I can't touch you but you feel so fucking fineWith the darkness comes the doubt. Back in 1983 the moment the beauty of the sunset faded I was scared, homesick and weirded out by everything from the day. Lochlan called it Sensory Overload and would give me small sips of whatever he had to drink until I was sufficiently distracted or unwound and then he would breathe a sigh of relief, his arm locked around my head, breathing fire into my hair, keeping me close or I would fall asleep hyperventilating.
Let's just stay like this and waste some more time
Once in a while, you get in my way
Once in a while, you know I've got to say
I love you ninety-nine percent of the time
Ninety-nine percent of the time
Ninety-nine percent of the time
Ninety-nine percent of the time
Now it's not so easy. (It's also EXACTLY THE FUCKING SAME.)
We should have shot the fucker. Lochlan's own doubts rise with the moon as we snuggle down in the Adirondack chairs on the patio to watch the stars from home. He has something in his cup. It's not tea or coffee or pop, I'm guessing it has a proof number and a warning label. He holds it out to me. I take a sip and burst into flames.
Lochlan should have a warning label. I can't reconcile his actions.
How would you feel if he said the same thing about you?
He has.
I mean now. Today. Maybe you're just coming down from all the excitement. Maybe it's all just total bullshit. He's killing time and so are you, waiting for Ben to implode or me or whatever and you all feel like you're gaining ground with every nod of agreement from me or every side I pick in every argument and then you lose ground when I side with someone else and I don't actually play favorites nearly as often as everything thinks I do, you know that?
He takes a long drink from his mug. You done?
Maybe. I take a big breath and let it out. He's still as pragmatic as ever, as he was when I was just as afraid and all I want to do is feel his arms close around me as I close my eyes and put my head down against his shoulder but tonight he is just out of reach, on the other side of that label, up to his neck in regret and self-doubt and maybe fear of his own.
Why do you do this?
What?
Fall apart in the bottom of a bottle when you're so together every other time.
He winks. Everybody cracks, peanut.
You don't crack. You're in charge!
I don't think I ever was. Didn't feel like it. I just kept to the manifest which was to make you happy.
Uh-huh. You wanted to make me miserable.
How did I do that?
I had to go to bed at eleven. And you made me eat vegetables.
You were ten fucking years old, and for the record, you didn't eat your vegetables. That's why you're only three feet tall now.
I was twelve! And I'm five feet tall, thanks.
Again, you done, Bridgie?
I grab the cup and take a big drink, choking on the flames. Yes.
Because we're going in circles tonight and I'd rather not if it's all the same. Even though it's your specialty. He winks as he says it, to soften his dismissal.
Leave the mug if you're going in. My stubbornness reveals itself. Alas it's no match for him.
I'll neither leave the drink nor the girl. He stands and holds out his free hand. I raise my hand for the mug and we have a standoff, of sorts. I lose after three minutes. I knew I would lose so I take his hand as offered and he pulls me up out of the chair, hooking his arm around my waist. Bingo. I get my hug by default.
And for the record, you play favorites whenever the mood strikes you. Don't deny something as plain as the eyes on your face.
Now you're saying my eyes are plain? Oh, and by the way, drinking to solve your problems is a bad idea.
I'm not drinking to solve anyth-...Jesus Christ, Bridget. This is why you're not allowed to stay up past eleven.