Absolutely nothing.

I survived work today (it was bonkers at times, and perfect at others) and after working my ass off they let me leave a little early, so I had time to come home, message Ruth, who is already out for the evening, and hear of Henry's first-ever New Years Eve plans (going to a friend's house, has a ride home for 12:30 am from the parents of a different friend who is also going) and am now making spaghetti for eight, as there are eight of us with no plans.

Tomorrow is going to be a tiring day, that's for sure, as I tend to panic if I'm still awake at eleven at night now if I must get up early.

I brought home another pie, as we had too many and since the restaurant is actually closing early anyway (it's not the kind of place you book for NYE) it would have gone to waste.

Tomorrow is such a normal day, except at over twenty dollars an hour. I won't leave early even if they offer.

Batman cancelled our big formal plans at the last minute, and so Caleb has been edging around me, trying to find out what new plans I have in mind for between spaghetti-thirty and eleven, or twelve-thirty, I guess, for as much as PJ tells me he will wait up for Henry, I feel like I should, as Henry is my son and it's not fair to PJ to shoulder that responsibility. I will probably bend to a port or a martini with Caleb and then maybe some of that prosecco (wouldn't you know it's already been transferred from Batman's house to ours, and New Jake is now one of the eight for dinner) at midnight and then I'll slap myself silly to try and stay awake to see everyone safely in. Except I'll probably fall asleep against Lochlan's shoulder and he will see everyone in but since I'm technically there, I'll take credit.

Last day of Christmas vacation and I'm sad as fuck about that.

Trying to have a best day ever once again because I work tomorrow and I don't know if it's going to be crazy-busy or not. I work New Year's morning too and I don't know what to expect then, either.

In the meantime I'm tracing my finger down Lochlan's face and every time he twitches in response he comes close to waking up but not quite and it's become a game to touch his eyelids/nose/cheek as lightly as possible.

Sometimes I don't sleep. Sometimes I can't sleep and there's nothing else to do. I can't reach my headphones  from here, they're on the night table on the other side of Ben Mountain, and my phone is on the dresser on the other side of the room anyway. If my feet touch the floor I'm going to wake everyone up so instead I poked at Lochlan until he sat up, wild curls and tattoos everywhere and suggested I go have coffee and read. That's the adult equivalent of making cold cereal and watching cartoons, I think, and so here I am.

The coffee is kind of boring and I don't feel like reading. Sam wandered through in search of sugar (they were out) and suggested I write my resolutions but I don't know what I'm hoping to change or better about myself for 2019.

I'd like to read more, worry less, murder my sweet tooth in favour of more fruits and vegetables. I'd like to cook more, but different, adventurous things. I'd like to go out for noodles more and maybe go out for dessert but without dinner first. I want to finish listening to Demon Hunter's discography before the new double album drops this spring and I'd like to watch more foreign films, with subtitles. I want to go back to dressing weird, losing the black, bringing back the rainbows and I want to not cut my hair ever again. It's to my chin at last and I'm not even cutting it to clean it up at this point. I just want it to grow.

I could make a whole heaping pile of resolutions that have to do with my boys or I could just leave well enough alone.

Oh and when my work-pay account reaches five figures (excluding tips) I'm quitting in order to find something better.

Best. Day. Ever. (and I've only been up for two hours.)

Slept in til ten-thirty.

Ben bathed the dog.

Ruth is making pretzels from the Warcraft cookbook.

It's raining and windy and cozy. There's a fire in the fireplace and sleepy, quiet boys everywhere. We're caught up on Outlander (finally) and maybe will watch the Black Mirror movie later, but maybe we'll watch something else. Who knows? We have turkey soup, leftover turkey and gravy for sandwiches and I'm not going to change from my pajamas because I have zero reason to.

The failed but predictable Group B army recon.

Ha. Between being so sick this year so far and the holidays and the wedding (and..the...the...fist fights) I figured I'd forget to pay all of the bills this month, since I pay them during the last week. Hydro, natural gas, insurance on all of the vehicles and buildings, credit cards, internet, phones, etc. etc. It takes a couple of hours for me to pay everything, do transfers and then enter everything into the big Collective spreadsheet that we have for keeping track.

