Burnout.

 Yesterday's rambles brought about another change, a lot of concern that flowed into concrete plans and help and company and I didn't have to run a scary errand alone, I didn't need to lose sleep without everyone else losing it too, we crossed some crazy sudden milestones around these parts and I feel like suddenly things have shifted, or maybe it's just a good day with good outcomes and happy endings.

Maybe it's the luck of my Irish. 

Second-generation Canadian, the only green I have on today is a cardigan I abandoned at nine this morning in the sunshine and my eyes, as always, like Lochlan's but much paler, more sage than olive. He has such distinct coloring and I am a cool-dramatic version of him. I had all my good luck charms with me today and things seem to be clipping alone and it's all good and I need to be thankful, here and take a moment to be peaceful too. 

I need to get some sleep. Last night there was none. ZIP. Holy. First we had a mini-emergency that woke us right up and continued until 4ish and then at 6ish we had hungers and then at seven we had places we needed to get to but now we are home and it's all good and done and I lived and now I can report to Everett but not to Jake and to snuggle in with Lochlan tonight but not with Caleb and it's definitely been the strangest Saint Patrick's Day but I can't even believe I used to wish I could go to a bar and drunk-dance all evening. That seems dumb now. Everything is bigger and holds more weight. There is more at stake and if I stop dancing and look around I see life happening all around me. I'm an adult and yet on the inside, forever seventeen. 

And I think this morning I made peace with that, oddly enough, instead of wondering if I would spend the rest of my life fighting it.

Escape artist.

Found a house in Rose Bay that I love, that I absolutely love, and I know Lochlan would love it too, and we'd love it in spite of the weather and in spite of the choppy wifi and the wind and the fact that it's a two bedroom mishmash with a questionable number of bathrooms and-a-half and a scary looking staircase and a completely untouched yard but it's also a stone's throw to some of my favourite beaches on earth and it's a stunning interior design and I could paint there and sleep there and count my minutes left on earth there, instead of here. 

Escapist fantasies, I know. The problems will travel with me. I repeat, and roll my eyes. Everett is curious and yet he really has heard it all and hasn't gotten sucked in. The theory goes that that exact reason is why I barely talk to him. Fun fact: All we've done is talk. We are sick of each other and so we break early for lunch with an open afternoon and I have a pre-St. Patrick's Day brunch with Satan planned that I am anxious to get ready for.

Only if you bring the entire Collective with you. 

Which I wouldn't anyway. 

The Collective was an experiment and when it's finished, it's finished.Whether it makes it to fifteen years or twenty on that absolute outside but I don't think it will. We're outgrowing ourselves now. This is the longest I have ever lived at a single address. Even growing up, as I moved to that house at age 8 and moved out at nineteen. I've already passed that milestone here on Point Perdition, effective this week. 

But we're all still here. Still collecting paints and pets and boys. Still figuring out cars and schedules and LED light switchovers that are actually bright enough but still nice. Still watching sentry over my tiny wraparound beach that technically isn't mine but the day I find a stranger on it for any length of time will be a strange day indeed. Still finding complete and utter privacy voids in the efforts to share our home and the property as a whole without making it seem as if it isn't everyone's home. Still keeping the rules of the roost intact because they work for everyone. We force consideration and thoughtfulness and respect for those around you and those spaces around you. Everyone is clean and tidy. No one procrastinates. Everyone pitches in. Eleven years on it seems like at one point it was never going to work but then it fell into place and I've been looking for a way out ever since. 

This is permanent, Neamhchiontach. 

Nothing's permanent, Diabhal.

The smell of sulphur and magnesium in the air.

 A warm kiss on the forehead and another firework explodes, lighting up the Midway for seconds in shades of red and green, the sound competing with the crowd for prevalence in the night. I take a sip through the straw of Lochlan's lemonade and notice it's spiked. I wrinkle my nose and swallow it anyway, tasting more vodka than lemonade but my eleven-year-old brain is accustomed to finding a surprise in his drink. He takes it back.

Take the edge off, Peanut. Besides, it's Sunday. I'll get you a regular drink. Don't touch this one, okay?

(We don't work on Mondays. That's our weekend.)

The edge off what, Locket? But he doesn't answer even though I don't understand. 

Years later I would understand. It softens the edge of the hole. So if you fall in you're not afraid. You don't get cut, you just relax your whole body and fall, landing on a black cloud. But you'll still fall in, because you took the edge away, and that was the only thing keeping you from falling head first. 

It took me a few extra years to understand that part, let me tell you. 

There are the boys. Let's go. He takes my hand, squeezing it and drags me through the crowd. Fireworks continue overhead. The music is so loud. Boston still playing through the huge speakers on the ride next to the field. It's the Scrambler and it always had the best music aside from whatever ride Lochlan was assigned to, usually the Ferris wheel. Every carny hates the stop and start and endless attention it needs to keep it loaded with the correct weight. Lochlan loves the methodical haul-and-go rhythm of it, loves the screams as people whip over the front. Especially mine.

We get to the group at the edge of the gate. They all nod. Christian says Hi Bridget, making sure to include me. Caleb asks me if I'm up past my bedtime, pissing me off right off. Cole tells me to ignore him. He's just bitchy because he's going back to school in a week and doesn't have time to babysit the rest of us. Lochlan asks who he's babysitting, that Lochlan's seventeen, thanks. 

And you're boozing up an eleven year old? Caleb asks him, watching my eyes separately focus on everything but the thing I'm trying to focus on, which was whatever Rob has. It's a harmonica. For later, by the lake, when Lochlan's off and we can go back to the camper. 

Maybe. Lochlan winks at him. This pisses Caleb off and briefly we are the Outsiders. Then cooler heads prevail and we go to our spot, best spot in town, to watch the remainder of the fireworks. All six minutes of them. 

Lochlan takes his drink away from me repeatedly and finally heads off to get me a regular can of Pepsi. Anything that doesn't have alcohol. While he's gone, Caleb tucks his arm around me, pulling me in against his chest. He is so much bigger than Lochlan I feel safe and protected. It was the last time I would ever feel like that with him, only I didn't know it then, snuggling in, resting my head against his chest, and his right arm. He's warm but not sweaty. He smells good. Like Old Spice. He lights a smoke over my head and it smells good too. I close my eyes because the finale is loud and bright and the lights are making squiggles in the sky and I suddenly feel carsick. 

My arm is pulled straight up and I am on my feet, awake suddenly. 

Jesus, Loch. It's Cole, complaining. Trying to back up his brother and stay on the crowd side. Trying to sound tough and in charge. 

Lochlan doesn't give a shit. He pulls me in against his chin, resting the cold can against my cheek. 

Let's go, he says to the dismayed catcalls of the others. We head back to the camper and he makes me drink a big glass of water from the drum on the counter. While I'm trying to get through that he's wrapping ice in a dishcloth, which he puts on my forehead, holding it there. With his other arm he reaches up and grabs a box of crackers off the shelf. You need to eat to dilute the alcohol. 

Why don't you feel like this? I feel great suddenly. Like I can fly. Or dance all night. 

I weigh a hundred and forty pounds. You don't even weigh a hundred. The smaller you are the harder you fall. 

That's not how the saying goes, Locket. 

With drinks it is. Eat, he barks. He looks so mad. He's so cute when he looks like this. I hate that I like that. 

I take a handful of crackers and shove them into my mouth one at a time while he lifts all of my hair up in one hand carefully, shoving the ice pack onto the back of my neck with his other hand. It feels so nice. 

I'm tired. Can we sleep? 

No. Not until this feeling is gone. I'm sorry. I should have paid closer attention. 

Sorry you didn't get to hang out with your friends. You can go back when I go to sleep? 

Not leaving you alone. It's fine. They're not my friends anyway. 

Why do you say that? 

I made my choice. Eat. 

What choice? I say through a mouthful of crumbs but he is busy getting our bed set up for the night. We turn it into a table during the day and at night we turn the table upsidedown and take the base off and cover the whole thing with thick cushions and it becomes a little bed. Lochlan hates it. He says he knows of a better camper for sale that has an actual separate bed and a little bistro flip down table and it has way more room. 

He never answered me but a few years later I understood that too. The choice was me over them, something the rest of them continue to resent to this day.

Brightest bulbs.

What's happening today? I slept until nine, got the sparks notes version of Sam's sermon, off the hook I am until much closer to Easter, and I can barely move thanks to the gardening. We got it all done and then some. Yard too, and then even the vineyard got some love, plus they put new ropes on the swing and gave it a light sand and a coat of wax. Last year we all but abandoned all of the gardening in August when Ben got hurt and the only thing I did was shovel some leaves in around the perennials in early November after seeing that the last tomatoes had rotted still on the vine. 

It felt weird clearing out the decay of a summer abrupted as we forgot about anything but saving Benjamin, getting him through the worst and into the clear but it was a relief to return to the routine I most look forward to. Green things are poking up all over. Renewal. Easter is coming. I wanted a head start and now I have it. Last year I think we waited until a week before Victoria Day to do anything at all. That seemed necessary then. Now it all feels different, sooner. There's a bigger push. 

But we are ready. I can't feel my hands. They all laughed at my twenty-year old rake. Supposedly all the tines broke off and I didn't notice. Now I have a shiny new one, brought home this morning. We moved the giant oregano plant (I harvest it until the end of July and then it is used for the bees to enjoy) and I hope it lives. It may be too soon. We did a ton of prep work. I can order soil now. We did a seed inventory and a rough plan for planting. 

I didn't think about anything except the garden. 

I'm not growing any ghosts, nor did they come to see how things were doing. I think actually that Jacob might be actively avoiding Everett but that's okay too. It's Everett's last week here or so I heard the hint of even though to my face they say his visit is open-ended and I guess he wasted his time but this is not on me. He and Ben had a good visit so all's not lost and I don't want to hear about it.

