?

To be everything you want. To bite his tongue. To be hands-off when you need him to be. If it helps he lets it slide. He'd do anything for you. I think it's time for you to return that favor.

I would die for him, Benny.

I don't know if he knows that, Bridge. Maybe he tells himself you would but when he goes to sleep, half the time you're not there.