Only for me.

One of the most interesting things about being me is that no one else is. There are a few people who come close, people who have similar tragedies or similar lives, or maybe you've been in love so you know exactly how I feel.

Well, you don't.

Those of you who would hurl words through cyberspace in an attempt to feel righteous and above reproach have got to be the most narrow-minded people I have ever encountered and what I don't understand is why in the hell are you coming in here to read some girl's sad diary in the first place if you're so awesome and incredibly perfect and jaded and lucky?

Oh-oh (she sings). Busted.

Maybe I'm having a bad day and maybe on days like today I shouldn't write anything, and get a little pleasure out of giving you less ammunition to stuff in your fucking judgment cannon and maybe then I could garner an ounce of peace from one thing in the day but I'm the ever-dedicated masochist and so, what the fuck, here I am.

Back for more.

I woke up this morning in pain, okay? I woke up staring into brown eyes that half the time I don't even recognize. I woke up knowing that because of me a friend is starting his life over again at 35 years of age and I woke up knowing that Jacob is dead and maybe he was the only one who ever really knew me at all and knew how to make things go away and knew how to hypnotize me or comfort me long enough so that I could get through the harder parts in my own skin, a covering that is woefully inadequate for this war of a life I never signed up for.

Just don't, okay? Not today.

On not taking solace in the arms of your shrink.

It always seems to me that when something goes wonderfully, and everyone makes a big effort to Keep Things Nice, something is up.

Something was up.

Joel's disciplinary hearing. It was this morning but no one told me, of course. So I wouldn't worry. The good news was, they didn't revoke his licence. The bad news? They suspended it instead, for two years (three with time served already), then it will be partially reinstated while he practices, supervised, for five years. This after taking a bunch of training courses and ethics workshops and a million other hoops he has to jump through. He is now seriously considering walking away from what would have been an incredibly promising career, had he never met me.

And frankly, I don't care to be called the victim in this. You can say it all you like, I don't care what kind of authority or obligation Joel had to maintain a psychiatrist-patient boundary, the simple fact is I asked him for something and I got it.

And he has to pay the price and I don't quite understand why I don't. I mean, I do, but I don't. I just don't see where he took advantage, when I was the one who made the first step inward.

In any case, he has other options and may or may not return to psychiatry in the future. But more importantly, he is still my friend.

I know, big surprise there. Ben was really hoping things would go the other way.

Three days in one, the Thanksgiving edition.

I know I didn't talk much about my reaction on Saturday. I was still processing the day when I wrote it out, still waiting to talk privately to several of the guys because the day strung out into a very long, very full production and it's hard to get that much private time with ten or twelve different people that I needed to thank in person, especially when I really could have used a couple of hours in between each to compose myself.

Ben hadn't said much, just that we were maybe headed to the farm and I dreaded that and so he said we would go see Cole before we left and take a little breather. Only August's jeep was in the parking lot and it gave things away slightly, but not completely. All the guys managed to hide out until Ben whistled and then people appeared out of nowhere just as we rounded the hilltop to walk down to Cole's bench and I saw the other bench with a shiny new plaque installed.

Everyone's eyes were on me and I started to shake uncontrollably and Ben unzipped his coat and tucked me into it and wrapped the sides around me, in his arms until I doubt you would have known I was there if you hadn't seen my legs. My knees were rubber, my heart pounded and my eyes blinded me with tears I couldn't blink away.

What a perfect idea.

The kids needed something desperately and I've been paralyzed. Unable to make any decisions when it comes to Jake because I always make the wrong ones. Unable to move forward or backward, just stuck in today, always. Get through today, plan and reminisce for nothing. Make no lists, try not to focus on the time, on the hours, the minutes, the months without him, focus on the red-blooded man who IS here for you. Get over yourself. Be brave. Let Jacob go, just a little, not a lot, so that you can breathe again.

That's been my internal pep talk for eleven months now and it's failed me miserable, hasn't it?

Ben didn't let go of me until the shaking stopped, and I was passed off to Loch with what I'm sure was a lovely expression of total distrust but Lochlan gave me a squeeze and practically tossed me into PJ's arms, where he hung on like I was a life raft. Sorry PJ, I'm going to tell the internet you cry on my behalf because I think it's awesome.

Ben had both kids in his arms now and they were crying because they take their cues from me.

PJ did not pass me along, Ben had to ask for me back eventually.