The plan for today. Watch it get derailed in 3...2...

Coffee on the patio with Sam and Matt this morning. They made their way over with matching mugs and matching loungewear in the form of soft brushed fleece pants in a dark green shade that I adore and black long sleeved waffle knit tops with a green band around the wrists. Their mugs say Mr. and Mr. and I'm sure they've got better coffee in them then I have in mine because they have one of August's fancy machines in the boathouse and I have the Keurig. I buy the Sumatra pods from the Starbucks line and I'm pretty happy these days. It's far cry from the work of the Chemex, anyway but honestly you could press a button on a generic gas station convenience store coffee machine, pay your dollar and hand me the cup to drink and I would be so happy so what do I know? 

I just like the whole vibe here today, here in the shade with half a cup still to go.

Already broke up two separate and distinct arguments about whether or not Lochlan has lost his mind and about whether or not he was secretly seeking validation (no on both counts) and I'm about to crack the whip and get them all gardening here shortly, as the sun is out and I usually roll up to this party far too late for my liking. We lost a major player in the landscaping out front and can easily replace it from one of the perennials out back that is taking up too much room there, and so that's on tap today and then I can schedule my soil delivery for next week and be ready earlier than ever. I'm excited but it's backbreaking work and I can't be out in the sun all that much. Fun! 

(Everett approves though. They all approve because she can't be crazy if she's too tired to move, right?)

Sensory overland.

I woke up with the sun, sleeping late, surprised when one side of the bed was cold. The other side is a horizontal wall named Ben and I leave him sleeping with a kiss, hurrying through my shower, drying my hair, struggling into warm jeans and Lochlan's flannel shirt from yesterday, unbuttoned scandalously low, sleeves folded up a million times, tails out. I slide every ring I own on my finger and grab my boots. 

The house is too quiet. He won't be inside. I feel like panicking and I look outside on my way downstairs. His truck is home. His wallet was on the dresser upstairs. His phone was also upstairs on his bedside table. His jacket is in the closet. 

The kitchen is dark. I look outside but I don't see him. I check downstairs. I come back up and check the library. Then the grotto. I put the dog out and feed him. I scan the yard once more. About ready to scream. My mouth is dry. My hands are shaking. My blood runs so cold in my veins my limbs are stiff and slow. I bite back a sob and pull my boots on, grabbing PJ's raincoat off the hook by the back door. I check the garage, the camper and the orchard. And even though I know I'm not allowed, I open the big wooden gate at the end of the cliff that leads to the stairs to go down to the beach. My eyes are scanning the rocks below while my brain tries so hard to turn them off. Tears are flowing freely now. My heart is racing. And then I see a thin plume of smoke rising up and there he is. Sitting by the fire setting up the little cooking rack that we stand the pans on for early breakfast. 

He stands up and waves his arms and then leaves them in an X for a beat and he's off across the beach to meet me. 

I'm just trying to catch my breath and compose myself before he gets to the top. 

And I fail. 

He's yelling halfway up and I have to focus but I can barely hear him with the wind. 

-And Ben reminded me almost as a joke that I didn't even have to wake you up, just to go set it all up and then think about you and you would sense that I wanted you and come find me. Geez, holy, he wasn't wrong but that's a whole step over weird how fast you were and- Jesus Christ, Bridgie, what's wrong? He's trying to wipe the tears from my chin, hold the rail and block me from the top of the steps all at once. He finally just grips the rail with one hand, scooping me right into his jacket with the other arm, head against my forehead, kisses raining on my temples. Tell me. 

I thought you were gone. I couldn't find you. 

He shakes his head. I'm sorry. I was trying to check our connection. It was just an experiment. I didn't realize what it looks like. I'm sorry, Peanut. He takes a step down and then turns back, so we are eye to eye. If I go anywhere, I'll take you with me. Remember when I first said that? What were you, all of nine years old? That's a promise I'll never break, Bridgie. I swear. 

The nine-year-old is so much stronger. She wipes her eyes with the sleeves of PJ's jacket and smiles through bleary eyes. You better, she challenges. No one would dare try and test that little girl. Not now, that is. 

You know the best part of all this? 

What? Oh she's annoyed now. Is there a good part? 

You felt me and you came running.

(Always crazy like that.)

Hi. Playing the piano shakily this morning, pounding out Foolish Games and singing. Jewel's one singer I never had any problems duplicating and she's not failing me now. 

Duncan's been in the doorway with his coffee cup for the better part of thirty minutes. I don't know if he's keeping watch or can't see Lochlan in the big chair by the south window. The living room wraps around. It's impossible to decorate so I settled on different conversation groupings.  There's a large fireplace in the way. 

Everett is in the kitchen just sitting there, waiting.

Can I ignore him for another complete day? Ben says I shouldn't. By rights this is Ben's problem, not mine. By rights I don't have to do anything I don't want to do. By rights I should be dressed in white, arms wrapped around myself, running into padded walls, bouncing off only to land on the freshly mopped floor, struggling to get up before doing it all over again. They will watch me from the small window in the door, glass sandwiching a panel of wire, so that I can't get out. As if there were anything to climb so that I could reach the window, for unless I take ten steps back, I can't even see out of it. 

This is my heart, bleeding before you-

They never turn the lights off and here, I thank them for that, because the dark is full of monsters and ghosts. And taxes. And bad news and chores and bullshit therapists, a long line of which waits to be the genius. Waits to be the saviour. Waits to be the one who puts the puzzle back together but I've eaten all the pieces just to make sure that never happens. 

I was so smart.

I bet if I got my lobotomy I wouldn't have to do this anymore but like he said, "You keep me honest."

I think when I grow up I want to write copy for the Bank of Canada releases. 

From this morning: "The Bank is maintaining its extraordinary forward guidance, reinforced and supplemented by its quantitative easing (QE) program, which continues at its current pace of at least $4 billion per week."

Not sure if I should offer to hold Mr. Macklem's coffee while he pats himself on the back or go spend like a maniac before they raise the rates and everything slides sideways again. 

Caleb is doing his best not to laugh at my absolutely mainstream, emotional take on this mornings readings. He sips his coffee and basks in the company, in spite of the fact that I am still in pajamas. Historically Caleb likes it when I dress professionally for work. He likes office stilettos and smart Chanel suits and red lipstick and long eyelashes and diamond bracelets and so today, since I don't even have to leave the house to work anymore, I arrived in my baby-blue Sanrio Sentimental Circus pajamas (clean ones) and thick red socks. I'm wearing no makeup, no jewellery, but I did bring my bag with me (RIGHT. WE'RE NOT GOING TO TO TALK ABOUT WHO CARRIES HER HANDBAG AROUND HER OWN DAMN HOUSE BECAUSE IF THE QUEEN CAN DO IT SO CAN I), which contains my favourite calculator (from Henry's Grade 11 math class) and my pens, notebooks, phone and laptop. Oh, and the lipstick aforementioned. And there's most likely a ring or two and probably a bracelet in there. And chapstick. And pepper spray. 

(And a lock-picking set.)

(But ANYWAY.)

(I'll add a picture eventually, in case you don't believe me.)

(Not right now though, I have work to do.)

It's taxes day. Here I go. 

I hate taxes. Especially this year but I already sent out a group message for everyone to count exactly how many days they worked from home in 2020, if they worked at all. I know that answer so I will know if they try and make something up.

Salt makes things even more toxic.

Burning wood on the beach this morning for the salty smoke smell which I can then carry through the day, for it permeates my hair, skin and clothes so nicely, a cloying mystery that makes me feel like a scary pirate half the time and a sing-ey-mermaid the other half.

Don't worry. The wood was too damp to hold a flame and I do it right beside the water. I also have a fire manipulator on hand who can deal with any dangers that arise. But honestly I got enough of an ember to leave a message on the logs for the next person to walk the beach (Ben or New Jake, most likely) and they will leave us a message in return. 

Lochlan is non-committal when I ask how much time I have to devote to Everett today. He says I don't have to see him at all if I don't want, even though this is supposed to be the week we double down on time and efforts and I'll get a pat on the head from Ben and maybe on of his old One Day At A Time coin tokens to carry, flipping it across my knuckles, trying to keep it from hitting the ground and failing, mostly. 

I don't think Lochlan was on board with this plan. I think Ben blindsided most of the army in an effort to do something Nice for me and his heart is in the right place but when it comes to organizing or surprising anyone he remains a bull in a china shop and for someone who tells me to live in the moment, I should maybe spend more time telling him to consider the others, too and their feelings. 

He will tell me that's the problem. Stop worrying about the others. They are all grown men. But I feel like they need to be taken care of as much as I do. I'm not the only one here with history. 

We don't struggle with ours, though. PJ says that but I know Ben does. I know Loch and Caleb both do. Batman sure does. Schuyler does, Daniel does. Duncan and Dalton do. Everyone's broken and the light shines through our cracks, blinding the ones who are whole. 

They need us. Otherwise they would live in darkness. They could not see. They would not learn empathy and compassion, consideration and insight. 

They might be worse off than their biggest problem being a girl who plays music too loudly constantly and when you finally go turn it off you realize she left the room hours ago and she's out in the field talking to someone who isn't there anymore. 

If that's the worst thing that happens to you in a day, you're doing good. 

***

Is that how you see it though? 

Mostly, yes. I admit. I don't want to think about it again. I just did. I'm having a rather bratty day, truth be told. Lochlan sees it and quietly suggested I not engage. That was all. It didn't mean I don't want to try or that I won't do the work. I just...well, not today. Today I am still underslept and mostly struggling with figuring out exactly which parts I can fix without losing something else. I remember once describing what it feels like here. It's like having an armload of Christmas ornaments. Every time you find another one to pick up, you drop one. So you pick that one up and drop two more. You get them all balanced in your arms and realize you see another one. You can't hold them all, you can't let go of the ones you have. That's how I approach damn near everything. 

