Sparkplugs and firebrands (all in).

(While we wait for Ben to get better I'm going to entertain you with some memories like this one, in which I think dressing up like the older girls will somehow inspire Lochlan to admit his true feelings for me. It worked! And I am still JUST AS AWKWARD. )

I leaned way up on my tiptoes and looked into the mirror.  I drew the dark red lipstick across my bottom lip and then rubbed my lips together as I had seen Bailey do a thousand times if I saw her do it once. Then I took the comb and teased my hair but it's so long and heavy I seemed to only succeed in giving myself a glorious case of bedhead. Carefully I drew a black line of eyeliner along my lashes and added a tiny bit of mascara. Not a lot because although my lashes are long, they're naturally white. Too much and I'll look weird. Bailey's makeup is hard to figure out but I think I did okay.

I tied a little knot in the back of my t-shirt and slid into the miniskirt I stole (along with the makeup) from Bailey's closet, a skirt that is too small for her. It fits me in that makes my legs look way longer. I give my hair another go-round but it's a losing battle so I arrange the longest bangs across my forehead and call it a day.

I step back.

I look way older. For sure.

Once it gets close to closing time, I go looking for Lochlan out at the bumper cars. The Shit Show, he calls it, since it's the end of his first week working the Midway. Because he's new he pulls the worst jobs. We're not all that far from home yet. He says my name and then does a double take, dropping his keys on the floor. He bends down to pick them up and then he does a slow circle around me with a huge smile on his face.

I got this, I'm thinking.

Then he bursts out laughing. Oh my God, Bridget. You just wrote a book you're not old enough to read yet. 

What are you talking about? I'm still determined to play it cool and act like all the girls I see who are closer to his age, which is a good five-and-a-half years older than I am.

He opens his mouth and then closes it, changing his mind. Sparing my pride, softening his next words as much as he can. You're inviting attention you can't handle yet. He takes my hand and turns away, pulling me down off the platform to head back toward the staff washrooms. Let's go get you cleaned up.

No! I did this for you. I want to be looked at differently!

He stops and I smash into him. I leave a red lipstick print in the center of his back on his white t-shirt. When he turns around he is still laughing. I'm so humiliated I want to cry.

What do you mean?

I want you to look at me like I'm...older. The kiss-

The kiss was a mistake. Bridget, you're twelve.

Admit that you like me in spite of my age! I clapped both hands over my mouth.

He stopped and stared at me. Say that again?

No! I stamp my foot. You heard me! Why would I be out here with you if you don't feel the same way?

He just stares. I am trying to wipe the lipstick off using my hands and my forearms without breaking his gaze. I finally give up and stand there with my hands balled into fists. My bangs are in my eyes. My nose is running. But I'm so stubborn. I'm not going to cry. I'm not. I'm not. Oh shit.

He comes back over and puts his arms around me. I keep you close. I keep you close so that when you finally do grow up I will be the first man you see. I'm keeping the odds stacked, I hope but based on your age I don't want to rush things and screw this up. I smile at that, because he's not a man, he's Lochlan. He's only seventeen, soon to turn eighteen. A man is someone with a mustache. Someone who has to shave more than four times a year. Someone who wears a suit to work and owns a helicopter, I think.

I'm old enough now. I tell him. Tears are dripping off my chin. They are black with mascara. His t-shirt is ruined. So is my whole outfit.

He smooths my hair down, tucking it behind my ears. Trying to get my bangs to go too and failing. We need to cut these, he murmurs close to my face and I push him away.

That's exactly what I mean. I'm just a kid to you. A pain-in-the-neck, a little sister.

Like hell you are. He hasn't budged. Still staring.

Prove it, then. I tell him. I untuck my hair. I wipe my fingers across my cheeks to clean up my face. Smokey pale green eyes and red stained lips face him down. My hair is ruined I think and I look ridiculous in this outfit but he pulls me into his arms, kissing me so hard it hurts my lips. I can't breathe but suddenly I don't want him to stop. Ever. This is like the kiss in the truck that night just before we left to come on the show only it's different because he's pressing his body against me so hard if he lets go I would fall. I throw my arms around his neck, tilting my head and he kisses harder still. He is so warm. So, so warm. Abruptly he pulls away, his hands holding my face up to his.

My eyes fly open and I'm expecting him to swear into my forehead like he did the last time but this time he doesn't.

I love you, Bridget. 

My heart rolls into adulthood with triumphant fanfare before tipping onto one side, spooling down into a tight circle before coming to rest on the metal floor of the ride. He watches it and then takes my hand again to leave but I don't move.

I love you too, Lochlan. He stops, staring at me for several moments in the dark. My heart is back in my chest hammering harder than ever. We smile shyly at each other. It's a milestone, an inevitable progression after spending the better part of the past four years together without exception. What's surprising is the intensity of this. A ferocity I, we, never expected.

If this is love I am all in.

As we walk back to the camper he puts his arm around me and pulls me in close. I look up at him. Between the moonlight and the stars, the lights that never turn off and the music still blasting from the Ferris wheel I think I might have dropped straight into a dream while still awake. Everything changes now. Everything changes. There is no going back from here.

Once locked safely in the camper, Lochlan warms a washcloth and gets to work on removing the worst of the makeup from my face and all of the smears from my arms.

You don't need this stuff to get my attention, Bridget. You never did and you never will, okay? I nod and he steps back to admire his handiwork. I am scrubbed and shining, on display suddenly with no disguises to hide behind.

Come here, he says softly and I take a step forward.

Please don't ask me how I am
A little tired, a little scared
I'm not amused, not upset
Don't need a leash
I'm not your pet

So loosen up, feel the breeze
Let me hear, hear you breathe
It's better than bitter now
When you breathe I love that sound
But you know I'll look after you like no one

This must be what having a teenager is going to be like. If I double-cross every last one of them it's not that hard to take the keys to the truck and head out early, up the snowy highway singing cheesy songs at the top of my lungs, absolutely no idea where I'm going. I even emailed in sick to work and then I told everyone else I really had to get some work done and when I drove home finally after not feeling like doing anything at all there was sort of a crowd in the driveway, a bunch of pissed-off guys with their hands in their pockets and looks on their faces that told me I should probably throw the truck into reverse and peel out of the driveway sideways, smashing through the gate and drifting around corners as I head back up the hill and maybe I could drive back and get Ben, since I mostly prefer to stand behind him these days and suddenly I am exposed and vulnerable and open to punishment for all the things I do that I'm sort of not supposed to, most of the time.

But I didn't have my passport on me, it's sitting on the dresser because I haven't even unpacked yet and I have no cash on me either so I can't even bribe anyone to let me into the US and if I call Batman, odds are he would have the same look they all do so I frowned and pulled into Ben's parking spot and sat there staring at the siding on the house until Lochlan knocked on the window and yelled for me to turn off the engine.

Aw, fuck. 

Rattle and thumb.

He did not abandon you Bridget. He needs help and he's getting it and when he comes back he'll be that much stronger. 

I didn't even say anything yet, Sam. 

No, but you're wound up so tightly I'm afraid you're on the verge of springing wide open. Do you want to talk for a bit? I'll be free this afternoon. I can come over. 

No, I want to sleep but I'm too wired. 

Bridget-

Not to escape. I haven't been to bed properly since Friday, Sam. 

I know. Get some rest then but if you need me call, okay?

I will. I promise. 

I press End on my phone and throw it on the cushion. I sit back and reach for Daniel's hand. He is pretending to read but he keeps nodding off and I wait and count and then try to slide the book out of his hand and he will startle and insist that he is fine. But he won't go lie down and he won't leave my side and I know he's a little bit scared and a little relieved too but Ben is still all he has.

Though, that's a lie. He has Schuy. He has me. He has everyone but no one replaces Ben.

That I understand.

My phone buzzes again and I reach to pick it up. It's a message from Caleb. How convenient. 50 days remain. 

Asshole. 

I text him back. ITS ABOUT YOU NOW? SELFISH.

He sends another.  No but we can't help Ben now. He's in very good hands. If you were too things would be better but you're not so they aren't. 

I send one back. Daniel's looking after me so I'm just fine thanks. 

Caleb replies almost instantly. Daniel is made of moonbeams and unicorn tears so that gives me no confidence whatsoever. Where is Pyro when you need him? Wait! Don't answer that. 

Not cool. If you look outside he's in the driveway with YOUR SON, cheering him up with a little show. What have you done to see to Henry's feelings about Ben being away?

I turn the phone off.

Blood sugar.

We were here just under four years ago. Under the same set of circumstances even, with Ben making a swift and surprising descent into his addictions and finding himself at the bottom with no way out. I don't know what happened, I just know that it happened so fast.

As per instructions I was to blow the whistle the moment I felt afraid of him and so that's what I did. But I don't want a pat on the back. I enable him. I excuse his endless absences. He is busy. He works all the time. I don't tell you he hides out with his guitars. I don't tell you he fights for every goddamned day of his life. We're just trying to be normal over here.

We're failing miserably, I know.

So it's off to a treatment program for Ben thanks to many strings pulled.

I'm flying home tonight. Daniel hasn't left my side. Batman walks ahead of everyone, in charge and in control. I think he likes feeling needed. Lochlan already got into it with the intake people, when I was taking too long to answer their questions (I couldn't hear the questions, everyone was talking over me but drunken-Ben was the loudest) and Lochlan started answering and they asked his relationship to Ben and he blurted out indignantly,

I'm his wife! 

Daniel smiled very quietly. August would have laughed if there had been any levity to find whatsoever and Ben totally categorically denied even knowing Loch before saying I'm sorry, Bridget to Lochlan's face and kissing him.
 
Yeah. I didn't even get a goodbye.

Sepulchre in a sunrise.

Sometimes I don't know why I write anything at all. I'm a broken record. Or rather, I hold the record for breaking things.