Sam said a few words that meshed nicely I'm sure with whatever he had said at Jacob's memorial service (I have no idea what they were) and I couldn't hear him yesterday thanks to the wind but Ben said it was nice and he would repeat it verbatim whenever I was ready but I don't think I need to hear it. After that they just waited and I finally stepped forward and went over and sat down on Jacob's bench and looked at the river and then I put my hands up over my face and Ben's coat was there to hide in again, against his warmth, in his strength that waffles so mightily sometimes. Only when you force him to be strong he is and I wasn't and so we traded for the day.

I did manage to see everyone and talk to everyone privately who was still here by the end of the night and at midnight or so I met Lochlan on the patio to say goodnight and thank him too, though we've been weird and at odds and not talking much, I wanted him to know that I was glad he came. He motioned to two shots on the table. Whiskey. A toast. To what I don't know, so probably less a toast and more a soothing way to put out the fire in my head, calm my thoughts, help me sleep. I lifted my glass and he started talking and he toasted me. To my strength, to my fierce needs to keep going even though it hurts, to do things the way I need to do them and to the girl who is uniquely Bridget and completely unpredictable. And to Jacob's princess, he would be proud of me now.

It was gone before he finished that sentence because by then I really needed it.

He gave me a fast hug and went out through the gate to walk back to John's house where I'm sure the rest of the whiskey would disappear overnight and I turned to go back in the house. Ben was in the kitchen washing dishes. I snuck up behind him and said I was going to go up and brush my teeth if he wanted to go to bed now. Before I could escape he turned and kissed me really hard.

SHIT.

The whiskey was still burning my lips.

He smiled and said I tasted frightening good. I tried to apologize and he just kissed me again and said he loved me, to go up and he'd finish up and get the lights and join me in a few minutes. He was coming up the stairs before I could wrestle the cap off the toothpaste and then he collapsed on the bed, waiting for me while I scrubbed each tooth and my tongue and then my face, hands, and then for good measure I brushed my teeth again.

He kissed me again as I crawled into bed and said the toothpaste was a nice improvement and I apologized but he cut me off again and so I left it and he said if I want to take a drink or have a really hard cry I don't need to go to extraordinary measures to do so. That he was better with me not living on pins and needles on his behalf. I know all this but we have some sort of compulsive need to repeat whole conversations over and over again until something takes hold.

Yesterday was tough, in comparison, really tough as more finalities came to roost in my overcrowded brain and Ben was in and out and Andrew was here keeping watch over the girl he calls Peanut Brittle (isn't THAT a lovely nickname) and I was headed to a white-knuckle finish by about nine pm and so Ben sent Andrew home and suggested we get some rest, because tomorrow we had a big day and....and I don't know what he said or did after that because the moment I had permission to sleep, I closed my eyes and that was it. I have to be told to stop moving sometimes or I'll just keep going.

Waking up at nine-thirty on a day when you have more than a dozen people coming for dinner isn't such a wonderful idea, but I feel very slightly better than i did yesterday, if only this headache would go away, and Henry is back to normal, after a brief bout with the vomit fairy yesterday morning, and everyone will pitch in so I'm not worried about the meal at all, I think it will be fun, and nice to have almost everyone together under one roof for a happy occasion.

And as per tradition within this family made of misfits and wanderers and passion, when one chair goes empty it is filled with someone new and the dynamic changes once again. Only this time the new addition to our group is going to take a lot of getting used to, but at the same time he is tolerated because he is blood and in our family blood is thicker than friendship and so no one dared to question my motives.

I filled the empty chair with Caleb.

We don't call my brother-in-law Satan for nothing. If he's going to share this city with me he's going to be introduced to the force to be reckoned with that is the rest of my guys, who have so far hung back, watching warily while Jacob and Ben and Joel have interacted with him. I've kept them all apart as much as I could on purpose, but with his move here being finalized on Friday, it's time.

But in my house his power will be moot and I expect him to behave. Starting today. He's completely outnumbered and he's going to get eaten alive. Nicely, though, because it's a holiday and there are children present and because the guys are really good with looks and words and making things known without ever having to say things. And I will watch him from the relative safety of Ben's arms because I don't plan to be anywhere else for the rest of today. I'm not sure how Ben will eat anything at dinner with me in the way but he'll figure it out. He's done it before.

And that, my friends, is something to give thanks for.

I'll never hear your voice again.

With a rare and very innocent comment, I averted certain disaster a little while back. I referenced Nolan's farm as being a dedicated "Bridget and Ben" place, stringing together the fact that we pretty much fell in love, hooked up, got engaged and then got married there.