That gives me more insight than anything you've said so far, Bridget. Everett smiles so kindly. 

You keep saying that but I know why you're really here. 

Why am I really here?

To get rid of Caleb. 

No. I'm here to get rid of Jacob. 

They're tied together. And so Caleb will be collateral damage. Or maybe he'll go and just take Jacob with him and that would be even worse, Everett.

How can you love a monster? 

How can you not?

Violet is the rarest, from the manganese (which turns purple in the sun, much like a corpse).

 It's a chilly, frozen-over morning today, bright light streaming in to warm our reluctant faces. It's a mental-health kind of Monday and everyone is moving slow like molasses on ice. The steps were slick, I am banned from the beach but I head down anyway, gripping the slippery rails like in death if only to prevent my predicted death from doing so, and quickly found myself crunching through the cold sand toward my favourite spot, way at the end where I can't hear you calling my name from the stairs.

I am not alone and I get a chance to introduce Everett to the shore, which is where I think, decompress, heal and draw energy from all at the same time. He wants to know what it means to me, the good and the bad and I am honest, talkative and open-minded, probably a first since he arrived, I am ashamed to say. 

But the chip remains and I ask him a few questions too. Like if he is really here to make another stab at getting rid of Caleb, or if Ben is up front about worrying that I talk to ghosts instead of the living when things get too difficult. 

Everett wonders if I trust Ben and how that works, as I seemingly trust the Devil far beyond what he ever earned and that doesn't make any sense. But I don't trust anyone when they say the Devil is here to stay and I don't trust anyone when they say the ghosts are fine. Those are two truths and a lie and it doesn't matter which is which anymore. 

We go over the lists, written by others, checked off and triple-checked ten times over. Does he think they are valid opinions? Do I? What would I change? What would he amend? 

The book of Everett is now open to a single page and we're all on it. Ben is right. He is oddly good at this and I feel like I'm getting to know a friend suddenly. Everett knows when to stop though, which is new. He does not push and instead asks if he can take me out for lunch in the Jeep and we will eat burgers on our laps and listen to the radio. He's going to creep into the locked room quietly through a window in order to pick through the charred remains of my scorch-earth memory. He's going to see everything and he said it's okay if I want to skip parts (for now) or come back to things (for later) and I pointed out that I know, that's how it works and he jokingly said that I should maybe enter the field as I might have more experience than he does and I don't doubt that but I also said that the chip remains. It's just eroded a bit. 

Do I want help? Yes. I want the ghosts to show up when I want them to and not when I don't. I want Lochlan to not know jealousy or fear but be perfectly fine with Caleb. I want Caleb not to be randomly, surprisingly scary. I want to be strong but still feel things. I will not be medicated. Crazy-light is just fine. I am high-functioning. I know how to manipulate but save it for important moments. They think I am helpless and little still. I would like that to stop. 

They think I am incapable of fixing this. And unwilling. And they are probably right. 

Everett disagrees and says I can have whatever I want, that the resources are there and the want is there and the work is manageable and let's just spend a few weeks talking. He manages to eek out another whole hour of conversation before I ever notice what he did, and I taught him to collect sea glass more efficiently than most, what is the most valuable colour, what to throw back and how to clean and display the best pieces in order to fulfill a metaphor for who I am. Broken but beautiful. Rare but also garbage. 

I'm just kidding on that last part. Well, maybe but the glass is technically garbage and yet it's so beautiful so what does that make me?

Sweet Jesus.

Sunday funday! I already listened to Sam's church via an early link to his podcast and Ben took Everett and Dalton into town to show Everett the sights and so Lochlan and I roasted breakfast marshmallows on the beach (you use a waffle to pull them off the sticks and then you drizzle chocolate syrup over the top so it's a sweet taco and yes, I will probably be diabetic any minute now but surprisingly my body burns sugar like a champion still) and watched the new Wrong Turn movie (good but oh, the credits LOLLLLLL) and then the new episode of Attack on Titan. 

Then he said I should do some shopping and I have a whole list but I'm not actually good at shopping. I ended up buying two outfits and some black socks with flowers all over them because my Doc Martens eat all of my socks. 

I made beef stroganoff for dinner with garlic naan. So good. 

I finished the bottle of Laphroaig. Lochlan helped me. PJ may have as well.

And that's Sunday. I'm going to bed now.

Gonna fly like a bird through the night.

He's trying to talk to me but Ben and I are trying to find ways to cover Chandelier as I discovered I love singing it but can't hammer my voice into that four-syllable build to the falsetto and I can't reach it any other way and so he's rearranging the whole song on his acoustic guitar because the drum machines were making me laugh. 

Plus with him I get the good monitors for my ears, the ones made for me, and Everett sits in the booth with Ben, a semi-politely exasperated expression on his face because I don't think he's used to loud pulsing music at six in the morning. My LochMessMonster is still sleeping. My bed is fucking wrecked and I'm glad I don't have to make it and my Devil is oh so quiet this weekend because I wear him out and I had a whole week to do it so he's been sleeping the better part of the past three days. 

That or he's avoiding Everett, since Caleb is suddenly in the crosshairs again. 

(Come for the ghosts, stay for the demons.)

(Do you think they would be offended if I had t-shirts made?)

(Maybe it should read Come for the demons, stay for the ghosts. But that could be taken two ways, and then only I can technically wear the shirt. I guess.)

I'm doing my part. Offering Everett a truthful view, no rose-coloured glasses here. No tinted windows. No pretty paint on rotting wood. This is me. I bounce between the men I love. I love some more than others. I make no apologies and no room for strangers either. I love to sing in spite of being deaf and I don't want to get rid of my ghosts or my devils. I've said it before and I'll say it again for the boys in the back. 

But if he's having a good visit, he can stay for as long as he likes. Though if he really wants to do Oms and bulletproof coffee on the patio he should enlist August instead of Ben. 

Because at the end of the day Ben will back me up. Every fucking time. Burning buildings go both ways. 

(You should hear Ben singing about being a party girl. Of course he can hit all the notes. Fucker.)

Sing for me again.

So if you see me losing sight

Of all the death in life
You'll find the peace in every time
I failed to see the death in mine

 

Lochlan wasn't sleeping when I came upstairs. He took his whiskey up to read and to give Everett and I a little time to talk after dinner. We eat so late now. Seven or eight and so it's nine by the time it's all cleaned up, if we're lucky and so by ten everyone is punchy and we've shifted to an ungodly early hour in the mornings too, much to my delight. I don't mind that but it is exceedingly difficult to carry on a conversation about my state of being when all I can do is yawn rudely in Everett's face. 

 

Meet me here at five am and we can have a surprisingly alert conversation, I tell him as he finally says we should give up, that it might be too late after all. 

 

Maybe not five. That seems extreme. 

I don't sleep remember?

And I didn't, because when Lochlan pulls me down into his arms I am suddenly wide awake in the familiar warmth. Lochlan smells like woodsmoke and candy. Like good whiskey and bottomless patience. Like home. And he gives me a kiss that reminded me I was home before tucking my head against his neck while he drives against me, his hands around my head, all of his weight crushing against me. I think we might burst into a shower of sparks or a slow burn but every time he pulls back enough for me to catch my breath cool air from the open windows rushes in to replace the heat from the fire that was burning when I came up, almost matching the heat we seem to create. 

 

He pulls me up into his lap and lifts me up over and over slowly and then finally lays me back on the quilt, crawling back onto me once more. My head is upside down. The flames dance downward and I am hypnotized as he drives. Finally he pulls me back up hard, head in his hand once more, fierce and finished and then he brings me with him as his final act and we lie back against the cool sheets while the curtains blow into the room gently from the wind, the only light coming from the fire now, which has died down significantly since I came to bed. I fall asleep easily. 

And wake up at five. 

 

The fire is long out. The Lochlan also out, still mired in dreams, flat on his back, sheets around his waist, his right hand flung out clutching my ribcage, protecting me from the dark in his sleep. 

I slide out from underneath his arm and he hardly shifts and go and take a long bubblebath. I hate Everett, I have decided, unless he wants to find a way to let me keep my memories but maybe lose the ghosts. Anything more and I will twist away until I can break into a flat run and after a few moments only then will I slow down, venturing a glance over my shoulder at what I may have left behind.

Guileless. It means childlike and innocent. Yes, just like Neamhchiontach, but in English. It was the first note he wrote, because I asked to see.

I have not been able to stump Everett yet on a song. If I start, he will finish. 

He is pleased that I am so delighted. We can go on Rock and Roll Jeopardy together except it's not on television anymore. I don't think, anyway. 

You really love your music, Bridget. 

More than these boys, I admit. (It's okay, they're aware.)

What would you like to get out of my visit?

Are these realistic, constructive answers you're hoping for or should I just list my wildest dreams?

Give me both, I'm game. 

But I'm not. I don't feel like being scrutinized. Every smile is gauged for value. Every word I say weighed for intent and truth. Every action I take catalogued and filed and I'm about to send Sam in with the gas cans to be Everett's memory thief because I've already had enough and we haven't formally started yet. 

You are reluctant. 

I've done this many times over. It doesn't work. Besides, you're-

Go ahead? I'm..?

An addictions counsellor. 

Fair enough. Except I'm not just an addictions counsellor. It's where I felt I could make the most difference in people's lives. I've been fortunate to work for some great organizations dedicated to helping people like Ben but I can do other things too. 

