The scars don't write a song for me at all.

 This is beautiful.

Demon Hunter, in suits, no less, doing a reimagined I am a Stone.

Adagio, on the run.

These fragile bodies of touch and taste
This vibrant skin, this hair like lace
Spirits open to the thrust of grace
Never a breath you can afford to waste

 

My heart beats so fast, skipping, stumbling, running so far ahead my breath is harsh, panting to catch up. My eyes are wide, frozen in the bright lights from below. I'm blind. It's a white floor. 

Don't look down. 

I didn't, I just know it's there. 

It's the sky and you're a bird, he thinks, and I hear him plain as day over the roar of the crowd.

I'm a chicken. So you're right, I think and he laughs inside his head. 

When I hear the drumbeat I count them, one two three and you would have thought I would have left the platform but we are performers and suspense is part of the game. Four five SIX and I'm away, soaring through the darkness toward Lochlan on the opposite quarterpole. The chaulk grinds into my palms, the trapeze is cool and familiar. The moment I am airborne I leave the fear back on the platform. The roar surges like a wave, crashing over my head, forcing my ears into a brown-noise silence as I focus in on Lochlan. Back away from him now I swing my whole body up so my knees loop up around the bar. I let go and the noise grows more intense, like a sudden forest springing up around me and I am cutting through the notes of its leaves in the sky. Away again and then he is off. I watch him, head up, torso curled in a J, waiting for the perfect sync. On the third meet up he smiles and holds his hands out from halfway and I grab them and let go of the trapeze, letting my body swing free. The only thing between me and the ground now is the bubble of adrenaline and his hands, now in a powdery death grip. 

He asks if I am okay to go and we launch into our dramatic rendition of two aerialists when everything has gone wrong. It was called Lovers in a Dangerous Time*, like the song (I didn't like that song, if you're wondering. I have now heard it at least four hundred thousand times.) and the entire act was disguised as a regular acrobatic routine right up until it isn't, and there is a fun moment when he lets go of my right hand and I begin to flail. The crowd noise is unbelievable now, holding me up, threatening to burst the seams of the big top and he fights for me. He reaches down and pulls me in with his elbows, putting his free hand on my face. A kiss and the subsequent deafening roar makes us laugh. 

I love you, he says but I can't hear him before I drop back precariously. Then he fights again and I take his lead and crawl right up his body, over his back and sit on the swing. The crowd cheers and I drop back again to the screams below. This time I drop upside down, however, and he pulls me back up until we are both on the trapeze again, knees firmly hooked, but facing each other, locked in a long embrace. Just as the lights dim we kiss and let go, falling together and I'm one hundred percent sure anyone who ever saw that act was scarred for life. We disentangle and he shoves me away in the final fifteen feet and we land in the net (you can't land together, you might get hurt) and he bounces out easily before I crawl off the net into his arms at the edge. 

It was fun. It was beautiful. We played it to a packed house every night once a night five days a week only because it is tiring and then we bailed the minute more money came along, an offer from a competing show. A global one, and one with so much liability insurance they wouldn't allow for creative control on the part of the artist and falling deliberately into the net was grounds for dismissal so we were forced to come up with something new. We did, lasting less than three weeks performing, doing a midnight run with our withheld money and as much of their gear as we could carry, and Lochlan's newest plan was that we would mount our own show. Maybe our own tour. 

Just as soon as we could find a tent to borrow, rent. Or steal.

It didn't happen. We went on the sideshow instead. I wasn't sorry. The whole thing took place on a stage. Relief was soon replaced by a dread of a different kind but I was just so happy to be in such a weird place in a weird (and dangerous) time that I hardly took a moment to acknowledge it then the way I do now. The strength we built up over that summer to do that routine was more than physical and apparently it was time-limited.

Bawk bawk, Lochlan whispers in his sleep and I burst into giggles involuntarily. 

*(Someone ALREADY emailed to tell me that song came out in 2001 so what's up, as I already had two children by then and clearly wasn't in the circus anymore. That's a cover by Barenaked Ladies. The original, the gloriously haunting OG version by Bruce Cockburn came out when I was thirteen years old. Listen to that one at least, if you want to hear the song. And if you want to hear a song that's less serious by him, listen to Wondering Where The Lions Are, which Lochlan sings with a hilarious exaggerated enthusiasm that has never failed to cheer me up. We never did find out where the lions were, and it's been...ahem...forty years.)

Tricknology (actually these are reallllly awesome. Go get some.)

 I ask Lochlan to pass me one of the light bulbs. He hands me one and I ask him if he thinks I'm bright. 

Yeah, sure. Of course, he says, looking at me curiously.

What if I was brighter? I ask him and wrap my hand around the base of the bulb. The bulb lights up, along with his whole face. 

The fuck, Peanut! How!

Magic! I tell him.

I told you we got battery back-up lightbulbs at the hardware store but you weren't paying attention, Doofus. PJ claps the back of Lochlan's head as he walks past, ruining my act completely.

Mot-valise (hurry).

 Sam invited us to a private sunrise service this morning, here on the point, a call to all: bring your breakfast out to the gazebo and I'll blow your little ignorant minds and that he did, but not with his words, which quickly fell away in favor of silent awe at the beautiful yellow and pink sky that burned across the horizon and brought Jesus to our souls in case we forgot the way. 

I sat on one of the big floor cushions holding my hot cup of coffee, other hand balancing the plate on my lap. English muffin with raspberry jam and a few chunks of pineapple on the side. Nothing makes food taste better than watching the sun rise while eating it. Not even a sunset (somewhat sad and not hopeful, more like time's up) holds a candle to this. 

I tried to christen the space the Jesubo but they wouldn't let me. 

That's...not a portmanteau.

Laaaaaame, Bridge.

Yeah, just no. 

You didn't just-

Pfft. I go back to sipping the remainder of my coffee. Lochlan pushes against my leg with his knee and laughs easily. I wink at him and smile back and Sam wraps up his mini-service for the heathens without a single bear pun or joke or serious offside meeting about how we can actually keep the bears out (DUH just don't let me forget to bring the feeders in. The magpies were screaming. I had to feed them.)

Amen, we all repeat and begin to gather our dishes, standing up. The rain has turned from spitting to a deluge of icy needles and we run up the path and up the steps, into the house and funnel into the kitchen to clean up our dishes. PJ takes mine and winks. It's his day for kitchen duty and so I escape out the other end of the space and head back outside to watch the rain. I am lifted off my feet and turned around before I make it out the door, however and am planted back in the great room. 

Help me make a fire? 

I stare at Lochlan. One cup of coffee doesn't wrinkle my brain all that much, unfortunately. Is that a euphemism?

Lochlan bursts out laughing. I mean, it can be? But I still have to get a fire going. It's hovering around freezing. 

Oh, okay, sure.

Then we can...you know, make a fire..if you want. He stares at me. Damn. I burst into flames and suddenly it's too hot to think about. 

Jesus wouldn't approve. 

Sure he would.

Not the way we do things, Locket.

Then we should have a righteous fuck instead. 

Shhhhhh. We look around, laughing. Wait. I'm totally game. 

Then get the kindling so we can get this show on the road. We pause, staring at each other. There's an old well-used phrase. I jump up. 

On it. 

He's following me up the stairs not even a minute later. 

Pretty sure I just vaporized my skin trying to light that fire so fast. 

You'll heal in no time.

You're right.

I don't have a Tom Gordon to love. I just have everyone else.

The bear left a wide four-claw slash across the cedar fence behind the stables. Practically the only place on the point that isn't covered by the pervasive electric fence. And another slash on the inside too. He jumped on the garbage can he knocked over, splitting it wide open in his rush to get to the bird feeder filled with seed and suet that I forgot to bring in when it got dark last night.

He growls at me and I talk back. Oh, stop it. 

Another growl and then he snuffles. He's not sure whether or not he should continue to poke around or disappear back into the darkness of the woods. I walk up the driveway after it. I know where he came over.

Get along. Go on. You got what you wanted. I clap my hands and he stands on the overturned, ruined garbage can, reaching up to the top rail of the fence and climbs over. He is gone. All that remains is silence, darkness and the smell of wet fur. 

Bridget. Are there any more? Lochlan stands two feet behind me, under the glow of the side door lantern. He's holding the big tire iron and he's ready for a fight. His voice is fucking tight. He's so angry.

No. Just the one. He knew the snack was there so he came and got it. 

You don't get to do the recycling anymore. I thought the bears were finished for the year.

I left one of the bird feeders by mistake. 

I let you come out, by mistake. 

And yet you're out here too. 

You didn't come back. 

It's a timed activity? 

Only if too much time passes after you leave my sight.

So nothing has changed since I was eight? 

No. He laughs. Not really. But there are bears so it's relevant to not be outside alone after dark. 

I figured you had followed me to continue yesterday's fight.

No, just to watch for bears. As I said. It's dark.

I held my own with the bear. 

No, he saw me with the tire iron and made the smart choice. You're busy playing Stephen King novel with it. 

Maybe. 

Can't do that in real life. 

Well then thank God you saved me from my make-believe. 

That bear was real, Bridge. 

I don't think I am, anymore. 

You feel real to me. Let's go in. The whole yard smells like apex predator. 

That's my new deodorant. It's for men. 

Stopped using the Bear Fight one? 

It's just been rebranded. Same scent!  

Ah! I'll have to try it. 

Sure. I'll share.

What would you have done if that bear had charged you?

Made history, I guess. 

First woman in West Van to get eaten by a bear in her own driveway?

No, first woman to make a bear cry in her own driveway and wander off to ponder his very existence in relation to being the main character of a Stephen King novel. 

I thought the main character was the girl, Trisha. 

