Incense and alcohol.

Today marks the very first time there are neither of the above in my house. I ran out of nag champa a long time ago. Lochlan ran out of beer last Wednesday.

He has made no move to get more. On the other hand, once the cold weather comes I like to have the nag burning late into the mornings while I work with my words. It's atmosphere, the same way Lochlan blurs the edges of his atmosphere so very slightly with hops and barley. Just enough to take the edges right off the throb of pain when he gives me back to my life, gently dropping me out of history, hanging me by the hands to be let go at the last second to fall the final distance down into the real.

The real.

Now. Present. (Unscented.)

Now with one hundred percent sober.

I'm not jumping guns or sharks saying that, I know how Lochlan thinks and when he stops, he just stops. He's self-regulating. Everything with a reason. I am not, I'm working hard to make my wishes known instead of transmitting them via invisible brat-waves and not throwing tantrums but forcing myself to pick up a book when I can't get my way and appreciating things like a roaring fire or a lit gingerbread candle or a hot cup of tea. Simple. Good. It works. Well, for now it works so cross your fingers, like I have crossed mine.

Cooking simple meals. Cranberry juice. Drawing the curtains before dinner, when the sun drops down behind the treeline and the mountains cast their shadow over this warm house. Look around you, Bridget. We made it. We have everything at last.

(Knock wood. Knock your head. Knock everything, just in case.)

A year ago this week Caleb offered us the move. The one we couldn't refuse. Tonight he is coming for dinner to celebrate our relative intactness. Or maybe he is coming to curse it. Either way I invited him if only to say Ha. Look. We did it and I didn't depressurize or implode or lose my mind. I packed it lovingly in wads of paper and bubble wrap and sealed it in a small box marked FRAGILE. When we landed they poured beer all over it to rehydrate it and look, I was good as new.

Loaded memories (I know I am cliffhangering a lot lately. Patience.)

Here I lay
Still and breathless
Just like always
Still I want some more
Mirrors sideways
Who cares what's behind
Just like always
Still your passenger
Chrome buttons, buckles and leather surfaces
These and other lucky witnesses
Now to calm me
This time won't you please
Drive faster
Roll the windows down
This cool night air is curious
Let the whole world look in
Who cares who sees anything

Some motions you know by heart. That much I know. I watched Lochlan slip on a mask of concentration, and then over that he placed his facade of theatrical hesitancy mixed with charm. He always played his doubts to the crowd and then at the end he would act relieved that nothing went wrong. This would elicit a collective relief and a round of heavy donations from the dispersing crowd. It was my job to start on the outside and run to the first folks to break away from the circles and convince them to appreciate the entertainment with a little silver or maybe a paper bill or two, working my way back to Lochlan who would be pouring water on the batons and packing up his gear, slowly because he would keep one eye on me.

The more things change, the more they stay the same.

Lochlan stood up and winked at me and then asked the children if they were ready. He turned around and checked the sunset, which was happening right on schedule and then he lit the torches.

Then he put them out to a chorus of disappointent. He thought for a moment, telling the kids that maybe it wasn't a good idea, he was rusty and something could go wrong. He winked at me again. Ruth caught the wink and egged him on. So did Ben, with loud encouragement. Henry had a moment where he wasn't sure and then he realized that Lochlan was joking and he clapped his hands and called for fire.

So Lochlan lit the torches once more, with his first warning, as always, to not try this at home and also to consider putting something in the hat, if even for a moment, we found this entertaining. And then he began.

He was not rusty. It was like riding a bicycle, or he never would have tried at all. He has no interest in losing his beautiful strawberry curls, or an eye for that matter, or messing up his hands, or scarring the children emotionally. He threw fire for almost a decade. Talents you hone become like breathing after a fashion and the challenge falls away leaving only muscle memory and a keen eye.

I lost twenty-five years of my life in a single instant, when the first baton flew up into the night air, somersaulting over itself, flames mesmerizing every last one of us. I saw it in slow motion and when it landed in Lochlan's other hand, I was fourteen years old again.

Oh, hell.

Not this.