I'm so caught up I'm actually ahead now, however and I'm happy to report that I plan to not sweat falling behind on everything else as a result. And so I agreed to go on a New Year's Eve supply run with Batman, who also hates crowds but sometimes must venture out into them for a purpose.

Just a Prosecco run, sweetheart. If your monkeys will let you out of their sight. 

Olives too? 

If you like. Batman smiles thoughtfully. He's having a little thing on New Year's Eve. I'll be asleep in my plate face down, as I go back to work that day and then have to go to Batman's for dinner and drinks and then back to work early on New Year's Day. I've been threatening to quit but for some reason knowing I can means I haven't yet, and will soldier on until I can't stand it anymore at all.

Only if they're garlic-stuffed. 

Only for you. He laughs. So picky. 

Not picky. They're the best. 

I prefer pimentos. 

Well, get those then. Don't worry about me. 

Someone has to spoil you. He winks. I shake my head. I try not to be spoiled but it's inevitable.

Okay then we'll get both. I offer a compromise.

That's a good plan. 

Indeed. 

You know what else would be a good plan? 

Olives stuffed with pearl onions!

No, you staying New Years Eve. 

Not a chance. 

Not even a small one? 

Nope. About the same as finding olives stuffed with pearl onions. 

We didn't find any. We spent the rest of the shopping trip in an unfamiliar (but still comfortable) silence.

Caleb hates weddings.

Seven hours of sleep, coffee that is more Baileys than coffee itself (thank God) and a fifteen minute blistering morning sauna followed by an hour-long drunken soak in the hot tub with Caleb and I'm sure I can tick off my self-care regimen and my visitation requirements with the Devil all in this Thursday morning before the snow comes.

And then I'm free.

He's crushing me under the weight of his psychic pain, his need. He hates weddings, mentally planning his own, loathe to celebrate any others until he gets what he wants so desperately and what he'll never ever have.

We can all feel it, he wears it outwardly, an arm-band of black for mourning, and we avoid looking directly at it even as I consent to a little extra time with him over Christmas, because he'd really like to have that time, he needs that time, he wants it in a way he wants it but tenfold, physically painful, inwardly destructive.

So here I am, half-drunk on a Thursday morning at Christmas, bangs stuck to my forehead from the heat, letting the jets roll over my muscles and bones, bringing me back to life only so he can destroy me again at will. It's a resurrection game, a breath-holding, voice-caught kind of urgency at this point but I'm playing along here from rock-bottom, safety net not all that far away honestly so I'm not concerned. It's a stage. A phase. A momentary lapse. A weakness uncontent to be shoved down any more, bubbling up to the surface and boiling over. It's a curse, is what it is, and we'll get through it just like we get through everyone's personality quirks and bad habits and temporary insanities. I would say we're more fucked up then the average bears but I would also say it's probably a crime to live without this level of intensity, truth be told.

Can't get close enough.

It's getting better baby
No one can better this
Still holding on
You're still the one

The beach looked so beautiful. Driftwood tangled in candle holders by the hundreds, custom-blown in smoked teal glass, long tables set like a woodland fairy seaside Christmas (as it is!), set with thick brown runners and copper utensils, dress code well-adhered to, as everyone was asked to wear black. And everyone did, except for Andrew and Schuyler, who wore morning suits in complimentary shades of teal and tan, and they looked incredible. Don't think I've ever seen Andrew with a fresh haircut, in all my years, and don't think I've ever seen Christian let his guard down even for a moment, until he stepped up in front of Andrew before Sam and said his vows, vows I never heard but the look on his face was enough. Who needs words when someone looks at you like that?

We had the clouds, the spring tide and the love of an entire army out in full force and we had everything we needed. We danced on the beach. We cried. We had a moment when we realized how tough these are, these moments in which you choose, and you don't look back and we had our fill of champagne, sparkling water and wedding cake.

