A fondness, a hatred.

My soft spot is so squishy that if you touch it you'll poke a hole right through me, leaving a mark that won't heal. I'm swiss-cheese girl. The waffle. The sweetheart. The Fragile Little Miss Bee.

I'm also exhausted and was exempted from church by Jesus himself in the form of Sam, with his now-empty coffee cup, badly-knotted tie and barely combed curls who caught of glimpse of me this morning and swore, telling me to go back to bed.

That's the least restful place in this house, I told him and he frowned. He didn't even have to ask because he knows me well enough by now.

I'll do my penance another day.

Can't stay away from the Devil.

(Fuck Lent. Fuck everything.)

(Or maybe it's too late to say that.)

Caleb's issue is craving me. Mine is craving him right back.

The table reduced to three late last night, long after the words from their speeches had grown cold. Lochlan was scowling, one arm slung over the back of my chair, four whiskeys deep and up to his knees in no good. Caleb was already pie-lit by then too, I couldn't even keep track of his drinks.

Fucking yarling. She's beautiful but she's not all yours.

Happy Birthday, you bastard. Don't let your jealousy age you prematurely.

When their eyes shine and their hands are steady they connect again, best friends who remember how they started before I ruined everything. I just want to make up for that and so I brought Caleb upstairs with us and I didn't ask permission and I didn't offer apologies and Lochlan didn't need to stand before a promise he didn't even need to make in the first place.

He didn't. I should have, but I didn't either.

I was held against the door while Loch stared into the fire, hating me, hating Caleb, hating himself most of all. I pleaded with him not to (one not to put me up against the door, one not to hate everything) and they listened. Old habits die hard. Hard dyes old habits dark, staining them with the inky night and it took until the sun came up over the ocean to tame them both, to bring Lochlan back around to loving everyone, to make Caleb see that this is what he will forever have to beg me for.

Lá breithe sásta, Diabhal.

Oh, but I didn't beg, Neamhchiontach. You offered.

Stilettos all weekend. Kill me now.

Oh my God. It's almost two in the afternoon (maybe I just got up but last night was so late I contemplated staying up) and I'm hosting a birthday dinner in four hours with twenty guests. A home-cooked dinner, no less, including a birthday cake baked by me as is tradition. Caleb called me both capricious and interminable when I went over to tell him the times and I thanked him and rushed back out the door. Everyone is to arrive at six sharp for drinks and talk, dinner is at seven. It's not that difficult, actually. The cake itself will take more time to cool than to bake or decorate, and dinner is pasta with mussels and garlic, and cheese bread on the side. One of Caleb's favourite dishes that I learned to make a long time ago, requested for tonight much to my relief as I didn't want to make a big heavy pot roast (one of his other favourites).

First order is to dispatch PJ to our seafood guy and then John to the liquor store. I didn't leave it til the last minute but yesterday was uncharacteristically packed and today is almost slow-motion in comparison. And it won't be too late, usually birthday dinners wrap up in three hours or less from passing oven-warmed plates down the line at the table to the last speech (by the birthday person) and last bite of cake, then hugs all around.

In a way I'm looking forward to the dinner itself but maybe not the aftermath. It's difficult to celebrate such a sacred day when the only gift the person asked for isn't one you can freely give this time around.

Wish me luck.

On my way downtown for the evening, don't have time for this.

Questions I have right now:

1. Why do stilettos hurt so fucking much now?
2. Why does makeup feel weird these days? My face HURTS. OW. Get it off. 
3. Why do things start so late? 
4. Is there food?
5. Can I stay home?

I'm sort of kidding. I go through this in some form or another every time I leave my house.

But seriously. Half the time I want to leave and then when I have to leave I don't want to. Bridget, why are you like this?

A promise so empty it echoed when I yelled into it.

You’re fired up and you say you want it
No don’t ever lose your will to fight
Or wane when you think upon it
It’s hard work but it will be worth it
When we see smoke filling up the sky
We’ll burn it down but we’ll build upon it

When I opened my eyes this morning there was a fire already popping and crackling gently in the fireplace, there was sweet coffee in my favourite mug on the table near the bed and Lochlan's head was between my legs, arms looped up around my hips, holding my hands tightly in his own. I took a deep breath and squeezed his hands and he let go so I could anchor my fingers in his curls as I lifted my hips to meet his soft smile.

