Stockholm cinema.

Caleb told me we had a thing today, but not a meeting, that I was to wear a pretty dress and heels and plan to spend the afternoon with him. He met me at the door, dressed in one of his nicest sport jackets, shirt unbuttoned at the neck. No tie.

Where are we going? To eat?

It's a surprise. 

So off we went in his car. To the movies. In the middle of the afternoon on a Thursday because I'm not sure I've ever been to a movie theatre with Caleb so the timing wasn't the surprising part.

Oh my Jesus. Fifty Shades of Grey.

It was us and then a small group of breathy, giggly women in the back, who stared at Caleb like he was meat and they were starving and he gave them exactly what they wanted by smiling tightly-politely and gripping my upper arm with his fist as he pulled me toward a seat many rows below them.

He got me settled, went out for popcorn and bottled water and just as he came back it was starting.

During the whole thing he kept leaning over, comparing things.

I should get a helicopter. Should I get a helicopter?

No, Diabhal. Shhh. Watch the movie. 

A glider, maybe?

No. Shhhhh. 

I need a playroom. That's what I need. 

I just glared at him and finally he elbowed me and said, Neamhchiontach. Watch the movie. 

Fifteen minutes later he says, Who the heck cuts her bangs?

Then he says to himself, Probably Lochlan.

Then he laughed.

And I glared some more.

Neamhchiontach. 

WHAT?

This is what I'm going to do to you later. 

Like hell you are. 

Grey's a lightweight. I don't need contracts.

He's a billionaire. Oh, and I don't know if you noticed, he's also FICTIONAL. 

Shhhh. Watch the movie.

When we returned home he pulled the car right around to the side door to let me out (it was raining) and I turned and said Don't even think about saying it-

What?

Laters, Baby. 

Naw, see, I was hoping you'd say it to me. As usual, you played right into my hands. And as usual, that's exactly where you'll be soon enough. 

Pro et Contra.

So What about you?
Yeah? What about me?
Quit playing on my insecurities
It's not about you, it's not about me
Reasoning with you is impossibility

I'll put up with this, for love
One more turn and twist, for love
Gimme one more kiss, for love
We're not through with this
I'm a sentimentalist

I'm feeling sentimental
I'm feeling sentimental
Cause you made me kind of mental
Yeah our love was monumental
So I'm feeling sentimental

Okay, so everyone's taxes are done and now I need a vacation. Even Caleb's are done and I swear to God if I had had to call one more place tracking down forms for him I might have given up again. He looked it over (because he had already done it and this was a test and also an attempt at transparency on his part) so I will be doubly rewarded. I prove my worth as his financial partner (bonus confidence boost) and I get to see how much money he made in the year (bonus confidence boost). He makes more than he relinquished. It's a bit hilarious. And I don't think that's all of it, frankly because as a good financier, he's hidden all of it (of course) and the taxman will never ever cometh because this is a great system for the nouveau rich. Write it all off, hide it away and then turn your pockets inside out and lie through your fucking teeth, every time.

I swear, you know everything, he says. The taxman nods and moves along and I stand there suspiciously, waiting for untenable proof. I'll wait forever.

Just like the Devil.

On a happier note, Lochlan introduced me to a record today. New Trews music from last spring. I must be like a tiger in a cage to which raw meat is introduced when a new album by a band I love comes out. Bring in the record and drop it twenty feet away and then back slowly out of the enclosure as I circle around slowly. Then run out and slam the door and watch from the relative safety of the other side of the fence as I approach cautiously, sniffing. Then wait as I play through the album once, noting my standout favourites. Then a second time. Then on the third go round I only play the ones I really love and then it's safe to come back in and be closer.

He described it this way to me and my despair was evident even as I tried not to laugh. If I'm this horrible why bother at all?

Because I love you, and I have my own bullshit that you have to put up with, he told me.

Maybe yours is even worse but it's sort of like trying to hold on to a fast moving spark of electricity as it arcs all over the damn place.

He smiled really wide and said I like that. That's a perfect description. And we're okay. For today.

