Burn, baby, burn.

There she is.

I'm dragged out of a sound sleep, as his headphones are put over my ears. Ben lifts me up out of my warm dreams, Rob Zombie's voice crashing through my ears, Hands of Death, I think. How fitting. Ben is relentless, Ben is hunting. His hands are warm and hard, pulling me inside out, breath against the top of my head, chest solid against my face. My legs are wrestled out of his way, one on each side of his hips, knees bent back agonizingly and then he's inside me. I cry out and he is gone again as I am turned face down, headphone readjusted, music turned up, hand over my whole face to keep me quiet. He pulls my hips up into him and I close my eyes again. So gloriously painful. His chin comes down against my back, lips against my skull but I can't hear him thanks to the music. God only knows what beautifully terrible things he's telling me he's going to do to me. His mouth is against my shoulder abruptly, teeth softly pressing into my skin (not to bite, but to brace) and I feel his legs widen, taking mine so far out I feel like they might snap off and then I'll be the best girlfriend ever. I cry out anyway and his hand flexes, fingers reaching over my forehead and to each ear. He only holds me tighter, higher and I start to become afraid that he'll drop me from here.

But he's not going to let go, he's going to brace us both with one elbow. Oh my God.

The next hour is a delirious repeat of that song, over and over while he remembers where he is and who he's with. I am turned back over, dumped on my back, headphones pushed back on, scraping my face, as he bends down between my knees that dangle over his shoulders, his hand left over my mouth. I scream and twist against his face but he doesn't let up for even a second, scooping one hand underneath me to push me up against him. The harder I struggle the harder he holds me until I soar up over the atmosphere, unable to breathe, and then and only then does he let me up. His face is thrilled, the rest of him is tense and ready to go. He forces a kiss, says Sorry with a laugh before the headphones are put back once more. He drops his weight on me, at once driving so hard I wonder if I'll die this way.

That would be fine.

Seriously.

I can't hold on. He's too hard. He's too fast. He's not giving me or himself any breaks and fear tingles through me. Tighter. Harder. Rougher. I start to wonder if he knows it's me still, or if Ben is fucking his demons into oblivion so they might leave him alone, violated and ruined in one wide swath of darkness here.

But then he slows to a crawl and I am flooded with victory as he rips the headphones off, kissing my ear, kissing my whole face. Bumblebee, I'm sorry but you just looked so appealing sleeping so deeply, I couldn't help but help myself to you. And he laughs softly once more, asleep before I can reply.

Lochlan stirs sleepily from my other side. Jesus Christ, What the fuck was that? with pure admiration in his thickly dreamy voice and I fall asleep with a huge grin on my face. My lips were stuck to my teeth when I woke up this morning, proper.

Ménage à triage.

We're not even going to dignify the news that the DeLeo brothers have chosen a new life support system singer for Stone Temple Pilots when they should have pulled the plug after Scott died. You would think Chester also dying would have confirmed their inner doubts. Jeff sings flat. His voice has little power, frankly. But more importantly this is not what STP fans want. The band was more than the sum of its parts. Maybe the DeLeos could resurrect Army of Anyone instead? I hear Richard is free, and that album (self-titled) was a freaking masterpiece.

***

(I had a laugh when I chose my title for today's post. A ménage à trois means a threesome. Ménage avec triage means a house with a yard. Ménage à triage to me means this love triangle needs help. This is somewhere in between. The love triangle (square? ...hexagram? in this house needs work. You get it. Nevermind.)

August has thawed. Maybe since Lochlan managed to wrangle my heart back into place though it hardly fits for all the patches and frankenparts that make it up now. Maybe since it appears that I did navigate this seminal anniversary without losing my shit (yet, hence the word seminal) August figures it's safe to make contact.

Just saying that makes me feel alien and unwelcome.

But here he is in all of his dark-blonde wavy-haired flannel Newfie glory, a sight which never goes unappreciated (stop it, Bridget).