Just a break
We could shrink to something
That might not make it back

He got down on his knees and pulled me in close, resting his head against my chest, my heartbeat his metronome. He didn't move as I held my breath, my arms wrapped around him, my lips against the top of his head.

I could smell the alcohol on him before he made it across the room so I knew the apology was coming. I could light a match and everything would go up in flames right now. I only asked for one thing and this isn't it. This isn't trying. This is falling into familiar patterns for Ben. Reaching for flammable creativity and liquid confidence. Reaching for the dark when the light is too blinding. Reaching for the rage because contentment feels alien and strange.

But it doesn't work and I can't keep time when my heart is skipping, rolling out the door, beating a hasty retreat instead of throwing a lifeline.

Cold reading.

He said, 'Love I leave, but only 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.'

The sun lingered today, just long enough light the clouds up like spring as it waited near the horizon for me to notice but I was busy watching Lochlan paint. When I looked up into the sky it was so abrupt and beautiful I almost started to cry. I could only point to it and so he stopped, putting his brush down and he watched with me until it faded back behind the clouds and he pulled me into his arms and I watched the sun go to sleep over his shoulder, my arms locked around his neck.

You've been doing this since you were a little girl.

Liar.

Maybe I just remember things a little better that you would. 

Why, because you were older?

Yes, so I knew day changing to night freaked you out and I chalked it up to your overactive imagination. 

And now?

I don't know, Peanut. Night is when the monsters come and maybe you knew that before the rest of us.

Keep your silence or
Reach for life beyond the stars
Save your mercy
For someone who needs it more
I'm the guilty
All the feelings come crashing down on me
I'm taking you with me

I couldn't get all of the writing off my arms and so I was forced to wear a cardigan with my dress today, which brought comments from Caleb within minutes of me walking through the door this morning.

How long, exactly, is the Ringmaster's speech, Princess?

Seven minutes, sometimes as short as five, I reply.

And what did you generally do while he gave it?

I was still in makeup, usually.

He stands there staring at me for several uncomfortable minutes and then asks to see the words so I shrug out of my sweater and stand on display while he makes two circles around me, frowning, his head cocked dangerously to one side so he can read all of it, though it is faint now from the thorough scrubbing I did in the shower last night and again this morning. Lochlan's handwriting is gorgeous and illegible and hasn't changed at all since he was sixteen because he isn't a book-learner so things like penmanship and cursive writing are afterthoughts instead of efforts. He spends nothing on them and so he gets little in return.

Caleb swears under his breath and instructs me to put my sweater back on. He holds his hands out as if to take it and hold it up so I can be put into it. I ignore his hands and pull it on without help. He's in a hurry to cover up any trace of Lochlan's predictable defiance.

Aren't you a little old to be writing on each other? Says he who wrote oblivion on my fingers and Neamhchiontach across my back, one very recently and one decades ago.

No, I reply in a dull voice. This subject is off limits. I'm not doing this today.

Today my task is to file all of Caleb's souls by Justification for Purchase. It's cross-filing, since they are always filed alphabetically immediately upon acquisition. He likes to peruse the arguments, he likes to absorb the lingering desperation and he delights in the elation that emanates from those he enters into transactions with before they can realize the true gravity of what they've done.

These contracts are kept locked up tight. None can be broken, none have ever been dissolved, for he is the Devil and once you give him something, you can't ever take it back. I have the key only as long as it takes me to get the job done and then I will return it in exchange for unparalleled, unwarranted attentiveness.

I'll sit here in the semi-darkness and make neatly-printed labels for the multitude of color-coded files spread out on the floor around me in an ever-widening circle. Labels that say things like Financial Independence, Talents, Indemnification, Vanity, Comfort. There is also a label that reads Innocent, and it is the thinnest, for the one file that rests within it, the one with my name on it. Because the Devil not only purchases souls, but he can acquire them through other means, by mere proximity to someone young enough to not understand that their soul must be protected.

He can appropriate it when no one is looking and keep it forever, but the price he pays is that the soul's original bearer gains access to everything he has to offer. They will hold those respective positions in a virtual deadlock for time eternal, with holes forming on both sides at various intervals throughout their lives through which coveted promises fall. Currently he doesn't have the loyalty part of my soul and it's been a hell of a long time since I've had any comfort, and that's just where we stand right now.

But by far the thickest file is Requited Love. As I thumb through it I see all of my boys' names, alphabetically from Ben right through Jacob and everyone in between. Because in their rush to exchange what seems like a valueless anchor, a myth for something they desperately want, they fail to obtain the most important thing: the definition of what they are asking for, for all love is not created equal.

Some love is brotherly, some fatherly, some distant and some benign. Because vanity means different things to different people, and comfort comes in so many forms if you have something in mind, you might just be disappointed. Each of these things the Devil can twist and shape into something that barely resembles what you wanted most. This is his greatest deception.

And so by the time you realize what you have done, it's usually too late.

No, wait.

Let me correct myself.

It is always too late.

The scorched earth policy.

(If you're looking for the Part II of yesterday's post, or even the second half of what was posted yesterday, it has been removed. Some memories are safe, warranted and welcomed while others are the nostalgic equivalent of swimming in lava. I was cautioned not to proceed. My apologies. Perhaps another time.)

While I'm on the phone with Andrew, Lochlan picks up the sharpie from the counter. Before I can stop him he begins to write all over my arm. Before I can read what he wrote he admonishes me for not paying close enough attention to my conversation. As if he had nothing to do with distracting me.

Is it Ben-safe? What you are writing?

Jesus, yes. Is anything not Ben-safe? Or rather, is there anything safe from Ben? He'll probably think the words are food and try to eat them right off your flesh. 

I laugh and Andrew thinks he is clever, on the other end of the line that travels across Canada and underneath the Atlantic to get to him. They are in Ireland and I've progressed past mild jealousy and straight toward seething, rabid envy. Dalton is collecting women, they say and they haven't seen him since yesterday or he would have a turn on the phone too.

I ask that they maybe keep a better eye on each other and Duncan laughs over the speakerphone on their end and says, But it's Ireland, Bridget! It's safe enough! And then Andrew howls and I realize they are mildly trashed and having a blast and I ask them just to be safe and look after one another and they promise me they are but I don't want to know how and by the time I hang up Lochlan has written all over my other arm as well and is capping the marker, quite satisfied with himself.

He holds up the sharpie. I think you might need a new one. This one's worn out. 

I have dozens. 

Oh good. I'll do the rest of you later on. 

PJ snorts over his cereal at the island. I....forgot he was there. Apparently so did Lochlan.

Hush, you, I tell PJ and he laughs out loud and mimics Lochlan's words in Lochlan's accent but then he adds all of this crass stuff I won't even repeat. Why the boys didn't take him overseas I don't know. He might have been useful. Oh, right. Bodyguard duty here, though technically he is the nanny. That's right. I said it.

What did you write? 

The Ringmaster's speech. 

Oh fuck. You didn't. The whole thing? I am spinning in a circle, trying to see the backs of my elbows. He did. The whole thing.

Lochlan! Why couldn't you have just written the lyrics to a Pink Floyd song or something. Now I feel like the freak that I am! 

Good. He said and broke into a crafty, peculiar smile. Might make you less appealing to the more conventional types around here.

Proving ground.

You said that you love me
And that you always will
Oh you begged me to keep you
In that house on the hill
Looking out for love
Big, big love
I wake up alone with it all
I wake up but only to fall

Today I tied my hair back in a messy little knot at the nape of my neck. I shrugged into my blue velvet leggings and a very long black sweater and I slid my rings onto my finger, grabbed my phone and my coffee cup and walked next door. Barefoot. In the pouring rain. In January. Because January here is a laughable winter compared to every other place I have lived. Because I haven't even gotten my boots out at all this year, let alone most of my shoes. Caleb now has a big sisal mat outside his door and inside a nice plushier one to catch all the leaves and sticks I track in. I'm like Ben without the size fourteen boots, undomesticated and clomping all over the house making a mess before we call to him to take them off already. I ignore the rug and track leaves right through into Caleb's office.

Caleb frowns when he sees me. He's already at his desk with coffee close by and pen in hand. I thought you would be running errands this morning. It's Monday, is it not?

I can't do this.

He stands up and comes around the desk. Can't do what? What's the matter? He frowns when he sees my dirty bare feet and I smile. It illustrates perfectly the point I am about to make.

I'm not the sort of girl who has a driver.

You can be any sort of girl you want. We've already proven this. Last week you were extolling the virtues of sleeping in furs and now-

There's a difference between a night of luxury and a life of one, Diabhal. 

I know, Neamhchiontach. That's why I want to give you that life. 

What if I don't want it? Any of it?

You'll come around. You always do. It's just the pain talking today, making you doubt everything. Go get some sleep. All of this will keep until tomorrow. If you need anything call me. 

If I need anything I'll call Loch. 

His hand tightens around the back of the chair but he says nothing.

Heart of clay.

If you twist and turn away
If you tear yourself in two again
If I could, yes I would
If I could, I would let it go
Surrender, dislocate

Lochlan's out there in the pouring rain practicing. Maybe for a show in his memory. He's on the unicycle and he's juggling dry torches, keeping the cycle rocking slightly in a back and forth circle about fourteen inches across. Sometimes he does a loop around the fountain.

I stand at the window and watch. After a minute Ben speaks and I jump seventy-five feet. My headache hurts worse as I unclench my whole body bit by bit.

Think when he comes in we should put money in the hat?

Definitely. But only a tenner because there was no fire.

Tough customer.

Go ask him to light them up and we'll make it twenty.

Ben pulls me back to lean against him, putting his cool hand against my forehead. I close my eyes and when I open them again Lochlan has fallen and Ben has torn away from me to run outside.