I've been waiting for this. it stalks me around every corner. It beckons to me to come closer, just for a moment. Remember, Bridget. Close your eyes and smell the corn dogs and the gasoline and grease. Open your eyes and see the pretty colored lights, just like Christmas but never sad like Christmas is. The anticipatory excitement of every single sunset at the midway, a handful of incredibly specific mollifications reamin dear to me and here he is conjuring these memories on a chilly November night as far away from the fairgrounds as we will ever get, and happily so, in the place where he was born. All of his history was written far from here, maybe so that when he returned, the slate would be clean. A quarter of a century later and never in between.

Lochlan would do that. He was always like that. He planned ahead for us. And I skipped forward down the road, ruining his plans with my impulsiveness at every bend, knowing that when the last ticketholders had gone home and the darkness was complete I would turn and throw myself back into his arms for sleep, for love. For his approval.

Tonight as I sat on a lawnchair wrapped in Ben's hoodie with the lights of my brand-new giant oceanfront house blazing behind me, my belly full of warmth from dinner, my healthy, perfect children clapping their hands with delight it occurred to me that this was what he was waiting for. Coming around that bend in the road and seeing the future from the past. Everything turned out okay. We did eat. We didn't freeze or wind up stranded or in jail. We weren't ripped apart (though we have tried. Oh, have we tried.) We still have all the time in the world for each other and if given a choice will give the same answers and think the same thoughts. We still plot escape first and list needs in order of emergent necessities. We still think like carnies and I was only ever a summer girl, leaving each fall to say goodbye and return to school, arms bound, legs kicking mightily, screaming in indignation. I would stare out the window in misery all day (except for Creative Writing class) only to hear the bell ring and fly out of homeroom, down the hall, down the steps and through the doors to Lochlan's truck because he had been out of school for a while now.

Little ever changes. I still hate regular routines, I hate it when he isn't around, and I hate that life has obligations beyond keeping an eye on showtimes and where to sleep but at the same time, you can take a girl away from the midway without taking the midway away from the girl. There is still a value to a green paper dollar that to me runs far beyond what most people in this day and age place on one and there are still many tiny thrills to be had when the only person you can rely on is a teenage boy who tells you the names of the stars in the night sky and makes sure you get enough food so that you don't cry later when you are hungry. The same boy who shakes you out of nightmares and rocks you back toward dreamland, the very first watchful sentry who made a promise and kept it, the only one so far.

I asked Lochlan once if he still felt as though he were the same teenaged boy who lived with the show, traveling to seaside shows and living on a shoestring, if he felt as if he ever progressed past those years maturity-wise. He cocked his head and squinted at me slightly, in his usual way, wondering where I was going with my questions, wondering if this conversational road was the right one to go down right now, weighing his words as comforting lies versus his usual logic, his pragmatic sense. He weighed while I watched him.

Finally he said no, that he didn't feel like that anymore. That those experiences helped him to always see the big picture and not take the little things so seriously, that he grew up so fast, being responsible for me, and he made so many mistakes that he is far beyond that boy from the cornfields, from the circus. That he is a man now and not a boy pretending.

This is probably why he didn't bring the fire until tonight. He advanced into adulthood by necessity and left me behind. Not in the abandonment sense but in the sense that he was forced to grow up and take charge and he did just that, so I wouldn't have to. So he could watch me flit down the road like a foolish fluttery butterfly and know for certain I would still be waiting for him when he caught up to me.

This time I was there. Right where he knew I would be. I stopped moving. I stopped running ahead. I understand now that his reluctance to display any of his former surprising gifts had nothing to do with competing with Jacob or out-egoing Ben, he just didn't want to unlock the part of my brain that he secured such a long time ago. He locked it up and hid it well. I don't think anyone was prepared for what was supposed to be a milestone in the family. The children were finally old enough to sit still and remain far back enough to enjoy a fire show. Or so we have told ourselves all along.

We thought we were far enough away from it, far enough away from history and definitely far enough away geographically to risk it. But Lochlan smelled like gasoline and nostalgia, and it proved to be too soon.

Here I lay just like always
Don't let me go
Take me to the edge

The boy who juggled swords.