Hey, Princess. 

Hiya, Wolverine. 

What? 

Nevermind.  You just quoted a cheesy line from Wolverine. We laughed out loud at how badly Hugh Jackman delivered it before Logan happened and was so much worse I forgot Wolverine until now. 

What are you talking about?

Nothing. Nevermind.

Want to talk?

The question is, do you? 

That's why I'm here. Will you make some coffee? 

You're the one with the gorgeous Breville. 

You've got the press. He smiles and all of my guns hit the floor.

This talk wasn't for me, it was for him, as he says he didn't come with us to Tahoe because he couldn't, because he was dealing with his own marking of this, the tenth anniversary and he wanted to think on it, that I am as much his memory of Jacob as he is Jacob's memory to me and it's not a beneficial relationship because it's parasitic instead but that he wanted to try harder to get us both to a good place where we can help each other instead of ripping each other to shreds.

I thought you were tough as nails. 

No. I'm one of your butternauts. 

Everyone's a butternaut, deep down. 

I'd rather be tough as nails. 

No you wouldn't and I wouldn't like it if you were. 

Being here works better to keep us on track. 

So I'm banned from the loft?

For now. 

That's fine. There's lots of room here. Because I'm incorrigible and I never learn.

He gets it and laughs but changes the subject. Any concerns right now? Today, based on the past two weeks? 

I dump my brain out on the tiny glass table between us. Pieces fall off the edge and roll away under furniture but the big pieces will keep him busy for now. We'll find the rest later.

He frowns. Sam know about all this? 

I would hope it's pretty obvious just by looking at me. 

Mostly it is. 

Can you fix it? 

In time I can but for now we'll have to patch it up and see how that goes. 

Well, hurry. It's starting to hurt again. 

I'll do my best, Bridget. 

Lionhearted.

You know that feeling when you forgot to do a laundry load of delicates for two weeks straight and yet it's too cold to go commando, and for the first time in forever that's an important thing to point out?

Well, it is and I'll tell you why. I forgot to wash all of my lingerie and there's enough of it that I just kept pulling things out to wear and not even thinking about it until this morning. When there was nothing to grab. So I shrugged and grabbed my jeans anyway. But then I headed downstairs and no. Turned around and came back up. Too cold, can't stand the feel of denim against my hips. Hate it. Contemplate a dress but no. It's windy and stormy and pouring rain, need jeans and a huge sweater. So I raid Lochlan's drawer and find a pair of white trunks at the bottom. They're like his boxer briefs but with shorter legs. As close to boy shorts as I can find. I pull them on but they're too big so I pin the sides and that does the trick. It used to do the trick between towns when I'd run out of clothes and it does it still today.

But then we're outside and Lochlan dares me to jump into the roiling sea with him. A hard reset, he calls it. Baptism on the fly is what I say.

Fine- I start to say, and then hesitate.

Take off your stuff, he reminds me. You can't surface in jeans and a sweater, it's too much weight. We always strip down to our underwear. And I'm wearing his. But he doesn't know. And they're pinned which for some reason is even worse still.

Maybe later. I'm freezing already.

Bawk...bawk.

The fuck is that. I'm not afraid. Fine. Let's go. Odds are I'll be in first. I strip out of my clothes and down to just his underwear. He sees it and begins to laugh. Almost doubled-over, still fully dressed.

What the hell, Bridge. This is hilarious.

I'm out of clean things. 

So you're wearing mine? But they're too big. Holy shit. 

Stop it. I cross my arms over my chest, not because I feel exposed, but I'm damn cold. You have two seconds to strip or I'm jumping alone. 

The only thing that would have made this better is if I stripped and you discovered I was wearing your underwear. 

I'd like to see you try. 

Not sure I could get a leg hole past my knee. 

You do have big knees. 

And I have an arse, unlike you. 

