So this is what it feels like to be deliberately, bitterly drunk. Glorious.
Here goes.
2006.
Four beers in and Cole is the life of the party, the nucleus around which the rest of us revolve. He is jovial and psychotically thrilled to be here, home with his wife and tiny children and his friends. He's playing a song on his guitar. Phish, nothing else hardly ever, maybe some Rush sometimes. A lot of Zeppelin. But after a lot of beer he'll stick with Phish. Always.
Strings would be breaking, he'd play faster and faster. Knock over a beer with the neck of the guitar as he played. Loud and long. Some people would sing, most would just listen. He would shake his head and drop it down over the strings as if he were possessed and he'd smile that smile.
That smile that to me always said Come here, Bridget. Right now.
I would and he would kiss me and smile once more.
His dark brown curls would toss and he would flash those dark blue eyes at me. I never strayed far. I had a route. I was allowed to go to Lochlan and the kitchen and otherwise I would stick close. Very close. He would always watch me. Every move. Every glance I gave, every word I said. He loved me so. He admired me from the way the light touched my skin to the freakish grey-blonde shade of my hair.
Finally he put the guitar down and grabbed me, pulling me into his lap, kissing my cheek, squeezing me gently and laughing.
Are you having fun, Bridget?
I am.
Wait five minutes. I'm going to shut it down. Tomorrow's a busy day. Besides, we're just starting the party.
He pulled my face into his and kissed my mouth. Thoroughly. A brief cheer erupted and he grinned and pulled back.
The most beautiful woman in the world, he yells and swats me on the ass.
Lochlan nods. Jacob ignores Cole and watches me. Ben laughs. Chris applauds awkwardly, his hands full with two beers, one more for Cole, one for himself. Cole takes it and stands, reminding the boys that the week ahead will be long. They're helping him get ready for a show. A big one that he is anchoring alone. He is vaguely nervous about the process but completely secure in his talent, as usual. I am proud. His work is the one thing we ever agree on and besides, I am his muse. This show is like a catalogue of me. Frighteningly so. I am veering wildly between letting it all go to my head and wishing I could hear what people say when they see that I am the only subject and that Cole had good reasons for mounting such a niche exhibition in these times.
It doesn't seem to matter. The people come. He knows everyone. I am treated to a reception line of his well-wishers. I don't know any of them unless I have seen them on television. I am fed names through his beautiful smile and they are instantly forgotten. Cole keeps appearances but he knows I hear nothing and he chooses to believe in the perfection of his work instead. In the images he produces, I am not deaf. Maybe I am not deceitful either.
I am not the traumatized, stray rain-soaked creature that he brought in from the cold after being left outside by his friend.
Once the boys begin to leave I am at the door chatting with Chris when Cole comes up behind me and nuzzles his face into the back of my neck. Chris takes the cue and turns away, heading into the night and Cole closes the door.
You have made me famous.
He is smiling again and I begin to make the rounds, picking up bottles, noting where the dishes are, though most of the boys are well-trained and bring their dishes to the sink when they are through. Cole follows me into the kitchen.
Did you have fun, honestly, Bridget?
Sure I did. These are my favorite nights.
Oh, really? He waits until I put the bottles back in a box and then pulls me into his arms. He's buzzing high along the ceiling but otherwise perfectly lucid.
My brother is stopping by in a little while.
Cole-
I haven't seen him in three months, Bridge. You could be a little more gracious. He leans over me, bending me back against the table, soaking my kiss in beer.
I think I'll go to bed and you two can catch up, perhaps.
No, you need to stay up and say hello. He likes to see you. You know that.
I'm very tired though. I am near tears and he understands precisely what he is doing.
It won't be for long. You'll be fine. He kisses my forehead and almost as if on cue, the doorbell rings. Cole frowns at me and leaves the kitchen to greet Caleb and I am left to compose myself.
In a moment I hear their jovial voices and Caleb is in the kitchen. He crosses and gives me a long hug and then a kiss on the cheek and flowers, he brought flowers. Orchids. They'll die here in the freezing kitchen with the north-facing window. I fake excitement anyway. Practice for later.
* * *
Four hours later I am kissed on the forehead once again. Probably because there is no other part of me that is safe to kiss anymore, I am a living, breathing biohazard and I want to die. Caleb is leaving. It is four in the morning and I am mutely aware that I need sleep or I'm going to vomit. Maybe dying would be better. It was not as bad as some nights but far worse than others. My head hurts from trying to wrap my brain around why I still have any loyalty to Cole at all and then I am reminded with a jolt.
Ruth and Henry. Only I think Henry might be Jake's and wouldn't that be amazing if I could cut my ties to this family by half. That and I like it, or so they tell me. Endless praise. Encouragement as I can take so much, they are astounded. I am rewarded for my efforts in affection and in promises with false bottoms holding hidden lies.
I play the game because the alternative isn't nearly as pretty as they tell me I am.
When Caleb leaves he presses a wad of bills into my fist, when Cole isn't paying attention. He's done this every time. When Cole leaves for the gallery early tomorrow I'll count the bills and then stop at the bank on my way to meet him at his show. It's always the same amount. Technically I make more than Cole ever will but I've never spent a dime of that money. It just goes into an account and it sits and it makes all kinds of interest and I just got a call from my former accountant letting me know that I could roll it into some seriously high-yield products and live off the return but I told him I wasn't interested in living and hung up the phone while I downed the last of a glass of merlot and wondered if it was time I tell the boys precisely how much money their boss has given me over the years for services rendered because I've always chosen to keep a conservative number on hand in fear of all hell breaking loose once more but fuck it, it's a quiet night, and those are the best nights for telling the truth, aren't they?
I drop my empty wine glass on the carpet beside my high-heeled shoes and go to find the boys. I'm tired of secrets. I'm done with protecting people who don't deserve it and I'm done protecting people who are dead.