One of the joys of having spent years in the circus means eventually your talents will spill out over the edges of fantasy into the dimmer, sharp reality of life itself. You will bring your gifts with you when you watch the final tent come down and embrace all of the people you called family, even though some of them didn't seem to have proper names and even fewer of them had a plan to withstand the outside world, as we called it. How do you transition from traveling with the show to having a regular job and paying regular bills? It's akin to being released from prison. You must assimilate back into a society you rejected before. You must roll up your magic tightly with your showmanship, stuffing it far into a dark corner and not speaking of it in public because you want to fit in, not be the freak where no one pays you.

Until children are involved, that is.

I came downstairs this morning and Lochlan was teaching Henry how to juggle knives. Henry was using paring knives and Lochlan had his short swords. IN THE KITCHEN. Henry was mostly thrilled to be holding a knife, period. I'm not big on knives. I will happily toss my children into the ocean and tell them to swim but no, they can't cut that tomato, because I can barely cut that tomato, having a long history of issues with knives. They just gravitate toward my flesh.

Anyway,

Lochlan said this afternoon we might go outside and he'll toss the fire batons around for a bit for the children. Which is sort of insane because he hasn't picked those up in over twenty years but something tells me it's a lot like riding a bicycle. And not at all like being normal. Being normal is not second nature, it's not something you learn once and remember forever. It's an uphill battle every day.

We are still learning. We are still freaks. We will always be the freaks.

I'll be passing the hat. Be ready with your dollar bills.

Because nothing rhymes with 'secret'.

I am biting my tongue as he pulls my shirt gently over my head. He's either going to accidentally bump my arm, since Ben is not known for his grace offstage or off ice for that matter, or make some sick joke that will have me laughing and clutching myself in pain.

To my surprise he does neither.

He turns the shirt right side out again and lobs it toward the laundry basket. Then he crosses to my closet and asks me if I have a preference. Like we're talking about the weather, only I am naked from the waist up.

The stretchy pink one, I say. He shakes his head. Long sleeves, little bee. How about one of Jake's shirts instead? One of his flannel ones? I nod. I've already switched to staring out the window. The painkillers make it hard to keep my mind on anything. I want to sleep but it hurts to lie down. It's better to stand. I pace a lot, mostly. When I close my eyes I see Cole's face, full of rage.

Ben is feeding my good arm into a sleeve. Good as new, he whispers, and kisses the end of my nose. He is so brave. I'm glad Jake asked him to look after me. This would not work if it were Lochlan. Lochlan is in shock and tends to turn off in emergencies. Ben will crash but strangely enough this is working.

We'll head for a walk in a little while, Ben is talking and I'm barely listening again. The lilacs are in bloom. The smell is heady, glorious.

Ben's pretending that the palms of his hands hold great mystery to him. I'm waiting for him to button the shirt. Both arms are through it now and one is in a sling but the shirt. It's wide open. Hello.

He absently pulls the front closed and begins to button. In the middle. The buttons don't match and the right side of the shirt hangs lower than the left. My OCD wants to ask him to fix it and pay attention but my heart is just thankful that he wasn't here the night Cole came over. Had Ben been in the house I imagine Cole would be dead. The only reason Jacob didn't kill Cole is because the police pulled him off. It took three of them but they pulled him off.

Ben blushes when he gets to the end of his buttoning chores. The crooked shirt is hanging to my knees. It looks ridiculous. He tells me I look like a supermodel and I burst out laughing and then I start to cry.

He puts his arm around my good shoulder and kisses my ear. I flinch and squeal and he jumps back.

Sorry! Sorry, bee, oh, Jesus.

He frowns at my accusatory expression and I can see how much this has affected him. He has lines on his face. He's grim. He matches Jake in seriousness. I am still reeling. The boys are heartbroken and angry. Caleb is nonexistent. I'm sure he knows everything that is going on. He's a lawyer. His brother has lost his family and is in jail and PJ has left about fifty messages for him but he hasn't contacted us.

Which means he is reeling too. I have no idea how Caleb copes in a true crisis because I never stay close enough to him to find out.

It's four and half years later and I have just found out how he dealt with things. On one hand I'm grateful and on the other hand I'm really not surprised after all. Even more surprised it didn't come out sooner.