It's the stupid bricks Caleb had put into the driveway in a pattern to make the driveway sort of tie the whole property together. They form a square with the fountain marking the center, and as you drive around it the brick connects the boathouse and garage to the house. It looks pretty but it's somewhat lethal if you only have one wheel under you instead of at least two or hopefully four for best results.

I watch as Ben reaches him, as he was out there before I even realized what had happened and Lochlan is sitting on the driveway surrounded by the tools of his other life, the one that he would trade everything to go back to sometimes, when life was so much simpler. Ben claps him on the back and pulls him up onto his feet. They look at the window where I stand with my hands pressed to the glass. Ben nods and smiles. Lochlan's okay.  Lochlan waves toward the window without meeting my eyes. His pride. Oh, goddamn his pride all to hell sometimes. He begins to pick up the torches. Ben helps and soon they have all four plus the cycle and they head toward the garage and I go to the kitchen to make another pot of coffee.

Lochlan just needs to practice more. Maybe on the concrete instead. I reassure myself as the side door opens and Ben walks in, followed by Loch. He is soaked, bleeding from one elbow and his lip too where he bit it on the way down. I grab a clean towel as he tells me he just needs more practice. Maybe on the concrete. Because those fucking bricks. My brain smiles in response but not my face as he assures me he is fine. He puts his soaking wet arms around me and pulls me in close, resting his bleeding lips against my forehead. I close my eyes.

I told him about your headache not being any better, Ben apologizes as if he had crossed a line and I reach out without opening my eyes and take his hand. He squeezes it gently and then moves in to surround us both in a hug. Dripping and all. My pajamas are wet and the boys are both freezing now but if you think I'm going to move from this embrace first then you don't know me at all.

This desperation
Dislocation
Separation
Condemnation
Revelation
In temptation
Isolation
Desolation

Let it go.

Bacon fixes everything.

Yesterday's entry brought a little bit of that thing I hate almost more than when Lochlan swings at Satan and misses. Yeah, that thing called pity that wells up in spite of their efforts to keep it quashed lest I see it. I don't say a lot about Cole, overall. I never have. We were seen as a somewhat idyllic match at one point. They all crushed on him. They worshipped his passion. He ruled this collective in a way that would blow your mind. I didn't want to be the one to ruin their image of him.

I still soften things. Habits this old are hard to break.

So between the pity and the newly-missings, this is shaping up to be a wonderful day. We took Dalton, Duncan and Andrew to the airport this morning. They are headed overseas to work on a thing and God love them, my only hopes are that they don't take anything offered to them unless it's a hamburger, they wear protection so they don't bring home anything...untoward and that they just hurry up and get home, only it looks like it will be March Break before that happens, as they go and work their butts off to see that things run smoothly for everyone else. They have promised to bring me as many skull tanks as they come across in merch, too. Awesomesauce.

They also said they will call and check in every Tuesday and Friday night at ten pm local time, which will be morning for them there. Duncan's promised to not come back in the same shape he did last time and Dalton I've never worried about. If anything I worry for the girls he will leave with broken hearts all over because he tends to lay it on really thick. He's like that. Andrew was never as crazy as the rest so he'll do just fine.

Since Ben had to drive to the airport, he organized another breakfast out for himself, Lochlan and I. He really loves going out for breakfast, mostly because I am slow to awaken and refuse to use the stove in a sleepy state. We went back to the same place he took the boys the other day and they got me a Lumberjack! Which I demolished!

!

And then they told me not to worry about anything.

(Always the inevitable ambush. Always in some place that has the super-thick white coffee mugs that I adore but won't purchase for home use because then it won't be as fun to use them when we go out.)

They both promised that everything will be fine, because we are the three musketeers.

They made me cry. The waitress thought something was wrong with my food and I couldn't get a grip long enough to tell her that it was great (Lochlan did it for me) and then we came home and piled downstairs into the big couch to play Halo and I almost fell asleep because I don't like very many of the games but I do like it when the other two musketeers are close by. Yes, I really do, in spite of how much my stomach hurts now from all that grease I ate instead of my usual banana for breakfast. It was so good though.

Also an important note on grudging: PJ has finally come around after Lochlan's New Year's Day teardown of his bouncer skills. They have hardly spoken to one another since and finally Lochlan grabbed PJ in a big hug and told him he was sorry. Out loud. PJ pretended not to react for so long we could see Lochlan's hopefulness waning mightily and then PJ threw his arms around Lochlan and kissed him on the mouth. I love it when that happens. Lochlan said he lost control out of worry for me and PJ accepted that and said he hoped he would never be lumped in with those who have any less than my very best interests at heart and that he wouldn't see me hurt for the world.

They shook hands, which seemed a rather formal after that kiss and then PJ only asked Lochlan to change one thing in the future: to make sure PJ gets invited to all these breakfasts out because he would like to have a lumberjack too.

I asked PJ if he was coming out of the closet or something because..that kiss... and he looked at me sweetly and told me If it has bacon on it then yes.

Remind me to have Loch brush his teeth before he sees PJ again.

Lamp black.

I am working diligently on tax forms for 2012 this morning when Caleb appears beside me. With a goofy smile he slides a small box in front of me. It is wrapped professionally.

I had one more gift for you, which I'm afraid was lost in the shuffle or the haze of the pain from the headaches over the holidays. I discovered it this morning. 

You don't have to-

Just open it, Bridget. Please. It's only small, but it's something you will love. 

It's a mink key ring. A little round ball of fur with a clip. I smile and stroke it across my cheek and then his. So soft.

Do you remember the Danish mink blanket I gave you and Cole when you got married? What happened to it anyway?

He burned it. 

Caleb's eyes go from pleased to saddened in a blink and I'm sorry I didn't censor myself but I seem to always speak first and think later.

***

Cole is listening to Emerson, Lake and Palmer and painting tonight. It's pouring outside but he has opened all the windows and put a fire on. He's in his customary darkest-blue paint-flecked jeans (that match his eyes so closely it's frightening) and nothing else, it's his painting uniform. The black leather cord with the German cross dangles against his chest and he grins at me through his dark brown curls as he tips my glass up to his lips, finishing the rest of the whiskey that I left because it burns too much.

Take off your shirt, he instructs.

It's freezing and it's the only thing I have on.

Wrap that around yourself. He indicates the mink blanket from the daybed. It was one of the gifts his brother bought for us for our wedding. I didn't have the heart to tell Cole that Caleb bought it because of a room we stayed in in Vegas that had a fur-covered bed that I couldn't bring myself to leave. Sleeping naked in fur should be on everyone's life list if it isn't already. I'm not sure if Cole would be actually be upset however, since he was the one who made me go on the trip in the first place.

I unbutton my shirt slowly. I don't want to model anymore. I just want to sleep. I don't know why he doesn't know me by heart enough to paint without me having to sit here for hours, days on end while he spirals down into the darkness that is his gift. I don't know if it's worth it. Who in the hell is going to buy paintings of a girl they aren't in love with?

He pours another glass of whiskey for himself and comes over to me, ripping the shirt apart and sliding it off my shoulders. He pulls the mink blanket around me and gathers it in front, pulling my hair back so my face tilts up toward his for a kiss. His mouth burns too. He holds his glass up to my lips but I try and turn my head away. He turns it back and gazes into my eyes for what seems like an eternity before letting go and taking the glass back to the easel.

Sit on the floor, Bridget. By the fire. Warm up there. 

I do as I'm told. I sit for hours. Excruciating execution. At three in the morning he cleans his hands and comes over to me, pulling me to my feet. He's tipped past his breaking point. He's frustrated and I'm going to bear the brunt of his creative block or whatever is wrong now.

WHY are you like this? He roars at me, ripping the blanket off and throwing it into the fire.

Like what? I'm terrified and tired and confused.

So fragile. I can't paint fragile. This portrait isn't you. I don't know who it is. But I can't get this right. Why can't you be stronger? 

He turns around and storms out of the room and I look down in time to see smoke pouring off the blanket from where it landed inside the grate, underneath the mesh screen, and is now singeing around the edges, melting. I drag it away, onto the hearth and smother it up into a ball. It's ruined.

I put more wood on the fire and close the windows. I twist the caps back onto the whiskey and the paints that Cole missed  in his anger. By the time I'm finished cleaning up the room is warm and I can't stay awake any longer. I fetch the ruined blanket from the floor and lie down on the daybed, pulling the blanket over me, ashes and all. I'm asleep in seconds and in my dreams Cole is burning, having tried to throw me in the fire when his hands were still stinging from the paint thinner he used to clean up with. I could not be held by him though, I disintegrated when he touched me and he burned instead.

He would spend the rest of his life capturing the fragility he saw in me. Through paintings, in photographs, in his minds eye. In his heart that finally broke from the effort. He sold his soul to his brother and figured it out and his creative world exploded into accolades and recognition for something I thought was so very ordinary.

Me.

Caleb (by purchasing his soul) and then Batman (facilitating exposure to the right people) made Cole famous.

I just drove him mad.

Sheltered.

Where you gonna go?
Salvation is here.

Ben took Lochlan, Cale and Batman out for coffee this morning. Or breakfast, I guess because they're not really coffee types, honestly. They went to a pancake place and Caleb pretended he was cool with ordering something called a Longshoreman or Lumberjack platter or something like that. This was described to me in great glorious detail because apparently Caleb seemed very ill-at-ease in a three-quarter star restaurant. Batman was not, he just magically fits in everywhere. They set about eating like it was very seriously business once the food arrived. I think they were all probably terrified.

 All three of them assumed Ben was going to crack heads but Ben is vastly underrated and does more than eat the contents of my purse and pretend that he is home more than he is.

He's quite the talker, once you get him going and he rarely fails to make perfect sense. I have no problems with getting him to talk a blue streak but most of the others have never heard him say more than a few sentences in the same week. He's not even considered quiet. He just tends to hold back for the most part. Giant rhymes with silent, he always tells me with a wink.