Fair enough, I repeat. Four days and he's already parroting my favourite phrase. It means I give up and I'm not dying on this hill to me. To him it is a diplomatic response to something he probably doesn't agree with. Oh wait, we're using it the same way. DAMN. 

Okay, now you have to call me something. 

I'm sorry? 

I called you a mere addictions counsellor and gatekept your credentials. Your turn to underestimate me. 

Oh, I have a feeling I'll be doing that the entire stay. Your past is very colourful. I don't often meet people who ran away to join the circus in real life, and I meet a number of people in unconventional lifestyles. 

Who's the worst?

Hmmm?

Who couldn't you help? 

I would much rather use my time here to focus on you. 

That sounds like you have a poor track record, Everett. 

No, there have been three or four clients who couldn't put in the sweat equity and never completed the program. They all continued to struggle until the end-

The end?

They all died. Either due to overdose or suicide.

Do you have ghosts too then? 

Five-eighths.

What if I warned you, you can't outrun your fate?

Would you believe with time comes grace?
In perfect light, in perfect place
Every dream was mine to lose
And that's what it took to lead me to you

 

So here's to the heartache
Here's to the mistakes
We'll drink to all the years, the tears
That led to this place

 
So here's to the heartache

What if I told you that everything fades away?
What if I hold you, but tell you there's just no escape?

 

He's a whopping fifty-eight today, which seems old considering the first birthday I was privileged enough to witness was a cold snowy day when he turned seventeen. That's how I know him. That's how he stays, in my mind. He's hardly changed, from the medium-blue flashing eyes to the destructive temper to the incredible jealousy to this devastatingly crushing charisma.

My monster, I love him so. He is decidedly non-negotiable, a new evolutionary kink in the perfect gears of my history. It can't be fixed. Instead you will hear a clunk-sound with every single revolution and eventually you won't hear it at all anymore. 

 

He prefers pie over cake for birthdays now but only a single slice and then never comes back for more. Strawberry, if it's available, with coffee ice cream on the side. He's more interested in the good French brandy of late nights, heavy rain muting the burn, reading my skin like a good book. That's what he really wants for his birthday, in spite of my efforts to cover myself with things I knew he would hate. Lyrics from bands he won't listen to, pictures of things he doesn't have any interest in, making sure I changed into a different person, wearing a different skin, since in my brain he ruined the first one but I know he couldn't help it and I'm not sure I blame him for that anymore because it wasn't a fleeting moment, it wasn't a spontaneous decision and I am to him what Lochlan is to me and I don't know if you can burden a soul with that sort of responsibility when they would give it away if they could. 

He wants to go for breakfast but doesn't want to eat in the car. We'll bring it home. Maybe have a picnic in the stables? 

(It's supposed to rain.)

He nods. First we need to finish this. 

You have to drive. 

We'll have it delivered. I can fill the time while we wait. He tilts his head toward me and smiles one of those rare big warm grins that always reminds me how much alike Caleb and Cole look but also reminds me that before me, Caleb was just a boy. 

And before him, I was a happy, innocent child. 

I take another drink to drown that memory because while it's not a good one, look at this. The price I paid was everything, and in return for that here I am standing on a warm private beach down at the bottom of the cliff from my huge house that is filled with a whole sleeping army watching over my beautiful sleeping children and I'm wearing diamonds and drinking Dom Pérignon from the bottle. I questionably whole, still completely crazy and moderately feral and yet well-taken care of. I still get to count Lochlan first and she, well, she'll come around eventually. I hope she will, anyway.

 

I finish the bottle. Happy Birthday, Diabhal. 

 

Thank you my Neamhchiontach. I am sad today, though. 

 

Why? I wipe off my mouth on my sleeve. Forever ten years old. Just the way he wanted, frozen in these moments forever. 

 

Because tomorrow this time, I'll be alone in the crowd again, and I think I've had the best week of my life. 

 

I take the compliment and put it in my pocket, fastening the button at the top. I don't give it back. This is how she pays him back for everything in her own little ways. It hurts him more, she says and I believe her. I'll always believe her. They should have, too.

Outwardly Caleb would move heaven and earth to see that I have what I need, that I'm comfortable in my skin, that I want for absolutely nothing. That I get what I need to feel better lest I feel like this forever. He will pay anything, go anywhere, agree with almost any plan, if it's a good one. 

But he also hates every second of it because he knows it begins a countdown of sorts and that he will disappear when the timer reaches zero, when his luck runs out, when the tides turn and never go back to the constant back and forth of right now, eroding my resolves only to build them back up later in the day. Sunrise and sunset are a mark on the calendar toward a time he actively loathes. 

Even though it is by design and he never meant to be here right now. Never meant to stick around. Never planned to fight for such a share as this. Never planned to hate the thought of leaving. Never planned to show his face again after making sure I was set for life until Jacob gave him the perfect opportunity to wade back in, to change everything and make the perfect life for the perfect army. Caleb made an open offer to show his remorse and I picked the beneficiaries and now I have that perfect life and he's still here and I'm still struggling so hard and Jacob didn't do anything, truth be told, save for that one tragedy and if I wasn't the way I am I could have dealt with it and moved on. 

The problem is, I can't move on. And with very specific reasons I am still here, still like this, still ruined beyond belief. 

I am always hopeful, though but now I know for a fact that I'm not going to let Caleb go. 

And of course that's one of the first things Everett wants to address.

And it's funny because everyone always goes into these grand plans to help me stop seeing my ghosts and the people who oversee those grand plans always want me to stop seeing my monsters.

In any case, I wrapped my arms around Caleb's neck last night and slept like a goddamned child. I'm keeping this monster. I don't care what anyone else wants.

A shimmering light.

Everett made two very large pots of Texas chili last night and a platter of garlic bread we probably could have used for a defacto kayak for its size. He asked if we usually cook our own food individually and I told him no, that most nights I cook for everyone, usually four nights a week or more, and then someone else will cook or especially on Fridays we let everyone fend. Sometimes Ruth and Henry will go and pick up fast food, sometimes we make pizzas and I only have to prepare the dough. Some nights we just don't eat but at least throughout the majority of the week we have sit-down family dinners and on special occasions the whole point shows up. 

He remains surprised that we have such a traditional family organization while not being traditional at all, and since he comes from a big family (one of eight children) he fit right in. 

Everett is kind-looking, handsome in a country-boy sort of way. Slim with reddish brown hair and tortoiseshell almost-round glasses. He arrived in jeans and a yellow and green plaid flannel shirt. He wears brown leather desert boots and wears a watch with a dial but no other jewelry. He does not check his phone. Ever. I watched him steadily all evening and not once did he pull anything out to look at. I don't know if he has an iphone or an android nor did he ask for the wifi guest password but maybe Ben already gave it to him. He listens to 3 Doors Down, The Fray and Joe Jackson. Paul McCartney and the Stones. He does not listen to metal though he said he can appreciate Ben's music, played for him while Ben spent time at the lodge, due to it's highly cathartic nature. Yes, he loves America (the band). Oh my God, good. He can stay.

At this point Ben asked me to stop grilling him. I was about to embark on his own flaws, upbringing, addictions. Qualifications. The important stuff that I need to know before I'll tell you the time, if you ask. I trust in reverse. You don't have it until you break it. You get nothing and you earn it all.

Everett is staying in the guest room on the main floor. The super-separated one we save for family members who don't visit often. It has a tiny kitchen, den and a walk-out garden patio. It's almost a duplicate to the suite that Duncan and Dalton have downstairs but way smaller. This goes off the same hallway as the library and the garden is right at the foot of the woods. So he has privacy and a little den where we can talk, or we can just use the library, big patio or the beach. He runs. He does not have an accent nor would he tell me where he was from but I didn't ask directly. He does match his fingertips up when he's explaining something which fascinates me. 

And Ben is right. He is easy to talk to, but so far not in a way that I forgot why he was here, because I still sat down to dinner on the edge of my chair in order to continue to balance that giant chip on my shoulder, as it tends to alter my centre of gravity quite a bit.

He has a wonderful laugh. My guard slips just a little.

Just a little bit, though. 

After dinner we spend two hours out on the patio talking. Or rather, I talk and he adds and questions and confirms everything Ben told him just to be sure he heard it all correctly and understands. 

I give him everything. All of it. I don't lie. I don't leave anything out and I wrap it up with my own theories. 

He agrees with them. 

I didn't expect that. 

None of it's fixable, I point out. I'm more qualified than anyone at this point to say that. I am closest to her. 

Fixable isn't the word I would use. I can teach you how to reframe and rework all of this in order to work to a place where you don't step out your door and immediately fall off a proverbial cliff. 

Reframing just sounds like looking on the bright side, Everett. 

Well, it isn't because that's just a platitude and I don't deal in those, Bridget.We're also going to look at the division of labour here in the house and your sleep patterns and between all of it I think you're going to feel better when it's time for me to move on. 

Do you think you will? 

Do I think I will what? I don't follow. 

Move on? 

Ah. Yes, Ben also mentioned you live at the Hotel California. I got the reference. I don't believe it's literal though. 

Ooooh. I had such hopes for you. The song is not about drugs, Everett. It's far spookier.

He laughed. Such a lovely sound. So pure but also jaded and somehow he's come out the other side of something. I want that so bad suddenly. To be on the other side of myself. I need to hold on to this feeling. 

I  sense that you've already decided you're going to work with me, he says before standing up and calling it a night. (It's a night, all right.) You coming in? 

No. Caleb will be out in a moment, I'm sure. Good night. Let us know if you need anything. 

This is luxury by my standards, and I truly appreciate your hospitality. I don't think there's anything here left to need.

Oh, just you wait, I say to no one, because he's already gone.

The water was six degrees, the mood an icy minus two.