Good morning, Beautiful.

Is it ever.

He laughed. (No. No, don't talk. Not right now.) I'm already halfway to the moon and I wasn't even aware of it until he broke contact. But he doesn't make me wait and my knees flex against his shoulders so hard I think I might have sprained something important. But I didn't. I swing around the moon and catch him on the wave back and he smiles a little wider. Thought you might need a little release.

He climbs back up and drops his weight without preamble, inside me, arms tight, pulling me up close against him, dropping his head down against my shoulder, our heads pressed together as we greet the morning with muffled sounds of..of...absolute joy.

Okay, maybe it was I who needed that release.

When he let me go the second time I pinched myself. I didn't even realize I did it until he chuckled and asked if waking up like that is all it's supposed to be.

Yes. I grin back. Please do that every day for the rest of my life.

The first clouds muscle in to replace the sun in his eyes. It's come up quietly, ambient day to replace our endless blissful night. If you let me, I'd be happy to. 

I think I need to plan a birthday dinner for here, in this house. Then we can send the Devil home and keep him at arms length until he figures it out and chews my fucking arm right off in order to get to me.

Lochlan nods and I haven't even said anything out loud. Yeah. Yeah. That's what we'll do. But I won't let him get to you. Not this time. 

“I taught you to fight and to fly. What more could there be?” ~J.M. Barrie

Last evening PJ tried to block me from taking the recycling bin out. I can do it, he said. Go relax.

PJ doesn't micromanage me unless there's a reas- 

Move, PJ. I push backwards against the bin he's now holding but he's squared himself in the doorway, filling it.

Ben is with them. It's fine. Let them deal with it and don't put yourself in the way. Also, what gets into Lochlan? I thought he was cool with you doing you and was going to back off. 

Oh, he's fine with me doing me as long as no one else does me. He wanes between confidence and total paranoia though. Like I do. It's called being human, PJ, you should try i-

HEY. Don't shoot the messenger. I just want to know which side of him to stay on. Not like I haven't been in Caleb's position. 

Are you going to move so I can go manage my life?

Hell, no. 

Then I'll go out the front door. I take off running up the stairs and through the kitchen and out the front door, down the walk, down the steps and to the left toward the boathouse and there's...PJ. Who put down the bin, walked through the side door and waited for me. He cages out with both arms and dares me to try and get through him.

God. I've never hosed on a dare in my life so I run straight at him. The plan is to vault his shoulders if I can get enough speed but he closes his arms like a vise around me, my feet off the ground.

FUCK, PJ! 

Hush. Making scenes is his thing. I follow PJ's gaze and Caleb, Lochlan and Ben are at the top of the stairs coming down from Caleb's.

Lochlan shoves past both of them. The fuck, Padraig. He pulls me out of PJ's arms and tucks me in against his chest with one arm. Ben's face is completely unreadable. Caleb turns without a word and goes back into the boathouse.

PJ takes the bin to the garage.

Party's over, I guess.

What did you do, Locket? The question is soft. I don't even hear myself ask him.

Don't worry about it. 

Ben heads inside too and Lochlan turns to me, wrapping his arms around my head, sighing. Remember when you were following me? That first night you went into the woods, Bridge?

I nod. That was the beginning of everything. He asked me to trust him. Told me to listen to him. I've followed him around ever since.

Go back, Bridgie. 

I can't. It's dark and I'm scared. 

Then why did you follow me?

I wanted to see where you were going. 

Why? 

Because I want to be there. 

What do you mean?

Where you are. I want to be where you are. 

He accepted that answer, nodded and turned to keep walking into the dark, never questioning his little shadow again. I didn't actually know that he was Peter Pan then, leader of the lost boys, none of whom would ever grow up. I do now.

Why won't you do that anymore? 

I shrug under the weight of his arms. I don't know. 

That didn't matter when you were little. 

It's harder now. Everything is more complicated.

Then make it simple. 

What about Caleb? 

He's prepared to wait and see what you do. 

Did you threaten him?

I reasoned with him.  He pushed away and left me there, heading inside.

And I followed.

Feels wrong.

