Today was so busy, I'm sorry. I have a blistering headache now, but I'm up waiting for Ruth who is out with her friends being girly and having fun and tomorrow is the big party.
Everyone's on their best behavior, don't worry. We struck some sort of deferment. A moratorium, if you will, and everyone will just hold tight until at least Sunday and we'll revisit it at a family meeting when the kids are both otherwise engaged and see if we can't figure out which way to go now. Lochlan's done with everything and everyone and I'd follow him off the cliff if he told me to, and he would love it if he could lay down the same kind of law Jacob did in banning me from going near Caleb but...then there's Ben.
Ben's legendary, unwavering plan of attack is to let Bridget do what she wants, an attitude that saved my life once. But is it okay to be so selfish and centered at the expense of someone I love even more than death?
Don't ask me. That question is for Baby-Preacher. Sam didn't have any answers though and lobbed it gently back into my court. Who is most important? He asked. Lochlan? Caleb? Or you, Bridget?
Is this a trick question? I asked him and I threw the freshly folded stack of bulletins into the air and walked out.
He didn't chase me. He never does. He's more like Ben than like Jake sometimes and that's probably a good thing.
Caleb had crashed the call anyway, suggesting the family meeting before shutting it down and then to add a little salt to an already infected wound he drove over to the church and was sitting out front in the purring R8 in the pouring rain when I walked outside, as if he knew I was going to leave without Sam.
He puts the window down on my side and leans over. Neamhchiontach. Get in. It's raining.
I can walk.
Twenty kilometers? Get in. Now.
I do what I'm told.
He didn't even come around and open the door for me. How the mighty, tiny princess has fallen, I guess but then once he belts me in he apologizes for not getting out and opening my door but that he is in a hurry to get home.
He's reading my mind, I think.
Sometimes that's the only help I get from you, he says out loud in response.
I don't say or even think much of anything on the way home. I play music in my head. Classical, sad. Puccini was famous for being sad and difficult so it fits. I annoy the fuck out of myself and probably Caleb too. He HATES La Boheme. It shows all over his face.
Good.
When we stop to wait for the gate to clear at the top of the driveway at home he turns to me and says if I think we're going to get away with cutting him off or pushing him away at this late stage of the game, to be prepared for the fight of my life.
I remind him I've been fighting all along.