Good thing, that.

Because the guys REALLY weren't thinking when they decided they were going to have a memorial to Jacob put on the property, with Nolan's blessing because Jacob and Nolan were friends for years and years and Nolan misses him too. Only dammit, the farm now belongs to Ben and I as a safe and private place, not as a shrine to Jacob.

So thankfully the boys clued in and changed their plans and came up with the best idea ever. Remember Cole's bench? It's a bench with a small brass dedication plate welded to it, and it sits facing the river at the end of the walking path in a huge park about five kilometers from here. I picked it because it was close enough to visit and far enough to forget. I picked it because I don't believe in headstones or grave markers or cemeteries or granite reminders. I like functional, and subtle and simple.

Jacob has a bench now.

It sits perpendicular to Cole's bench and now there is seating for up to six people there at the end of the trail and it's funny because overall Cole and Jacob didn't like each other all that much and it's awesome because now when I take the kids to visit they will each have a bench to spread out on and they can switch now and then and everyone is happy.

And we got this present early because the evil one stepped in and pulled some strings so that we wouldn't have to wait-having a bench dedicated takes forever, never mind being able to choose a place that's already been chosen, so much and the evil one was also the one to point out I wouldn't be able to appreciate it in two weeks so may as well get it over with now and he was right and I appreciate the things he does, even though I wonder what price I'll pay later on.

Two weeks from yesterday will mark a year since Jake left and four weeks from now is his death-date and frankly I'm holding a grenade but there is no pin for it. It seems to be slow acting but who knows? I like the bench, I like where it is, it makes me laugh to see them sitting side by side, since I can count the number of times they did that in real life on one hand, since I was always wedged firmly in between them. I still am, in so many ways, and in so many other ways I'm not the girl that either one of them loved.

Thank you guys, for this gift.

Bridget, can I ask you something?

Sure, PJ, go ahead.

Do you ever wish that you'd never married Jake?

Yeah, sometimes.

Really?

I used to think that the brief epic romance he showed me was worth it but I don't think it is anymore. Ben is capable of so much more than that.

You comparing?

No, any man is capable of that once they lose their inhibitions.

I think you're right. But..

But what?

Doesn't it mean this was all for nothing?

Of course not. I was given the greatest of gifts through this.

How strong you are.

Damn right, PJ.

Can I ask you one more thing?

Sure, whatever you want.

Since when did Ben qualify as a romantic?

You'd be surprised, PJ.

You're damned straight I would be, princess.

Would you guys leave him alone already?

Never, he's too easy to pick on.

Nice. Thanks.

Ah come, on, Bridge! He's a caveman with a guitar strapped on, pretending to be civilized.

He's awesome with a capital B, Padraig.

You're killing me. You guys are so emo.

Emo? You can't be emo when you're pushing forty.

Sure you can. You both have proven that.

PJ, if you were a girl you would understand.

And if you were a guy...wait, life wouldn't be any fun then.

Sure it would. I'd be able to write my name in the snow!

I don't want that image in my head, Bridget.

Snort.

Wet sidewalks, warm soup, angry words, sappy apologies.

I've lost all that I wanted to leave
I've lost all that I wanted to be
Don't believe that there's nothing that's true
Don't believe in this modern machine.

If the month of October is to remain rainy, cold and cozy then I'll willingly oblige and sleep in front of the fire. I'm learning that if the ghosts and the wellmeaningsers would let me sleep I could do it more often than I do.

And I will.

All afternoon and evening. Ben and I are fought-out, counseled-out, and even lunched-out. So if you need us, you now know where we'll be. I'll be in his arms and he'll be in mine. Or as much of him as I can fit anyway. The odds are not stacked in my favor.

Have a good day.

Conclusion: The Memory Thief.

He ran flat out down the dark alleyway, splashing through puddles and careening around obstacles in his path.

Before his brain had a chance to compare the relative safety of the building with where he was now, a fist came out of the blackness and connected with his jaw.

Down he went, the bundle flying out of his arms. The thief stared up at his would-be mugger, and the mugger stared back. The precious bundle rested on the wet pavement between them, still wrapped in the thief's coat. Still safe, for the moment.

What do you want?

Is this all of them?

Yes. Why?

I'm taking them.

That isn't a good idea.

The mugger didn't say anything. He walked forward and gently picked up the bundle. He removed the coat, tossing it toward the thief, who didn't make a move to catch it. The mugger leafed through the stack of memories, nodding here and there, frowning and then smiling softly. He glanced up once, his dark eyes shining in the night and then he turned and began to walk away.