First supper.

I had scribbled my number on a gallery program and offered it to him. He smiled, eyes twinkling.

I still have it.

Really? After a year?

Maybe I'm a pack rat.

He is smiling so broadly. It's contagious.

May I have yours then?

My rat? It was a figure of speech.

Your number, silly.

Why?

So I can invite you over for dinner.

Are you a good cook?

No.

Then yes. Here.

He took the pen from me and wrote his number on the inside of my wrist. On the smooth skin above my hand. His hands were warm and so large it was as if he was holding a toothpick instead of my arm.

Three days later I called him.

Hello.

Hello, Jacob? It's Bridget. I'm sorry, did I wake you?

Yes.

Should I call back?

Why? I'm awake now. I'm glad you woke me up.

Why is that? Are you due somewhere?

No? Why do you ask?

Why are you glad I woke you?

Because I'm always happy to hear from you.

This is the first time I've ever called you!

Yes it is.

I don't think our conversations ever grew less endearing. He had a way about him. The thick Newfoundland accent and the no nonsense or all nonsense dialogue left little to hide behind. To my delight, I realized that instead of being frustrated by his way of teasing me, I was flattered. He could be very warm and formal with others and incredibly sweet with me.

I gave him the details of dinner and the next two days flew by as I shopped and planned and cooked and cleaned.

If I had known exactly how much food Jacob could consume in one sitting I would have shopped a little more.

In case you thought I locked myself in the library again.

Rainy mornings with paperwork up to my eyebrows makes me feel productive. I'm not sure but there's something very grown up about putting on earrings and high heels and grabbing my laptop bag, purse and umbrella and heading out to John in the waiting truck. Sitting in the back. He has coffee waiting but I ignore it in favor of lipgloss and music.

The rain pours in a protective curtain around the car as he heads across the bridge towards downtown, toward Caleb's stupidly expensive glass box, toward my beautiful little desk that I wish he would let me bring to the house because I have a sunny little nook that would be perfect for it.

In my bag are the children's school portraits. I know Caleb will be pleased with them. The older Henry gets, the more he looks like me, and the more Ruth looks like Cole. Both children are suddenly almost-teens and I don't understand how that time flies while other time falls behind.

He is very pleased. I present them over more coffee and maple donut bars. I would eat a second one but there isn't one. I contemplate grabbing Caleb's right off the plate. He seems to be ignoring it. I refrain. Had a tiny smidgen of trouble zipping my dress up this morning thanks to the giant bowls of mini chocolate bars sitting on the island in the kitchen at home and decide my sweet tooth is writing cheques that my waistline has no means to cash. I'll quit today and go back to pears and tea with honey to quell the sugar crave.

Dammit.

I like sweet things and it's been forever since I've had cake but there will be some cake tonight and maybe if I'm really good today Caleb will let me take the Escalade home and then I can turn the stereo up to twelve and leave it there. Then when he takes it back he'll get blown out of his seat.

Or something.

It seems like the morning flies. I get very little done. I am having trouble focusing. Probably the sugar. I keep watching the planes take off and I am hoping I don't make any payroll mistakes but I always add three times and type once so I've never made a mistake. I submit everything for Caleb's signature and he suggests Chinese food for lunch. I don't have the heart to tell him we had Chinese food on Saturday night so I agree and we go to a place that tucked down in China town. A noisy little white-washed place with take-out containers and a fan blowing the best smells out onto the sidewalk.

We get our food to go and drive down to Stanley park, stopping at Third beach and parking to eat. I try not to roll my eyes. I once told Cole when Ruth was a year old that I would never have dinner in the car again. I wouldn't say that to Caleb. Besides, he would just tell me it isn't dinner, it's lunch. We finish up quickly, I am hungrier than I thought I was. He laughs and exits the truck to dispose of our garbage while I put on another layer of lip gloss.

I love lip gloss.

The afternoon flies and I get absolutely nothing done. Everything is too easy, everyone is being too nice, no challenges, no confrontations, no ragged-edge emotions that we use instead of minutes in the hour to tell the time.