I...er...I still don't think it does...

Each of them were addressed in turn and I believe they're all on the same page now and again no one is going to make any sudden moves, Batman is still agreeing to the space I requested and has left it as such. He will interfere if he feels it is required. Caleb has agreed to stop with the fucking envelopes already and take his cues from me (which is such utter BULLSHIT but whatever, I don't think anyone believed him.). Lochlan (who called Batman in the first place, after New Years Eve) agreed to shitfuckall, because he's still royally pissed at everything and everyone. Ben apparently had him step outside and cooled him off with even more soothing words, after which Loch went back inside and split a piece of apple pie with Satan. I don't even..what?

I think the Longhaul Trucker platter maybe slowed them all down a little or simply weighed down their arteries enough that they're going to be able to sort of possibly almost maybe get along as things stand right now. Well okay, Ben's making a great effort. The rest of us are fucked. 

Just fucked.

Completely and utterly fucked.

Because let's face it. I can charm the pants off absolutely everyone anyone but my juggling skills are rudimentary at best.

What a weird and beautifully terrible place I'm in.

You don't need to bother
I don't need to be
I'll keep slipping farther
But once I hold on
I won't let go 'til it bleeds

We are toe to toe, hands to hands, fingers knitted, eyes focused, foreheads pressed together and he pushes me right across the polished tiles of the kitchen floor and into the hall.

Ben thinks this a riot.

What part?

That I'm angry. 

Ben doesn't understand the fuss, maybe. 

Do you? Jesus! Do either one of you see how fucked up this is? GARGHHH! I can't STAND this.

Loch. Stop it. I wait for him to get control of his fury. He drags his hands down his face and focuses on me and I can continue. There's no room here for judgement, especially from you.

Oh but there is. Especially where the Devil is concerned!

PJ comes to the door, every inch house enforcement. Princess protection detail. Care, in bearded form. You okay, Bridge?

Lochlan whirls around on him. Jesus, Padraig! She doesn't need protection from ME. If you want to be useful you should have stuck around New Year's Eve when the vultures set about her!

PJ reddens and turns away, saying nothing. I jump back into the fray. Jesus, Loch! Leave him alone!

Maybe he wants in! Maybe I'm the only one with any common sense anymore, baby!

Instead of standing up to him, I shrink like a violet in hot water. I feel very small suddenly and not very powerful. Just very ashamed. I don't like it when anyone makes me feel that way. I shut down, stop talking, stop meeting his eyes.

Aw, Jesus, Bridge, I'm sorry. He pulls me into the front of his shirt and I disappear against the flannel, blending in with the plaid. Shutting down because it's Lochlan yelling at me and all I ever wanted and all I ever seem to fight against is his approval and the moment I step out of his control he can't handle it. I put my head up against his cheek as he bows his head down and I wrap my arms around his neck.

I'm sorry, Locket. I don't mean to hurt you.

Do you do it for Ben? Is that what it is?

Oh God. The rage, it's emanating off him in waves.

I wait long and hard to answer that question, weighing the truth against an easy way out. And then I give him my answer. He has to accept it because he knows it's the truth and he knows that I would never hurt him intentionally. He doesn't let go. He doesn't cast me away and hurry out the door. He doesn't yell anymore or admonish me or try and force me to bend back the other way, he just holds on as tight as ever.

Abruptly he pulls away, looking down at me, reaching up to smooth away the hair in my eyes (fucking bangs). He laughs so ruefully. You age me, Peanut. And you're not ever going to do that again.

I age myself, Locket. And you don't get to decide these things.

Like hell I don't. You've been through enough. It's done.

Bombshells and curveballs.

The reminder was more of a warning, a clean cut, slicing night into day, 2012 into 2013 and right into wrong but no one found it sinister. Only compelling. Hauntingly so.

This is about Bridget. It's about what she needs. 

(Only I'm right here. I can hear you speak. I can hear you breathe. I can distinguish between your heartbeats and between the voices in your own heads and I'd better do it quickly because my own heartbeat is thumping between my ears, pounding a rhythm to a dance I don't think I remember all that well or maybe I do and maybe I would have liked to forget.)

A head bends down and kisses the space between my nose and my mouth. Softly. No razor burn. No expectation. Butterfly kisses in the new darkness. The fireworks have ended, the sparklers have fizzled out and the guests have all gone home. Black takes over, cool sophisticated black the color of unstrung bowties and tuxedo jackets. Everything else is pure white gold. The champagne. My earrings. The stars, I bet, but I can't see them because of the clouds in between the earth and heaven.

Breath against my lips, waiting for a sign. I exhale slowly, nodding my head up higher still for a kiss on target. The breathing excites me, held in control, anticipating, halted and measured. My hands are brought behind my back and held as lips trace along my neck. My shoulders. I lean back against a wall of solid muscle. I am kept there. My shoulders are squared, my neck extended and my eyes are slow to focus through the haze of sparkling bubbles.

No regrets, little Bumblebee, mumbled softly, a kiss planted on top of my head as if I might grow from it. Surrounded by love, enveloped in their hearts, I don't need a net right here because they are the net. I reach up, taking the end of a tie. I pull it away from a collar in exchange for a smile. I tie the bowtie around my neck and pick up my glass to finish that one last drink that's been refilled twice since. The glass is taken away, handed off. I don't know where it goes, I have champagne-brain again and don't have to be responsible. Instead I feel powerful. I say the word. I want to test it. Immediately all movements stop, concern replacing need.

I say it was a test and feel the relief replace the brief concern. Hands slide around my head until my face is held up close to another and I reach up and free another tie for my stylish new collection. Everything will be fine, Babydoll, I am told as I am turned away once more. This is my own private carousel where I can stand amongst the prettiest horses where the music is the perfect volume only the lights are leaving tiny trails in my eyes as I turn faster. I reach out to hold on. To keep balance.

I nod. I understand but this is only the beginning so I might test again.

My hands are released and I am handed into arms and held tightly. Possessively. You're okay, Peanut? I am asked. Wanted is the reassurance I was just looking for. I nod again and pull another tie out from under a collar but it is taken back from me, stuffed into a pocket. Included but continuing to be kept apart. I go to work on the shirt studs and fail miserably as kisses rain down along my temple, as I am held so tightly that if I didn't have to breathe I might never let go again. I put my head down against a shoulder and the hold is further tightened until I am gently pried away. This night will come so easy for some and so haltingly slowly for others. This night will never ever happen again.

In the morning I have two bracelets, one earring and two bowties still on. I look in the mirror and the night stares back, judging me. I tell it harshly to walk a mile in my shoes and it tells me with contempt that it wears my shoes every time the sun goes down, until it comes back up again, to not even pretend that I will be absolved for this, that when the bubbles wear off there will be hell to pay.

I lean in very close and remind the night that I have been saving up for years, that I have more than enough to cover whatever price it can come up with.

I want to remind it that it should pay me for my cost. That the scales are tipped in its favor and that isn't right. That the curses of favoritism and dignity and terror and need are all at price points neither one of us can even touch.

But then I remember there were moments. I made it from one end of my high wire to the other intact. So many moments. I take one more look at the carousel before I turn to leave. I turn back to the mirror and I stand up on my tiptoes, reaching up with my lipstick, writing NO REGRETS on the mirror in Dior's 752 Cherry Red. I smile at myself and for the briefest moment I feel like I conquered the world.

Then I reach up again and smear the words until you can't read them anymore, because I know better than that. 

Point Perdition.

Finally, our peninsula/headland has a name. No one likes it. I think it's fucking perfect. The big gates have been moved up to the top of the road and now it's all mine.

I'm supposed to write my resolutions now but instead I'm foggy, down and out from these stupid allergy pills that I have to take or my skin becomes a sea of hives and crawls right off my bones, shrieking as it slides across the floor and down into the heating vents. I'm at the point in winter in which I can no longer tolerate fabric softener, shower gel or perfume or in some moments plain old air.

At least it isn't exacerbated by incredibly dry Prairie air though. So I still win, right? Sadly my body shuns my native damp seaside air too, no worries. There will be no winners today, we've called a draw.

Shriek. Shriek. Shriek. It's silent but I feel the screams. 

And Lochlan has put Wish You Were Here on repeat to soothe my brain at least, if my body is unwilling to unclench. It's the unintentional lullaby he chose for me when I was too young to appreciate it. It has changed for me over the decades, from not even knowing what the heck David Gilmour meant as he sang to knowing all too well.

And did they get you to trade your heroes for ghosts?
Hot ashes for trees?
Hot air for a cool breeze?
Cold comfort for change?
And did you exchange a walk on part in the war for a lead role in a cage?

It's still more of a comfort than most things, same as Lochlan is.

I will still end 2012 with no apologies. And I do have a handful of resolutions. The usual ones to eat better, but eat more pizza. Read more but read less online. Take better care of myself. Allow for more downtime. Draw more cartoons and draw less life. Drink more tea and less...erm..Everclear (BLAME MATTHEW). Wear the hearing aids to wring every last note and every breath out of all these songs and always, above everything, keep close to my boys. Get more Ben-time, somehow. Forgive my redhead when I said I have but then I act like I haven't. Be a better human.

I can do these things.

Happy New Year to you all. Thanks for reading. I'll be back next year, or tomorrow, as it were.

Low maintenance.

I spent today eating wasabi-flavoured edamame beans. Every sixth one was a nostril-burning, oxygen-gasping event that would cause me to vow to never eat another one again but then I would reach back into the bag for another handful to crunch on while I read.

I'm reading Cormac McCarthy's The Road.

It's been on my bedside table for several years now so I thought, what the heck?

I'm into it, and I'm alternately stunned by the beauty of his words in places and prepared to stab myself in the eyes with a fork for how stilted, bleak and forceful it is.

