I did it.

I held my breath and I worked a surprise, unscheduled fourteen hour shift at the diner, the last four hours of which I did with tears in my eyes and nary a word to the whopping five people who came in long after the dinner rush. The manager tried to send me home, then the cook, then the cleaners but it was better if I stayed. Ben showed up and sat in a booth for what seemed like hours. I waited on him silently, refilling his coffee five or six time and he finally got tired of watching me suffer and left only to be replaced by Lochlan who sat in his truck in the parking lot until the restaurant finally closed and I was forced back outside into reality, my apron still on because I forgot to hand it in.

Let's go home. Lochlan says nothing else on the entire drive. When we get home I take a long hot bath, get checked on so many times I give up entirely and put on warm pajamas and Cole's grey sweater. I take a brand new bottle of Lagavulin and a glass and I walk out to the pool. It's empty so I walk down to the deep end and sit down and pour a glass for Jacob for his birthday. I pour it out, down the drain and call him a few choice names, taking a good fiery burning swallow from the bottle for good measure. I do this for a few moments while my legs seize up from running all day and then when I go to stand I find I can hardly do it, limping to the shallow end to climb the stairs.

They're all sitting there. All of them. Lochlan comes down to take the bottle, putting his arm around me.

Time for bed, Bridget.

I nod.

Sam kisses my cheek and tells me I did the best thing I could have done today, throwing myself into something to get through the day without dwelling on it. That it was a healthy alternative to previous years. That he's proud of me.

That they all are proud of me.

Usually that makes me feel so good, so...worthy but tonight I just feel tired.

Eleventh year gift: the lobotomy I wished for and never got (until today).

I woke up abruptly this morning, or rather, something (someone) woke me. I white-knuckle-gripped the banister on the way downstairs into the cold light. It's so quiet. I can hear my heart hammer in my chest as I keep going down, down, down until the floor gives way to stained wet concrete and errant leaves in the most beautiful shades of blood and ochre dot the path on the way to the big door with the rusted dog lever that I can't turn from the outside, meaning someone must turn it from the inside.

I climb over the sill into the concrete room. I haven't been here in a while. I thought they closed it for good. Blew it up. Sealed it off from my life, a memory I can't keep because it drowns me alive but Jacob showed me a different way to get to it, down a hallway in my mind.

And I followed because I need him. I need to see him. I need to check in on a regular basis in order to feel alive because he isn't and sometimes I wonder if I actually am.

The lights come on, one at a time, from the farthest, darkest corner to where I am and when they're all on, I shiver because the room is still empty.

Princess. 

I startle, choking on my breath and twirl around. He's behind me. Standing less than twelve inches from my heels (now toes), smiling down at me. My heart breaks into a million shards and my brain follows it without question. Tomorrow he would have been forty-eight but he'll never see that, just like he never saw thirty-seven because instead of celebrating his birthday he was busy losing to himself.

And I wake up screaming because it hurts. Everything hurts. The parts inside my head that are loose. My heart. My chest is hammering, tears are streaming down my face and my vision is blurred and yet I can't stop screaming. I don't want to be alone down here. I don't want to be with someone who isn't breathing. Don't want to stand here in the cold. Don't want to feel like this. Don't want to be like this anymore. Don't want to hurt. Don't want to hurt. Don't want to hurt.

Fetch.

When I left work today, Ben was waiting outside.

You're going to follow me home? I ask. I'm too tired to see what's in front of me. It was very busy for a Monday. Steady and I did a lot of random tasks that I usually don't do like mopping and scrubbing shelves.

I'm going to drive you home. PJ already took your car. Do you have everything? You won't be back until next week. 

I work tomorrow and Wednesday. 

Not anymore. 

I take what he says at face value. If there's a plan falling into place here on the eve of...of Tuesday, then I don't want to be in the way when it hits the ground.

I have everything. I don't leave anything there. Well, the apron, if I remember to take it off, since they wash those nightly. 

Good. He opens the door for me, helps me into his truck and buckles the seatbelt around me. Shades of Lochlan, 1982. I'm almost relieved, as the hectic highway at three in the afternoon is always the last thing I need.

Ben is the first thing I need and after being virtually absent all weekend he is more than present finally. Just when I need him the most.