I don't get it.

I don't understand why this isn't harder and yet I am well aware of that other shoe, always poised to stomp on my head and so I do nothing. I just advance with my shield handy and I cling to who ever is closest at hand, threading my fingers through theirs, squeezing until I wish I hadn't worn my rings. Mostly I believe that it's for my benefit, that they are all just trying hard to be flexible and mellow and then maybe I will too.

It's working for Bonham. Really if you don't make a huge fuss over him when you walk into my house, he won't jump all over you and clamor for attention.

Apparently for Bridget, life should be conducted much the same.

Terrific.

I was home before school let out and broke my jacket zipper, which was fine, it was the liner of a coat Cole bought for me in 2002 that I would pull on for running out quickly, raking leaves, etc. etc. Henry let me wear his jacket on the way home because he was overheated from gym and had his shirt and sweater so I took it gratefully. He's got chivalry in his blood, he may as well begin to use it.

I hope I can get a little more accomplished tomorrow but if I don't, well, that's okay too. I'm not putting any pressure on myself, just taking things minute by hour by day and as long as I don't think about absolutely anything at all, I think everything will be fine.

I did not get the Escalade.

One thousand ninety-five days.

I woke up to a sky that matched Jacob's eyes. Clear, pale blue with a hint of sun. Today marks three years since he left earth for heaven and it still feels like yesterday and hurts like never before.

I have the day under control so far. As long as I don't actively think about anything at all, I'm sort of okay. Ben has strayed about as far as I can exhale. All I have to do is reach out one hand and he's sitting right here. Lochlan is close at hand. Daniel is here. Joel flew in to be handy because he drew the map of my mind that they still follow to this day. August is very quiet so his thick Newfoundland accent doesn't do further damage to my soul. New Jake is still incredibly surprised I ever smile at all. He wouldn't, he tells me. I tell him Ben has been instrumental in bringing that back. Ben said the face I wore for the first several weeks, the one of infinite shock and sadness is something he never wants to see ever again.

I am not marking Jacob's death today.

Instead I am celebrating what would have been his fortieth birthday.

He would have been quietly reflective, humbled and anxious to run through a list of the things he has done, measured against his father and his grandfather before. Measured against the other men than he knew, measured against society's conventions of things men should achieve by this age. He would have sought out the wisdom of those who have already marked this milestone and he would have enjoyed a dinner and some cake, and probably a couple of glasses of whiskey, degenerating into a positive torrent of wordy Newfie-babble punctuated with A. A. Milne quotes that I would answer as a challenge and he would be delighted.

He would want a long walk. To reflect. He would want to make love and reflect upon our marriage. Our lives, my head, our future. Those illusions he kept for me and maybe right now I'm less bitter and more grateful for those late night planning sessions in which we would list all the things we were going to do. License to dream, Bridget. If you could go anywhere, do anything, tell me about it. No limits, piglet. I still plan to do all those things I told him those nights, and I will bring him along in my heart.

Today we're going to go for that long walk and share our memories of him and then we'll have that big dinner tonight and make a cake, maybe with candles, maybe without. We'll toast to Jacob with water instead of whiskey and wish him a happy birthday and then I will sleep and the day will be over and the fourth year without him will begin.

I sound so together as I write this. I'm actually not. I am shaking like a leaf. I have gone back over it a million times, taking out the vitriol and the bitterness, inserting spaces since when I am upset I usually don't include them and I'm trying to be gracious where grace has made a hasty exit. I'm trying to find meaning where there clearly is none at all. I need to let that go and maybe I will. Maybe this year that's what I will work on.

Or maybe I'll just keep doing whatever I'm doing because I've made it this far. Only I didn't actually do the work. The boys did and I'm going to sign off now and go and enjoy their company. They are the reason, along with Ruth and Henry that I get up in the morning at all instead of diving back under the covers and ceasing to breathe, hoping no one can find me and I can just waste away to nothing and then disappear. They hold me. They hold me up. They make me cook when I'm not hungry and sleep when I insist I am wide awake, and love me even when I am being tiny, impossible, Fragile Miss Bridget.

Thank you. I love you guys.