That's where everyone is wrong. It's the bear. 

Don't know where we're going but you're coming with me.

I don't require any grand gestures. I can hold my own with Batman. 

Lochlan sips his wine beside me as we stare into the bonfire. It's freezing and raining but we're sitting in the half-moon shelter made from driftwood and the fire is spitting, sizzling and cracking while we bicker, using up all the oxygen on the beach, threatening to send it dark. 

You don't have to prove anything to me.

It wasn't for you, as I said.

You shouldn't make these huge moves, Bridge. You need to protect yourself. 

First time I've seen you advocate for keeping him.

I want you to have a happy Christmas this year. 

I have one every year-

No you don't. You put on a face. It's a show. It's exhausting for you and it's exhausting to watch. 

I stand up and the blanket falls from around our shoulders. Great. Thank you for such a romantic dinner. 

We're not finished. 

Yeah, we are. 

Where are you going? 

To bed. I need sleep. Then you won't be so hard to talk to, I think. 

Peanut, wait! Suddenly we're teenagers again and it's dark and I'm afraid of walking home alone but I refuse to give in. He is sorry he hurt my feelings and so anxious to fix it all but still wanting to be right. We choreographed a life together. He throws his hands up and walks the wrong way down the beach and I just want to go up now.

Fuck my life. I laugh suddenly. None of this was in the rehearsal.

Lochlan turns around. That's the point! It doesn't matter. None of that matters. The show goes on, no matter what. You know this. What matters is that you and I are here together, just like we dreamed. Do you remember? 

Of course I remember. Who's going to forget a hot summer night watching fireflies and fireworks from a makeshift bed of camping blankets in the bed of Lochlan's pickup truck at the end of fair season. He told me when I was finished counting the stars we'd be home for good.

You got them all? He smiles at me. Slowly. Makes me crazy. 

I think so.

Counterfeit superglue.

Every early Christmas season Batman comes out of his cave and checks his watch for the beginnings of the biggest holiday of the year. He sees the decorations and lights beginning to go up and he comes alive. We have a curious dynamic and half the time I can't read him at all. He is closed off. He's the human and I'm the vampire, blind to his thoughts, ignorant of his whims but prompt and present when summoned, as ever. 

Good evening, Bridget. A drink?

A small one. I'm not one hundred percent back from being sick. 

Are you feeling better? 

Yes. Thank you. He hands me a barest centimetre-high whiskey in a glass. Single malt. The best. My favorite, Lagavulin. I haven't even seen any in my travels this year but I try to get a bottle for the holidays. I can lick gravestones to my hearts content, filling my veins up with peat. A true tiny vampire if ever there was one.

I take a sip while he watches me. After a moment he takes the glass and puts them on the table, pulling me in close. A long hug and I feel every muscle in his body relax. Not a rare thing at all and I hold him tight. I get a lot of hugs in the winter. It's cold. 

His hand slides up around my head and I stiffen slightly, not catching it in time to slip past him. 

You're hesitant. 

I haven't been here in months. 

Long overdue, Bridget. Your birthday week was the last visit. Six months.

I should go. 

I'd like you to stay with me. Just for the night. 

What if we didn't.. I stop. I don't think this is going to go how I want it to.

What do you need? 

A friend without...benefits. 

Does it have to be me?

I can trust you. 

He finishes his drink in one gulp, discarding his glass again. Turning away suddenly. 

I don't recall asking for a broken heart for Christm- He stops talking abruptly and I close my eyes and wait, biting my lip. What's changed? 

I'm trying to figure out how to be an adult here. We've had this conversation before.

Is Caleb respo-

No. It has nothing to do with him. It's a whisper now. I just need to do this for me. 

Who does it benefit?

Me. As I said. 

A silence followed that was so long the tides went out and then came back in closer, if only just to listen.

Then I support you, one hundred percent. He turns back around. His eyes are shining but his face is unreadable again. Godammit. This is an easy end. We go years between touching each other. Maybe we will again someday but instead of saying Not tonight I always try to go long with the Never agains. He probably doesn't even believe me because I've done this before. 

Your deposits will continue, Bridget. You don't need to worry abo-

I know. Thank you. I don't argue with him over that anymore. I've tried for decades. 

Can we still spend time? I'd actually love it if you come shopping with me this week to pick up the things I need. 

Yes. And I do really need you. Thank you for understanding.

He comes back to me, pulling me in, bending his head down and placing a soft kiss against my cheek. Go home to your husband. I'll be over at six for Ben (Thursdays Batman comes and assists in Ben's rehab. It turns out I can't go in the pool every day this time of year. My whole flesh suit is cracked and rashy from the chlorine mixed with the dry winter air inside the house). 

I love you. 

He tightens. I do too. I'm happy to be the good guy if you need me to be one, though it never gets me anywhere. 

His bitter laugh sends me out into the dark and his eyes track every step I take on the way back home.

Unpopular.

August and I are making popcorn and preparing to watch the whole season of Dash & Lily in a day. Because we have decided that people suck and everyone who isn't on this point can be pushed away for a while, no harm, no foul. Pretty sure I'm the one being reassured here and he is merely showing me precisely how to engage in a little downtime because just about everything is setting me off and I don't want to see the internet, I don't want to watch the news and I don't want to interact with people. 

When he found me I was under the covers, quilts up over my head, fully clothed and completely unable to be reasoned with. Which isn't an unusual thing, being me but today just feels so much more abrasive and impossible than usual but instead of being inconsolable I am angry. 

Progress, August says with a wink. 

Fuck you too, I rage. But he doesn't react with any surprise and puts his arms out for a hug instead. I hit the wall of flannel a little too gratefully, forgetting to keep up my defenses, throwing my arms around him tight and he asks if I actually got any sleep last night.

Not enough. Lochlan and I-

I get it. You guys need to sleep sometime, you know. 

Why? I laugh. We're having a lifelong honeymoon here. I rub my eyes. Tears just sneak out here and there. I'm a leaky faucet most of the time. 

That's what I want to hear. Where's Loch? 

Sleeping in the solarium. I laugh again. He can sleep during the day. I hate him for that too. 

Then let's find a movie or a show and hang out until dinner. 

Oh, sold. 

You sound grateful. 

Both Duncan and PJ turned me down for this exact thing already today. 

Their loss. 

You're RIGHT. I am AWESOME. 

August's turn to laugh. Yes you are.

Sometimes it's the big things, not the little ones.

Ben and I were out early. He woke me up slowly, sliding his big heavy ring onto my finger, pulling me in close against him under the quilts. I am still punchy, drugged and slow, yesterday was tough for me out of the blue and Ben didn't let go of me once, to the point where Lochlan had to politely request that he lay off for five minutes so he could get a hug. They had a laugh but it's beautifully obvious now that Ben isn't disappearing to work on projects or be introverted like he always was Before. Maybe he'll go back to that someday but for now he is present, barely out of reach.

He went to a meeting while I stayed to read in the truck (The Outsiders! It's the only book on my phone at present) and then we stopped at Overpriced, Horrible But Highly Convenient Grocery Store for a smallish load of groceries, as we ran out of eggs and cookies and shampoo seemingly all at once. We stopped for gas on the way home, in consideration of the coming storm today and now we're home again. All the things we bought are put away and he is putting away dishes now, while I have started the laundry already. I can hear the windchimes every time I venture near a window. The trees are beginning to bend. It's supposed to be a good one. High, damaging winds. This on the heels of last week's King Tides. 

Kind of fun, if you ask me but then again I am home, safe and sound and so is everyone else who lives here. My favourite sort of comfort, truth be told. Put on some lights, pour another cup of coffee, set the music volume on low and be together. 

We have a huge wooden sign on the tree as you drive out of the property. It's on the big cherry tree just above the stables and it says COME HOME SAFE in big green letters on an elm background. That's all that matters these days. 

On the back of that sign, as you're coming in to the driveway, it says OH GOOD. YOU'RE BACK. I painted that part one day in secret and as the boys came home over the next few days and saw it they absolutely love it, though it became a big of a joke when Duncan would walk in the door and PJ would put his coffee cup down rather dramatically and tell him, 

Oh good....you're back, in the most ominous voice. 

After much pleading he let the joke rest, because it's meant to be exclaimed in relief. Not surprise. Later on another sign was added just below the first, on the side you see as you drive in. Another piece of elm, sturdy and warm. It says simply WE MISSED YOU. 

I don't know who made it. No one will tell me but I love it even more than the original.

Such a simple, destructive thing. A stick dipped in phosphorus.

When the morning comes and takes me
I promise I have taught you everything that you need
In the night you'll dream of so many things
But find the ones that bring you life
And you'll find me
That's where you'll find me

I pick up the pieces, cold marble, soothing against my bloodied nails, fingers shaking as I choose the moves that might win (or lose) the game. I am nervous. Stakes are high and I've bitten my nails to the quick and then to the bone, horrifying those around me who watch, anxious for their turn. Willing to risk it. Taking the time to acknowledge that they know the rules. They know it's hard and that in the end winning isn't what's important at all. I'm singing Fade In/Fade Out with halting words, under my breath as he won't let me near the piano and so I am reduced to this, a game played on the floor on a worn chessboard. I am worthy of nothing and everything here. I am the game. I am the queen. I am the pawn. 

And I thought I knew how to play but I don't, sweeping the pieces from their squares in a sudden fit of frustration. They spin away, scattering across the hardwood floor like balls of errant lightning while Lochlan begs me not to sing.

Can't help it. They took the music, this is the fallout. I have to hear it or things will be worse. It's not a promise, just a warning. There's a storm and it's right on top of us and boy we really misread the forecast, missed all the signs and forgot to batten down Bridget's hatches. We got complacent. Got lazy and now I am reduced to this. 

