Sam asks me what I'm giving up for Lent this year like he always asks even though Easter is a sort of minefield for Unitarian ministers and everyone else alike. Last time I checked I walked a rather casual lapsed-Baptist line through town but if you ask some people I'm a heathen, a Satanist, an outlier.
It makes me laugh because I'm nothing but I answer the same way I answer him every year.
I'll give up the Devil.
And then he'll ignore that and get right to the point because Sam wants pancakes for dinner Tuesday night and all important events are merely gateways to food in the end, aren't they?
This week will be very busy school and work and foodwise and Caleb's birthday tomorrow and I fucking HATE pancakes with the heat of a thousand suns because my mother never made breakfast for dinner and so my pancake education came from diners and McDonalds alike, where the pancakes are so sweet they float though they look like they should be salty and greasy and taste better than they actually do.
We're having pancakes, no worries. And Wednesday morning you can give me the copper box so I can grind ashes into my forehead and masquerade as a mortal like the rest of you.
Tell me what's wrong, Bridget.
I want to sleep.
Are you going to tell me what's really wrong then?
I smile tightly. I'm okay. I just need PJ to hurry up and get his stuff off the counter so I can bake.
Want me to move it?
No, he can damn well come and do it himself. I've asked twice already.
I'll ask him again. It'll be gone in two minutes, okay?
Less than a minute later PJ clears the counters and then Sam wipes them down for me and I sit at the island and try and hyperventilate in silence. I fail and Sam drops the towel and comes to rub my back. Inhale deeper, Bridget. All the way down. What happened?
I just tried to think past the end of the daylight. That's all, I swear.
Overwhelmed?
Yeah.
Want me to get Loch?
Yeah.
Loch comes in from outside, hands covered in grease, boots full of snow and slush, hair full of rain, flat curls pressed to his neck and he sees my face and grabs me in a hug.
Hey now. The future isn't scary, Peanut. It's fireworks later on. It's a trip around the wheel in the morning before breakfast. Orange juice and sausages and fried eggs. We'll get slushies when it gets too hot to move and then when it cools down we can have a walk on the beach. You can tell me about your progress in the book and then I'll tell you a story about when you read to me when I'm old and my eyes get bad but for today...for today it's only a worry about hunger pangs and sunburns and nothing else. Nothing at all. Sunshine. Stars to count. A funnel cake if you're up for it and maybe some singing later by the fire. What color flames would you like tonight?
Blue. I'd like blue.
Blue flames, some marshmallows to roast. Nothing past the early part of the week. One minute after another.
Slushies.
Slushies, baby.
My book.
I can't wait to hear about it.
They're all dying, Lochlan.
Not today they aren't. Everyone here will be here tomorrow too. I finally have the nerve to look at his expression and it's grim because I scare him. He's holding it together by a thread.
So I cut it.