Need to stop anywhere?

No. Let's just go home. 

The whole way he holds my hand and I look out the window at the trees. No radio. No music. No jokes. No conversation at all. Just a comfortable, familiar silence, as is typical in the calm before the storm.

Polished.

I love it when someone engineers an early evening, picking up the corners of the night and knotting it into a tight bundle containing all of the dirty dishes and lingering partygoers and walks out the front door with it.

Honestly, now I understand the premium people pay for that sort of stress-free experience and I'm grateful for it, even as I had one too many sazeracs and stumbled just enough on the bottom step of our staircase just long enough for the Devil to catch up with me.

Wait for me, Bridget. I just have a call to make. 

Take your time. I have plans. I swing around and sit down on the steps. I'm going to have to call Lochlan to come downstairs and get me. It's just too far.

Fuck the call. Come with me. He takes my hand, arm around my waist.

No. I give him a shove and get nowhere. I have to go.

Coming with you, Neamhchiontach. I'll see you to your room. He leads me up the stairs though I attempt to hang back. I can't feel my tongue or my legs. I can't feel my brain or my ghosts either. Maybe the sazeracs win where the other pills don't. Maybe therapy is overrated and I just need to be drun-

I bring him right inside, through the landing and the little den and into our room. There's a few lights on, and Lochlan's suit jacket (that he hates) is draped over the back of the couch. I can hear water running in the bathroom so I drop Caleb's hand, leaving him by the door and go across to the bathroom, knocking softly.

The door opens and Lochlan's eyes meet mine, warm until they see Caleb is with me, then slightly guarded. Lochlan is stone-cold straight. No sazeracs for him. He's being the grownup as always while I will forever be the child.

Just for a bit. Not for the whole night. I plead with him, biting my lip, wavering on my feet, flushed from the alcohol and the anticipation and the tension in the room.

He nods, briefly and leans down for a kiss. I'll be out in a minute. 

But it wasn't for just a bit and when I woke up this morning I was tucked in tightly between them, sleeping one of the best sleeps I've ever had, no hangover, no regrets and no resistance. Nothing left to clean up and no one that I have to answer to. Take that, ghosts. Take that, Bridget.

I hate parties and other non-revelations.

I somewhat reluctantly handed over my menu late last night to Caleb, who made some calls and today starting at eight this morning the house was seemingly full of strangers, albeit silver-service strangers, who began to set up the dining room in anticipation of tonight. The food will be brought in shortly before dinner, set up and served and whisked away at the end.

He had a team of house cleaners sent as well who had the entire point scrubbed and mirror-shining in a little under three hours (that's seven buildings, if you're counting) and he had groceries delivered too.

He delegated the dog walking/laundry-folding/time-machine emptying and he sent out msgs to everyone to see if there was any want for an on-site barber. He tried to have a person come who did massages and one who does nails but I asked him to ask the boys if they wanted that. At their house. No one touches me that doesn't love me unconditinally. That's the rule. That's why Daniel cuts my hair. Jesus. This hasn't changed in years.

He shook his head in disappointment at me because I won't let him spoil me.

I think I just did. 

This is not for your benefit, this is for theirs. I wanted something just for you. 

This is for me. My house is clean. I don't need to grocery shop and I don't need to cook tonight. 

Sigh. I hear it though he tries to cover it with a cough. He's being magnanimous benefactor today, benevolent, relaxed millionaire in jeans and a seriously overpriced long-sleeved t-shirt. He's being the way I always hope he'll be before he destroys all of my illusions eventually.

Thank you, Diabhal. 

No more of that. I have a name, he says and I'm surprised.

Then no more Neamhchiontach either. 

But you always will be. And it's written on your back. 

Ditto. And I turn and leave before he realizes I ruined the moment, before he recognizes that the chance he took failed spectaculary and before he talks me into being spoiled in a way that doesn't suit me at all and only serves to make me feel more like his property than anything else in the world. And that thought makes me cry and I don't want him to see that either.

I'll reappear when people start arriving. Maybe.
 

Who needs fine when I'm going for perfect?