Those aren't safe for you to keep, you know!

The thief's sure pronouncement echoed off the brick around them.

I'm not keeping them

The thief jumped to his feet and ran after the mugger. He grabbed the mugger's shoulder and spun him so they were face to face.

What are you going to do with them?

I'm going to put them back.

You can't.

You had no right to take them.

Someone had to save them, that building is condemned. If we don't keep them safe they'll be lost forever.

They're in the building for a reason. It's where they belong. And there's a chance we can save everything but not like this.

This is the only way.

No, it's not.

Do you have a better idea?

Yes, I do.

What is it?

We leave it alone. Taking it apart before we need to isn't going to work.

I know that, that's why I'm trying to work with what I've been given, Ben.

Then try something else, Sam!

And he took off, back toward the building, back to return the memories to their places. To file them away in their locked cabinets in the locked room at the end of the hall where they would be safe. No one was in a rush to get the building torn down, structurally it was safe. He was fine with continuing to live on borrowed time as long as there was no more pain for her.

He got to the top of the fire escape only to find the window open. He entered and walked to the first door with the broken pane. It was open. He went in and sat down on the floor and opened the drawer closest to him and began to sort through the paper.

It would be a long night, but he would stay until everything was returned to its rightful place.

*****************

The sun had risen high in the sky when he stood and stretched, arms to the ceiling as his stomach rumbled with hunger. The mugger surveyed the room and smiled to himself. Job well done, he thought.

He called out loud, his voice jagged and hoarse,

It's finished. You're okay. You're safe now. I will watch over you.

He didn't hear a response.

The door opened and he turned, surprised. When he went out into the hall, he found that the building had changed. It was full, offices were bustling, elevator floors were being rung, printers buzzed, coffee was carried to desks in busy arms full of important business, and the building seemed new again. The floor was different, the scratched and faded covering replaced with muted grey carpet to keep the noise down. To his surprise, the window in the door was intact, frosted glass masking the contents but allowing the light into the hall.

His smile was a little unsure now, as he tried to blend in, casually walking toward the elevator noises. He got to the center of the floor and realized he knew a lot of the people working here. People nodded to him, a few squeezed his shoulder. One man, dressed in an expensive suit, came forward to shake his hand and thanked him for saving the building, because there was a lot of work to be done here and it was an important place and that the mugger was going to be very happy living and working here.

He nodded, saying nothing, as the realization began to sink in. He didn't have to save it alone, but neither did the thief have to tear it apart to save what he could. Everyone would work together.

That realization was fleeting, dashed to pieces as he got to the main floor lobby and saw cracks sealing themselves as he walked across the floor.

No, it wasn't everybody.

It was the building. It was healing itself. They only had to help. The doors to that room didn't have to stay locked now. The building was full of light and it had purpose.

He sucked in his breath and smiled.

Bridget wasn't a lost cause after all. He always knew that though, it was a risk he was glad he took. Even if he had to pretend to be the bad guy sometimes.

Drive-by Tuesdays.

I wanted freedom
Bound and restricted
I tried to give you up
But I'm addicted

There are three things I bring to the table today.

One is that I'm really surprised to see the fine spray of white paint on the brick trim at the back of the church is still there from a cold blustery day back in 2006 when Jacob had a very bad cold and was still trying to finish the addition before the snow started. I've looked at that mark every single time I have walked in and out of that church for the past almost-year and this morning I realized that it'll never come off unless they paint the brick (who paints brick? Not a church with a limited maintenance budget) or sandblast it (again, not in the budget) and so it will remain as proof that he existed in a tangible way and not in the way I'm forcing myself to keep him.

Which is ironic, considering the second thing I'll tell you today. I'm giving up Jacob's last name. It's part of re-imagining my life with Jacob in a way that is less-damaging to my soul. I have to let him go, just a little. This will be step one. Move on. Name change. Here we go again. Four last names in fifteen years. The fun part is I won't be sharing the new one here because I'm going to go back to being the uber-mysterious princess for a while because it's easier for me. So there.

Three, I bought a truck.

I know, big deal. Well this time it is because it was a rash, uncharacteristic decision in that it's....a really old truck. A '75 C10 in the most horrifying shade of milky minty green you have ever laid eyes on. It works, but barely. I plan to have it fixed so that it's reliable and then it will become my winter vehicle because my little brand new car isn't going to be so good in the snow and Ben's truck is HUGE and I don't think he trusts my driving all that much, which makes two of us. So the truck made a surprise appearance to the driveway this afternoon and I couldn't be happier.