I also painted my nails a lovely shade of medium slate blue and then for fun I added a few coats of this silver glitter polish with huge flakes. I love it. Caleb's going to hate it because it isn't tasteful or age-appropriate. Lochlan will hate it because it's makeup, period and he can't tolerate any of it even though I have persisted with the lipgloss for thirty years now. Ben might not notice, but if he does notice he might try to eat it off my fingers.

Maybe he'll think they are blue edamame beans. Sparkly ones. My nails look like radioactive jellybeans.

Caleb is planning a small soiree on the boat tomorrow night, headaches be damned, a proper host to the bitter end of the year. He's invited the occupants of the point (AKA both households), plus Matt, Sam, Keith and...oh my fu...BATMAN down for an early dinner and drinks and some music to kick off the night, maybe a few sparklers at midnight and then we'll begin 2013.

I hope.

I still have to write my resolutions. I still think it's too cold to hang out on a boat at this time of year and I'm pretty sure this nail polish clashes quite mightily with my Valentino dress that I save for this time of year and haven't worn yet because as I told you already, I've decided that living in my Hello Kitty pajamas is the shit, but only during the day.

Currents.

Very happy today to be reminded that I live in a country that has had same-sex marriage laws in place for almost a full decade already and watching as the same rights are passed into law by popular vote (!) in another handful of states in the US today. Slow and steady, guys, keep up that march toward equality for all.

And DAMN, you should have seen the little look that passed between Sam and Matt (over for early weekend breakfast) as Dalton read aloud from the paper this morning about this subject.

But for the record! And I know the answer to this one! Sam cannot officiate at his own wedding. Should Matt propose, that is.

I know this because I married Sam's mentor once, a minister just like him. At one point Jake thought he could marry us because he couldn't find any paperwork to the contrary and finally had to make some calls to get an answer.

I don't know if you knew Jake but he left around five hundred letters for me to find after the fact but he certainly wasn't all that good about having anything important in order. I still don't have everything of his sorted out and I'm finally at a place where I can speak of his shortcomings without wanting to hurt everything in sight. Let's face it. He was a lot like Sam. Paper EVERYWHERE.Thank heavens Sam seems more organized with his personal life.

For the record, Sam is sure I still don't have all of the letters Jake wrote to me.

Ow.

And for the record Sam and Matt are still not living together. I think Sam could possibly be the runaway bride, his feet are so cold all the time. He's terrified of commitment.

I show him commitment. Commitment is a death certificate that you carry in your wallet because things keep coming up. Commitment is a day carved in bronze on a plaque bolted to the rocks, worn shiny by the salt and constant battering of the sea. Commitment is dreaming about Jacob's touch and waking up and saying nothing but vowing to never sleep again because it's frightening how bad I want to feel that touch again. Commitment is choosing to put your trust in someone again when you trust nothing, not even the nose on the end of your face, to still be there when you wake up from those dreams.

So stop stalling and fucking jump already, Sam. It's been over a year now since you started dating Matt exclusively. You once told me I could be happy. It would not be the same but it might be just as wonderful and I'm telling you that right back: Matt is a Good Human. It's okay.

Jump.

Coffee beans and pitchforks. Just another day on the point. Oh my God. Come back when I'm awake.

(Never give a girl a keyboard outlet when she's still in dreamland.)

Tomorrow will have forty-six seconds more of daylight than today, if you're interested.

That's how he taught me to measure seasons. The amount of daylight left. Daylight featured an abrupt shift in how games were called and how marks were targeted. In the dark all bets were off. In the dark we were different people.

Who isn't?

Wait. Should I name names here?

Lochlan is not working today as self-scheduled. He's pretending to be sick because he's irritated that I once again called out his inherent lack of empathy for my emotional well-being, or whatever the hell he called it. I don't remember, it was before coffee. You see, life is cognitively divided into Before Coffee and After Breakfast. If you talk to me BC you will be treated to confused, sleepy looks and tiny noncommittal grunts. Talk to me AB and...you'll probably get the same thing so nevermind, I forgot where I was going with this.

Anyway! He is home so that he can follow me around all day, harping on my insensitivities to his efforts, and because he seriously needs to blow off some steam because yesterday almost did him in, being kind to the Devil while the Devil tries to dance around him to stick his pitchfork in Lochlan's back. Metaphorically speaking anyway. Lochlan's like that. He will save his worst enemies and then spend the rest of his life plotting to ruin them.

The difference is Lochlan only plots. The Devil carries things out.

So there you go.

Doer versus Dreamer, I guess.

Still have no idea where I was going with this. Bear with me! I'll figure it out eventually. Maybe after more coffee.

Someday I'll share all the codes with you.

I secretly think that Caleb's short, quiet bursts of pure evil are responsible for his now-debilitating headaches.

Very early yesterday he 911'd himself on us (he didn't call 911, the emergency service, he called us with a code that we use amongst the group for various things. An SMS shorthand known only to the collective. In this case it was for help.) and then asked me for a raincheck*, which I gladly gave, seeing as how he was down for the count from the time he woke up until late into the end of the afternoon.

Today I'm just happy he is feeling better and today we actually had to work, though it was greatly reduced thanks to his continued need to rest and look after himself. He isn't the rabid CFO he was in the early two-thousands, clawing his way through hundred-hour work weeks, keeping his toothbrush in the office, loathe to waste a minute in which he could be making money instead of spending it.

I'm not actually sure where the balance tips back to reasonable favor but I'm guessing it's now. He just can't work all the time, not anymore but he tries to. Caleb will never be accused of giving less than 500% when only 75% is ever required.

Due to my fears of a repeat of this incident, Lochlan took the lion's share of Caleb's care throughout the day yesterday, oddly great at illness triage where he fails so stupendously at the injurious or emotional types. Practice makes perfect, I guess and by the time I returned with Henry and Ruth to say a quick hello and thank Caleb again for their presents, Loch was reading aloud to Caleb, who was interjecting with some anecdote or another and they both laughed, quite gently. The children walked in and did double-takes and then threw themselves on their dads before I could remind Henry (easily the size of me) to take it easy. That his father wasn't feeling well.

You would never have known he was sick while Henry was present.

In any case, we were royally spoiled this Christmas. I am busy tonight taking down everything (with lots of help I might add) save for the tree itself and the outside lights. Both can remain up another week or so. Maybe less for the tree but forever for the lights because I like them. They remind me that in between those practiced bursts of evil and the inevitable catastophes, calamities and chaos, things can be calm and peaceful, downright wonderful even. We had a good Christmas, all things considered. I hope you did too.

(* There won't actually be a raincheck shopping date. There were other gifts I did not share here that he squeezed in around the edges when I wasn't looking. Mystery deposits and things done around the house that were on a list that I never thought would be complete (thanks to Ben's own workaholic tendencies) and things are falling into place now with a few well-placed phonecalls. Things that help me and help all of us, frankly. Much better than a pretty pen, I think.)

Psychic circus.

The box was empty.

I look up at him, slightly confused.

Your wishes were to put any funds I had allocated for a Christmas gift for you in Henry's University account. I followed your directives to the letter. I want to know what to do next. He says this with his maddeningly handsome, bemused smile fixed in place.

Then why the box? Why the ribbon?

Because I wanted to confirm that you only said that to be difficult, and that secretly you hoped for something anyway. Maybe earrings or a pen or....a diamond ring?

A pen..I had hoped for the pen. 

The pink one we looked at? I'll buy it for you tomorrow then.

No...I stammer. I don't want you to buy it. I just think you didn't need to do this, with a box and everything. I got the car service and-

What would you have done if there had been a ring in the box?

Nothing. You can't give me a ring. 

I can do whatever I damn well please and we both know it. You'll have your pen before lunchtime tomorrow, or perhaps if you wish we can make use of your actual present and be driven downtown to make it a shopping and lunch date. Do you think Cartier does Boxing Day sales?

I shake my head.

He walks over to the door and opens it, waiting. Thank you for a wonderful day. I'm just glad I still know you better than you think I do. 

I walk to the door. I can buy my own pen. It's just-

-not the same. Yes, I understand that quite well. He smiles and softens, becoming so quiet it hurts to listen. Merry Christmas Babydoll. Neamhchiontach. 

I knit my brows in confusion and follow his lead, right out his front door. Merry Christmas, Diabhal.

 See you at ten sharp. We'll get an early start on our bargain hunting. 

I put the box in his hand, ribbon and all and walk out into the rainy Christmas night. I feel humilated, caught redhanded. I feel childish and I feel tricked into making Boxing Day a day spent with him now. I feel unprepared and sometimes I wish I could read his mind as easily as he reads mine.

Exchange or credit only (let me tell you something, baby).

You don’t know how hard I fought to survive
Waking up alone when I was left to die
You don’t know about this life I’ve led
All these roads I’ve walked
All these tears I’ve bled

By the size of the box I assumed he finally caved in and bought me the Diabolo (hahahah) pink lacquer pen I have been lusting after for the past several weeks.

I couldn't have been more wrong. I suppose remaining on my own guard would have been wise but he's so good at this, you see. We don't stand a chance.

I walked him home tonight since he said my present was on his desk. I was so proud that everyone behaved. So proud that he got a little bit buzzy but had cut himself off, asking permission to make tea for himself and the other tea-drinkers since he wanted to restore his sobriety before the evening's end. He's not supposed to drink, thanks to his merry-go-round of prescriptions right now and when I reminded him of this he gazed at me and told me I was right.

No one flipped any tables, shoved anyone else into the Christmas tree or left the room in man-tears (which is when you leave the room, punctuating it by punching the wall or doorframe on your way out but also fight back tears squeezed out by rage and the fact that you may have broken your hand with that punch because fuuuuuck it hurts so bad).