Happy birthday, Jacob. I love you Pooh.

Plate glass.

Today is a hash-mash, hardscrabble, unorganized stack of things sitting in the corner but far enough out from the wall that it threatens to fall over. I stand near the door in the sunlight, eating cotton candy from a bag. To go, Lochlan says and he laughs. I refuse to accept a big paper cone, I want to keep clean when I'm not eating it. My fingers are sticky, filthy but I still have my eye on the stack because when it does topple I'm incredibly sure that nothing will break.

The barn is cool, a break from the sun. I have lined up big squares of decorative glass. It looks a little like sea glass but also nothing like it. These could be plates, with pulled-up corners so nothing slides off. Very modern and yet they are vintage. I have found them everywhere, breaking into old barns, touring around tiny antique shops set far down country roads, the kind you want to avoid at night or if your truck isn't in very working condition. The people watch me with their handful of teeth hidden in closed mouths. They think I am suspect and different. Oh, isn't that the tip of the iceberg.

I smile and opt to buy nothing because I already have enough plates. Why I persist in setting up house with such strange things leaves everyone tired and prone to fits of yelling and frisbeeing plates into the fences. A delightful, satisfying crack-smash against barbed wire and wooden posts. Then we are running. Eventually someone is seen patrolling the fence with a long gun propped against one shoulder and I raise my eyebrows and open my mouth in a little O-shape. Would they really shoot us for breaking some plates?

Lochlan nods. Time to go, bee. He doesn't say it, I just see it because I can read his mind. He puts his head down against my ear and whispers hot hamburger sandwiches and my belly rumbles in response. That means the diner so I lick my fingertips and then tie a knot in the top of the bag. I still have a good three lunches out of this left if I ration the sticky blue strands of sugar that remain.

He puts the plates that are left in a grimy canvas bag and holds his other hand out to take my hand. I jump off the barn floor, down two feet onto the grass because the step is missing and we walk out toward the road. On the way back he will produce a candy ring for me to eat and pretend to marry me. I say yes because I don't care, I just want the sweets and I know he isn't going anywhere. It seems to make him really happy and he turns up the stereo in the truck even though it is cutting in and out now and soon we'll have no music again but he always fixes everything.

Always.

Under the soles of another man's shoes.

Where were you last night?

Ben and I were at the coliseum, watching Stone Temple Pilots. (That's my photograph, taken with my awesome 3.2 mp Blackberry. Awwww yeah. Lord. It sucks.)

If I had to pick between Rogers Arena and the Pacific Coliseum, the Coliseum would win in a heartbeat. You don't have to fuck around with parking. If you have to go to the washroom there are no lineups, if you want a drink that isn't beer there are no lineups and they not only searched my purse twice (what the heck) but they changed our seats for us three times after the first two weren't suitable because the view was blocked and fuck that, I came to see the band. If I want to hear them I will sit in my car and crank it to the hilt. Also afterward? Cops everywhere.

Take notice, Rogers Arena. All of the above you fail at. MASTERFULLY.

Just before the opener came on we christened the leather girls on the floor Vancougars. Ben and I were congratulating ourselves on coming up with such a clever term right up until the singer for Tab the band said it onstage. That he wanted one. Then I was like aw, damn. Can't have that word.

(And for the record, I did not wear leather so shut your face, PJ.)

Tab was good. Really. Better than what I had heard perusing their Myspace (someone needs to fix that). Because really, you should covet the opening acts. Sometimes you'll wind up being a big fan. Look at Crash Kings. They opened for STP last show I went to and I adore them to pieces. Look at every band you love. Once they were the opener, correct?

Stone Temple Pilots came on shortly after Tab exited and it was glorious right out of the gate. Rarely do I know all the words to all the songs for a band but I do for three and Stone Temple Pilots is one of them. Even Tool doesn't have the honor and Tool is the best thing since sex. I don't need to name the other bands. If you don't know by now then it's not important.

(This is also not about Jake, in spite of him singing the whole STP catalogue on a regular basis and the cover band at the church and any other way you want to kick the legs out from under me. Let's focus now, people.)

Ha. See what I did there?