I went for a swim this morning. Lochlan was going to say no and then at the last moment he didn't put up a fight at all. I wouldn't have listened anyway. Saltwater fixes everything, goes the saying, and they're not wrong, though once I stopped shivering I realized everything was still broken but now I am also struggling to stay warm.

I tried to put claustrophobic restrictions on Everett's access to me and got shot down at every turn. They want him to have a chance to see how I roll. Wow. That's a lot to ask. I don't think this is fair. I'm not a bug under a microscope. I'm not someone's science project. I am not a mannequin in a store window and I am NOT open to anyone's interpretation if you're in my home. There's no room here for error or misguided attempts to solve a problem that's hardly a problem, if you ask me. I know what's fucking wrong with me. I have a whole LIST here somewhere. Actually two. The fun part was comparing Jacob's list with Claus' and then with Joel's. Three, then.

I don't need a fourth list. I said this to Ben as he got dressed for the day and he laughed. He finally sat down and said he wanted to do for me what I just did for him, which was sit in a hospital room for so many days I forgot where I lived, and then I came home and worked my ass off helping him do anything he needed to do to get back to us. I would do it again too. I would do anything for Ben.

Then do this.

Since when do you owe me anything? You were the one who was here after Jake. You bought me a car. You walked the kids to school. You made sure I wasn't alone. You kept me away from Caleb-

And I would do that again too. 

God we're like two knights fighting over who is the noblest. 

Isn't it 'most noble'? 

Does it matter?

I guess it doesn't, Bee. 

I don't want him here. 

Give him two weeks. Remember, we don't have Joel anymore and August isn't nearly as objective as he used to be and Sam is in a weird place and needs a little room to breathe and-

Two weeks? Aughhhhhhhhhhhhh.

Two weeks. Give Everett until the Ides of March and if it's still a problem he will go. But also give him a shot. He's really good to talk to and is unconventional. You feel like you're talking to a friend. He became a good friend. That's why he's here. Few people get an opportunity like this. You don't have to go anywhere. You don't have to be away. 

But...but...four course meals and campfire projects! 

Ben laughs. I've never stopped (warmly) teasing him about the luxury-retreat aspect of his rehab. We literally paid thirty thousand dollars a month and he came home with wooden carved bookmarks for everyone and a sober outlook. He gained weight. He looked happy for the first time ever. It was profoundly terrifying. We can have those if you want! Any time, Bee.. 

I hold up my pinkie without a word. I want a promise. I want to be allowed to hold a knife capable of carving wood instead of only softened butter. I want to be left alone in my misery but more importantly I want them to be proud of me. Actually I don't. I'd be happy if Ben and Lochlan were proud of me. The rest of them can kiss my ass. But I also have my doubts here. I don't think I have Ben-type problems. Mine are different and obscure and well-hidden and I'm a super-overachiever high-functioning adult-child here and I don't know if Everett is ready for these sorts of horrors. 

He is, Ben assures me, wrapping his little finger around mine and then pulling my hand up to his lips to kiss it.

Then let's invite him to dinner. I am resigned. Fuck it. I want that pat on the head more than anything right now. 

He's making dinner for us, tonight. He's already downstairs looking at supplies and pots and pans in case we need to head out and pick anything up. 

Oh really? Wait, who is we? 

Everett, Lochlan and myself. 

Three musketeers, then. 

He's going to be your new best friend. Bridget, you'll see. 

I already have a best friend. 

Who's that? 

You.

I'm an ocean.

Oh, whoa, whoa, whoa
I said no, I said no
Listen close, it's a no
The wind is pounding on my back
And I found hope in a heart attack
Oh at last, it is past
Now I've got it, and you can't have it

Saturday morning sunshine and frost and there's a stranger in my kitchen when I finally deign to crawl out of the Devil's darkness which isn't so bad save for the fact that he's on his best, hoping for exactly this, only he's wrong and the hopes I've already smashed against the ice, shards on brick so you can break your neck when the sun blinds you and you fail to watch where the hell you're going.

There's no warning here, no advance notice, no guarded introductions. The stranger gets up and is in front of me before I can run, hand outstretched like we are normal people and I already feel that we are nothing of the kind.

I quarantined and have also tested negative before coming here, he assures me,

(Did I tell you about the time I was belting out REO Speedwagon's Can't Fight this Feeling and I sang On a corn-dog winter's night instead of a cold dark winter's night and I guess I was hungry and thinking about the corn dogs from the booth closest to our camper and Lochlan laughed all damn night and I had this feeling that I was young and dumb and would never be anything BUT young and dumb and damned if I don't feel like that now. Still. Except Line Without a Hook came out and I'm obsessed with that now instead.)

You must be Bridget. 

The one and only, Lochlan says quietly in his showman-voice from the table nearby and I automatically stick my hand out. 

Who are you?

Forgive me. The anticipation of this moment left me without my manners. My name is Everett. 

Dr. Everett what? Forgive my own manners. I'm guessing you're not actually here on an informal, first-name basis.

He is sizing me the fuck up. Surprised at my unabashed forthrightness. I'm not a shy person. I can be quiet and I hate interactions I don't expect but the very last thing I am is shy. I was the first person to volunteer to do my projects at the front of the room and the first to run out and take a bow for the audience at the end of the night. I don't care for fear of crowds or being in the spotlight. It will happen and there's no point getting worked up over it. I save my fears for the very stupidest things instead. Like flowering teas, peat fires and death. 

(Because you have to, at the very least, be reasonable about these things.)

I see in your difficulties you've definitely met your share of professionals. 

Yes but usually my husband doesn't install one in my kitchen without preamble. 

Lochlan finally talks to me. This one is on your boyfriend, Sweetheart.

Caleb didn't-

It was Ben. 

Everett's eyes get a little wider but then he checks himself. The stories are true but no one ever believes it until they meet me. 

I turn and stare at Lochlan with my own eyes wide. Where is Ben?

Out. Lochlan chuckles, in on the joke. Kind of cruel, if you ask me. 

Out? Where?

Breakfast with Dunk and a meeting, I believe. 

Oh. Nice. 

He doesn't need to be here. He wanted Everett to just show up and work. 

What, like Saturday morning mobile counselling service?

Lochlan laughs incredulously again and I realize I got it all wrong. Everett continues to watch me and it's bothering me but I can't deal with him right now. He clears his throat but I still watch Lochlan instead.

Bridget-

One second. Please. I tell him and turn back. Locket. Come on. Tell me what's going on. Wait. Am I going away? My voice disappears before I can finish the sentence.

Lochlan kicks his chair over getting up. He's in my face in seconds. No. You're not going anywhere. I told Ben this wasn't a fair way to do this but Everett's going to stay here for a bit and see if we can set you on the right road again. 

Again? Ever, you mean. 

Eh, some years are better than others. Everett's from Ben's last stay. He was really incredible with some of the grief work and Ben came back to us so much better. Do you remember? 

I nod but the tears are coming because I feel defeated and afraid and I really don't want to do this in front of someone. I remember the name now with the context. Ben actually talked about him a few times. But to invite here to the point to live without even giving me fair warning is still awful and I hate it and now I'm going in with a huge chip on my shoulder. Lochlan holds his lips against my forehead, squeezing me tight in his arms for so long I almost forget Everett is there until he speaks again.

Come and sit down so I can introduce myself properly, please, Bridget. 

Lochlan squeezes once and I nod against his chest. He lets go so slowly, so gently and I pat his chest. Don't go anywhere, please. 

Wouldn't dream of it. Another kiss on the forehead and he heads to the counter to make coffee.

Everett pulls a chair out for each of us. Almost facing each other but not quite. I sit in one and pull my knees up under my chin, resting my head on them, looking away. Good start. I'm twelve. I'm still deciding whether or not I want to do this or punish Ben for doing it to me. Whatever it is that he's done.

Antlers.

Two in the morning is the danger hour. Two in the morning is when he is vulnerable and kind.  Two in the morning is when his lifelong remorse hits him like a freight train, flinging him off into a dark even he can't climb out of and I must bring him back with me. Pulling his arm along in both my hands, wiping the sweat from my eyes as I try and find the strength to drag myself and the extra two hundred pounds of a devilman with me. 

He is eternally grateful and humble and raw. 

I love you, he says, his eyes bright in the now near dark of closer to home. 

When he says it like that I never answer, lest I fall right off the edge, back into the endless black.

***

In the morning Caleb is surprised to find me still there. He's surprised I'm not crowing for the success of my magnificent efforts to pull us back into the land of appearances, my strength all but eclipsing his own. And yet it is a gift from him, like this small box he presents me with as I sit up in his bed, looking out the window, sheets wrapped around me for warmth. 

I'm supposed to give you birthday presents. 

It's a very late Christmas gift. My apologies. It arrived at the beginning of the month. Open it, please, Neamhchiontach. 

I tear off the paper and wiggle the lid off the box. Oh. It's a pen. It's a beautiful handmade fountain pen from antler with copper bits and bobs and it's likely the prettiest pen I've ever seen and I have all of the Benu glow-in-the-dark ones. 

Oh my God, it's beautiful. 

I knew you would like it. But since you need something as beautiful to write in, this is also for you. He hands me a small packet now and I open that too and inside is a whole selection of notebooks. You already have a cover you love so this is just some papers to try. 

Wow, someone's paying attention. I have a journal. It's a diary, art journal and smashbook all in one. It's four inches thick and I drag it everywhere with me. It has three different notebooks in it now but the size I use makes it hard to find notebooks and I could order online but I prefer to feel the papers and the covers and make sure it's going to work. These will work. I don't have to buy anything for the rest of the year. 

Sure you will, he laughs. 

No. I'm good, for sure. 

You are far too easy to please, Bridget. But he is happy because I am happy. And all the things I want for can't be bought.