I look at them when they talk. The way their hands express their positions, the set of their mouths, the way their emotions play across their eyes like a silent film. I look at the way it all comes together into a watershed of feelings, be it desperation or rage. I watch it and I soak it all up like a sponge and I drag it around with me on top of everything I have within, becoming crushed and forgotten beneath a tidal wave of responsibilities, holding their dreams out in the palm of my hand. An offering, a plea for help.

I don't even hear the words sometimes. Sometimes they're holding my face, covering my ears and then I just get muffled sounds and swooshing from the movements. Sometimes I feel Caleb's words come out in a numbingly painful torrent that hits me like a blunt instrument. Or Lochlan's longing as a keen ache, easily projected on everything for a thousand yards, his face open, no attempt to bury his needs underneath ritual or circumstance. Or propriety. He never was one to worry about the complications, the expectations of marriage until he put himself in their position.

And now suddenly, it's important. 

And I can't handle the avalanche of this weird flitting panic that's pinging back and forth between us. It's a tennis ball coated in poison, cupping into our skin as it hits us, leaving a bruise and then a death sentence as we absorb the blows.

He said I could bring you. I finally say it. I didn't want to say it. I hate suggesting that but I'm trapped, here. I have no choice but does he?

What?

You can come, too. 

I don't want to. 

Then stay here. 

Not without you. 

Then you're coming. 

And I don't know what gets into him but he sits down and puts his head in his hands. It's a gesture you make when you need to think, when you're out of ideas and hoping one will come to you magically, eventually. I watch that too and I soak it all up like a sponge and I hope that in my next life I don't know him either so I can spare this feeling he has.

A word typed too many times.

It's got the be the first time we ever sounded like a bickering sitcom-era nuclear couple. Like Lucy and Desi. Archie and...and Doris Edith? Anyone. I can't think of any more right now.  Fighting softly at first. Lots of joking and then we're rocketed back to the beginning before being slung-shot right back to this moment. Back to where we always end up.

So help me if you go there this weekend, I'll...I'll-

You'll what?!

I'll make all kinds of trouble for you. That's what! 

I burst out laughing. Okay then. So we're clear. 

So we're clear, Bridget, I don't care if it's his fucking Bar Mitzvah.  You're not going. 

Did you get one?

What? 

A Bar Mitzvah?

I'm not Jewish. 

Oh. I get it. So I should stop waiting for my Quincearena. 

Depends. Are you Mexican?

I may as well be. I eat enough of their food. 

True. But you're not Mexican, you're Irish as they fucking come, and you're. not. going. Understood?

No. I smile at him softly. Those aren't the rules.

They are today. 

You're stringing me along. 

I'm trying to keep you safe. 

No. You're trying to keep me from him. 

In my next life I really hope I don't know you so that I'll finally be able to sleep at night. 

Take that back! Tears sting my eyes from the low blow.

I will when you promise you're not going, Birthday or not.

It's a stalemate. 

Do you even know what a stalemate is, Bridgie?

Yes, it's when your friend is stinky. I plug my nose and squinch up my whole face. Lochlan has just walked all the way back from town in the heat. He's sweaty and warm. His shirt, his hands are wet but he's got our groceries and a now-warm half can left of Rootbeer for me.

No, it's when you can't agree on something, no matter what. 

Then what happens? If you can't agree, I mean?

If no one is willing to change their mind then you have to walk away. 

But that doesn't help anyone. 

No, it doesn't. It's much better if people learn to compromise. 

Isn't that when you give a prize to someone who didn't actually win?

No, that's 'comping a prize' Compromise is different. It means you maybe give up fighting for something in order to keep the peace. Whoever the fight is most important to sometimes should get their way or can figure out a way to get their way this time in exchange for giving up their way next time. 

Comp-

Com-pro-mise. 

Compromise. Like a common promise!

He smiles.

So can I have candy for dinner?

Hell no. 

If I give you a kiss will you comprom..comprize for me? 

He laughs. Yeah, okay. If you promise to brush your teeth twice tonight. 

I nod. Hey. We had a comprompromise! 

Compromise. 

Right. Whatever! 

But as I look at him now I have no idea who this fight is more important to. Me or him.

Jesus tension.

Now that you see he's getting better are you heading out? Church is over and Matt helped me clean up from a rather well-attended lunch here at home. Nice of him.