Wait on me girl
Cry in the night if it helps
But more than ever
I simply love you
More than I love
Life itself

I would have been planning a forty-eighth birthday party for next week-

(Stop it, Bridget. That's destructive, unhelpful, damaging thinking. Let's reshape the thought and see what happens, okay? You're doing great, by the way.)

I'm planning an anniversary party for this weekend for Daniel and Schuyler. Their anniversary was earlier this week and we couldn't do it last weekend so this one upcoming is better for everyone. Especially Schuyler, who is working on a big project and is very busy and so we are babysitting Daniel, who has taken to chiming in with Lochlan's singing, and every song is now a theatrical duet, which is fine because Lochlan's always been incredibly theatrical and downright silly and because the two of them singing I Guess That's Why They Call It The Blues while I try and concentrate on gathering ingredients from the menu for tomorrow's party is making me happy in spite of my efforts to sabotage every good thing in my life, as is tradition.

Like throwing pumpkins off the cliff. If you do it year after year after year and then suddenly you don't do it, not doing it feels weird so you should probably keep doing it, right?

(No, Bridget. That's wrong. That's only useful for positive behaviors.

What's the difference?

Positive behaviors are GOOD for you. Negative behaviors are ba-

I get it. Well, I mean I think I do. No, wait. No, I don't get it actually.)

My  knuckles are white. My nerves are exposed. My scalp is peeled back and they're poking in my brain. Some touches so familiar, some so foreign. I cover my head with my hands but it's useless and so I soldier on, exposed.

When the cacophony gets too loud Lochlan shuts it down. I'm sure Caleb has some numbers. We'll have it catered. Don't worry so much, Bridge. It's fine. 

I heard my name? Caleb comes downstairs. I wonder if I'll ever get used to him wandering around the house. He comes over and Lochlan asks him for some contacts for a dinner service.

He nods, putting an arm around me, pulling me in tight against his shirt as if he can see my brain, see the wires and the lightning and the carnage and the black burnt parts and he knows and he squeezes my whole body and Lochlan's shoulder at the same time.

I got this. Why didn't you ask me sooner?

Red lipstick, orange leaves and music to drown out the rain.

One time to heal, one time to hurt you
And now I can't even feel you
I had one time and now it's over one time
One chance is all, one time only
And if the sun doesn't call
I had one time
One

Okay, um, if there are no gay boys living in this house anymore maybe we could stop with the Corey Glover/Elton John/Sam Smith brokenhearted playlist and I dunno, maybe play the new SLIPKNOT?

I'm on board with that. PJ smiles very wide. He's finding my irritation hilarious. I'm drinking cappuccino at four-thirty in the afternoon, which will mean a certain emergency later when I can't fall asleep but I'm still pretending right along with the rest of the world to 'take a moment for myself' as if I know what self-care even means.

I don't. But I'm sitting here sipping from my favorite cup and Mr. Glover is winding his pipes out on a twenty-five year old heartbreak and I only hope it's healed by now.  I only hope I sound so good when I reach those numbers.

But Slipknot. Did you see the video? Terrifying. Well done, boys.

Oh, wait, who snuck Cigarettes and Coffee onto this playlist? Yes, Mr. Redding, you can stay too. PJ can wait a little longer. Like they all do when I get in a mood.

I got time. PJ's on board with anything. He always is.

Happy Halloween, it's been a pretty good day.

Okay. Halloween is almost over. Four fence/gate jumpers and doorbell-ringers this evening. All warned off private property and given full-size chocolate bars but only after they almost peed their pants from the fear of PJ, who pointed out boys of that age can surely read, and don't sneak onto property that isn't open and welcoming with lit pumpkins because far worse could happen to them besides being momentarily scared and then being given diabetes.

The rest of the chocolate bars were evenly dispatched, half into Henry and half into Benjamin.

Henry dressed up for school today. I dressed in my work uniform for...work and Lochlan wore his velvet top hat (not the good one, this one is the....uh...casual one) just for kicks and we tossed a few pumpkins after dinner (which was breakfast. Hash browns and fried egg sandwiches because I'm tired) and had a good strong drink (okay that last one was just me because it's my Friday) and went back inside, safe from the rain and the teenagers. Back inside where we started to plan the wedding.