I know all their tricks. Wish I knew all of his.

Caleb gives me a neat foil-wrapped package and inside is one of those delightful red leather boxes with the gold trim, tied with a red and white Cartier-branded ribbon.

My brain starts thinking Pen! Pen! Pen! while he stands there wearing a dangerous smile, ducking his head down slightly, his thumb and index finger under his mouth as if he was about to laugh when he shouldn't be laughing. I pulled the bow with a flourish and started to talk as I opened the box.

This will be great to use every day when I'm...oh my God.

It was not a pen.
 

An early Christmas gift.

The ultimatums began shortly after school started in the fall.

Wear your hearing aids, Bridget.

No. Not to be rude, but I really don't like them. They amplify my heartbeat, your fingerprints and the guy fifteen blocks down swearing under his breath at a broken photocopier. I can hear people's ideas, regrets and deepest longings when I wear them. I hear grass grow. I hear the stars clinking off, one by one by two.

They're exhausting. They're startling. They're just plain stupid. They cost two thousand dollars apiece and they're worthless hunks of utter shit. They've been adjusted, changed, swapped out, serviced, and tested.

But it's not them, it's me.

So I haven't really worn them much past the six week window I promised the boys earlier this year. I wore them all the time and at the end of forty-five days I slid my back down the wall in the corner with a big bottle of vodka in my hands, my nerves shattered to bits and I swore to myself I would never wear them again. I've learned to deal with what is missing in other ways. I feel. I see. I taste. But mostly I just feel, as you well know already.

And now I fill my ears with so much music that enough might get through so that I am okay with it all. It's not that hard to cope when you've been doing it this long, so no sympathy is required. It's very matter-of-fact to me and as long as everyone doesn't talk at once I'm okay with that.

Except that a couple weeks ago I was driving Lochlan's truck and I missed a siren, not knowing there was an ambulance there until the last possible moment. I got out of the way but I like a little more notice than that. I owned up to it, when asked how my day went. I promised to turn the music down when I drive alone. I promised to pay better attention/get more sleep/be careful but this day was sort of very long in the making, especially here, where every trip is a dark rainy night on a high-speed highway, and that's just to buy milk.

But instead of revoking my driving privileges, this morning I was given a present of sorts.

Caleb's driver, Mike. On call for me now as his primary charge.

Because Caleb likes to be independent here, driving himself virtually everywhere. Mike is on retainer and bored out of his skull. Caleb wants him to have work to do and everyone wants me to be safe and not constantly stressing over driving and hearing or the lack thereof.

And privately I was pulled aside and told I would have to get over whatever creepy stalkerish impressions I have had of Mike up until now, that he is a consummate professional who is just doing his job. That job at one point being spying on me at close range for the Devil who used to be so terribly misguided and now is just simply terrible and misguided and I am no longer spied upon, though I fully understand the ramifications of enlisting someone who reports to Satan himself.

I am not permitted to use the word goonage anymore either, Caleb told me.

I guess I simply bring out the visceral side in everyone, my mere presence being enough for them to somehow feel safe enough to unload all of their deepest darkest secrets, fears and wants on me. To do things they wouldn't normally do and say things they wouldn't dream of saying to anyone else. I'm not sure why that happens but it does, and I'd like to turn it off.

Maybe in a few years time Mike can listen to music on my behalf and tell me I really liked that song, or something.  

In the interim, I have a number I call when I want to go out and Mike will be idling out front in fifteen minutes or less to take me wherever I want, and that goes for taking the children to school or running errands for me. As in, I don't have to do it, he will do it for me. I was assured it's part of the job, that he is already paid handsomely and enjoys his job, there just hasn't been enough for him to do since we moved here. Caleb hopes that will change, that this will be helpful to me and better for Mike.

Helpful doesn't begin to cover what it is. It's positively decadent, something reserved for film and music stars and people..well, people like Caleb. People who are important.

Not me. I'm not important. I'm just a girl from a town so small there wasn't even a wrong side of the tracks because there were no tracks. Just ocean, as far as the eye could see. That girl never thought she'd see the day where she had a permanent driver assigned to her. I'm not sure where I should go first but I'm guessing it should be somewhere pretty significant.

Lists.

(Right now it feels as if each moment contains a secondary pause in which to second-guess or simply take note.)

I watched as Ben reached out and very tenderly pressed his hand to Lochlan's head. Ben's abrupt peacefulness makes him patient and loving and sweet. His eyes linger over me, over Loch and he bends down and kisses my forehead slowly and then for good measure he kisses the top of Lochlan's head too. Slow days give them a chance to find their places on the same page, it gives Ben a chance to practice his tenderness, it gives him time to show us who he is instead of who we think he is. The picture we hold in our hands is not the same as the one in our heads. He is generous, open, and loves to be silly, his wounded brown eyes softened by his oversized goofy grins.

Lochlan sheds his false outsider confidence, opening up once he feels safe enough to do so. I watch as he smiles softly towards Ben's touch before dropping his eyes to me. He has settled back into his leadership role within our collective, common sense and comfort coming first, a well-oiled machine of a man who allows for whimsy and honest effort equally, simultaneously. He has an enormous capacity for navigating this unconventional life, expending as much affection to Ben as he has to me in the past while. His arms keep this together. His endless, flexible embrace draws in and out with the moon, a tide on which we float, the compass by which this house finds its bearings.

I watched the unequivocal joy in Sam's eyes as he pressed his hand on my shoulder,  praying spontaneously for me in the sanctuary as I brought him the cookies he adores but won't request. I told him I already received the best gift anyone could ask for. My children are happy, healthy and both have living fathers. I want for nothing else. Sam's enthusiastic bliss is contagious, bubbling over onto everything and everyone, his mouth perpetually stretched into smiles that remain endless. His mood will carry all of us, I hope, straight through until daylight. Just as soon as he has finished all the cookies.

I see the battle for composed control in Caleb's face as I present to him early, cleaned and brushed and shining, a generous, pretty smile fixed in place. It's my own effort to step out of our endless past and into the present to invite him to spend Christmas day at the house. That he will not be under any microscopes, that all of the boys from the other house will be around and Henry wants Caleb there. I don't want Caleb to be alone, and frankly the only way this whole bucolic, utopian creation is going to fly is if we all work a lot harder to get along than we have. Please come, I whispered and I watched as he tried and failed to keep tears at bay and finally resorted to nodding vigorously before breaking into a a huge shaking grin of pure relief. He puts his arms out and I hesitate just briefly before throwing myself into them. I'll make things easier, he promises my hair. I pull back. Good, I tell him and head back over to remain on my side of the new line, drawn in the rain on the pavement in faint chalk.

I see the uncertainty in August, as I knock softly on his door and after a short while he finally opens it and I can see that he has been sleeping, again. In the middle of the day for no reason. I ask him if he is feeling okay and remind him that we are getting ready to head out to dinner and that I hope he is still up for it. He catches my diplomacy and chooses to blow it wide open, telling me he knows he's been useless lately and he's going to try and participate more. I let him off the hook anyway by telling him I'm so excited he's coming with us. That I want to see his face more and he frowns because he knows he's such a ringer for a ghost of Christmas past and I shake my head. No, I miss YOU. You aren't around much and I feel like one arm is missing when that happens. He smiles with glassy eyes and shoos me out so he can change.

I see need in Daniel, who finds this time of year so incredibly difficult and makes his hugs twice as hard and conversations four times longer just to avoid being alone with his feelings. I see him fighting harder than I usually do to keep a relaxed and completely contrived Christmas cheer going at full speed until Schuyler pulls him in and without speaking lets him know that he is here. No matter what. I see the way they talk without saying much and sometimes get no more than five feet away from each other in a day, looking for each other the moment they let go.

I see the steady strength in Duncan, who is relaxed and aware of everything in a way no one else ever truly is, bringing up the back behind Lochlan's charge, content to sip coffee, write his poetry and encourage the rest of us almost unconsciously to glory in our new and old traditions alike. He is uncannily tuned in while seemingly perpetually tuned out, missing nothing from within his own head, content to spend hours by the fire, pen in hand, absorbing and neutralizing the moods of an entire household. He's the charcoal filter for our fishtank souls.

I see the sporadic rise and fall of Padraig's chest as he sleeps, a little more easily every day as we get further out from the worst days of my life and the youngest ages of my children. For a while I wonder if he didn't sleep as little as I tend to, his tired eyes betraying a patience he wore like a shield sometimes just to muddle through. He jolts suddenly, startling both of us but doesn't awaken. I reach out and hold his hand and he settles quickly, holding my fingers firmly, a little boy with big boots and a beard needing comfort from his dreams. I wait patiently until his breathing changes, and as PJ shifts position again he releases my hand. Only then do I move.

They will all tell you that my emotions rule this house, the barometer by which each day is played and spent in turn but I think their unique, beautiful hearts are what show us the way, points on the map that shows my own soul the path home.

Forgot what he looks like in the daylight.

I woke up this morning to find Ben's head between my thighs. I could think of worse ways to begin a day, frankly, and after a brief struggle in which I implored him to investigate for himself precisely how much stubble burns sensitive skin, I gave in, or rather, he continued to hold me down sufficiently to accomplish his purpose.

Nothing better than a man with a purpose.

(Snort.)

I actually had something like five purposes before he let me up again and then he surprised me with the news that he's home until hopefully Wednesday, and that if he has his way we'll spend Christmas just. like. this.

Santa always gives me exactly what I ask him for.

Two hours later Ben went out to pick up the toffee syrup I put in my coffee that I love so much and usually deny myself, all of the mail that's been piling up at the miniature post office that he has to duck to stand inside, and some bakery-baked cake, because Lochlan ate that piece the other day and I'm still surprised it wasn't poisoned or cursed or somehow hexed.