The ghost reaches out and scoops up a handful of pieces. A rook. Both kings. Of course. 

You shouldn't play this game, Jacob says suddenly, his blue eyes burning bright, circles of ocean and smoke.

Hold your fire, Lochlan says, pushing the piano across the floor between us. Giving him time, making a barrier between Jacob and I, a stalling move he doesn't need. He can take the fire if you have it. He can grow it or extinguish it at will and no one is a match for him. No one can hold a match to him. 

Jacob looks at me and laughs. At least someone won their game. 

Did she? Ben steps forward, picking up the board, snapping it in half. It wasn't a fair pairing. The skill levels are unbalanced.

Are they though? Jacob narrows his eyes, matching Ben's tone. They always hated each other. Nothing ever changes. That's the one thing I gave her credit for that no one else did. She can hold her own, you just won't let her.

"You should explain the notebooks." "Yeah, okay."

Hot coffee and music this morning, softly through Ben's big headphones. I still have this fucking headache. It's day four and I'm so done with it. You have no idea. I can't mainline pills. I hate taking pills. I drank so much ice water yesterday. I ate all of the Indian takeout leftovers and there's still more in the fridge. I'm looking for self-care of the highest degree today. Then I'll ignore it and do the same things I always do, which is as much as I possibly can. I'm always more scared it will get worse the next day so I keep moving. All the fucking time.

I ordered my Christmas present yesterday because it was super complicated and I wanted to get it right.

I've been coveting a custom leather traveler's notebook cover/setup for a while but I just discovered the maker I like best has a wallet/book combination so I jumped at it when Lochlan offered, telling me to order what I want for Christmas. I picked my leather, my stitching, my strap colors and added pockets and loops and goodies until I think I had it all figured out. Then I watched all of the unboxing videos that I could find until I was completely sure and then I pulled the trigger. It will be here December 19 and I am excited! It's the cutest and I can't wait. The boys were supremely happy because right now I am using this super ugly planner that is a little too big and has a snowglobe front which leaks glitter everywhere. EVERYWHERE. This thing doesn't fit in any of my bags besides. Not that I dare take it off the desk because goddamned glitter.

(That isn't a complaint, if you ask me, someone who has been known to randomly 'spill' (AKA pour) glitter around just because it's fun to see.

The dog is usually covered. 

He does not mind a bit. 

The boys don't like it in their beards/wallets/trucks/dinner. 

Huh.)

That's my day. I slept in. I now am listening to Relient K. Which. DAMN.  The last third of Who to bury, us or the hatchet is so divine. Lochlan never minds if I play this on the piano, he just laughs. It's not nearly as heartbreaking as other songs, but at the same time it's bittersweet and awful but well executed. 

He plays and sings it too. It's just a question of who gets to the piano first, some days. 

He said maybe he would like a notebook like the one I ordered too. Eventually. 

I can see that. He carries a super old, buttery soft leather cover with a simple pen loop and in it is a moleskine that he writes notes in, draws in. Lochlan's an old soul, this book was his grandfather's and then his father's and he just changes out the inserts when they are full. This is how I became a writer. When I was nine I said I would like one and the next day he came over with a brand-new orange Campfire notebook and a new blue ballpoint Bic pen and told me to carry it everywhere, writing down anything I saw or everything if I wanted. There were no rules. 

So I wrote about, and drew him. 

I still have that book. I keep them all. Cole threatened to burn it. I ended up sewing it into an old jacket, into the lining and I hung the jacket in the closet and then when Cole was gone I took it out and put it back on the shelf where it belonged and it's been there ever since. There's nothing exciting about it. I spent a lot of time describing the seasons as they pass in terms of Lochlan's hair color. Even when we were fighting. I would write that he was awful but his hair was so pretty. 

I still do that. We still fight. His hair still reflects the seasons, without fail. I've learned I am awful too, sometimes.

And I'm finally getting my own fully intentional beautiful and well-deserved notebook, exactly as I want it to be. It even will have a pocket for my phone, room for some of my bespoke fountain pens and the ever-present Bic blue. 

Fool me twice.

Chipping away at finding chords to replace the strings in the soaring bridge of No Time to Die. Billie Eilish sings a great song, does she not? And as soon as I can make it all the way through the first verse without disintegrating I will too. I am permitted exactly five grumpy minutes a day to work on it before Lochlan will lift me right off the bench and make me do something else. 

We're trying to decide if I ever wrote enough information here for one certain new Lifetime movie to have lifted the plot for its 'groundbreaking' (? Oh yeah. Americans have only had gay marriage for a few years, y'all are so lagging) new Christmas movie from me. I don't think I did. It's fairly well-known that Sam and Matt fell for each other and then broke up when Matt took a job in London, furthering his career in the best way while shredding his personal life to ribbons. But then he came back! They reconciled and got remarried and now we have a hard time getting them to leave the boathouse. The movie is called The Christmas Setup and I'll be watching it to see. 

But never did I ever see two people more content to hunker down and work from home without ever once having wanderlust or cabin fever or even a need to go for a damn drive like Sam and Matt. They only leave the house for church at this point. Sam does everything else from home on zoom and doesn't even do weddings or funerals right now, those are done by one of the other ministers in his pool. 

Which makes me happy, actually. I want all of my boys to be safe here in the Perdition Bubble. 

And they are which is good. But honestly I just want to finish working out this song but Lochlan won't let me. He said it's the equivalent of seeing a huge pothole far off in the distance as you're driving and you know damn well you should avoid it but you won't so I'm taking the wheel.

Where we going? I ask, game for whatever he comes up with. 

Outside to decorate for Christmas, he says with a frown. God, he's so serious all the time. I wouldn't trade him for the world.

Wait, isn't that supposed to be fun? I tease him for his expression.

It will be! He growls and then breaks into a laugh.

Meh.

 Today it rained. Today I mistakenly dipped one of the cat's paws in Lochlan's teacup when I was handed both while he did something on the computer. I gathered up the almost empty tea cup in one hand and the cat in my arm and when I got to the top she had a wet tea-covered paw. It was funny but sad. I have a blistering headache and someone's ordered out for Indian food (Indian food for 15 people isn't nearly as daunting as you expect) for tonight so I managed to get my chores done and a little extra stuff (we let the inventory lapse on the big freezers and I will never do that AGAIN let me tell you) and now I can relax tonight and watch movies and eat my body weight in pakoras (a sport, if you will) and my beloved keema naan and then all will be right with the world. I need a really good nights sleep. Today was so early. Ruth had to be up to register for a program and Ben had to be up for an early meeting as he has suddenly decided that he doesn't like the later ones and so off we go at five each day which is too early even for me. 

And I get up around then virtually every day. 

But yeah. Stupid headache won't budge an inch. So I've had more aspirin and once I eat I can beg for a neck massage from John or Duncan or even Ben and then I will hopefully feel a lot better. Sleep should be programmable. It's 20freaking20. In the meantime I am watching the end of Unus Annus. Some of it is hilarious. Blame Ruth for this but it's addictive.

Ironic! My favorite character in Les Miserables was Eponym.*

Everything has an equal and opposite-

Right? I went grocery shopping with PJ and wanted to pick up a case of red but they don't sell it at seven in the morning, apparently, so that's one step back. But then I decided I would like a cordless wet/dry hand vac so I ordered one on Amazon and Intelcom rolled up in a high-end mustang and set it in my hands twenty minutes later. So that's one step forward.

Sometimes I love convenience. But not with rules. I bet if I go back on Amazon and order a case of wine the mustang will do a u-turn halfway up the ninety-nine and bring it to the house before lunch is over. 

(Wait. Does Amazon even sell alcohol? Don't answer that.)

Actually I think Amazon is ridiculously dangerous. We got on a kick last week** of watching tiktoks with people showing us things from Amazon that will change your life and wow, that was a mistake. I already bought a mini heat-sealer for candy bags and a happy light for the bedside table (the big therapeutic one sits on the kitchen counter. This one is like an eight-by-ten picture frame size). I bought a ring light for Ruth's iphone for a stocking stuffer. I bought rechargeable lighters that look like  freaking plasma guns from Quake 3: Arena and I bought a case for Henry's switch because he didn't have a case and I didn't realize it until a few days ago. 

But goddamn. Stuff arrives here in seconds. Hard to hate on capitalism with that kind of minimal effort for maximum payout. Save for the fact that I sold my soul to Jeff Bezos this Christmas so that I wouldn't have to crawl the mall during a second or third wave pandemic (whichever we are on now), boys in tow, trying to tick everything off a list that never ends. We try to do homemade most of the time for gifts but we also have a big list of things people need. Like August needs a new blender. Andrew is wearing through his pajama shirts. Lochlan needs guitar strings that are nylon so that his fingers hurt a little less and Ben's big truck needs mudflaps (one ripped off in a car wash, he had a coupon. Never again) and also seat covers with warmers built-in because its never warm in that truck, ever. 

I have a couple of books I've been wanting to read that I can't find (The Museum of Extraordinary Things, and Blessed are the Weird: a Creative Manifesto) so there are always things to buy, as Andrew wears those t-shirts in the evening until they are rags, and Lochlan will suffer endlessly instead of changing out his steel strings. We're not actually very materialistic, truth be told and so holidays are tough as it is, but we do okay and have a lot of fun and have a lot of wonderful traditions. I am looking forward to this. Especially since this holiday won't revolve around whatever time Schuy has blocked off-

Back to my point, Neamhchiontach.

Which was? 

If you spend time with August, you have to know the rest of us are going to be put out by that and-

You're Newton's law-ing my relationships?

Well, yes, in that-

Cale?

Yes, Bridget?

You can't forget about Mooer's law, then. 

