104 in the 604.

Caleb isn't very good at this. He called a restaurant and had them send over some soup but I didn't want it because I'm ten thousand degrees of lava stretched over my bones and so uncomfortable I don't know what to do. Matt is here because Sam is sick. Even Schuyler came home from work. Lochlan didn't get out of bed, Ben is babying him to the point where he may have forgotten about me. Lochlan hasn't but somehow thinks the devil, who doesn't actually have a nurturing bone in his body for anyone over twenty so far, can manage it.

Caleb has offered a shopping trip (no, what?), a cocktail (Jesus Christ) and a nap (okay, maybe) and now I'm sure he's gone off to look up the steps for buying health on the Internet. Price is no object, logic no obstacle.

I'm going to crawl home in a few minutes. At least being in my own bed will be better than trying to be upright, but people seem to get nervous when I don't write so here's my check-in. Maybe see you tomorrow.

This time the Big Banana won.

(I know New York City is called the Big Apple. It's been an inside joke forever.)

I came home a little under the weather, and may or may have not been on my knees in my seat when the plane landed, holding my whole head, looking for the locking mechanism, trying to find a way to take it off.

It would have hurt less than leaving it. My ears have been doing that thing where when I talk or open my jaw very wide it sounds like someone is crinkling plastic wrap inside my brain.

Congestion. 

Yes, I know what it's called. Like traffic. My head is rush hour. My nose is the freeway.

Where'd you get it from? 

Probably a door handle on 8th Avenue or at the Met. Maybe Otto brought it. Maybe the Flight attendant was sick. Maybe Ben is festeringly ill. Maybe, just maybe I'm a human girl and I carry germs everywhere I go and the minute I get run down they pop out and just take over. Maybe, just maybe, Lochlan, I got it from you. Maybe YOUR nose is the freeway. 

Listen, smartass. 

Well, it's a misquestion!

A misquestion? That's great.

I meant to say a dumb question but I want to be polite. 

You're beautiful. 

No I have Rednose the Rudolph rainy day. 

Yeah. You really do. I think your fever's making you a little delirious too. I think we got home just in time though. 

Why?

So I can make Caleb look after you. 

He doesn't know-

Oh, Bridget, I might not have a choice, I'm getting sick too. 

The grandest.

About an hour after Ben left this morning there was a knock at the door. I figured he got all the way to his meeting and forgot his phone. I didn't see it but then again with Ben it could be in the shower, under the bed, in the laundry that's already been picked up, on the floor of a cab he's already exited or in his pocket and he's still thinking he's forgotten it. I find his shirt from yesterday that didn't go out in the laundry (we're so organized when we travel), wrap it around me in what I hope is an avant-garde style and fling the door open, hoping eggs Benedict are on the other side.

No, it's a man in a suit. It's a man in a suit with a name tag. Just a first name. Otto. No hotel brand on the tag. Otto is holding a hotel key card and a set of car keys. He nods and says I must be Bridget, that he was sent by Mr. Benjamin (full name) as assistance for the remainder of our stay. As our personal butler. That if I wish I can call Mr. _____ first to confirm.

I squeal and slam the door in his face.

Then I yell to Lochlan, GUESS WHAT BEN GAVE US.

Lochlan looks quizzical. Breakfast?

NO. A BUTLER.

Lochlan has no idea how much I love butlers. I thought they came with the hotels here but apparently they are just personal assistants you hire and I'm spoiled fucking rotten and that explains all the times I spoke to the hotel trying to glowingly praise what I thought was their staff and they smiled tightly and let me ramble like a crazy woman.

Whatever. We have a butler.

WHO DRIVES.

Looks like my plans for two more days of naked eating in a hotel suite just came to a screeching halt. I open the door back up, hoping the shirt is doing my modesty justice.

Otto is smiling professionally. I'm sure he was warned about my...uh...enthusiasm.

Where would you like to go this morning, Miss?

SMS.

The best part of traveling is not only the fact that I can eat my way across the globe, or that it cures my wanderlust to a huge degree, or that I get a little privacy, or even all the one-on-one time with Ben and Lochlan but it's also the funny little text messages from back home.

PJ: Can I have a cookie? Just one. I ate my vegetables.

Dalton: Dunk's wearing your underwear. Just thought you should know. He dances around like Buffalo Bill when you're not home.