(For today. He always used to say that when he made promises he couldn't keep and I hate it. It's an escape clause and it isn't fair.

We're safe, Peanut. You can sleep now. 

You promise?

Yeah, I promise. We're safe and everything's okay. For today.)

For the record his taxes were the easiest and most straightforward and therefore finished first. And for tax purposes in the future we may be changing things up a little because it would help exponentially. I'll explain more later. It wasn't my idea and I'm still working out the pros and cons here.

The protections and conversations, I mean.

Raising cane.

Yesterday just didn't really go my way and I handled it poorly besides. I made two huge, like multi-thousand dollar mistakes on income taxes and practically had to resort to reverse-engineering my calculations to figure out where I want wrong. I bought three different tax softwares and then finally hacked one of them to find out how they filled the forms in for the .tax files. Then I found the mistakes and they were really dumb ones. I missed entire lines. I screwed up instructions. I love financial math and am inept at standard math so it was daunting but had I just taken a deep breath or a walk or something it would have been okay.

Can I do that? Of course I can't.

I went full-Bridget and panicked and freaked the fuck out all over everyone and my Fairy Blood Mother arrived in the middle of the whole thing (which explains at least the random tears, if not the on-purpose ones) and then Duncan told me to go fuck myself and opened a beer and went out to the front porch where he sat sipping it for the next half hour while I stood in the doorway with my head pressed against the screen door watching him but not being able to do anything about it.

When Sam got home, he came in the kitchen door and I just pointed and cried some more.

Had I looked I would have seen it was not beer. It was Jones soda. So there's that.

Duncan came up and apologized last night. He rubbed my back and reminded me I'm like a little frenzied maniac when I panic and he wished I would have just said I was spooling up and he would have done something sooner and not just retaliated. He joked that we need a DoomsBridget clock to show when she's getting closer to imminent disaster.

It sort of wrecked my whole argument about why Joel could happily leave because I'm fine and Ben can manage. Ben wasn't here. Loch wasn't either and really Duncan has rightfully shifted from pouring all of his energy into helping to look after me to taking care of himself. Sam had figured it would be safe for him to go and do some work so he wound up in trouble from PJ too, who was at the dentist all day and thought he had planned for just about every outside contingency but forgot I can dismantle myself from the inside too.

He didn't forget. I was in a great place when he left. Sitting by the fire at the coffee table with forms spread everywhere and my laptop playing music and spitting out answers from the CRA.

If you need four different fail-safes then really they're all in over their heads with me and I should be somewhere with medication and soft walls. Well, I mean I know I should but I keep charming them all the while I insist I'm fully functional.

But.

I fixed the taxes. Doubled the refunds! Filed the paperwork. Forgave Duncan and apologized in kind. Reassured Joel he is still leaving. Took Sam off the hook from where PJ put him. Promised PJ I would give out warnings like favours for a party that will never end. Plotted designing that clock to show my moods so no one would have to ask nor will they be surprised when it starts to chime the hour of my imminent destruction.

I changed my clothes. Because I wasn't expecting the Fairy until tomorrow.

I had a soda. It was good. Root beer. I got hives anyway (food coloring) and Duncan just smiled as I began to itch so I can't have another ever but it was good.

Really overwhelmed by life right this second so if you don't mind I'm just going to put my head down and cry.

The more they stay the same (Updated*)

Loch said he would indeed burn down the big Lake house or rather, he would have if only he was young and dumb instead of old and juggling responsibilities now instead of batons.

God love him, he's maturing.

Naw, I'm probably mistaken but he also said I'll never go there, he'll just burn my passport instead. I believe that, wholeheartedly I do, because he told me while I was pinned underneath him, his hands holding my hips, his breath making my legs tickle. His tongue making me scream.

I told you he talks the whole damn time. It's unbelievable.

*(For the record, Caleb already placated him easily, telling him the house will be rented out for long-term corporate stays. Caleb's just an absentee landlord, he says. Loch believed him.)

Community property.

The rain resumed midway through my little mini backyard afternoon vacation, so heavily I had to snap my laptop shut and run for the steps but the door was locked (everyone has this bad habit, we're constantly locking one another out of the house) and so I left my computer by the door (covered) and ran for the boathouse instead.