Last one in is a chickenshit. And I run and I win, hitting the churning water while I think he was still unbuttoning his flannel shirt. Then he hits the water mere seconds later and surfaces before his hair is even wet. He looks like a lion, slightly angry, slightly bemused. Like his face can't decide.

You have to wait for me. 

I knew you wouldn't be long. 

And he grins. You've got to wear my stuff every day. It's freaking hot. 

Not from where I am right now. 

Want me to piss in the water, to warm you up? 

LOCHLAN! GROSS!

Making Amens (sic).

This morning I brought up breakfast in bed for Lochlan. He's done it for me, I do it a little differently. Hot chocolate, fried potatoes, sausages, soft boiled eggs and toasted bagels with honey. Tin plates and mugs, camping forks and flannel napkins with tea lights on the tray to make it rustic and appealing. He woke up slowly with a smile on his face from where he was probably dreaming about fire. It's like having married Ghostrider, except that he has a face, and such a beautiful, sleepy one at that.

What's this, Peanut? Is there enough for both of us? 

Of course. I settle back in beside him, cross-legged in my pajamas so we can eat. I was starving but I wanted to do something special for him and also avoid any more overhand-mug-throwing because I'm sure he's perpetually ragey at someone, probably Jay today, since no one addressed his fuck-it-I'll-throw-my-hat-in-this-ring offer from the weekend.

And no one will be addressing it. We're just going to leave it to twist in this crazy wind. We could almost surf today in the waters off the beach. It's fierce. I keep waiting to hear the power go out and the generators kick in but so far so good. Hopefully it will stay on. Otherwise I love this weather.

We polish off our plates in short order and I stack the dishes on the tray, moving it to the table. Lochlan buries himself back into the quilts, bringing me with him.

Thank you. That was amazing. I think you should do that every day. 

Maybe I will. 

Can you imagine that life? 

Don't have to. Just lived it. 

But every day?

Well, remember that time you put toast in the toaster without getting off the bed? 

That was extreme poverty. This is luxury. 

Because I made breakfast so far away from where we sleep? 

Yes, exactly. But he's smiling. You do realize the day is all downhill from here now, don't you? 

I hope not. I've planned a pretty exciting lunch too. 

In bed? 

Hopefully.

Jesus complicated.

Sam and I had a karaoke session in his car all the way down the highway to early church this morning, singing along with Wings. Let Me Roll It indeed. By the third go he had all the words down, and by the fourth we were both sick of it and switched to Fleetwood Mac.

And I got another lecture, because he covered for me and he was pissed that I flouted his grace in favour of making a cheap grab at shocking the whole household, as if PJ is an easy mark, lesser somehow.

He's not but everyone is also right in assuming that he's a safe bet, he's easily let off the hook whereas virtually anyone else would be subject to a huge blowup.

And I know what's wrong with me. I know what's wrong with this, but I maintain if there's going to be a fuckup, PJ is definitely the lesser of all evils. I had offers from as far away as Jay. No one wants me with Jay.

And yet Sam is wondering why PJ in the first place? Why not himself?

Because August was busy (August is also angry with me. Seems to be contagious.)

I wasn't busy, Bridge. 

You're a direct threat. 

Lochlan regularly invites me-

Right. He does. I don't. 

I'm harmless. 

No, you're not. And I tell the truth. You're as dangerous as they come. 

More than August? 

Yes. 

Why is that?

Oh, look, we're here. Looks like a full lot today. Ready for your closeup, Preacher?

Hide or lie.

He poured me a stiff drink for breakfast. A Bridget-double, which is one and a half. I drink it like a shot to feel the warmth and wipe my mouth with the back of my hand so that I look tough. I put the glass down on the counter and turn just as he whispers Showtime, baby. 

He pushes me backwards without looking, as I stand behind him without anyone realizing I was there, because Lochlan threw his coffee mug overhand at PJ's head upon coming into the kitchen.

Christ, Padraig. Keep your fucking hands to yourself!