Batman: Everything okay? (I rolled my eyes)

Ruth: Do I get paid for babysitting them? 

Henry: Can I have two cookies? I ate my vegetables.

Sam: You okay? Oxo (I did not roll my eyes)

Joel: 8 am: Don't forget your meds
        8 pm: Don't forget your meds
        8 pm: Don't forget your meds
        8 pm: Don't forget your meds
        8 am: Don't forget your meds
           (Ad nauseam)

Daniel: 568 Amsterdam is the pizza place. I think. Google it. SO GOOD

Caleb: Miss you baby girl x

PJ: We made an executive decision and ate the cookies.

Gage: Did the leaves change there yet?

Duncan: Don't believe a word they say I didn't dance xo

Beautiful things.

When I opened my eyes the bleached wood of the boardwalk seared white against my pupils. I press my hands against my chest. I'm trying to keep every last tiny detail so that I have them later when I'm not here, when I need them but I'm not good at this.

Ben glides past me on a penny farthing made of my dreams, sealed in copper, tarnished with abandoned ideas. I'm surprised it runs.

This is great, Bridge. Why didn't you follow through? 

I wouldn't have met you, I remind him.

But this, he implores.

This is a fleeting fever dream, I teach him, not a life. I catch Lochlan's eye as he ignites his fingers, tracing the wheel further down the beach, tracing that dream he wanted so badly. His expression falls through a hole into the boardwalk and I run forward and look down. It's bottomless. I call his name.

He can't hear you, Lochlan tells me as he stands beside me, he's run away to join the circus. 

The Midway was a gateway, wasn't it?

It's all about the rush, baby. You can't throw fire on the Midway. 

Sure you can. Just not in front of-

The guests. We say it at the same time. We stand back up straight, stepping away from the hole and look at each other.

It wasn't a dream, Bridget. I would have stayed here forever with you. We would have starved to death but we would have been happy. It wasn't imaginary. It wasn't foolish. It wasn't fleeting. It was the life I chose for us but it wasn't the one that worked out. 

I'm sorry. 

Don't be. We have Ben. We have the kids. And the boys. And we can come here any time we want. His smile is generous and kind, and it didn't have to be either but it is and it's brighter than the boardwalk and stronger than my heartbeat and it will be the most vivid memory of today, by far.

Lochlan is strumming Ben's guitar, humming. He nudges me. Sing it. You know the words. 

You don't know the words?

No. 

You don't know the words to Hotel California.

No. 

Wow, Lochlan.

Why does that surprise you?

I thought that was like...some sort of pre-set. Like everyone just comes with the lyrics already in their heads.

Shame? I left that back home in my boyfriend's bed.

Caleb was all bluster, no fuss, affectionate to a fault and I was sent back intact, lovingly and sweetly, with apologies for his temper tantrum no less, as he struggles with his new role as formerly malevolent, now benevolent, once evil, now kind, used to be bad, now better-than-ever boyfriend. In order to keep his permissions and not wind up sanctioned, them be the rules and he has to stick to them.

So he talks dirty but then it washes off, which is good because he wouldn't have wanted to leave it badly and I'm glad he didn't leave it badly because I'm in New York.

Yes! The big Tomato.

Just when I give up on my wanderlust and doom myself to haunt the point forever someone charters a plane and ta-DA! Ben may have come back early because he was worried but he still has back-end meetings that he couldn't do from home and he didn't want to fly back to London so the compromise was New York.  Lochlan and I have tagged along to keep him company, which basically involves sending Ben a lot of nude photos of us from the hotel while he's in meetings.

Don't worry, I always crop out my head because no one's EVER going to be able to identify me by my tattoos. Right? RIGHT?

We're here until Tuesday. That's a lot of room service. That's a lot of nudes.

He barely made it past the week and other dumb things that are probably none of anyone's business.

Quite an experience to live in fear, isn't it? That's what it is to be a slave. I've...seen things you people wouldn't believe. Attack ships on fire off the shoulder of Orion. I watched C-beams glitter in the dark near the Tannhauser Gate. All those moments will be lost in time, like tears in rain. Time to d-

BRIDGET! Come inside before you get soaked!

It's been pouring all night and I love it. It's freezing cold. It's the perfect night for Rutger Hauer's final monologue in Blade Runner and yes I fell asleep during my third screening of the movie but not for any of his scenes, the last of which is a masterpiece of acting and reminds me of someone.