Which is?

If it's more painful for you to know certain information then it's better not to tell you at all, or something like that. 

Seriously, Bridget? 

Yep.

 *(Yes, I know it's Eponine. I was trying to be CLEVER.)

**(This week's flyby/kick is Unus Annus on Youtube which finishes tomorrow. Figures. Ruth told me if I watched all the videos at 5x speed I might be able to finish them all (one for each day for an entire year) but I don't want to see the gross ones. It's hella funny sometimes though.)

Barometer, as requested (crushing every bit of bone).

I have a huge burn mark across the base of my thumb and onto the back of my hand from the oven rack, navigating a giant dutch oven. I have three other finger wounds from picking out splinters from trimming up rose bushes for winter. I wore gloves. The thorns bite right through.

I'm listening to Deliver your Children because sometimes a day wakes you up and tells you to listen to Wings. It's on a playlist of earworms along with Bottom of the Deep Blue Sea and I am a Stone.

I'm making chicken for dinner, speaking of Wings. And baked potatoes and broccoli too. It's my night to cook and so I pick healthy. There are homemade chocolate chip cookies, homemade bread and homemade bakery-style chocolate chip muffins already made if people are looking for treats. Also the haul from H-Mart is downstairs. We go there to get weird chips and pocky sticks by the case. This week's chips are chicken sauce flavoured. Chickens fucking everywhere. Including me. Bawk bawk. 

Which is a lie. I was brave. 

(Once.) 

I'm finished my antibiotics and finally feel better after two visits with the doctor and one long phone call, though I am feeling massively run-down, hair-trigger hysterical and like I need a weekend to just sit down and pet my brain somewhere quiet. Music helps. Walking on the beach or in the woods helps. I am collecting acorns and tiny pinecones and want to learn how to electroform them. I may also have collected dead intact moths and a whole pile of little bird bones too and yet I left them in the grotto on the little table because the forest gets first dibs and also when you bring home living dead things people tend to think you're about to become a serial killer. 

I do, anyway. 

(Not intend to become a serial killer. I mean I assume you are one if you do that.)

 I bit my nails right off this week. They are ragged and painful. The tips of my fingers already split from the cold and from the endless washing, endless questionable hand sanitizer as I walk into stores masked to the eyelashes, just trying to keep up with groceries and supplies for twenty people without being able to look down because the masks are always too big and I never realize it until it is too late to adjust them. PJ is always game and never complains as he follows me around silently, carrying the heavy things. Driving the cart. Driving one of our Jeeps, usually his, because I hardly drive anymore, not allowed to head out with my windows down and my stereo up because alone is something I can't be.

I want to bake cinnamon rolls but there's no energy here and no room left on the counter. Duncan said I can borrow his counter, if I need storage space but he is kidding and will eat them all sharing them with Dalton because they're brothers and they share everything. 

I haven't had a drink, a full nights sleep or a break in forever and it blows my mind. My diamond ring hurts and I don't wear it. My mind races and I can't catch it. My thoughts are full-blown insanity but I won't admit it. I sink to the bottom here with Missio in my headphones and I can't see the surface anymore.I can take a deep breath and hold it for as long as I can and eventually peace will come creeping back to me. Right, Sam?

Or if it doesn't, you will.

Functional dosage.

I was up at the crack of dark, fighting, pulled hard underneath Ben, who was so awake I'm still blushing hours later, only to be thoroughly loved before being led into the shower along with him where he painstakingly washed my hair while he washed his own, soaped us both down gingerly and then held me under the spray with him until we were warm and renewed again. Then he wrapped me in my robe and put his own and we made the cold rainy trek out to the sauna for a little further warming before starting his physio in the pool at six. His team comes in waves on Tuesdays and Fridays only now and we are capable of filling in the other days. By seven fifteen he was having a well-earned (and also therapeutic) massage and I was back inside drinking coffee, having had a second shower. 

Days are long here between care for him and for me and for the wellbeing of every soul here on the point but as I said before Ben's progress is rapid now, with lingering issues that seem so minor but drive him completely mad. He still gets frustrated easily but he is working at it like he works at everything so hard and I feel lucky that he likes having me close virtually all the time now. It's somewhat of a second chance after an easy acknowledgement that in the Before Universe, he honestly was a workaholic who barely had time for himself, let alone a wife with abandonment issues. 

(I'm taking notes as self-improvement for him at this point is a necessary sport for him just to regain all of the function he had before, while I resist every last effort to make any progress at all. 

The difference between Ben and I? Depression, probably. He is amped as fuck. I just want to hide.)

But what we are doing right now is having a mini honeymoon for three, here, as time and rehabilitation schedules permit. That's the one thing Ben can always manage. A strict, tight schedule. He hasn't touched his phone more than one or twice in the almost-three months now since his accident and he rarely wears his watch but he always knows precisely what time it is and what he needs to be doing. Throw in his daily meetings and he needs all of the hours in each day, though once five hits he is all ours, and we make dinner together, listen to music and then go to bed toddler-early, almost as everyone is worn out by then anyway. 

Ben and Lochlan will build a fire in the fireplace upstairs and we talk for a while. Eventually I fall asleep as the drugs are so good right now, whatever it is, and I wake up gasping for air, dreaming of drowning around four, like clockwork, and then we doze for another hour before getting up to do it all again.

So the answer to your question is yes, everyone here is okay.

Seven beating hearts and the rusted strings on my violin.

They make an invisible fence, the men in this house do. Their arms are the perimeter and each one of them represents my range. This range is not very big right now but as things go we will add on to it. When everything gets better. When I stop staring at my fingertips for so long they turn to golden grains of sand, pouring away in a river only to reveal darkened bone beneath. The saltwater runs from my eyes, courses through my veins and makes up my view this morning and forming a coherent thought is an effort, a battle, an achievement right now.

It's a new kind of mourning. Instead of clinging desperately to whatever I have left I am looking for a way to move ahead and let it all go while still retaining the memories and moments that Henry needs to navigate in order not to forget. Lochlan and Caleb work together to be Henry's father in Jacob's absence or removal, as it were since it's not as if he's coming back, is he? Henry made his peace with that. As I said, it hurts him to his very core but he's a pragmatist and a dreamer and he gets that life sometimes is so unfair but also so stunningly beautiful. 

Like my sea. 

This one isn't my sea, though. It's maybe someone else's. And this coming spring will mark eighteen years since I've lived in the place I want to live and done the things I want to do and thirteen years of white-knuckle hour-counting and wishing for the lobotomy that never came and here now this morning finds me completely without a brain. It doesn't feel good but at least nothing hurts and sometimes that's good enough because here I am now prepared to go to a better mindset but it doesn't show up on maps and no one knows the way. I can drag my fingers through the waves while the salt bleaches my bones but that won't help me either.

I can do what we did once, which was to pick a direction and just begin but I don't know if that's a good plan or a bad one. It's supposed to snow tonight and I am loathe to be too far from anything familiar and instead I think I'll just burrow down here and continue to wrap these hearts for safekeeping. This fence is safe. It holds. It's big enough that I didn't get cabin fever (yet) but small enough that they would miss me if I broke free within seconds so I will gather myself up and ride the tides back in when they come and hope that tomorrow brings some answers, and not more strings.

Jesus aftermath.

Time is fucking me over. It's wearing me down. Fifty is the age they turn into something wonderful. Maturity, confidence and life experience buffing them to a warm glow. Fifty is a milestone, an achievement. 

It's a sea change. 

It's another winter. Another wrinkle (or four). Another car or a trip somewhere new. Another illness or another scar. Another heartache and a fresh heal-

Bridget, stop.  

Sorry, Sam. 

You coming in with me? He sips his coffee. They all have the same tired relief for an expression this weekend. Another one under our belts. Lucky thirteen. I didn't jump off the cliff only to be dragged down by the sea and I didn't lose my mind. I was so brave going in and then all of the bravery vanished and I was just me. Not brave. Not good at this. Not getting better. Just the same. Maybe you could say today that I'm a little disappointed for all my efforts (and theirs) to talk me out of my usual schedule of despair. 

No, I think I'm going to go back up and snooze with Ben. Ben has improved to the point that I think sometimes they forget he got hurt but I haven't. 

Bridget, your heart is so exposed, here on your sleeve. You might want to tuck it into your pocket for safekeeping. He presses a long kiss into my forehead. The Jesus badge. I can wear it all day and no one will even know because while it's very large it's completely invisible. 

Is it though? Sam winks, reading my mind. I hope fifty will be as sobering and monumental for me as it has been for the others. You describe it so compellingly. 

It will be. I'm not certain of much, but of that? Yes. And by the way, yes your kisses are invisible because you don't wear lipstick. 

I didn't mean the kiss. I meant the Jesus badge. 

Do I look like a Jesus freak? 

He stares at me for a long moment. Tattoos. Pajamas that say fuck you all over them. Hair sticking up. Coffee mug with an anarchy symbol etched into the stoneware (a gift) 

Yes. You do, actually. It's uncanny. He laughs. Love you, Bridge. See you after lunch. 

Wait! There's lunch involved?

The diner. Last easy Sunday before we ramp up for Lent. I thought I mentioned that. 

No one mentioned it. 

Go get dressed. I'll wait. You're only a Jesus freak if there's bacon involved. I see that now. 

Can you blame me?

Of course not.

Abundance.

 I took the glass down to the wall before the sun was fully risen. I hand it to him with both hands. 

Happy Birthday, Preacher. I can't believe you're fifty today. 

He takes the glass and raises it before taking a sip. What would you like to do to celebrate, Piglet?

Find my courage. 

Did you lose it?

Yes, all of it. 

Where did you see it last?

Thursday when I was with Caleb. 