Ben is home again and has made another pot of coffee, warmed up some cake, hit the button on the wall to start the fire and and grabbed the blanket from the library. He's made a nest for us in the living room on the couch and I'm not leaving it until he leaves it first so if you need me I'll be right here.

Winter (picking sides).

Yes, I realize that for the first time not one but two self-made millionaires have told me to leave their presence quite harshly in the past several months. Through no fault of my own. Therefore, both came crawling back.

Case in point, Batman arriving unannounced late last evening which meant he was treated to my Hello Kitty pajamas which I put on while I brush my teeth, check the kids, boys, pets, windows and door locks and then rip off before getting into bed because the human torch and the cryogenic cowboy function as full-service climate controls.

But I digress, because Batman caved (we're taking turns), just a little over a week shy of when he said he would officially contact me in person again. Not like I care, I've been accused of minimizing Caleb's aggression on Thursday by you readers and my boys alike. Lochlan said his hands are tied and the others are attempting to teach him the difference between serious and non-serious because we appear to become upset over the wrong events while the major Oh-my-fucks sort of slip under the wire and go running across the field in the dark yelling homefree!

Oh yes they do. This is my story so I get to tell it any way I please.

Batman brought a bottle of Dom. He wanted an early toast to Christmas and then became frustrated instantly, telling me he couldn't have a serious conversation with a girl in cartoon cat pajamas.

So I deadpanned, asking him if naked worked better.

Definitely, he quipped.

Well, forget it, I reminded him. 'Tis the season for disenfranchising the Princess and all that, I told him and he frowned.

I still have a huge stake in your life here, Bridget.

No, the boys work for you or for people who are owned by you. That has little to do with me.

I only do this because of you.

Then that will be your downfall.

On the contrary. It makes for quite a drive to succeed. A necessity, as it were.

I don't need anything from you.

He does. He needs the checks. The supervision, the reminder that he is being watched.

I don't need him either.

God. Your comic cat outfit makes you downright fearless.

It's Hello Kitty. Japanese phenomenon? Pop culture icon? Jesus, Batman. Open your eyes.

You want to go to Japan? I'll take you. You'd love it-

No, I don't want to go anywhere except to bed.

He smiled and said nothing.

Oh my God. I give up. You hate my guts but you're here offering me trips and seduction. I think I'm going to go upstairs now. I'll find someone to see you out.

I can see myself out, Bridget, I just needed...to see for myself.

To see what?

That you were okay. Too many brushes with the Devil lately for my comfort.

Well then you'll be pleased to know I haven't been striving for your comfort.

Where is Ben?

You should know.

Oh, you're angry with me because of the workload? Idle hands, Bridget. You know what they are.

I also know the shenanigans of someone who uses corporate grindstones to isolate, divide and ruin, Batman.

I'm not that kind of boss, Bridget.

Like hell you aren't.

Sedation by chocolate.

Stop, tell me where you going
Maybe the one you love isn't there

This morning I was called out for my recklessness in following Caleb into what I knew to be a shitstorm when no one else saw it coming. I did absolutely nothing to protect myself from him and that is now a cardinal sin, where so many things aren't, and gosh, it's really hard to continue to be childish while still being able to parse all of the assumption and innuendo that flies through the air out here on the windy, isolated point by the sea. It's like this is our planet, and we're cut off from the rest of the solar system, forced to depend on each other, and maybe failing.

Lochlan is trying so hard to be hands-off. That's what Ben has asked for. Hands off. No fighting. Let Bridget figure out her own shit and unless things are dire, don't run in to fix a damn thing for her.

Because to Ben, I am my actual age. To Lochlan I am forever twelve years old. Forever.

And ever.

And ever.

Sigh.

The doorbell rang just before lunch and there is Lucifer standing in the rain with one of his good plates, and on said plate is a piece of cake. Warm cake, for I can see the steam rising from the top.

Oh, well, hello there, Dream Come True. 

It's a peace offering, but damn, you know how to make a monster feel good. 

Lochlan appears over my head and asks Caleb if he thinks dessert can smooth this over. Caleb's face falls. Of course not, rat. This is just the beginning. 

Lochlan tries to get around me so I grab the doorframe to buy Caleb time to at least put my cake down so it doesn't become a casualty. I holler for PJ because no way are they continuing this today.

Caleb, thinking fast for once, passes the cake over my head to Lochlan and tells him maybe he needs it more than I do. Lochlan, to his credit, takes the plate so that it doesn't fall and land on my skull.

I don't think so, I protest and jump for it. Lochlan keeps it up high. Bastard.  

I really really want to flatten this motherfucker, peanut, he whispers and I see the control fights from all sides suddenly. We're either really good or we're really fucking damaged now.

Then Caleb says again that he's sorry and he turns and goes back across the driveway. I watch him and when I turn back around Lochlan has eaten the cake.

All of it.

What the fuck.

A very messy execution.

They barely survived the Christmas concert, choosing to drop an almost-altercation right between Little Drummer Boy and Jingle Bell Rock as sung by the grade two classes. PJ had a hand on Lochlan's shoulder. I think he was waiting for Loch to explode up out of his seat and tackle Caleb, who sat there looking smug and then when Henry's class came out and sang Caleb looked proud but gave me the briefest side-eye, since I sent Henry to school in a flannel shirt and jeans, same as ever, and most of the boys were dressed up.

Henry Jacob isn't comfortable dressed up and since it's grade fucking six, I'll make sure he's comfortable and everything else can follow afterward. To add insult to injury, Henry's stubborn cowlick was standing straight up, making him look like he fell out of bed and ran up the hill to school without even brushing his hair.

Afterward we went by the classroom to give our regards to the teachers and Henry ran up and hugged Loch and then told everyone this was his uncle (we left it alone) that can throw and swallow fire, that he came from...(dramatic pause)....the circus.

Oh, well, shit.

Caleb didn't react that I could see. He just exclaimed with the kids that it WAS cool and then we made a hasty exit. We walked back down to the house and then he told PJ that I needed to come work for a few hours and then when the kids were done school I'd be free. PJ, who is suddenly my mother, said that was okay while I protested that I had nothing to do and I thought I was done until New Years.

Caleb smiled patiently. Year end can't be done after the end of the year, Princess.

I rolled my eyes and followed him up to the boathouse. Lochlan walked the other way, jamming his hands into his pockets for the zippo lighter to flick, something to do, anything so that he wouldn't blow up at Caleb and get in trouble with everyone even though it isn't his fault by any means. Some jobs are just cooler than others.

And sorry but when you're eleven lawyers are boring.

I remind Caleb that I told him this myself when he started university when I was eleven.

I am smiling at the memory when he loses his fucking mind and pins me up against the wall. Which is exactly the sort of unpredictable violence that drove me to leave his brother.

How much time do you spend building Loch up to MY SON? He roared in my face.

I stare him down. I don't have to build him up and I don't play games when it comes to my children, Cole.

I called him by the wrong name on purpose so he would snap out of his rage.

Caleb lets go and I land on my feet. He grabs my shoulders and pushes me against the wall, pressing his forehead down against mine, closing his eyes. He starts to apologize and I tell him to save it, that I don't want to hear it, that maybe the judge should hear about it and maybe Caleb needs some human being classes because his demon is showing and he laughs and asks me when I'm going to give up calling him evil.

When you stop being this way! I squeal. My voice is hoarse from yelling back.

I think you'd better go. I don't feel as if I have any control right now, Bridget. He lets go abruptly. The last thing I want you to remember about me is something like this. Walk out now, okay? Go quickly, now, okay? 

I think I should stay and not leave you alone right-

GO BRIDGET! JUST GET OUT!

And he spun me around and gave me a shove toward the door. I tripped over my own feet and landed with my hands on the glass, still upright. I turned the knob and burst out into the night, gulping in lungfuls of air, wondering where he found all that sudden resolve and then remembering that he's trying to learn how to keep a promise. He succeeded.

Grounded (the good kind).

Henry's grade six Christmas concert is tomorrow. The school gave me two tickets. I went back and asked for at least twelve more and was summarily turned away due to space issues.

Eventually (today) the office scraped together two more for me.

So four tickets for myself, Caleb. PJ, our surrogate-everything who gets any child-related honor I can give him for what he does for us and one very busy stepfather who doesn't want to miss it but will have to due to time constraints.

That leaves one free ticket so Loch said he would go in Ben's place if we would have him. I asked him to check with Henry because this is Henry's show and he came back grinning a few minutes later.

That would be a yes.

(Love the living while they're still alive.)

We didn't spend our life together
and I will miss you forever

The choice was mine
To long for a time that will never come
Though we leave the world apart
I still went peacefully, quietly
with you still firmly in my heart

I will wait forever
I wait.

I call them fire and ice mornings.

When I wake up half-broiling and half-frozen, wedged into the middle of the Emperor bed with the big frame that I have come to love draping huge scarves over, yards of gossamer, translucent tulle in shades of flames and water. It's a fort, okay? Something that's impossible to build in a camper. And I always wanted one.

Lochlan's a thrasher. A hot-sleeping, blanket-stealing, dream-driven, night-enduring moonbeam when he sleeps. I have no doubt someday he's just going to up and burst into flames from the inside out. That will be the way he goes. I carry a big water bucket now everywhere I go. Just in case.

And Ben is a corpse who night after night scares the ever-loving fuck out of me. He's a vampire, his skin cooling, heartbeat slowing, not-moving-a-muscle, rigid nightmare-suffering blackout-dark nightcrawler soul dissolving into the early morning hours until you can no longer tell him apart from the skies. If it weren't for the sheer need to protect him from himself as he slumbers I might run screaming the other way.

***

I'm back in the creepy/spendy/famous grocery store, shopping amongst the only Glitterati who don't send their staff to buy groceries each week. I suppose it makes them feel human.

Me too.