I may stay for a few more days.

You need to ask me to do that.

Sam lives here too. I used to live here, Bridget.

You were offered a place here and you turned all of us down. Sam included. You broke his heart.

He seems happy to have me here.

He was feverish and delusional.

Bridget, I asked you to stay out of our way.

And I asked you to stay out of my house.

Sam comes in. Bridget-

Lochlan covers my face with his hand, lifts me up and physically carries me out of the room. He doesn't let go until we're out of earshot and then he puts me down.

I need to protect my friend-

Sam is a grown man.

He's got a broken heart too. If you knew what that felt like-

Jesus Christ, Bridget! I do!

Oh. Well. I'm rocked because he left.

You think you're the only one? This whole house is full of broken people. Matt included. So if he and Sam can find happiness or get back together or just have a few days to become human you better than anyone else should understand that and leave them be!

Which part broke your heart?

What?

Which part. I need to know.

All of it. From '83 right up until last night. You think you're tougher than you look then you need to look in front of you.

You love me that much?

That much and more. His voice breaks and my heart goes with it. Again.

Christ, Locket.

Yeah. Christ, Bridget.

55 in 7.

Next weekend is mine, Dollface. He uses an old nickname loaded with bad memories but when I look at his face there's no malevolence in it, just hope. He's sure that by commanding me to appear that I might consider it, that I may fulfill his birthday wishes with my submission to his gentle orders.

I nod noncommittally. I'm busy watching the figure skating. We just got home from a snowy, empty before-lunch showing of Black Panther and I'm still thinking about what a great movie it was, from the light humour to the crazy action, future tech and gorgeous clothing. I'd like to go see it again.

And now my brain is filled with twizzles, jumps and bright lights as the gala is on live television right now and we watched every single figure skating program throughout the past two weeks and I loved every second of it. So this is a thing for me, just me and isn't about the boys and so I resent Caleb's intrusion demanding time and promises right this second but I'm trying to be kind nonetheless.

It's a date. I'll let Lochlan know. 

I will. Please. It's a warning. If Caleb crows maybe I'll change my mind.

Fine. Have him confirm with me. 

I'm a timeshare. Classy.

I'll see you later. I stare him down. There's a Russian couple skating that I barely remember.

He kisses me. Indeed. I have some great plans for us. 

On the point, I hope. 

Of course. 

No surprise trips. Henry needs me. He's having a tough week, health-wise too and I like to give him extra support and everything else can kiss my ass.

No surprise trips. I understand. Caleb still feels responsible for Henry and agrees . Enjoy your...whatever they're doing. 

It's the gala exhibition skate. They get to do whatever they want. Let loose after all of the competition is complete. 

Ah. I see. 

You're not a sports-person. 

I play hockey. 

Right. You're not a sports-person. I wink at him. Get out so I can watch my show. It's live! 

Love you, Bridget. 

I bite my tongue.

S N O W D A Y

We won't talk about hockey today. No sir.

Let's talk about Dalton.

You know, Teflon Jesus. 

Who sent me a text this morning with  SNOW DAY surrounded by all of the snowflake, snowman and skiing emojis even though he doesn't ski and has never sent an emoji in his life. I put the black heart at the end of every single text I send but grown men don't use those things, I think, hardly ever.

Dalton texts me from bed fairly often. He is quintessentially lazy and will conduct all of his business from his bed and who is going to stop him? He works hard when he works and hardly works when he doesn't have to and if he's home he's embracing just being home. They try to teach me how to live in the moment but I am rigid and uptight, resistant to the best advice. I'm enthusiastic to a fault, however, breathless in my still flu-addled head here so I'm game for everything and so I text him back.

We should have waffles in the sauna

Ew, Bridge

But it would be going from warm to cold to hot to cold to warm. It would be amazing

No one eats in the sauna

We'll be the first then. Pioneers! Gastrosauna-ites. We can write a cookbook! Oh My GOD. Hot rock cooking and the ultimate busy person's guide to multitasking while relaxing!

You're insane

Yes but what does that have to do with anything?

How about waffles in the kitchen?

If that's my consolation prize I'm okay with that

Meet you in 15 :)

k :)

(You thought I was going to talk about something else Dalton-related, didn't you?)