Jacob frowns. It powers him. He takes it all from you and he grows stronger. You grow weaker. 

He stuck around.

Not to help the others. It's a bitter laugh at the end. 

I don't need to defend him to you. I spend all my time defending you to all of them. 

And?

They agree with me. You're a coward. 

I didn't have a way out of this, Princess, or I never would have left. 

All you had to do was practice what you preached, Jake.

I don't have as much courage as you do, Bridget. Here. I found yours yesterday but you didn't come to see me. 

I couldn't move yesterday. I couldn't even breathe.

Don't mark these days anymore, he says as I take the bundle from him. Courage is heavy and warm. Courage glows under the early morning winter sun. Courage is a shield against men like Jacob who want you to turn them into heroes when they've been nothing but villains. 

Courage works fast, thank God. 

I hear shouting and I close my eyes to feel the wind and the rain.When it gets louder I open my eyes again and instead of Jake standing there, it's Lochlan. 

You were supposed to wait for me. Don't come out here alone! He sweeps the broken glass fragments into his hand and holds out his other one for my own. Come on. Let's go inside.

Coast.

 Caleb messaged me this morning, early. Just a heart and when I asked if he was up, if he wanted to have coffee, if he needed something he didn't reply. I went down the hall, down the three steps and knocked lightly. No answer so I let myself in, went through his den, down the hall and knocked again on yet another closed door. No answer. My heart's awake now, instant concern and I open the door and cross to his bed where he is face down in a swimmer's pose, arms up around the pillow, dark brown hair sticking up, tattoos on glorious display. 

Diabhal. I lie down next to his face and he opens his eyes and grabs me in close. I shriek in response. Jumpscares when I'm already scared to death aren't fair and damn straight someone in this room is going to have a heart attack and I don't think it'll be him this time. 

Fuck, Cale! I am angry. I don't like being tricked and he knows damn well if he asked for me I would have come anyway. I try to shove him away but his iron grip holds me in against his warm skin. I give up because there's no point to fighting him. 

Sorry. I actually did have a hard time staying awake long enough to type a whole message so I figured you would understand. 

What do you need? I pull back to look at his face.

Cuddles. His eyes are big. Medium blues that I've seen darken to black before my own eyes. Please. I just want to hold you for a while. 

We're all worn out emotionally and physically. I'm sick. He's worried, not unlike the others, and everyone is subsisting on reassurance and affection these days and little more.

What can I do, Neamhchiontach?

You know what. Bring Jacob back. 

I'm not doing that to L-

So I can leave him, and then I'll have closure. And the upper hand. 

Was that it? You're looking for control?

Maybe. 

I believe you have it now. If you tell us to jump, we wait for you to follow with how high.

Do you think I do? I twist my head to look up at him. 

Definitely. The tides have turned, Bridget. You're in charge now. Of your happiness. You don't run after Lochlan. He wants to be with you. He's not going to leave. 

I relax all of my muscles. It takes effort and a reminder lately. 

So you're not going to bring Jake back so I can do all this?

I don't think you need to do all that. I think Jake knows exactly what you would do if he were here. And I think you don't have to be afraid anymore.

He wraps his arms tight around me again, pulling me in against his chest while my brain explodes.

Men who sing.

It only took me a minute. I woke up and heard screaming.But the screaming quickly formed a familiar pattern. I run and look outside and I see Lochlan is out there singing in the gazebo and Ben has one of his guitars and he's accompanying Loch. 

Holy cow, he's so loud. Ben taught him a trick once, one I was taught a while ago, and that's if you really let go and amp up your volume you can hit a range that otherwise you won't reach. Lochlan's having a blast now. It's opened up a whole new world for him.

He's out there doing Ricochet. In the rain. Arms gesturing wildly. Practicing. He always was one to have inspiration hit at odd times, but we're definitely both morning people. 

Damn. It's one of my favourite songs but now when I listen to it I only hear his voice. Kind of like when I listen to Relient K or Thirteen Senses now, his voice sounds like that. Friendly. He sings their songs a lot. 

I don't know, it's comforting to me. A man who sings is a man who has let go of his self-consciousness and opened his heart to the world. Not that Lochlan's ever been self-conscious in his life unless it came to figuring out how to be romantic when I was a teenager. He's a showman. He would light something up or do some death-defying acrobatics (that was such a short time frame and he hates it when I bring it up. We spent far more time on the sideshow than we ever did in the Big Top, that's for sure, but most of it was political and shady as fuck and that's why we left.) and never once was he surprised at the applause or gasps of fear and appreciation. 

Never once. 

But he was also (and remains) humble and appreciative of all of it because he considers it a life skill, like swimming or doing your own IT. 

(Did I tell you I moved the television last week and figured out every last input and HDMI cable? It all works and I have Netflix that I can see from anywhere now because watching things on a laptop or iPad if we're not in the big theatre downstairs isn't compelling at all and he is SO PROUD).

But yeah, the singing he decided he likes much better than the ever-complicated guitar, and life is short. You want Bridget's heart, you better sing for it. 

And besides, his voice is high enough to drown out Jacob's. It's always in my head and now I can barely hear it. He's still a blur out there but my focus is surprisingly clear today.

It's the easy Saturday cardigan pattern if you're actually wondering but you're probably not.

Tight quarters today as Caleb attempts to conduct a catch-up workday which basically seems to involve me organizing his bookmarks, filing away his digital receipts and reconciling his bank statements. He has pulled the small parlour chair over right beside his big leather desk chair on wheels and since it's too heavy for me to move I was forced to crawl over the arm and into it while he went downstairs to get us fresh coffee, after discovering that mine was ice-cold and untouched this morning while I watched the rain blur the ocean view. 

Everyone is still soundly asleep. Not all that surprising at seven on the second day after a two-day event like that one. Not hungover, just tired. They sometimes forget, I think, that they can spend time together or talk when it's not a special occasion and that always surprises me, when they act like they've hardly seen each other in years. Other times the bond is so close that one will rush out the door to find another because they had a feeling they were needed and it turns out to be true. In any case, boys should start trickling in shortly, as their bellies growl for breakfast, and by then I should be pretty much finished, as I like to work efficiently and get finished and Caleb likes to fuck around and flirt. 

How are you? He sips his coffee, ignoring the fact that I have eight tabs and four folders open and I've resorted to sticky notes to keep track of this when it's right in front of me.

Thanks for the coffee. I'm swell. I flash him the biggest fake smile I can muster and take a sip. Oh. So good. So hot. A far cry from the one I made myself two hours ago.

Neamhchiontach. Talk to me. He rubs my back and I twist away, sitting up straighter on the edge of the chair, trying to focus on the words on the screen when they're starting to swim. Don't drag me down into those depths now, I can find my way there with no help at all. 

Let's get this done. I have plans. 

What are your plans? 

Watching Demon Slayer with Henry and working on Christmas gifts. 

Maybe I can join you. 

Sure. Bring your knitting needles. We go hard. 

I would love to learn to knit. 

Get PJ to teach you. I taught him years ago. 

I'd rather you teach me. 

I'm a terrible teacher because I'm still learning. He ended up doing online tutorials. 

Did you do the tutorials?

No I just rough it. 

He laughs. Well, maybe I'll drop in for a bit anyway. What time are you finished here?

Noon, I think. Maybe one at the latest. Does that work for you?

Any time you are here works for me. 

Let's make omelettes for lunch first, I tell him abruptly and his face suddenly morphs into a joyful, pleased expression. With Ben and Lochlan too. I don't tell him I can see the man in a pale blue button down and jeans (or the shape of him anyway) out by the fence. Let's have a really good lunch first.

Heavy rainfall warning.

The rain is imminent. I can see it coming across the water, a heavy dark grey mass of misery and tears from the sky. Perfect. It's how I feel but I'm tired today. I'm worn down now. The antibiotics from last week didn't do the job and the doctor is coming back tomorrow. My physiology hates me, my kidneys even moreso. Ben tells me it's because nothing on the inside of me has any room to spread out, that it's all compacted in there and that causes problems. I know all this but today it's not funny, it's just another thing I have to deal with when nothing is supposed to intrude. This week is bookmarked, blocked off, highlit, set aside. I don't have time to be sick still. Then they'll just feel more sorry for me or make excuses, when there is no excuse for this. Not this long after. 

Sam is right. Ben is right. Lochlan is always right. Schuyler was right, when he didn't push for me to stay so long at the party, which again ran for two days and thank heavens they only throw one like that every nine or so years because while it was just as magical as their wedding reception I attended less than half of it overall this time instead of the whole thing last time. 

So fun though. A huge bonding experience for all of us, to be sure, and a wonderful chance to celebrate and mark the good things in life instead of always counting the days out from the bad things. The time removed. The exact numbers required by science that you are permitted to grieve until you are forced to feel better, dictated by someone who has probably never felt like this in their lives. Science won't answer these questions for me. Science might bring him back though and so I have to keep them in my pocket even as I want to point out grief really isn't a science, and no, there's no magic number. Sure you can move on, but honestly when you start out walking you walk forward by default, right? Your heart, your mind can easily get left behind while your body takes off in a flat run. 

That isn't science, that's common sense.

Pumpkinhead butternauts.

I will build my own empire
And banish myself from you there
I don't want to remember
The love light has shown

I won't fight our destiny
Cause you and I will always be alone

Morning. There's a fire in the woodstove again but I believe most of us are still next door. I tapped out at two, coming home to sleep for a few hours. Schuyler and Dan walked me home and settled me in and then went back. They plugged my phone in for me. They made sure I was tucked in tightly. They left the pumpkin lights on the hearth on so that it would be a festive-rest, I guess and this morning the lights were gone.