Run, Rabbit (but you don't listen when you should).

Oh my God. Late last night Caleb decided he wanted a birthday week instead of a weekend or even just a day and so since his birthday is absolutely non-negotiable, iron-clad and much anticipated, I let him pull me in by my elbows until he could bend his head down, nose to nose with me and ask me formally to spend his special week with him. He's simply gauging my response and I give it to him warmly, a kiss. Soft at first, sucking on his lower lip before his kisses get harder and he begins his lifelong attempt to eat me whole, the hungriest, fiercest wolf in the wood. It's always dark in this wood and you shouldn't be there, ever.

I finally break away for a breath but he still has his fingers locked around my elbows. Keeping me close.

Rules?

We don't need rules, for fucks sakes-

Rules, Diabhal. 

He presses his forehead against mine, squeezing my elbows briefly before remembering and loosening up a lot. I have slid all the way down his legs and am straddling his hips. Funny how we never change. Funny how we can't.  

No biting. No locking the door if or when you want to leave. Word is...Wenceslas. Mine?

No sleeping on the job. No industrial sabotage. No cutting it short if things are going well. We repeat each others' hards and fasts and then he resumes kisses all over my face and hair. By industrial sabotage he means specific things he does not like me to do or calling him by the wrong name, etc. Anything that purposefully fucks up our intensity together either by necessity or design. Sometimes it's too much and I look for an easy out because he won't listen. Sometimes I need an easy out because he does, he listens too well. 

Happy birthday, Diabhal. 

He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. This is the greatest gift you could ever give me, Doll. 

What's that?

Your time. 

Watching JT LeRoy and eating green apple fruit rollups with Lochlan and PJ. Come back tomorrow.

Edit: Wow! That was amazing! Infuriating and fascinating! So many adjectives. I'm a huge fan of Kristen Stewart and she hasn't disappointed me yet. Also Laura Dern who did a turn akin to her role in A Marriage Story and usually I can't stand her but she needs a meaty role to really shine. This was it. Damn. So good. My only complaint was that there wasn't nearly enough of Jim Sturgess. I love Jim Sturgess.

It wasn't until much later that I thought about his words and realized that we may not have the right, but we do it anyway.

I have returned from thy kingdom come and all beyond that burned
I've come from an age immersed in a mighty force of mortal rage

I cannot run
I hear your call
We're only chasing shadows now that castles cannot fall

 

I saw Matt last evening. He asked if we could talk on the porch and so I asked him to make some tea for us while I finished putting away the dishes. He did that and arranged a saucer of cookies too, balancing the plate on his cup, holding doors for me as we made our way out front. The rain was just beginning but at least it's still warm. I curl into the big bench, tucking my bare feet under a blanket, resting my head on his shoulder as he joins me.

We sip our teas and watch the rain for a long time. I'm almost asleep and I start to get annoyed. I have things to do and I can't have a rational conversation when I get very tired. I finish my tea and put my cup on the table. Not gently. Matt chuckles softly. 

What is it? I'm trying to sound neutral. 

Why are YOU angry? 

Am I angry?

Yes. I can feel it. 

Huh. Interesting. 

I see you're not going to engage. 

No, Matt, I'm not. 

Bridget, I really appreciate the boundaries and the respect you show for my marriage. 

I laugh out loud. Haven't done anything of the sort. Actually that isn't true at all, unless you look at the very big wide-angle picture right in front of your face.

And I think you have your hands full, he continues. This is just an outside observation.

From an insider? 

I wouldn't call myself that. 

You've been a willing participant in this commune, Matthew, so I don't know what made you go and jump back on...I guess a high horse here. 

The fact that you called out something that excluded me that involves my husband and openly questioned his devotion.

I'm going to call out anyone who twists the truth to protect themselves and leaves me to the wolves in the process.

I'm not going to be a casualty of your storms, Bridget. I will always take Sam's side. 

So will I but if it comes down to who to save from a burning building maybe you should be very clear on what Sam would do. 

He would stay behind and call the flames to distract them from the rest of us.

Oh my God, you're right, I sit up and turn to look at him. What do you want from me? To ignore Sam's narrative if it strays from the truth?

If that's what makes him happy, then yes.

This is not how I expected this conversation to go, you know. 

We're all just looking for our own fairy tale here, aren't we? We don't have the right to actively take that away from someone else, do we?

You've learned that. Do you think the rest of us can?

I do.

Then I'm doomed. 

Maybe not. There's a reason Sam is here and I don't think it's the one you think. Matt kisses the top of my head, takes our dishes and goes inside.

More than a Feeling bleeds right into Peace of Mind and it's perfect.

(Here's a bunch of subtext bullshit, all in brackets and notes. David Foster Wallace would have loved me for this. I hated him for it. Just write, I yelled at his books.)

Just write.

 I lost my spot in Monday Morning Truck Breakfast this week (we're...not sitting in restaurants but love going out for breakfast, you see), thanks to the argument with Sam (and Matt who is going to be collateral damage and I always told him he would be but now I don't want him to be so cross your fingers) so Lochlan took Sam out instead to set him straight. 

So I miss out on egg and bacon breakfast sandwiches wrapped in thick paper, never enough napkins, really good coffee in awkward paper cups I never fully trust, and Boston's Greatest Hits (came out exactly one year before I met Ben and why I remember that fact when I can't remember anything else actually makes me laugh) on the stereo in Lochlan's truck. It holds one CD and that's the one so he probably broke the Eject button right off or at the very least super-glued it to the head unit. (He used to play More than a Feeling on repeat as he ran the Ferris wheel on the Midway when I was very young, eventually getting the line I begin dreaming from the song tattooed on the back of his hand. I still love it. Still love the man. Still love the wheel.)

Should *I* be jealous? 

Should I grab up my bag and my keys and leave forcefully, feelings hurt (When are they not? They've always been bruised, battered and bleeding profusely), hoping to make it obvious that whatever hurt them is inappropriate, destructive and ruinous? 

They know it is. WE know it is. 

Lochlan will fix it and Schuyler will put on the finishing touches. Whatever words work. We know. We've heard it all before. Whatever makes her happy. Whatever happens. Whatever gets you through the night. Whatever she needs, we're here for her. (All disguised as something for me or something I wanted and really when it comes to Schuyler and Daniel they make a plan and if it's me I roll with it, truth be told and then I turn it all around and I take it, just like the song says in Don't Look Back, which follows Peace of Mind and that's perfect too.)

I guess I can stay put then, the usual instructions anyway as Lochlan slid his wallet and phone into the pocket of his peacoat. Keys in hand, nod to Sam, who met him on the front walk. Sam will always come to you and accompany you from your starting point, rather than meeting you at the end. That will be his fatal flaw at some point here. It's such a preacher thing to do.

(I'm still listening to Boston while Loch is gone. Ah. Amanda. The song I wished to change my name into just so I had a song like that about me. Ha. I was fifteen and just given to Cole by the boys as his permanent ward, a position I held right up until he died. He never wrote a song about me either. Ben did but he used someone else's name for cover and it's definitely not a classic rock ballad. THANKS BUDDY.)

Sam's knuckle tattoos read KIND SOUL. He's too good for this earth so I'm never letting him leave.

I've found a way to kill the sound/I SAID NO

 I broke all my bones that day I found you
Crying at the lake
Was it something I said to make you feel like you're a burden, oh
And if I could take it all back
I swear that I would pull you from the tide

Sitting at Sam's for breakfast. The podcast is live from seven this morning for church but we're not listening. Instead he's attempting to low-key lecture me for going to Schuyler's after dinner and not coming back until seven-fifteen (also this morning). I'm staring off into space mostly. Slack-jawed, holding my coffee cup too long, letting my bacon grow cold, more than a little alarmed at this but mostly too tired to care. 

I pull my cup up to take a long sip to try and hide my face while I roll my eyes as Sam's naked jealousy swirls around us, sucking all of the oxygen out of the room. Matt is fucking annoyed by all of this. It's a little stupid and I think I'll go. I appreciate Sam's efforts to give me an early Sunday escape in case I need it (I usually do) but if it's going to accompanied by this kind of attitude, well, Jesus's representative here on earth should take a break as I'm a grown woman and damn if I'm going to apologize to Him at this point. 

Not like He has my back. 

The cup is placed gently on the table. I'm not much of a dish thrower but when it comes to Sam the urge to chuck hard things directly at him to get it through his stubborn mind is weirdly overwhelming. I love this cup. He always saves it for me when I am over. 

Thank you for breakfast. I clear my throat, blot my lips on the beautiful cloth napkin and stand up from the table. His chair is on its back as he leaps up and knocks it over in his rush to block me from leaving.

I don't even. I look at Matt quizzically and he says Sam's full name so quietly I only hear part of it. 

Sam doesn't acknowledge this. 

Bridget-

Yes, I know. It's a routine and I'll change it up-

Safer to go back to the devil at this point, Bri-

YES I'M AWARE.

He is surprised by my sudden volume but doesn't say anything. 

I know, Sam! You don't have to protect me from Schuyler! I promise. 

Then why are all of these instincts welling up? 

Overprotection, probably. 

And here we were, worried about Cale-

Just stop, okay? 

I already did! Deferring to Daniel probably wanting his Saturday nights back with Schuy and I broke the cycle of Caleb stealing those nights now so it's done. Besides, I didn't go by mys-

You were never alone with me, either! We're going there. God, I want to throw this pretty cup directly at his face so he stops talking.

Oh. You...liar. 

Matt gets up and grabs his keys and wallet, leaving, slamming the glass door a little too hard.

Is it worth it, Sam? Is your need to save my soul so great that you would sacrifice your own life for me? 