Or maybe keep better track of where your wife is, at any given time. PJ reaches back once more, grabs me by the arm and pulls me out beside him. Lochlan turns pale.

At least I can actually protect her. PJ further risks his skin in this game. Besides, she's my ride or die. Better off with me than virtually anyone else on this point. 

But Lochlan ignores him. Did I hit you with the mug? 

No. I shake my head.

Who's your ride or die, Peanut? 

You are. 

That's my girl. 

She wasn't in any danger with me, but maybe you better talk to Caleb, as she left his place in a hurry and I just ended up being the boomerang. 

I know. PJ. Thanks. Lochlan is still looking at me.

And that's how I escape any sort of retribution in this house. They actually thank me. And then I'm dismissed. He winks at me and with a flourish he is gone. Proper thing, too. If he had continued to needle Lochlan, eventually Lochlan would have turned his ire and attention back to PJ and it would have ended with a quiet brawl on the floor in which they really really want to hurt each other but at the same time, they don't and it's difficult and complicated and nevermind because PJ's already gone. I said I'd take the fallout for my actions and I do, right up front.

Caleb wasn't putting me in danger. He made a comment about me being a party favour so I left. 

And confirmed his assessment. 

Hell yes. 

PJ's had a little too much good luck this year, don't you think?

Sure, fine. Next time I'll go to Duncan. 

You're angry with me. 

I needed you and you disappeared. Again. After you promised you wouldn't. You said you wouldn't break any more promises to me but you weren't there. 

I could say the same for you when you promise to stay put and then I end up sleeping alone. Apparently my ride or die is Benjamin! 

I open my mouth in horror. TAKE THAT BACK! 

STAY THE FUCK PUT! 

FINE! 

FINE! 

He laughs suddenly with tears in his eyes. Jesus, Peanut. If I could pin you to the floor anymore I would. Caleb said you were sleeping. Sam said you were doing fine, every single time I went looking for you everyone assured me I was being a helicopter husband and that you'd be around in a minute but you never showed. I really wish you wouldn't fuck with PJ. It's a conflict of interest. His loyalty is to your well-being, not your flesh. 

I've got news for you, then. My laugh is bitter because I know better.

His eyes flashed brightly in warning but in that flash I was gone too.

In the next Harry Potter movie I'm starring as Hegemony Grifter

(Who wants a Saturday morning crash course on Manichaeism? Not this girl. I get enough of it on a daily basis.

They let me turn on the exterior Christmas lights last evening. The crazy colourful midway ones I wouldn't let them take down, that span at least eight kilometres in length because absolutely everything is covered and you can see our point from space? Yeah.

Sorry (not sorry).

In other news, Caleb earned himself an icy shoulder by pointing out that things have shifted once again, and didn't I see it? First we've boarded up and demolished the concrete rooms in my brain and then we shut out the ghosts in favor of more room for the living. Things are improving. I was able to navigate this time of year without completely falling apart so let's move quickly through the stages here and go back to keeping the drama within the Collective relegated to who gets me on which night.

Which...honestly? Horrified me that he even went there.

Because I don't.

And just no.

Fuck off, Caleb. I used his name for effect. Formal. Distance. No beloved nicknames for you today, asshole. Because a) don't neatly wrap up your dismissal of someone I will love and miss forever, equally as if he still breathed and b) don't highlight my own deviant behavior as if it's a bonus or a treat for you. Don't gleefully benefit from my pain. Fuck you indeed.

And then true to form, I promptly came home and went to PJ's room since I didn't want to disturb Lochlan who is exhausted from being tense for the past while. PJ woke up easily, held the blankets up for me to crawl in and said No funny business, Bridge. I'm an old man and I can't afford to lose any more friends. And then he promptly pulled off all of my clothes.

SO HAPPY.