Lochlan is making coffee. He's still in his suit. Pants and shirt, anyway, tie looped around his neck, curls escaping from his loose low bun as always. He's still going, home to see if I was awake, sticking around for a few. Ruth is spending the night at her boyfriend's family home. Henry was at his best friend's house all night and came home late. I know because Dalton and Andrew walked up the road, sent by me, to meet him, since it's Halloween night. They reported back, amused because Henry is over six feet tall and almost twenty but I still worry about him, and that won't change.

I worry about everything. It's as if they don't even know me.

He has begun to take down the Halloween decorations. I'm certain later on today they will bring in big sheets of feather padding to cover every sharp edge in my life for a hundred miles.

I take the coffee and Lochlan asks me if I'm coming back to the party with him.

No. Two in the morning is lots. 

There is french toast. 

Let me get dressed. 

His face breaks into a smile. And bacon.

I'm not even going to change out of these pajamas then. Grab my coat?

That's my peanut.

Pumpkins.

I am up early. There's a party to get ready for, tonight.

Notes of Immortality drifting up from Duncan's guitar this morning. He was up early to light the stove for me (I can do it, he just wanted it to be warm and cozy downstairs when I woke), sticking around to see how things were. This week in particular is the one made of glass, made of thorns and poison, despair and longing and a cold ache from so far away now I think I might never find my way back home. It's as if my calendar is cleared and my brain decides that it's time to pick a fight with my heart and lose, as ever, a weak competitor in the face of a mighty warrior. 

(This heart is a keeper, it's a keepsake, it's a rare find.)

Lochlan said that to me once. I was ten years old and I never forgot that because everyone said he was such an old soul it was hard in this day and time to understand what he meant when he said certain things but now on this side of life I get it, and he's right. 

This heart is pinned to my sleeve with a rusted safety pin. It's been hanging by a thread for a hundred years now but every so often he comes back and readjusts the pin and it's a little more secure again and everyone lets out a long breath. 

Do you have another song, Poet? It's a request that's kind and necessary as I can't do that so he starts playing Black, of all things.

Jesus, Dunk, please. Find something unrelated.

Transmission. Perfect. I test it and it doesn't hurt, a song with blunted fangs that push against my skin instead of breaking through. It will hold. I won't die from listening, a threat if ever there was one. 

It's Halloween-day. No one comes down here. The driveways are yards and yards apart. They're all steep, mostly gated and it's so dark at night you can't see your hand in front of your face outside. It's not historically a trick-or-treating neighborhood save for the occasional folks who preclear it with everyone and dance their costumed grandchildren down the street at six sharp, only hitting houses with opened gates that welcome them in. So the gate is open, there's a bowl of candy out in case, but odds are PJ will have finished it off by three sharp and I will have to scramble for granola bars, if I am not already out in the gazebo impaled by my own sharp wit and the burning logs from this raging fire in my heart, rendering everything to ashes, unrecognizable, ruined beyond repair.

Also I just noticed...Michael Myers is standing out at the end of the lawn. I wondered where my scarecrow went. Now I see he's in costume.

Nice, guys. He's my FAVOURITE.

Ben specifically requested a goofy post so here.

Today is brought to you by my handknit pale blue sweater and this stoneware bowl full of dried cranberries that I am snacking on while I review, for my Collective, all the shitty horror movies currently on Netflix in hopes that if I someday see them all then only good ones will be ahead of me. 

I don't know if any of these are on Netflix but horror movies I love include Thirteen Ghosts, The Town That Dreaded Sundown and any and all versions, sequels and reimaginings of the franchises Halloween, Texas Chainsaw Massacre and Jeepers Creepers.

Safe to say I'm a slasher fan (though Thirteen Ghosts is just about every single genre of horror movie at once and it remains forever my absolute favorite scary movie), through and through, raised on Friday the Thirteenth and Nightmare on Elm Street movies. Scary meant a mysterious man in a mask, killing at random but mostly at night. Small idyllic towns that suddenly weren't so safe anymore and screams that would split your head open if only they weren't abruptly cut off by a violent death.

And while I have no use for terrible horrible movies or unimaginative or unscary ones, I have to vet the available offerings from Netflix for the boys every Halloween. Or rather, they let me. Ruth also participates though she makes better choices. I go straight for the bad ones on purpose. 

Like yesterday's Friend Request.

Oh my LAWD. 

It was so bad. The only good thing I could come up with (a requirement in these reviews, for sporting sake) was that it was like some VFX student raised his hand and told his instructor I can animate bees! and so they wrote a movie around that talent, using the Angelfire online diary of a preteen who watched an old VHS copy of The Craft once. It belonged to her mom.

That bad? Dalton laughs.

That bad. Maybe worse. Jesus. It stared the girl who plays Lexa in The 100 and also was in Fear the Walking Dead (I think). She was great. Everything else was tropey-tropes. I almost need to watch an old favourite as a palate-cleanser but instead I will soldier on. Today's offering is...uh..Searching. Which apparently might be better. Here's hoping it at least sucks less.

Update before dinner: Searching was fantastic and very stressful. Not my genre type but reallly good!

Lion.

We're making turkey sandwiches for lunch. Lochlan likes his on white bread, regular mayo, no lettuce. Turkey slices with salt and pepper. Sandwich cut on an angle. He makes mine the way I like it. The heel of the loaf of bread, and a regular piece. Rye or pumpernickle, never white. British mustard, preferably. A huge stack of lettuce. Okay, maybe a little salt and pepper. He doesn't cut mine, I like to hold the whole thing at once. 

After lunch Caleb takes our plates and then asks me if I want to go for a run later. Maybe before dinner to burn off some nervous energy (is there any other kind?) and I automatically say no. He takes my arms, centering me in front of him, looking down into my eyes to see if I'm doing okay Right Now. 

I am. I don't want to run though. My sauconies have holes in the toes and I'm bitterly unimpressed with how quickly they wore right through and so to punish the company I'm taking the winter off. 

Clocks go back this weekend, Diabhal. It's a warning not to push but he finds it hilarious.

Same time every year, Doll. 

I shake my head. Maybe later in the week. 

Let's go today-

LET'S NOT! I struggle out of his grasp. He looks surprised and freezes for a second before recovering, his expression changing to boss mode, almost parental before my eyes. I wish I could do that. If you stare at me long enough I simply self-destruct. 

I can't go today, Diabhal. I need to move slow. 

I can distract you, he says softly, before landing a soft kiss on my temple and letting me go. He heads outside.

Lochlan is on his phone on the other side of the kitchen. PJ is running through the grocery list that's on the side of the fridge. We have a paper list and then add those things to an app that we share, synced to everyone's phones. You always have your phone when you're out but not always when you realize at two a.m. that we're almost out of rice krispies. Ergo: paper list on fridge. 

PJ shoots a look at me and I catch him. 

What a mood, Bridge. It's forceful and sexy. I like it. 

Lochlan snorts. 

PJ takes the hint, puts the list back in it's place and goes down the hall. For the moment, everything is good and I don't need to be three-deep in boys for safekeeping (not during the day, anyway). The meeting organized a loose all-hands-on-deck scenario where everyone has agreed to float in and out to be handy in case I break free or break down. To make sure there are arms everywhere. Like a human playpen for an adventurous toddler, I can bounce around in this soft but hard bouncy castle made of guys watching me reel from grief while we point out we've finally moved on.

But have we moved on? 

They closed the loophole that let Jake in but they'll never be done with the interloper himself and I think that is the part that Lochlan will never forgive himself for. He saw it coming and he had a small window in between Jacob moving against Cole and when Caleb came back but he left it closed and he tried to be so hands off and it didn't work. He tried to go out and live his life too and it just. didn't. work. He's supposed to be here with me. We're supposed to be sick of each other's beautiful faces and of my immaturity and rigidness and his stubborn perfection. 

But we're not. 

And there he is. Right there within reach when by now in the year usually he's found something to do and can't watch as I regress backward to the point where he needs to take the knife and I can't even spread mustard on my own sandwich. Just in case I turn around and plunge it into my ribs to stop the hurting that blooms with every single breath. Just in case I want to turn and look up at the one who came back to deal with the mess that is me, the one with the red mane and the stoic green eyes. The freckles and the capable hands. The one who told me God was make-believe and preachers were snake oil salesmen, nothing more, but who goes to church anyway just in case he turns out to be wrong, the one who stood at the meeting yesterday and thanked everyone for holding both of us up while we get through the hard parts, saying this is his religion, and this is his flock. That we will be safe, and happy, at last. Sam let him take it, let him run with it. Sam knows he'll be back.

Jacob stood in the doorway and smiled proudly at Lochlan too, but I don't think Lochlan saw him at all.

And I'm not going to commit any mustard-knife crimes. Not in this life, anyway.

Lamb.

 It's a family meeting. I sit, knees together, perched on the chaise in front of Ben, who has ninety percent of it to my ten. The small copper box rests in my hands, as my fingers rub the little enamel bluebird who after thirteen years glows with an attention paid in spades, enamel gone, beautiful warm copper and no blue remaining. My fingers are nervous, trembling, rubbing the bird in a steady circle, a worry stone to replace the oval adventurine one Lochlan found for me on the beach in Cape Tormentine when I was nine. I wore it right through. I still have it.

My brain is screaming the opening lyrics to Goodbye Yellow Brick Road. I should tell them I can't hear them but they're so focused and attentive right now. 

Lochlan has the bridge of his nose held by his thumb and middle finger. His index finger has disappeared into his waves. Curls on the bottom, waves on top. It's grown so much since summer. It's getting darker on top for the lack of sun. 

(I'm going back to my plough back to the howling old owl in the woooooooooooods hunting the horny backed toad oh I've finally decided my future lies beyond the yellow brick roaaaaaaaaaad)

Hold the line, he says.