He doesn't say anything and we're having a staring contest and then he starts to nod so slowly I clue in even slower and my eyes tear up. I was hoping he would say Of course not with great disdain. I was hoping this would be an easy save, an easier escape. I was hoping beyond hope that he would fail to take the bait even though I laid this trap so carefully, the odds never in my favour but for once that wasn't important and my ego goes out for a victory lap, sailing out over the open Pacific, dipping into the waves, splashing with joy as it turns and comes back, swooping in silently to its place with a triumphant fist pump that I probably would have done for real if I didn't know the kind of damage I can wreak with my tears. 

But I do and I hate myself and I love Sam so much it hurts even as I know how much it hurts him to admit this out loud without saying a word. 

Go get your man, and I'll go get mine, I advise, tears dripping off my chin now, tears welling in his eyes and he nods. And figure out your shit, Sam, because you've gotta realize you can't save everybody. You couldn't save Jake so what makes you think you can save me?

(The upside of Ben moving with a little more practiced carefulness thanks to his TBI is completely unprintable, sorry.)

Last night Caleb asked me over to his wing for horror movies and Mexican food, a true challenge I rarely pass up as Mexican food is loaded with tomatoes and spiciness and I cannot even look at a tomato during a horror movie. Salsa becomes something akin to some sort of immersive 4D experience and I end up losing my appetite. The game is we pick the goriest movie we can find and try and finish dinner before we get too grossed or weirded out to finish. Caleb finds it fun, as he said once 'down to earth'. 

(I have no idea what he meant by that. He is thoroughly charmed by how bougie I am,  I guess?)

But Ben said no, tucking his arm around me, pulling me backwards ever so slowly as he talked to Caleb in the hallway until I was all but tucked in against his shirt, cheek rubbing painfully against the button on his flannel shirt's front pocket and he put his right hand against my ear and I couldn't see Caleb's expression any more, not that I cared, frankly. 

Ben's confidence has returned. His bravado came with it. His ego never came back after that really good stint in rehab, thankfully but he also stood up to Caleb with a fierceness that gave me goosebumps of yesteryear. 

Long story, maybe. It's here somewhere. 

In any case, we didn't come up for air until almost four this afternoon, thank you very much and in my rush past Caleb to the kitchen, as I hadn't eaten, expending way more energy than I had the stores for, I heard him swear under his breath. 

I turned around, forgetting my hunger. What did you say? 

He doesn't deserve you, Neamhchiontach. 

You say that about everyone. I hold his gaze until he looks away first and then I leave him there, in the hall. My point is made. No hill to die on here, he doesn't have an argument to return.

25 years have passed and I never expected to understand this song firsthand.

Until one day the rain fell as thick as black oil
And in her heart she knew something was wrong
She went running through the orchard screaming
"No God, don't take him from me!"
But by the time she got there, she feared he already had gone

She got to where he lay, water-colored roses in his hands for her
She threw them down screaming, "Damn you man, don't leave me
With nothing left behind but these cold paintings, these cold portraits to remind me!"

He said, "Love I only leave a little, try to understand
I put my soul in this life we created with these four hands
Love, I leave, but only a little this world holds me still
My body may die now, but these paintings are real."

 

LIFE SKILLS.

 Not allowed to have an early morning kayak today because even though it's Thursday and it's tradition there have been a family of orcas hanging out in our little bay all week and the boys do not want me out there with them, either because I might disturb them or because in spite of knowledge to the contrary they think I might get eaten, looking like your average teenage seal in a dry suit.

In any event I am attempting to live on the top of the steps so that I can watch them until they leave again but it's far too cold to remain out there forever. I am doing my best though, coming in for hot meals and to see the kids. Warming up and going right back outside. Pawning off all of my chores. Asking the Devil if we can fence in the ocean with a big enough area that I can keep these ones, since I couldn't keep the last set. Asking at least if they can be protected in order to thrive and yet again explaining why I don't want to go anywhere or do anything right now because this is special, dammit, and we're going to see it through until they move on. 

***

Bonus content since everyone's mad I'm not posting more/longer entries right this minute. I'm sorry, I am having a late-winter meltdown and having a really hard time getting my anxiety under control. It's not as pretty as I like to be so I've practically gone underground but here:

Fun fact. I'm learning really slowly that kids these days kind of do know everything and it's all good. I bought a bunch of new kitchen utensils this week. All black silicone everything, including new tongs, as before I had a crunchy mishmash of metal and wood everything and they scratched the pots or were impossible to clean. Got home with my sleek modern haul and couldn't figure out how to unlock said tongs. 

 At all. Like what the fuck? 

Googled it and waded through a bunch of shit before finding the answer. So I figured I should share it with the group as everyone cooks all the time. 

Everyone over 25 couldn't figure it out, including those who worked in professional kitchens over their early years. Everyone under 25 rolled their eyes and showed me without hesitation. There's a little tab on the hinge end. Push it in to lock them, pull it out to unlock.

Henry rolled his eyes. I reminded him sharply I can still do a triple axel AND a flying camel spin on ice AND  I can do a pirouette return to a trapeze sixty feet off the ground so he can shove it. He opted not to roll them again, as last time he shot back whether I could do anything USEFUL and Lochlan took his wi-fi away.

(Which was somewhat hilarious. Lochlan was furious but I made him relent after an hour because Henry is as pragmatic and dry as Lochlan and furthermore he was absolutely right. Lochlan said he was grounded for the 'tone' of his perfect roast, that's all, but they both learned something that day. That Henry is fucking FUNNY and never misses a chance to light up anyone who puts themselves in his sights but also that wow, mom really coddles her youngest child far beyond what is necessary and lets him off the hook for everything. Which he knows, and that's the dangerous part here but he is a good kid. The best, and soon to be twenty years old.)

In the apocalypse the young will prevail. Good for them.

 I always think I'm in control, that I wield the power over this point, that the sun rises and sets by my command and that it's a well-run ship and I am Captain Bridget and this is my crew of tattooed pirates and we've set sail for bluer waters and smoother seas.

And then I snap out of my unintentional, pipe-dream-of-a-daydream, brutally reminded that I am a feral carnival child and that not only do I not make the rules, I can barely follow them, if at all and that if I dared to assume anyone was captaining this ship toward the horizon of my own life it certainly isn't me. 

The seas? Perpetually stormy. The girl? Drowning, as always.

Duncan just suggested I give up my handbag.*

I am busy making a million thousand hundred dozen pancakes because it's Shrove Tuesday. I still haven't decided what I'm giving up for Lent but I'm working hard on that, rest assured. I have some seriously nuclear cramps and my hair is a disaster and all I want to do is watch a scary movie and go to bed. Did that last night though and no sleep was had between a restless old dog, a blind old cat wandering the halls meowing loudly to herself and the rain that never seems to stop anymore. I guess it's February. I guess it's perpetually dinner time. I guess Easter is coming and we all have to suffer and tomorrow I'll get the cross made in ashes on my forehead because it's a stunning outward and rare display of religion so I love it and in the meantime help me figure out what I should go without. 

Don't say music, coffee or boys. Those ones aren't negotiable. I can do alcohol, internet or Netflix or even chocolate. Candy. Meat. Online shopping. Ha. I don't know. Help. I have twelve hours left to put in my decision. 

*(Edit: Not sure on the handbag. It's a crutch. Like a drug. I'm leaning toward a service decision instead. Post Tutorials or how-tos. Volunteer. Help people. Kindness acts. Donating one item a day for 40 days. Good deeds and pure-heartedness instead of my exhausting doomsday anxious cynicism. Think I might have my answer.)

Mondays are for the boys.

Schuyler's here with Daniel this morning, making brunch to make up for keeping us the full fifteen hours or so when it was supposed to be around three. They are cutting potatoes to fry, keeping an easy banter with Duncan and PJ while I stare. Schuyler's got an incredibly outward, easy handsome. Everyone on the point has a crush on him and it's hard to balance that against his alpha personality because if you stare too long he's the kind to ask you why you're staring and how you feel about it. If you stare too long at Daniel though, he's going to ask you if you have a problem. It's a delicious, thrilling danger that is much like a wager on whether or not you're going to burn yourself depending on how close you are to the fire. You know the risks. You also know the rewards. 

Sam and Matt have chosen to spend Family Day (a holiday here) sleeping in, or I think my head would explode. I've been sitting in the crook of Lochlan's arm while we surf exceedingly expensive foyer designs as we are preparing to change up the front hall. It needs the rustic modern charm of the Tahoe house but in a more practical format. And we need more places to sit to put on shoes or rest your things when you're going out or coming home. Right now it's a double front door with windows on either side and in the doors and then you walk in to a square room with two closets (one on each side and a huge round table in the centre. A small bench ahead of each closet helps but I'm envisioning more wrap around benches with storage in them and maybe a rectangle table, also with storage. And a skylight. And make the closets a lot larger, with glass french doors to close keeping the rest of the house private if there is someone in the front hall. 

I have drawings. Everything will be white, except for the door trims (inside the room) will be pale turquoise. And the cushions on the benches a darker teal and my favourite seaside art prints on each side above the benches and the wreath on the front door is seagrass and glass floats. 

(Sounds fragile but it actually keeps them from slamming the doors in anger. They know how much I love my floats.)

Maybe a living plant on the table instead of the endless flowers that don't match. I'll see if I can get one of those seventy-thousand dollar bonsai trees that are eight feet tall. Dark and sage green cushions and whitewashed hardwood floors can round it out. 

Maybe I'll post before and after pics. Maybe pigs will fly. I'm not good with clutter and that room is a virtual whirlwind all the damn time save for the fact that I insist you put your coat on a hanger, put your boots on a boot tray in the closet and take your personal things with you, hanging your vehicle keys in the key cupboard (in case we need to move a truck) and god help you if you don't. 