Christian and Andrew have chosen a date and an officiant (snort) and they're going to distract me the same way Schuyler and Daniel did with wedding planning back in 2010. We're celebrating their anniversary this weekend with a big fancy dinner and will plan a lot more. All hands on deck. Bridget is no longer your singular executive assistant/event planner/life coordinator. I'm just too tired. 

(Did I already say that? Yes I did and I'm sorry but it's true.)

Also I think I may have sprained my life tossing that last pumpkin off the cliff. It weighed ten freaking pounds!

Now tomorrow I have to be rock-steady so wish me luck. It's All Saints Day, followed by All Souls Day on Friday. And the dark is coming and I hate it so I'm grateful for each and every wonderful distraction here tonight.

A Jeep, a torch, a death.

I sat in the garage, still in my work dress and non-slip shoes, in the weird momentary sunshine this afternoon when I got home right up until my legs got numb and fell asleep and I couldn't get up.

The Devil knew where I was almost by feel.

What brings you in here? He says, blocking the light from the door.

The door was up. I heard a noise. 

Probably the sound of PJ's Jeep giving up the ghost. I don't need to see Caleb's expression canker ever so slightly at the idiom he just tossed out without thinking first. We do that. We say stupid things about important subjects. We take it lightly. We're disrespectful and we forget. If you don't do those things you're not human. You can't cope either.

I look at the Jeep. It's nine years old. When did that happen? How did we get from this brave new world to nine years further down the road in a blink?

Because you move forward, Princess. Jake says it gently, standing there in the sun leaning up against the driver's door of the Jeep. I am between he and Caleb. I don't know if I want to acknowledge him in front of Caleb. I'll be crazy if I do, but I'll miss my chance if I don't.

I don't move anywhere. I stay still. 

What are you talking about? Listen, don't worry about the counseling. I tried. We'll try something else, okay? Don't worry- Caleb is background noise.

He keeps you still. Jacob repeats himself, in case I didn't understand.


He does. I agree.


Who? Lochlan? Does what? Listen- And then it dawns on Caleb suddenly, like the sun just before the rain comes back, darkening it back in the shadows to wait for another day. Bridget, you can't talk to him. He isn't real. 

Maybe you can give up the ghost but I'm not going to. 

This isn't a hole you're going to fall into on my watch, Neamhchiontach-

But Jake is staring at me. He does. And you moved him closer. Why'd you do that, Bridge? 

I wanted to answer but I got confused and I opened my mouth and screamed. It was frustration, not fear and it brought three more to within my reach as I stood up, Bambi on shaky legs, covered with oil, marked for grief like others must be marked for death. I blamed it all on Caleb because he deserves it for trying to lock the whole thing down the way he is.

I don't have to explain it to him. I don't have to explain it to Jake either, though.

Smells like a Freakshow.

Remember that time about a year ago when I got us tickets to In This Moment and as a bonus Of Mice and Men were opening? Oh and Hollywood Undead and a band named Avatar that I looked up and went, well, okay. I guess we'll see...

We saw them play again last night and they were so good we felt as if skipping Trivium and heading home on a metal high was a fine thing to do and it was.

Because damn. They're even better than I remember. And we got our same tables so we had a wonderful view and they just killed it. And Light the Torch were good (though their sound was a bit rough). I'm so happy I got the see the legendary Howard Jones of Killswitch Engage perform. He was incredibly humble, thankful even, and they were amazing.

But Avatar. Holy cow it gets no better than this! The vintage circus preshow tunes, the road crew in vests and poet shirts! The pomp and circumstance and then the synchronized headbanging just kind of did us all in. I could go watch them every night of the week and I daresay I'd never get bored.

Once they finished, we faced a half-hour wait for Trivium, and knowing Matt Healy isn't singing (though..Howard Jones IS, and that would have been amazing to see) and the fact that I'm still suffering from this stupid sickness and that it was pouring rain and if you read the news Vancouver almost drowned last night and we hightailed it out of the Commodore and back to the trucks, driving very slowly through the knee-deep water that had already claimed several cars, and we were home and tucked in our beds by midnight.

(The perfect evening, really, except that the rain puddles eating cars kind of freaked me out and I may have cried on the drive home but once we hit the bridge it was smooth sailing.)

I hope Avatar comes back before another year passes.