(These posts, albeit being from a broken stream of consciousness where I'm not detailing every moment of the day make me sound Bipolar. Surprise! I'm not. We're home and I need to tell you about something. I'll still be in my dark hole dealing with ghosts and their presences and absences but with new music, because...priorities.)

You guys. I found them.

Since the jet had wi-fi, I lost three hours mindlessly surfing and something I always do when that happens is to see if Deepfield ever surfaced after the two perfect albums they put out, the last of which was over six years ago.

Well, guess what? I found a reference to Baxter Teal on an instagram feed from some radio station saying his new band was going to be appearing.

The name of the band is Gravesend. They have an EP out and yep, it's him with a bunch of other guys from other decent bands, but they re-did Between the Devil and the Deep Blue Sea. And it's incredible. As usual the only social media they seem to have is a half-assed Facebook page but I already bought the album on iTunes and damn. Dead and Gone is amazing. Forty seconds into it even PJ was leaning over my shoulder saying Who is THAT?  

Hopefully there will be more from them. Soon.

(Since someone's going to ask, what did you do the other two hours of the flight, Bridget? I'll clear it up early. I ate. Caleb had that plane well-stocked. I ate my way to Lake Tahoe and back. Happy now? I am. First time I've tasted food in forever. Usually I have no use for it.)

(Also note: there are two albums by Deepfield Gravesend on iTunes. Ignore the Celebrity EP. It's so terrible I don't even think it's them, oddly. If it is it should be pulled and burned or rerecorded or something.)

Winter circus.

We're heading out now. We have a two-hour drive, and then a five hour flight and then another hour drive and then we'll be home. Home to see why August didn't come out, home to see if Gage survived alone with the dog. Home. Home where Jake never lived in life but haunts in death in a way I can no longer explain. He's there, I just can't see him. I wonder if I'll stop feeling him in the same gradual way.

I hope not. Death shouldn't be about having to forget to cope with the absence. I don't like this empty hole. Life is a series of distractions and in between that hole digs against me, leaving a painful wound.

Death is a catalyst for change, Bridget. He brought Lochlan back to you. He brought Ben back to life. He brought me to a better place. He brought you your army back. 

Caleb says all of this against the top of my head. I am almost asleep. We packed up last night and then settled in by the fire for one last drink. It won't take long to wrap things up here, a place that is quickly becoming shelter in even the quietest of storms, like this entire week.

Mmmm. He did. 

I'm grateful to him for this chance. I will always credit him for this. 

Credit me. He bailed. 

What if he was never real? What if he was just an angel sent to bring us all back together as a group? 

That makes me a sacrifice. 

No.

Yes. Always the lamb to slaughter between all of you. 

He pulls away and looks at me. He's frowning. Is that what you see yourself as? 

I don't answer, instead tucking my head back down against his chest, holding on tight. He doesn't say any more and I fall asleep soundly until he stirs again and Lochlan takes me over, standing me up, leading me back to bed. I tell him to say goodnight to the lamb and he kisses my forehead hard. Goodnight, Bridget. He doesn't even question it. His arms tighten around me until I can just get in a breath and I fall asleep to the quiet, dependable thud of his strong heart against my weaker, much-repaired one. I dream of circuses in the snow. It's beautiful. Why no one's ever put the two together blows my mind and for just a little while it's the nicest distraction in the world.

Day 3650 without you.

Ten years tonight. The proverbial lifetime. I just want him to walk through the door so I can wish him a happy forty-seventh birthday. Then I want to kill him for doing this. For leaving me stuck in my very own life like a bookmark, holding his place. Unable to reread or even read ahead. This is where I am today. As always. Not a great place but I don't want to move from it in case he comes back. Wouldn't want him to lose his place.

He's not coming back, Neamhchiontach. Caleb says it softly, to eleven-year-old Bridget because that's where he bookmarked her.

I don't believe you, she says belligerently in return, lower lip stuck out for extra stubbornness, while the rest of them look nervously at the ground, wondering if she'll run or seek refuge among them. It's always one or the other.