It's the biggest first world problem in the world, that room but also there's no handy manual for living in a modern-day commune. 

Perhaps I'll write one. I'll call it Schuyler's Here and No One Cares About The Front Hall Anyway.

Come on be a man about it (look up Hannah Boulton's Anastacia cover for I'm Outta Love. SO GOOD.)

I'm outta love
Set me free
And let me out this misery
Just show me the way to get my life again
Cause you can't handle me

Haha. Just got home. Ruth has gone to try and get snowed in at her boyfriend's family's home (invited for dinner) and Henry's on Dischord setting up a night of online gaming with his friends. Ben is still ensconced in his studio doing something for Corey (two days and counting) and Schuyler decided to muscle in on Caleb's dirty Saturday night habit, stealing Lochlan and I for the evening and before I knew it I was safely installed in the centre of a sleepover, glass of wine in hand, bowl of corn chips in Daniel's hand, naked reality tv show watching underway with long drawn out distractions, furtive naps and exhaustive laughter. 

Sometime around four this morning we ran out of chips and wine and tv too and Schuyler made a big group text and said that Bridget was tied up and wouldn't be attending church today. Then he threw my phone into the chair on the other side of the room and had a gentle laugh against my ear before seeing us through to the sunrise, no Jesus to be found. 

Holy Christ. 

Fair enough. He laughs again.

I need to go home. I need a hot shower. Maybe an exorcism. 

It's a long weekend. 

Yes, it definitely is. I snort-laugh and Lochlan (way past drunk, almost headed toward silly, warm nostalgic Magic-Loch of the nineties here and this is why I stayed so long, because I don't want that to end) suggests we sleep a bit and then have brunch later. 

We missed brunch, I guess, sleeping in a pile until past two this afternoon and when we came back to the main house through the snow, Caleb was watching us from the upper back stairwell window. Lochlan pulled me in to his face by the neck, kissing me so hard I would have fallen but he was holding me up. 

That was fun. 

Schuyler's a charmer. 

He is, Peanut.

In a dangerous way.

Maybe, yup. 

No, I'm serious-

You're just tired. 

I stare at him and leave it on the hill. I want to walk away alive and I'm not going to pick a fight. He never comes next door with me. Last night he didn't even hesitate. Maybe his eyebrows went up more than once or twice but he let go a bit and it's been ages. He hasn't really gotten to experience Schuyler On Perpetual Vacation but frankly everyone should. I can always see why Ben and Schuyler got along so well. They both have a gift for making the most of the moment, for suspending worry, fear, trepidation or negative energy and making things fun and you leave them feeling as if you're different somehow. 

This gives me incredible peace of mind for Daniel. And for everyone here. Schuyler and Lochlan are unofficial equals and also way too much alike for my own liking but dammit if I didn't actually need to break the cycle Caleb had strongarmed me into always saving Saturdays for him and then ending up missing church because he wouldn't let go or wasn't ready to give me up quite yet. 

What's the difference? He asks on the stairs as I head up for that shower while Lochlan goes to make some afternoon coffee to bring upstairs. 

What do you mean?

You missed church again anyway. Why is it a bad thing if you're with me but perfectly fine with Schuyler?

Lochlan was there.

End of conversation. Caleb isn't going to invite Lochlan along. Ever. I could probably push it but then it's just intense and frightening and an endless power struggle in the dark. No one's reading wine bottles backwards or invoking breathless tickle fights in those nights. 

(The power of) Christ (compels you). Caleb says it under his breath. Just the one word, but I'll fill in the others and the demons will clear out and I can get my head on straight again. Sure my knees are on backwards too at this point but I'll have to deal with those later. Then I'll have to work on getting the stupid happy grin off my face long enough to get roasted at dinner. It's one walk of shame I'll happily strut through. Because I had fun and I'm sick of apologizing for it. Not like anyone else is.

Snow day.

Last night I got in bed late, as I stayed downstairs to watch the end of a show with August, and after he went home I locked up, did a circuit to check that everything was closed up and locked down, set the alarm, checked the cameras and then came upstairs, climbing up the middle of the bed after brushing my teeth and leaving a pile of clothes on the chair in the bathroom. I slipped down under the quilts and turned away from Lochlan, sliding backwards until I had my back against his chest and his arms went around me in his almost-asleep state, a kiss absently landing on top of my head. He hates it when I breathe directly in his face, hence me always sleeping face toward the headboard. 

Ben loves it. He said it makes him feel less alone and also alive and so he moves in closer, arms around both of us and I become sleep-meat. A Bridget sandwich between Ben's bread (soft and pale, God I miss that bread from home, there was a brand called literally Ben's Bread.) and Lochlan-bread, which I imagine to be a dark rye full of seeds and nuts, rustic and full of air bubbles but also dense and woodsy. 

I laugh out loud when I pull my green blanket in around me as they tend to make the covers lift up a lot and the cold air rushes in from the top. 

What's so funny, Bumblebee? Ben mumbles from my hair. 

We're a sandwich and my green blanket is the lettuce, I explain but he has fallen off the edge of sleep again. He's not on alert. Laughter is an audible cue to relax their guard.

Lochlan's arms tighten around me and I start my routine of trying to unfocus my mind, beginning with running up my body from my toes to the top of my head, a visual exercise, shutting off switches as I go, leaving each part in the dark in turn, signalling rest. Of course when I get to my brain the switch is broken and I flip it up and down, frustrated. I invoke my backup plan which is to run through a mental picture of all the places I love most, from the teepee on the brook back in the woods to the Big Ex grounds to the Forks market to Hither Hills to Miss Molpy's basement to the Louvre to Zanoagei Gorges to the Barkley Sound. I usually only make it to the Forks before I am out cold but last night I paddled silently through the predawn mist, looking for new and wonderful birds around the Deer Group islands and then I drifted away on the tides before waking up at five sharp. 

That marks a scant three hours of sleep and I am disappointed but exceedingly alert today. Lochlan is not alert. In the least. Ben is almost comatose in his slumber, since shifted onto his back, arm still snaked underneath our necks all the way across and curled around Lochlan's head. 

Stay. Lochlan barely finishes the word. He can't stay awake. 

It's snowing! I'm going kayaking. 

No you're not and if you leave this house you'll be in so much trouble.

Fine. I'll wait until you're up. 

I go downstairs but no one is up yet so I read for awhile, then rearrange my cartful on the stationery website that I still haven't ordered from.  Then I go down the hall to check in on PJ but he is just a lump of quilts in a dark room so I go back toward the library where I guess I'll watch the snow and read until I hear the sounds of the house coming to life. 

When I walk into the library there is a small grey coyote sitting just on the other side of the floor to ceiling window that presses into the woods in front of the house. He is not startled but he looks at me curiously. I stay in place, leaving the lights off. This is a gift, though it's usually a bear or a deer and so I am curious enough to move closer. That's a mistake. The coyote turns and disappears into the trees, leaving the snow falling gently.

I look for prints and take a photo of them through the glass before they vanish too. This part of the yard is inaccessible from the other and is not curtailed by the fence and so it's a regular occurrence to have company outside the windows. 

I can't focus to read and so I watch and wait.

Sigh. Not a public platform, no duty to do anything here but write letters into the wind, folks.

(I didn't come here to write about this. I had something I wanted to put down but I made the mistake of logging in email first and saw all of them and well, here we are. No post for you today, I guess, and definitely no post for me.)

Here goes (I'll say it once): 

Whenever a public figure/musician/person is 'metoo'd' people ask me if I'm ever going to 'talk about it'. 

Talk about what? 

I'm kidding. Yes, I know a lot of musicians and even some who have been cancelled. Personally. As such, since I saw the paper last night I am aware that Matthew Good is being cancelled as we speak. And I swear if I open my mouth about it, well, you'll never hear the end of it so I'm not going to talk about it. I will most likely continue to fight Lochlan to listen to an MG song the whole way through even though they murder me fully, and Lochlan will continue to try to skip the track to save my dear ruined mind. 

Yes, that's what I'm going to do. 

If I address these kinds of subjects, I can only speak to my own experiences and those I know directly. I may have met Matthew Good once or twice and if anything he seemed introverted, shy and awkward but also bitter and detached but that doesn't mean I have anything to say about this, because I wasn't physically there and opinions are always best left to those with actual insight. 

Anything else is ignorance, arrogance and assumption.

Stuck inside our own machine.

Six in the morning and Lochlan is very quietly covering Nelly Furtado's Try on his acoustic guitar by the woodstove, feet up, coffee within reach, his light falsetto making short work of the bridge. The lights are all on and the wind is positively howling outside. We're still facing down a week or so of minor snow but any snow is-

Oh, my. He has moved on to Neil Finn's Song of the Lonely Mountain. He's going through what I call my Quiet playlist, learning the songs as they are inoffensive and beautiful and heartbreaking each and I couldn't cull this down if I tried so he's got his work cut out for him for the next fifty years or so. 

This is so nice. Ben and Caleb are at their favourite points on the big couch, on their phones. Caleb picking stocks, most likely, and Ben fretting for the state of some of his friends who failed to diversify which works when there is a functioning music industry but not when there isn't and so if I could I would take Caleb's resources and pour them into Ben's friends to keep everyone afloat until this ends. 

Lochlan presses skip on the next song. Apparitions. He can sing it but you can watch me dissolve in realtime as I listen. Matthew Good is my spirit animal, my kryptonite and my certain destruction, I make no airs about that. 

All your faults in meeeee-

Bridge-

Loch doesn't want a vocal accompaniment, I guess. But now it's in my head. Ha. I can't outrun this. My psyche plucks out my hippocampus and my heart (thrown overhand, no less) in it's arms and comes running after me, flat out. 

But for now, I am faster still.