Mondays will invariably find me standing fully perplexed in front of the cheese display. Because I don't understand. I don't understand what you do with most of this stuff and I don't understand why it costs so much.

(Here's where I should point out I pull the same face in front of the lightbulbs now, desperate to find the lightbulb that doesn't cost $27 a piece or have that stupid cold faint light that you can't read by).

And the Devil is still stalking me. Not sure why he doesn't shop any other day. And I don't bring him anymore because some times I just want to get something accomplished. If it's grocery shopping then that propagates into all other facets of life.

(Here's where I point out what I mean is PJ is cranky when he isn't fed regularly).

Caleb is standing beside me again while I hold this tiny seventy-dollar wheel of fancy cheese.

Good choice, he says.

What do you do with it?

Melt it in a little pot in the oven and then dip things in it. It's delicious.

I do that with Cheese Whiz.

Yes, I know. I had them stock the stuff in California so that we could have late-night cheese toast.

We didn't though.

We did not. Too bad, too. Should I get some today and we can have it at home?

No. Leave it here. I am impatient suddenly. Tired. Not in the mood to banter about products or dredge things up. And worse still is that I got caught this morning. My truancy from the place I'm supposed to be is glaringly obvious but this morning Lochlan said we needed things and we would go right away. I obeyed him because that's what I do. If Caleb dropped an order right now I'd obey that too. Because that's how they taught me to be. And that's how I am.

***

Lochlan wakes me out of a sound sleep.

You were talking.

I try to pull away from him but he has me pinned on my back. If sleeping is the only time I have with Jacob then Lochlan is interrupting my dreams and must be stopped.

Sorry. Find some earplugs. Let me sleep.

He stared at me in the dark as I lightly ran my fingers over his face feeling his features because I couldn't see them. He waited patiently and when I was finished I could feel his expression of resignation and helplessness and I closed my eyes again and returned to my dreams to finish the night in a place that wasn't hot or cold.

It was just right.

Dimachaerus.

John is all moved now. He seems relieved. He seems quite thrilled to be closer to Christian, in the house next door and a little further removed from PJ. Don't get me wrong, there is a lot of love there. They're also two big lumberjacks who like their privacy so in order to reward both for their patience I bought them both sets of real towels.

The towels were not the hit of this little indulgence but the warming racks I got for their bathrooms were. And it has nothing to do with Christmas. I believe in housewarming presents too when people move because moving just sucks and warm towels are the fucking shit, you see. I used Caleb's black Visa card to buy everything. You didn't think I sent that back when I couriered his wallet back to him, do you? He has other cards. It's okay. I'll give it back eventually.

PJ is...struggling a little bit. As usual he has approached his newfound romantic interest with a little deception. He told her he rents a room in a big house. Which technically he does.

But.

But.

I'm just going to keep out of it. But you know? I'd probably drop the commune-bomb by the second date. Otherwise you're just not being honest and why wait until it's going to hurt to know where someone else stands on that whole subject. People are either for it or against it, from what I have seen. He's had ten official date-dates. It's time.

In other news, Caleb did come back early Friday, as anticipated. He wanted to know how I did it, how I got the key for the car without him noticing, how I went a week without touch when I could have had whatever I wanted. How I maintain such a distance from him sometimes and other times I'm so close I breathe the fires that hell maintains in anticipation of my place as the future bride of Satan.

Okay, so he didn't put it like that but still.

And yesterday when he and Lochlan got into it just a little too much Ruth stepped in, putting herself in between Caleb and her father.

(Please know we have shielded the children magnificently up until now, but they're aren't dumb. They're smarter than all of us put together).

She told them to knock it off and she told Caleb that he wasn't allowed to hurt her father. She told Lochlan that he shouldn't provoke her brother's father, because it upsets her brother and that is no longer allowed. She is thirteen years old and she has the bravery of a Gladiator and the heart of a poet and all she wants in this house is peace. She wants her mother to be happier and the fathers to work together and she would also, since we're on the subject, like it if Ben were around a little bit more.

I knew this day would come. What I didn't realize is how proud I would be of her when it happened.

Ascetic. Autodidact.

(baby)
I will be your father figure
(oh baby)
Put your tiny hand in mine
(I'd love to)
I will be your preacher teacher
(be your daddy)
Anything you have in mind
(It would make me)
I will be your father figure
(Very happy)
I have had enough of crime
(Please let me)
I will be the one who loves you until the end of time

It was when our eyes locked that he kissed me. Slower than molasses, hotter than the fire he throws as if it can't hurt him. He pushed himself back up with his arms, ducking his head down again for more kisses. He runs his thumb across my upper lip. He smiles softly, red curls covering his eyes.

Then he stands up, pulling me up with him, pushing me down to my knees, pulling me in again, my hair held fast in his fist as he looks down at me. I look up past the sinewy muscles under flushed skin and marvel in the wonder on his face. Sheer love written all over it, ownership, obsession.

You belong to me, he tells me as he looks down at me. And I nod, even as my knees begin to burn.

Okay so the devil is homeand allegy pills and martinis just dont mix. the lobster was fucking stellar thoguth. yay! Tomorrow sobeer words. Okay, no internet for bridget.

I really really hope from now on all I do is write about PJ but let's just say 'we're cautiously optimistic'.

And when I'm gone
Who will break your fall?
Who will you blame?

I can't go on and let you lose it all
It's more than I can take
Who'll ease your pain?
Ease your pain

Six days without affection and I walked through the front door and into the kitchen, dropping my things as I went. Unannounced. Almost two days early.

At least five chairs were knocked over backwards in the rush to get to me first. I think Henry won. Someone bumped the Scrabble game they had going and all of the tiles slid from their spaces as I was ambushed with a giant group hug. (Later I looked and noticed that WHEN and ORE had gotten mixed up together and you know what THAT spells). Then everyone traded places and again I was crushed in the center of my life by so many arms it almost made up for such a lack of human closeness so far this week already.

My hives went away, which goes to show you it isn't the shellfish, it's stress or that glaring lack of touch. Don't get me wrong, I am not complaining that my boss acted..like a boss (Jesus, bad spot to trot that colloquialism out), I'm complaining that I am so used to being happily smothered all damned day long I was ice-cold and completely miserable walking around with no one to hold and no one to hold me.

Lochlan was so proud of me (for what? Apparently for not sleeping with the Devil. It TAKES SO LITTLE TO PLEASE CERTAIN PEOPLE YOU SEE AND BOY ARE WE EVER PATHETIC). Ben was less thrilled (because he actually doesn't mind when I sleep with..oh NEVERMIND) and more cautious, wanting me to explain how I came to commit what is probably grand larceny when all I had to do was ask him to come get me at any minute of the day and he would have arrived in just under four hours.

(I'm kidding about the grand larceny. I think I am, anyway).

This morning I woke up in my favorite place, am back to very very little sleep and really really glad that I don't have to depend on push-buttons and total strangers for basic comforts like coffee, safety and common sense.

I got the coffee and the safety right here. Not doing so well with the common sense but whatever.

And while I was gone, PJ done got himself a woman. HOLY SHIT. I think we'll have to move John to the quarters vacated by Gage in order to give PJ as much space as possible to fuck this one up too have some much needed privacy. So the Christmas tree acquisition(s) will be delayed while we throw some stuff across the lawn.

Maybe this year I'll post pictures.

Of the trees, not of John's stuff scattered all over the backyard.

Geez, people.

Mistakes were made, Mostly in the airport.

The Devil should have realized that I have had thirty years to develop my own skill set of sorts, trained under the watchful eye of someone who flies so far under the radar you only see a flash of red and he's gone.

So when Caleb tried to set me up last evening I saw him coming from a mile away. The mark. The target. The only way I could see to deal with him anymore, shifting into my alter ego as he spent the better part of the week being kind, patient and sweet. I could see the bottom swinging free for me to fall right through while I clung to the edge, the sharp metal cutting my fingers straight through to the bone. His sweetness was a trap, the whole trip a kidnapping attempt and his efforts spent in vain, because I'm not for sale. I'm not for rent and I'm not free to a good home either. As inwardly feral as I can be, I have value to someone, and that someone isn't him.

Caleb pulled a Jacob, of all things. Tiny twinkling lights. Dinner. The white tablecloth. The suit coat. Everything I love most right there. Setting me up using my most beloved history as a template for his new design. He pulled a Lochlan too, choosing eighties lovesongs as audio poison, drawing me in to kill me slowly.

I ate. I drank. I danced in his arms under the moonlight and then I picked his pocket, taking his wallet and the keys for the rental car we never even used until I took it. I excused myself and went inside the house and then for good measure I locked the door from the inside, trapping him on the patio, making for a lovely head start.

I drove to the airport, abandoning the car in short-term parking and I flew home on a flight that was only half-full. I sat on the plane in my cocktail dress and heels, holding a man's wallet and a boarding pass. The flight attendant asked me if I wanted a drink and I just kept saying yes until he brought me something he thought I might like. For courage, I thought to myself, and drank it in one go.

It turned out not to be necessary. I might still be on Santa's Nice list after all.

Now the miles stretch out behind me
Loves that I have lost
Broken hearts lie victims of the game
Then good luck it finally struck
Like lightning from the blue
Every highway leading me back to you

This morning I express-couriered Caleb's wallet back to him. He will have it before he goes to his first meeting of the day tomorrow. It cost me almost two hundred dollars. Tomorrow is his most important meeting of the week.

Lessons learned?

1)Next time just take the unlimited credit card and not the whole wallet. You save a lot of money that way.

2)It's probably not a good idea to sabotage someone who knows where you live and is coming home Friday morning.

3)Always always wear underwear since you just never know when an entire airline terminal will watch you attempt to retie the ankle bows on the heels they made you remove while you're wearing that dress, the one that seemed long enough when you tried it on but now is just wholly inadequate.