As usual, everyone else thinks I have lost my mind.

As usual, they're probably right but it's better than the mental paralysis of the previous eleven months and beyond.

Right now I'm going to go see if the truck will start. Place your bets and stop laughing.

Part Two: The Memory Thief.

As abruptly as the screaming had begun, it stopped.

The lights began to go out, in the reverse order that they were turned on, he could hear the heavy clunk of the switches shutting down one after another, quicker now until the building was once again steeped in blackness. This quiet darkness was worse than before, after the calamity in the room, the only sound now his harsh breathing and the feather-light sweeping swish of the last few pieces of paper sliding off open drawers to the floor.

The door slamming shut broke the silence.

He reached down to the floor, scooped up a handful of the papers, and smoothed them into a neat stack. He worked methodically through the night, gathering hundreds of them in his arms and bringing them to the space in the middle of the floor where a pile grew. Once he was sure he had every last one, he wrapped the stack in his coat and tucked the bundle securely under his arm.

The door wouldn't open.

He waited for a few heartbeats in the room, standing motionless before finally taking a deep breath and talking softly.

Open the door, please.

He heard laughter all around him.

Open the door now, please.

More laughter, and the doorknob rattled violently.

Please?

Everything stopped.

The door opened slowly, as wide as it could go and the a single word reverberated through his skull as it echoed through the empty building.

NO!

The door slammed shut again.

He walked to the door and tried the knob gingerly. There was no resistance as he turned it and he opened it again and looked both ways down the long hallway. There was nothing to see in the darkness and so he took a step out. He walked purposefully back to the window at the end of the hall, the same way he had come in and stepped out, back onto the rusted fire escape to make his way back to street-level.

He thought he could hear the faint sound of someone crying, softly like they didn't want anyone to hear. He shook his head as the sound was carried away on the wind and descended the stairs slowly and carefully until he reached the bottom, stepping off onto the wet pavement into the deserted alley.

He broke into a run.

Part One: The Memory Thief.

He slipped in during closing, when no one was watching, sliding a leg down through the open window and finding easy purchase on the highly polished wooden floor. He walked carefully down the dim hallway, avoiding the boards that might creak under his weight and then froze at the first door, silent and still.

Was someone coming?

He held his breath and waited.

No, there was no one there. It must have been the wind. Or the building. Sometimes buildings settle and make noises that only seem to be important when it's getting dark outside. Filling his lungs with air again he pressed on, trying the first door and finding it locked.

He moved on.

After several frustrating minutes he came to the conclusion that all the doors seemed to be locked and so he circled back to the first door, the one closest to the window at the end of the now-dark hall. It appeared to have a rather flimsy doorknob lock in a door that was half-glass, a large window set into it, single-paned, rippled with age.

Doable, he thought.

He took one last look around, just to reassure himself that he was indeed alone.

He covered his eyes with one arm and put his fist through the glass.

It shattered all around him in a deafening crash and he tore his arm away from his face to check again to see if anyone was watching him. The hallway remain deserted but now an alarm was ringing somewhere, deep within the building. He looked at his hand, watching as the blood ran down his knuckles and dripped off the edge of his palm. Any other time he would have been hypnotized by his injuries but he knew he didn't have a moment to waste now that the alarm had been triggered.

He reached through the window and unlocked the door from the inside, throwing it wide open. The door slammed against something on the inside, ricocheting back into his face. He kicked it open again before it struck him and threw himself through the doorway.

Inside he took a quick inventory of the room. There was a small window on the opposite wall that afforded better lighting than what was now in the hall and as he surveyed his surroundings he saw the room contained only a row of wooden file cabinets on each side, their drawers neatly labeled in her modern handwriting, a distinctive blend of capital letters and loopy lowercase, easy to read and impossible to duplicate.

He crossed the room with purpose now, and with rage roiling through his veins he began to rip the drawers out of the cabinets, two at a time, letting the contents fly around the room in a paper blizzard, a storm no one would ever want to be caught in. The beginnings of an evil smile began to tug the corners of his mouth upward and he started to laugh as all the lights began to come on, one by one down the hallway and then the room he was in was suddenly bathed in the harsh fluorescent light of day even though the day was long over.

And that was when the alarm stopped ringing and the screaming began.