She needs more-

He lets go and stares at August. We need to hold it. She'll be okay. 

He knows I can't hear him so he's kindly shoved me right outside of the conversation. I don't need to have any input. Not anymore.

She'll be okay. He repeats it to reassure them and I feel soothed by that. I hand Jacob back to Ben, who takes the box in one hand. I resume rubbing my fingertips with my fingers. I have no fingerprints left.

 Face pressed against the frigid window this morning. The world has gone out of focus now from the condensation from breathing and some moments I can't believe I still am even able to breathe when the ground is quicksand, my limbs are concrete, my heart a shattered mess, my brain a disaster in a bone bowl, rattling around trying to outrun the memories as they come, direct hits, killshots, certain ruin every waking moment. 

I turn my cheek away and press my forehead on the pane, hard. Lochlan says my name from the darkness on the other side of the room. I laugh. Save yourself, I tell him, as if it's an option that he didn't already take once but he came back and God bless him for that. I don't know why though. I am not lovable, not manageable or useful or good. I'm kind though. I love magic. I love fire and I love love itself and once I thought everything was going to be okay and goddammit, it was the best feeling in the world. 

Kind of like when you press your skin against ice-cold glass.

My best defense.

Don Henley is singing our life over the shitty speakers from the jukebox in the diner. My eighteen-year-old self believes in Don, believes this truly will be the last worthless evening, and that the life ahead of me is full of promise, stability and excitement. That everything would soon change and become wonderful, as if Don was about to just snap his fingers and fix it all with one single catchy ballad tonight. 

I took Don at his word. I was a hopeless romantic, sitting there ignoring the french fries left on my plate, staring at the window watching our reflections while a twenty-three-year-old Lochlan smoked a cigarette and wrote out our midway working hours in his notebook with a pen that was almost out of ink. All of this provided by the last round of pickpocketing I did while he did teardown last night, zigzagging through the dispersing crowd, bumping into people, trying to squeeze around people, thinking I had three wallets when I zagged away from the crowd again, only to find out one of them was a soft leather cigarette-pack holder with a fresh unopened pack of Player's Light inside. 

I wish he wouldn't smoke before my milkshake is finished. 

We can leave after this, he says suddenly, putting out his cigarette in the clear glass ashtray by the window. Don starts a new song, singing about how he's learning to live without her now, but he misses her, baby. 

The only person who calls me baby is Caleb and he can't find us now. We've only been staying with a show for a few weeks at a time now. We don't use the camper, we rent motel rooms in town. We call home more and lie better than ever, and our friends are fed a constant stream of benign disinformation in order to make it work. 

But it doesn't change the fact that I am not the person I used to be. Lochlan used to tell me to eat my vegetables and to not be afraid of the dark, and that he would love me forever. Eighteen-year-old me now knows the world is different. That vegetables aren't important. The dark is something that one should be afraid of, for that's where the monsters hide. And that love is fickle and difficult and hard to make consistently, especially when those monsters get in the goddamned way.

I go back to the jukebox at the end of the diner and feed another few quarters in, hitting the same numbers I hit twenty minutes ago. I come back to the booth and fish out a cigarette. Lochlan's eyebrows go up but he lights it for me and I sit back against the glitter vinyl and take a long drag as I stare at the strangers in the reflection.

Someday I'm going to buy a piano and learn to play this song, I think to myself. Poisoned by fairy tales? Me? Never. Now I want to believe in them more than ever.

Jesus delinquent.

Today's t-shirt says SALTWATER HEALS EVERYTHING on it and my pajama pants are an all-over moose print. I've got some coffee that is supposedly a 'pioneer blend' and true to form, I have earned it today, breakfasting on fresh homemade bread AND last years final bottle of jam. I'm listening to Nickelback ballads (yes even that one, that's the litmus test for this moment) on repeat, reading the news of the NDP landslide (I voted! For the winner even!) and singing along at the top of my lungs. 

Ben walks into the room and watches me for a moment, rolls his eyes and says How Canadian. 

I shrug. He is jealous. His culture is Disneyland and guns, he once told me. He is Canadian now, by choice.

Today I'm planning to skip church and will get speed-blessed instead, as sometimes a girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do. I listened to the new Missio album twice already, prior to switching over to the 'back and I still love eighty percent of it, and the other twenty percent of songs are only mildly weird. And now after the laundry is done, I drew a few seasonal but also difficult chores that I want to tackle right away. I also have more bread to go in the oven later and yes, I'm pretty sure someone put something in my juice because I feel like I can slay the whole fucking world right now and that feeling is absolutely NOT my default. 

Still on antibiotics though. I really am one of those horrible people you need to shoot with a tranquilizer dart to get them to stop moving. And then they will still crawl.

Good things. Sam, is this what you mean?

Nine years ago this coming Wednesday Schuyler and Daniel got married. It feels like yesterday but also like a thousand years ago in a way. They are the constants in a life of endless upheaval, a safe haven in a chronic storm. They love their privacy but also maintain a modified open-door policy for the lost lambs around them (mostly me). They are Godfearing men, free-spirited and beautiful and I love them both in a way I can't even articulate these days. Schuyler retired finally and they are having the time of their lives. Daniel is so content, so happy to have Schuyler around more and so far Schuyler hasn't tried to work past returning a couple of phone calls for some creative brainstorming, both of which he pulled Lochlan in on.

It's amazing. 

So this morning we got invited to their big anniversary party to be held next Saturday night, Halloween, to be exact. Which is great because we have no other plans and the night is open, as we don't go out anymore, don't entertain anyone off the point save for Ruth's boyfriend and Henry's two best friends who are also safe and not a covid risk so this is a full Point Perdition soiree and I'm excited. 

The theme is To The Nines, (a pun on their years married which is CLEVER) which means tuxes and gowns. I don't know which of the boys will wear gowns but I'm hoping all of them because that would be fun, I think, I get tired of being the only one who has to hike up her entire outfit to manage stairs, truck siderails and just life in general. I got caught in a fridge door once getting more champagne and had to call for help and it's still a favourite joke around here so damn right I want them all to wear what I wear. 

But also with heels because why not up the difficulty across the board?

(Don't worry, I don't think they make stilettos in Ben's shoe size (fourteen) or he would probably already wear them.) 

And so this week the house next door (Andrew and Christian are co-hosting the party as they live in half of the house) have asked for assistance in decorating. Specifically in carving all two hundred of the little basketball-sized pumpkins that were dropped off this morning next door in the driveway for the party because they have a decorating plan in mind. 

 And I volunteered! I hate carving pumpkins with a passion but I love the roasted seeds, I love the fact that I don't have to host a party this big and I love love LOVE the fact that suddenly I am looking forward to Halloween instead of dreading it. The wish remains. We want things to be right.

And for them, it's all that and more.

Counting the words I never said to you.

Distant memories
Form constellations of despair
Guiding through the state of disrepair
Illuminate
All the hurts that have accrued
Unlock the cage, holding back the truth

Oh, wonderful. Pallbearer puts out a new album (their fourth) this morning and I can absolutely tread water in my misery with it. It's stunningly beautiful, slow and mega-heavy with gorgeous, sophisticated lyrics and memorable albeit slightly softened hooks. It's not overproduced but it's no sophomore effort either, in fact, it's exactly what I needed, and the singing is all clean so I can join in if I like. 

It's perfect for standing just under the eave of the roof by the patio doors while the rain pours down just out of reach, headphone cord snaking down the hall behind me. A hazard if you come too close. A tether, if you stop to consider. 

I should be planning a fiftieth birthday party. I should be getting ready for Halloween. I should be happier right now and not weighed down by this terrible past. I should be a lot of things I am not. 

And I should not be a lot of the things that I am. 

I should learn some voodoo, some kind of resurrection science or afterlife technology, some way to conjure him home in a more tangible form. I want to see him wet from the rain. I want to see him age. I want to see him bond with the others in a way he never truly did and I want him to see the children, not children anymore but beautiful adults, one who looks exactly like Lochlan with her slight graceful form, angular features, fierce personality and long wavy red hair, and one who looks like him, but also me, somehow, with his ridiculously tall and lanky form, his beautiful blonde hair that won't behave no matter what and his focused, gentle demeanor. 

I want to shove Henry over to him and yell at Jake that he was yours after all and you checked out and guess what? We raised him without you and it turns out we didn't need you after all. We wanted you, though. I wanted you. I've decided that this is the final birthday of yours that I'm going to mark. You're going to stop growing old right here. I will fight my way through the next two weeks like a prize and then I'm done. Finally. Because I can't wish for you. You're not coming back, there is no point to any of this anymore.

You built a gazebo where I put him and then act surprised when he's there.

Loch is on the beach. The fisherman-knit aran sweater has been taken off the shelf and put on over his flannel shirt and waffle-weave long-sleeved t-shirt. His hair is tied back loosely, errant pieces too short or too stubborn to be coralled by a leather cord make for a halo of red around his face in the wind. His jeans are dark blue and wet up to the knees with saltwater and he is threatening to swim if I don't tell him exactly what's on my mind. 

Only it's too cold to swim and he is doing this to prove a point. The point is that I am so desensitized, inappropriate and jaded that it takes these big dramatic moments to get me to move on something. That I am all or nothing now. That I used to be content with the smallest of gestures and now I want it all.

No, you're wro-

Am I though? He scoops up water with both hands and sprays me. 

Stop it.

Tell me I'm wrong again. He's ready to soak me, too. Only I am holding our phones, my keys that were in the pocket of my dress from earlier and the lantern that was left the other night that we forgot. It needs more fuel so I'll bring it up, at least and then it's ready for the next twilight trip. 