Forgive me, Jesus. I'm running on so little sleep it's criminal. Positively deranged and energized. I'm going to be fun later when I crash.

They RULED. The sound was great, the merch table was quick and prices were low. I knew all the songs. They played Still Remains. They played Silvergun Superman. They played everything else too. They covered Dancing Days. The World's Biggest Zeppelin Fan beside me (Ben, you turkeys) was on Cloud eleven. He got to shake hands and clap backs with just about everyone in our section. They all thought he was cooooooool. And for once no one spilled beer on my head or my coat. Mostly because the beer lineups were intolerable, or so I heard. The air was also higher quality than usual, with a welcome absence of weed smoke for a show. I don't care if you smoke it, but I don't want to breathe it in.

Oh and beforehand? Ben and I went for a romantic dinner for two. To Subway. He had roast chicken, I had the club. We are so romantic it's just sick, isn't it? I actually love Subway so fuck off. I had so much fun I woke up smiling. On three hours sleep no less. That's something right there. I usually still hold on to my tiny snarl after six hours.

I bet the leather girls do too.

(PS I took an informal poll of those who are awake and no one knows ALL of the Tool lyrics.)

(PSS Switchfoot is one of the other bands. I know every word.)

(PSSS That's it. Not saying any more. Hahaha.)

The rest.

By Tuesday I had had enough of Ben's refusal to stay straight and when I get frustrated enough, I usually melt down all over everyone like a little blonde volcano. There is nowhere to run. You're doomed where you stand.

The warnings had sounded for days. I'll not apologize.

Tuesday morning I went to three meetings, excused Ben's absence as scheduling conflicts and then to my surprise he actually managed to show up for lunch, a date we had planned as a little mini-getaway just for us. I had already ordered. Who eats lunch alone in LA? Bridget does, that's who, two days in a row, no less.

In other words, I didn't have any grace left.

I lit into him quietly and he put his head right down and looked me in the eye the whole time. He didn't make any faces or crack any jokes or order any alcohol. He just listened and we ate, sharing my plate and I talked. When we were finished he was still staring at me but I was as done with the conversation as I was with the seafood salad and I sat back until the sun was in my eyes and watched him.

Let's go home.

I nodded. He is sober, pale. I am red. Embarrassed. Tired. Flushed with the rage and frustration and sickness of being so incredibly angry with someone and I'm well aware he could turn around at any second and tell me to fuck off and go away and then he might disappear for six months. He's done it before. When we were just friends we fought just as much if not more and even without stakes we could find a way to hurt each other badly, repeatedly.

Within an hour we have a plane and we are saying our goodbyes. One meeting slated for Tuesday evening will be rescheduled as a video call. I call Ruth and Henry and let them know we will be home in time for dinner. They are elated. Lochlan wears his headphones on the plane. I resolve to finish whatever resentments off Ben and I have inflight so that it doesn't come home with us. While I am thinking that, Ben is doing much the same.

At no point does he tell me he couldn't deal with saying goodbye to Nolan again or with knowing that Jacob's third deathiversary was fast approaching and very little has changed. Ben's solution to that was to make a mess of himself knowing that I would step in and become the functional one.

Ben sees things that the others don't. No one else would have known to do that but he took the chance and he did it anyway.

To Ben the risk of not being able to stop drinking after he started was far less painful than the risk of letting Bridget climb down and jump into her black hole again. He doesn't want to find me in the cupboard or locked in the library or standing in the bathroom sticking pins into my hands or crying inconsolably through the night. He doesn't want me to be miserable.

What can I say? I guess I married a selfish guy. In any case we are home a day early which makes me happy and Lochlan got the gig which makes everyone happy and all is well on the corporate side of things which makes the devil boss happy and I am going around now battening down the hatches in my mind and boarding up the windows to my soul because it's going to be a rough weekend in there, I think. Quietly and without any plans at all. Everyone is here. Everyone is safe. Everyone is okay and so if you need me, I'll be in the concrete room with the angels right through Sunday, what would have been Jacob's fortieth birthday.

Thankfully I'll be there with Ben, mostly because he won't let go of my hand. That's good. I can't do this without him.