The world will never ever be the sameIt was eighty thousand dollars.
And you're to blame
That's why we took it. That's sort of enough money to sock away for a day so rainy an ark appears on the horizon to bring us to biblical safety. Not sure if you've ever been poor or ever been sweetly coerced into doing something you can't help doing because it's so compelling but lets just say I earned it all, rounded down to the nearest nickel, because every penny no longer exists to count now, does it?
Caleb offered that amount because he knows I wouldn't go for less. I'm now the Linda Evangelista of Executive Assistants, since I won't get out of bed for less than twenty thousand dollars a day and sometimes you can't get me out of bed at all.
I don't have to justify it, he is becoming known for moving large sums of cash to get me to cooperate because Lochlan's too practical to refuse and yet I am becoming a little too worldly for my own good here at home where we live in a palace of marble, hemlock, slate and glass by the sea and still I hang-dry all of our clothes on the drying rack in the laundry room because it knocks fifty dollars off the hydro bill every second month, and that makes me really proud.
It flies in the face of everything I've ever been taught, and so when I die you'll probably find my body frozen in a little house that ran out of wood for the fire because I was too cheap to buy more. A house wallpapered in hundred dollar bills.
Case in point, Lochlan came into the kitchen not far behind me to help with lunch. Did I mention the almost-visible tether? He was so angry. So, so angry. But resigned. Or tired. Or just demoralized. I don't even know but no more anything until he feels better. No more bullshit foolishness until he has restored his faith in my loyalty to his own satisfaction. I am now bound to him until further notice. I don't mind.
I asked him if he could get the prosciutto from the fridge. He opened the fridge and stared inside. The package was right in front, on the shelf at eye level.
Loch.
Yes?
Can you hand me the prosciutto? Maybe his mind is wandering.
The ham?
Prosciutto. Yes.
This ham? The thin-slice stuff?
It's called prosciutto.
We call it ham, Bridget. His voice is a warning and I heed it.
Pass me the ham, then, please?
Sure, Peanut. Coming up.
The look on his face is fierce. Fucking fierce. I think he liked it better when I knew nothing. Like the first time I tried beer when I was in Grade three.
What is it?
It's a drink made with grains and yeast.
Oh, like pancakes!
No, not like pancakes, Bridget.
Like Apple Jacks?
No. Not even. Here. Try a sip and you'll see.
It looks like liquid pancake bubbles.
What kind of pancakes are see-through, Bridget?
Magical transparent pancakes, Loch. Transpancakes. Pancarents. This beer is yucky, by the way.
You'll like it in a few years, I bet.
Nope. Can I have orange juice?
Orange juice? We don't have any juice on the beach. Why would you want juice at nine at night?
I always have juice with pancakes.
He tipped the beer up and finished the whole little bottle all at once. I watched him. Why did you do that?
Because you're frustrating.
I'm sorry.
Don't be. I like the way your brain justifies things you don't understand yet. If you can hold on to that, it will make for a great coping mechanism some day.
What's a coping mechanism, Loch?
It's a...it's like always having a magical pancake in your pocket in case you need it.
Oh, then I'm gold.
He just opened another beer and laughed.