I drop everything to the sand and put my hands on my hips. You're....WRONG.

I close my eyes waiting for the impending soaking. It takes four seconds and I am drenched and frozen, gasping for air as he continues to scoop water at me as fast as he can. The one fun thing about Lochlan is that he never ever bluffs, and I will never fail to call him on one. So I'll have to program a new keyfob and we'll have to rinse our phones in distilled water and hope for the best. The lantern can take it, much like the girl. 

He wades back in to me almost in slow motion and takes me into his arms, soaked or not. How am I wrong?

This. This is everything. 

Following a Big Gesture, you mean. 

Nope. You didn't need to do that, Locket.

Wish you'd told me that before I wrecked my phone. 

I feel like we should just buy them in bulk. 

So why did you say he was there? 

Because he is there. 

Don't scare me, Bridget. 

You said if I don't tell you it's worse. 

I'm sorry I said that, right now at least. How long has he been there, again?

Eleven years. 

Jesus, Peanut.

I'm FINE (Freaked out, Insecure, Neurotic and Emotional).

It covers the back of his hand, ink mixed with blood against alabaster flesh

 The day is done, and the darkness falls from the wings of night

I love it. It's from The Day is Done, one of the Longfellow poems I can easily recite from memory and most of the boys can too. Caleb had it tattooed this morning. He has a bunch of hand tattoos but this is a full back of his right hand, all the way across in three lines, a neat block of gothic script that suits him to a tee. 

I can't take my eyes off it. It's a nice cheer-me-up on a day that sees me in my Cinnamoroll pajamas, fever still chugging along, kidney infection raging on full blast this morning, after yesterday went downhill rather quickly all of the sudden because that's how I operate. I go go go and wonder if more sleep is all I need only to find out my body wants to betray me like my mind already has. Everything is just jumping ship altogether and I can't say I blame any of it, these days.

The tiredness is not only the not sleeping, the perimenopause, the mental exhaustion that never quits, it was far more sinister. Lochlan called the doctor who made yet another house call and now I'm on these giant bumblebee antibiotics that have finally slowed me down and I'm going back to bed here before eleven in the morning. PJ has the conn. 

Hey, Bridge, want to go car-shopping with me? Caleb's heading out to get his new vehicle which should be fun. With his hand wrapped up like that he looks like he's been in a bar fight. Besides, he's not shopping, he's just trading his in on a new one, and so it's just a quick drop and go. 

No, PJ can keep you company, as I said. I'm going back up to sleep. I'm not feeling good. 

Can I bring you home lunch?

Is it Vietnamese?

If that's what you'd like. 

Then yes. Duh. 

Ha. That's what I thought you'd say.

You're the one place I call home.

 He slept sitting up. 

I asked for help before breakfast and what I got was a rare and wonderful change in that he didn't find someone to babysit my brain, someone to hide all the weapons and keep me from running outside to jump off the cliff and shock myself in the sea until I felt something better than this. He made me sit on the couch in the bathroom until he was ready, hair combed back behind his ears while wet only to spring up into crazy curls no matter what the minute it's dry. I only wish I was as resilient as Lochlan's curls. Nothing could flatten me ever. I would just jump back up and keep going. 

But I got flattened. He shook out a pill and then he shook out another and he laughed bitterly but it didn't reach his eyes, which remained a green concern in a face fighting to keep a neutral expression, because if he worries then I worry and I'm not able to add any more load to the current right now. 

What should we do today? He's asking questions as he holds a glass of water in one hand and my chin in the other. Drink. I can't answer. I want to hold on to today so I don't get flung right off or trampled underneath it. That's what I want. 

(And the kids aren't like this. They miss Jake like he's a close uncle they haven't seen in a while. It has faded for them though, mercifully. They are more sad for me. And I try so hard with them but sometimes I can't get it together and somehow they understand, the 'somehow' being useful, intensive therapy to make sure he didn't fuck them up to but by virtue of proximity to me, he did.)

He continued to ask me questions all day, and I was noncommittal and sometimes silent. Sometimes I had an opinion. Once I tried to wrench myself away but for that I was clotheslined by his arm that shot out so fast I didn't have time to take a second step but there must have been force behind the first. 

Bridget. Stay here. Stay put. He said it gently, outside of his usual penchant to bark things at me out of his own fear that creeps in when things get bad. He is so pragmatic, so necessary in an emergency but it's also the one time you won't find him, as he can't stand by helplessly and watch. If he can't lead he sure as hell isn't going to follow. That's one thing about Lochlan you might not know and people usually find that out the hard way. 

Let's find a new distraction. We painted a picture together. We went for a long walk along the beach, finding treasures and tiny sea stars. We napped. We made some pancakes together for lunch and then he cleaned up while I sat on the corner of the island and watched, because he just wasn't comfortable with me any further away. We did indeed watch a couple of really bad horror movies we found on Netflix and then we went up to our room. Lochlan poured himself a whiskey and settled in, pillows behind his back, jeans still crisp, flannel shirt still soft, always with the white t-shirt underneath. Still with his knife clipped in his pocket, brown hair tie around his wrist in case he has to get down to business. He told me to come and snuggle in with him and I put my head down against his chest, face in on the glorious winter flannel, his arm around my back. He took my sweater and tied it around me and his one leg, which was something else you didn't know. He would do that to childproof me when I was ten. To make sure he didn't sleep too deeply and fail to see if I got up or left. He was in charge and he wasn't going to screw it up and even though he did, we did, we ruined everything, we're not going to give up this incredible second chance to get it right, ghosts or no ghosts.

It was a comfort and I didn't wake up until this morning, still tied into the sweater, still with the lights on, him still dressed and still propped against the pillows. My head is an empty paper bag blowing down the road, my memories absent. My limbs are jello and yet my soul feels rejuvenated somehow, as if his presence alone was all I needed. Just an intense amount of time together like when I was little and I hung off every word he said, content to believe that he was right, that he knew everything, that all I had to do was listen to him and everything would be okay. 

After testing that theory I can tell you he's been right all along.

The only book on how to navigate this is the one I write for you.

 I almost took it down this morning. The post I just went and reread for the seven thousandth time. It's called Run like Hell and it's from October of 2007, detailing the night Jacob left. The night I never thought a single human could endure so much fear and despair and still come out alive. And I still have moments where I just stop and sob like a motherfucker for that horrible feeling of helplessness where Jacob had some sort of break with his handle on life and decided he couldn't handle my baggage when he had so much of his own and he left and he never came back and then the guilt ate him right through and he died by his own hand (there's a phrase I have never written before. I write that he flew because it sounds more magical and less final) and these memories are quicksand and lava and...pain. 

Sometimes the rabbit hole is so deep it goes right through to the other side. You can look in and see stars but you can't see Bridget. She doesn't even cling to the ledge just out of the light, she lets go. She falls right through, into the void and she's still in there somewhere.

Maybe I'm meaner now. Maybe I don't believe you when you say you're going to stay forever. Maybe I'm afraid of death now in a way that would make Jacob ashamed, because the guilt he felt for leaving when I needed him the most, when we were just figuring out how to live together and make it work, when my children had finally accepted him and settled in with a love for him that surprised even me, well, it's nothing compared with the guilt he would have had to see this now. To see what he's done. See how I've changed. I don't trust anyone. I will cut you off if you move too close or pry too hard. I will shut down without warning like a faulty robot and stop talking. And I'll hate you for taking that beautiful new stability and trust away from my children because you changed them too and I see it now. And they talk about it now with a horrible pain I can't take from them and this is your fault. You were supposed to be the strong one and you weren't. 

It was me.

Lead me down the path they went.

Come here, Bridget, said the Devil.

And I did, and I was lifted up into his arms and I didn't touch the ground for the next three hours and I didn't know which end was the sky and which was the sea or which hands belonged to whom and in my high I just focused on breathing and climbing out of the waves to get back to the stars, only to be pulled back in until my flesh was numb and my limbs exhausted. I believe Caleb and Ben did the heavy (or maybe I'm light) lifting and Lochlan drifted in and out of my periphery and Sam prayed right against me for his own soul in the face of temptation he could not fight off. 

This morning I will join him, more than a little bothered that I can't with certainty tell you if Matt was there or not. 

Do I ask? My eyes drift to Caleb, who winks and lifts up his coffee cup to take a sip, never breaking his gaze. I shift my head and look at Lochlan's hands. He is reading the news on his ipad, eyes scanning the words on the screen. His breathing is even and content. He is relaxed and warm. 

Ben is still asleep. 

Sam went home (I think) and his car is gone so he's most likely at church. 

I don't dare go, lest I burst into flames inside the front door, one foot over the threshold, purse singed as it drops to the tile floor, the one who held it vaporized by God in an flash. 

An example, he will say, of the sinner I wish to purge from your precious souls. Unable to be sanctified properly I have expunged her from this heaven on earth because she's far too edacious and wanted too much to make up for everything she has lost, instead of understanding that by losing everything she now has everything. She can't be consecrated like this. Guys, I've got nothing to work with here.

Oh, well, hello, you're right, God and I'm sorry. No more early Sunday morning orgies for me! I have seen the error of my ways. 

Lochlan snorts abruptly and I realize he's listening in. 

But I still love you most, I think, not to myself but broadcasting it wide.

He smiles but doesn't say anything, kissing the top of my head for a long time instead. I stretch like a cat and get up to go get more coffee. Matt falls through the back door, in wrinkled chinos and a shirt that shows he maybe got dressed for church but then fell asleep and didn't make it. He meets my eyes and it's a vaguely weird but appreciative look on his face that I know well, oddly enough and I am suddenly grateful I don't have to ask.

Oops. Clearly he was there too.