By the time I get there it's almost too late and I'm soaked again. My Docs will be full of water too. My stockings are probably ruined. Caleb laughs and asks me if we're doing scenes from The Notebook today and I say no because we have neither swans nor a rowboat and he says he'll make notes for next time. He gets me a clean towel from the linen closet and pours me a shot of whiskey and I drink it before I wind up shivering too much to hold on to the glass. I wrap the towel around my back and hold it together in the front. Warmer now.

Could you let Duncan know I'm here and ask him to get my laptop from the back deck? He nods and calls. I yell that I'll be home in a few and Caleb glares at me. When he hangs up he says I should stay. I point out that I have things to do and that was a little break and I had no intentions of being out very long when the weather made sure of it.

He asks if I would like to hear his news. I told him I already heard that the boat sold and I hope we can get a little zippy outboard or something or maybe jet skis to play with in our teeny-tiny cove and he nodded and said yes we can but that isn't his news. He gave up the expensive, depreciating asset for an appreciating one instead.

Another house.

Number three, if you're being absolutely technical (considering the boathouse is part of the main property, and Schuyler and Daniel's house is next door but counts as house number two). Which is sort of astounding considering everyone I love is so minimalistic, nomadic, indecisive and unwilling to put down roots anywhere it seems but inside me, wrapped around the little charred pieces of my formerly robust heart.

He went on to describe it as not really a house, more like a cabin. A five-bedroom, three-bathroom cabin with a lot of waterfrontage in Tahoe and a very private road.

You bought a house in Lake Tahoe?

Yes, Neamhchiontach. It's a familiar place to you, close enough that it isn't impossible to get to on short notice and yet far enough that it's a decided break from here. 

Here?

The commune. Your beloved collective. It's a place where I can breathe and you can have a little privacy. A place you can call your own. 

But it isn't mine. 

No, it's ours. But when we are not using it the others are free to enjoy it. 

Just not together with us.

No, not with us.

Then why five bedrooms?

He laughed. Because I don't think you can get a house any smaller there. And if I could, I wouldn't want it. I told you, I'm going to show you a life that will keep you in awe, and it doesn't involve magic or elaborate shows. 

So this is not an elaborate show? 

No, Bridget, this is a wise business decision and a promise that you're going to have a good life no matter how many times Pyro tries to burn down my efforts. 

Better not show him the new house then, because that's exactly what he'll want to do to it. 

Night and day.

I'm listening to Billie Holiday while I sit in the sun, dress hiked up to my knees, Adirondack chair finally dry, laptop in place. Boots off. Stockings off. Brain off.

If I had a cup of coffee this would be perfect. 

But I don't. Not saying if someone handed me one I wouldn't drink it because I would right this second. Hell, yes, I would. 

I think I like Billie's Gloomy Sunday better than Pallbearer's. Wait until I tell that to Teflon Jesus. He will laugh and then probably agree with me. Everyone loves Billie. We play her records on the porch in the evenings when it's not too chilly but when it's just chill. When it's almost dark but not quite dark and everyone is home, quiet and thoughtful, listening to the needle scratch the vinyl into our brains where it will rest until awakened by a feeling or a memory or a dream. Isn't that how music is suppose to work? 

Excommunicating myself.

And one day we will die
And our ashes will fly from the aeroplane over the sea
But for now we are young
Let us lay in the sun
And count every beautiful thing we can see
Love to be
In the arms of all I'm keeping here with me

Between taxes and removing all trace of Firefox from my computer so far today, it's been too busy to write.

The last straw for said browser was broken way early this morning when it failed to give me half of the information I needed to book flights because just...large voids of white space seem to be located where I want to see actual useful information. In any case, I got the job done finally and then blew away the program.

Because no. Because I'm not going through that mess again.

Now I'm using Safari which took all sorts of wrangling and beatings to make it function the way I need it too. I even managed to export and import my bookmarks and...and...something something keychain. I don't remember. Password things.

All by myself!