He was amazing. I cried. I hated every other part of it though and I went from being kind of sort of vaguely excited to see Blade Runner 2048 to thinking I hope something else is showing so I can skip it and go down the hall to watch something drippy and sad. Maybe Ghost Story will finally hit the theatres here. Not like it has yet, I am still waiting.

(Nevermind. I just checked and it went up on iTunes YESTERDAY. YESSSSS.)

I reluctantly sweep my eyes around the deck for tiny origami animals or Daryl Hannah in the throes of whatever and head back inside. Caleb hands me a newly-filled glass of red wine and leads me back down the hall. It's so dark. He turns back and I almost don't see him, bumping lightly into his arm. He takes my glass and continues forward. It's like he forgot who was with him. Little Miss Clumsy.

Little Miss Sub.

Little Miss Guarding Her Soul With Everything She Has In Case Last Week Was A Trick.

He hands the glass back when we reach his doorway.

I'll show you things people wouldn't believe. He grins.

Pretty sure you have already. 

His face falls. It was a joke. I swung and missed.

Maybe we went too fast. Maybe you need to learn your lessons more slowly. 

Maybe you aren't allowed to play those games anymore. 

What if you want me to, Neamhchiontach? 

Then I'm supposed to talk it out. With one of my proper counselors.

August isn't here. And I don't think Sam really wants to hear those kinds of things. Especially not now that he's moved that much closer to you. So distracting. 

Claus on Skype. Joely. Lochlan if I have to.

You can't talk to them about this. We can just roll it back a little, just for old time's sake. Remember your words, Bridgie? 

Gingerbread. Wenceslas. Toboggan. (He very purposefully chose three-syllable words so there would be no mistake, and holiday words so that I would remember them at such a young age. And then he chose to very purposefully never ever hear them.)

Don't you miss it? Don't you miss having such an easy, specific plan, having it all spelled out for you so all you had to do was show up and follow my rules? 

Can the maker repair what he makes? I trace a raindrop down the window. I'm not going to answer him. I don't want to do this. He grabs my hair and wrenches my whole head back so I'm looking at him and I gasp at the familiar expression. I haven't seen it in ages.

If you don't stop quoting that fucking film I'll do more than just ignore your safe words, Bridget.

End of the fire ban.

This is why I love fall. Rainy bonfires on the beach, boys in sweaters, my rainboots, hauled out of the very back of the front-hall closet and passing around a bottle of whiskey in the half light like back in the old times, except now it's a forty instead of a pint. Now someone walked in and picked it up off the shelf and paid for it instead of begging Caleb's good graces. Now I still only come up to their armpits or shoulders. Now we're still thick as thieves.

My flannel shirt and jeans isn't warm enough and Lochlan sends me back for a coat just as we reach the gate. I frown and stomp back across the driveway and then break into a run, up the stairs, catching my toes and landing on my hands and knees on the top step, then picking myself up and running through the kitchen and down the hall into the foyer and grabbing the first coat I see, which is John's green carhartt jacket which is far too big and heavy but that's okay too. I shrug into it, zip up the front and run back, grabbing the rail on the way down the steps this time.

Okay.

I run across the driveway and Lochlan laughs. Ready? Think you could have found a bigger coat? 

Nope. 

Off we go. Down the slippery steps. I get the rail and his hand. He gets my hand and his uncanny balance. We don't need to rush. They've always kept their promise over the years. They never start without me.

Everything you were ever afraid of.

We went to see It yesterday afternoon (thank you rainy day empty theatre, so empty I didn't have to book it), and as the world's biggest Stephen King fan I have to say,

I didn't...hate it.

It was actually pretty good, although the horror parts were not that good. Too campy, too silly, not scary, very weirdly done.

The children, however and their relationship to one another was masterfully done.

I think that's what I love about King stories. Half the horror is some real-world psychological dread but it's softened by some campy bullshit easy-horror, almost diluted to make it something you can swallow. So the campy rotting skeletons will probably kill and you and what a relief, hey, because at least now your fear of the dark/being alone/death/whatever won't.

(Now I patiently wait for Joyland, Doctor Sleep and Revival to be made into movies because I think they'd be fantastic. Much as The Girl Who Loved Tom Gordon will forever be my favorite of all time I daresay it wouldn't make a good movie because so much of it takes place inside her head.

(which is EXACTLY why the movie of my life is going to flop someday too.)