But you know something? I could be Amish. So, so easily. Except for the curiosity part. Then I'm doomed.

Do the Amish file taxes? I'd look it up but the tabs in Safari. I can't find 'em. Give me a minute (I mean an hour. Give me an hour.)

In the twinkle of an aye (all apologies, I cannot resist).

This morning I let Caleb inspect his purchases, because as he pointed out, before he settled the bill he wanted to be sure everything was perfect. He's a perfectionist. His standards are high. I finally relented, first in the cashmere, then in the velvet, telling him he could look but not touch. He found that supremely amusing as we have sort of-almost made up here over the whole Joel-eviction thing.

While I did a slow turn, freezing to pieces in the Boathouse in my underthings he revealed something too. The news that he's going to sell the boat. That he has something else in mind but he'll tell me once it's official. He's simply not using it, though the private covered slip and extensive docks he built will be terrific for the resale value of this house someday.

(This is the part where I will perish from curiosity and he knows it. See how he plays? I'll find out what I need to but the cost will be huge.)

And in Joel-news:

Joel is going but we've come a mutual agreement to meet for brunch once a month. That way he gets a check-in (UNQUALIFIED) and I get a...free butternaut adventure since he always chooses a very fancy place when we go out, which is so interesting for that imaginary trust fund kid. The butter arrives on a little plate in pretty curls and instead of spreading it on bread I make it into little people with my knife. I call them butternauts and it's a welcome distraction from his endless counseling. I've mentioned them before (here and here, for example).

Caleb is somewhat satisfied that we came up with this ourselves. Then Joel and I promptly hunkered down and watched Annabelle, because Joel is only really good for horror, hockey and humility, as I always tell him.

He wishes I was as good with my emotions as I am with my observations, my words. I point out that for every gift there is a deficit somewhere and oh boy did I ever lose hard. Thank heavens I can express myself in the feelings I can't seem to control, or everyone would be left foundering in the darkness along with me.

That would not be good.

So now we have that space over the garage. Someone suggested we call Asher back. When I was done laughing I asked if we just hold it for Ruth. By the time she's 17 or 18 she'll want her own space I imagine. In the meantime I think I'll call August and ask if he'll come back or maybe come out for Spring Break/Easter/Summer/The Rest of my Life.

Though he'll probably gently refuse. Run, Augie. Run while you can.

Acting like a lady.

Hang on to your hopes, my friend
That's an easy thing to say
But if your hopes should pass away
Simply pretend that you can build them again
Look around
The grass is high
The fields are ripe
It's the springtime of my life

I'm ready to punch Joel in the face, I think. Though I wouldn't. Nothing is worth getting into it physically. Especially since we're in this up to our necks emotionally at this point and I just want him gone.

He campaigned for and won a whole day with me to change my mind and even Lochan went to the wrong side to allow it.

Which stung so badly I still feel burned. Their reasoning being, if something goes really wrong as it tends to do every now and then, he should be here, because August isn't anymore.

I point out helpfully that between PJ, Ben and Sam I've been called back from the edge easily. That did not help and only served to riddle my promises with holes and now I can stack them all up and put them on a post because they're done and he's so close to staying I want to scream.

He sits too close. He waits too long. Every single thing I say is evaluated, loaded and shot to see how far it goes, how badly it wounds, how I could change it, rethink it, get better.

(I am better, Fucktard. You're just stringing this out so that you have a job, aren't you? Tell them she's nucking futs and they'll make sure you have a roof over your head for decades.)

I don't have that kind of time. I want him gone NOW and the Devil asked me for a report proving I don't need Joel. He wants me to outline a plan for the future and a plan for emergencies and he will be vetting them personally. If I can argue successfully, Joel can go.

But I'm not a lawyer! Besides, I thought it was 'innocent until proven guilty'!

If that's the case, Bridget, then he should stay and maybe you should go.

Gladly! I turn on my heel and slam out and go back to Joel, because I do what I'm told. Even if I hate it. Even if it hurts. Even if I wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy, even though he's staring me right in the face right now. That's what kind of good girl I am.