We had some incredibly elderly folks make it down to the shore and back with the help of everyone but mainly John who took it upon himself to personally escort those who needed assistance as required. Bless him.

We had the whole point cleared of people by seven in the evening, as it was Christmas Eve and the deal was we will bring you here at no expense to you but you'll also be home before it's time to put out cookies and milk for Santa.

We need no other gifts this Christmas. This was everything. Seeing Chris and Andrew find each other, watching them fall deeper in love and watching them make it permanent, make it real through marriage, before all of our warm gazes and before God was everything we will ever need and Christmas became an afterthought, an oh, yeah, it's Christmas, isn't it?

Caleb offered them a honeymoon as his gift but they didn't want to leave. Batman tried to sweeten the pot along with Caleb and they insist they have everything right here.

Here.

I know what they mean.

Something blue Christmas.

Andrew and Christian got their wish of sunshine and will shortly get their wish of a seaside wedding followed by an early brunch on the beach, complete with:

One server who's entire job is to ensure that all of the candles remain lit, and as they burn down, replace them with new lit candles.

(Sounds like the best job of the day, frankly. Though only because it isn't supposed to be windy.)

People will be arriving soon, and I'm not ready. I've already cried like five times today because this is all so beautiful and I'll be able to describe it one I have a little more free time, and the next time a holiday wedding morphs from New Years Eve to Christmas Eve someone please remind me that it's a little bit much and move it to some random date in June, okay? At least it's happening early on, as we have tons of family who flew in last night and will fly out tonight.

Sam is ready and wandering around calming people down and even sprinting out to the driveway to greet people as they arrive.

I can't even believe that this is happening to two of my oldest and dearest friends. Wish them luck along with me, would you?

Never leave me home alone again.

Everyone is home at last and Ben wants a do-over of my night, having loved facetiming me at the absolute pinnacle of my disco party when I collapsed on my bed in my rollerskates and glitter and nothing else. The music was still loud and he laughed and laughed and pointed out that there was glitter on the dog, even.

Oh my God. So much glitter.

Everyone kept sending me sweet pictures. They went for a huge steak dinner. Then they saw a magic show. Then they went to another place for dessert and then...they shopped and everyone kept sending me photos of Lochlan standing near doorways looking vaguely supportive but like he'd rather be anywhere else and then at nine this morning they were back on the plane and home in the house by noon with a lot of fun and neat wedding presents and souvenirs and it's probably the least typical Vegas trip ever embarked on by twelve grown men but it was a bonding experience. I think they all enjoyed a night off from looking after each other on the point and they loved my solo Saturday night chronicles, which consisted of close-up, haphazard photos with flash for full effect.

I'm so glad they're home. Not even one of them is a Vegas-people, and yet it's good they marked this next step in life with concrete traditions, as brothers should.

They brought me vintage matchbooks from jazz clubs I didn't know existed and Lochlan found me the most beautiful tiny clutch evening bag. Strange mementos from an even stranger weekend.

Housepet disco.

Eleven brusque kisses on the forehead and one prolonged one (Lochlan) and the boys are off to Vegas for a night for a last-minute bachelor party, thanks to Caleb who grabbed a plane and booked a room at a nice restaurant for dinner and a block of hotel rooms and they're going to see a show and do the town and then they will fly home in the morning, though probably not in time for church.

Everyone over five-foot-nine was invited. Caleb's such a dick. Henry laughed and asked if he needed to bring his wallet (Henry leaves his wallet home all the time. I swear he gets his grifting charm from me) and Caleb gently told him not this time around, that someone had to stay behind and look after mom.

Sam demurred and Matt along with him. Sam said to me later, I don't think Vegas is for me. 

Vegas isn't for anyone, honestly. It's like Disneyland for sad people. 

He laughed but he remained somewhat unsettled. Not at having to stay behind, but mostly because of my description. He's content in the fact that no matter how much glue he is to hold this Collective together, no one invites the minister along to their bachelor party.

Which one is going to be the bachelor? I texted Christian enroute. They left so early. I ran out of things to do by noon.

We'll make it up as we go XO. Christian is tired of my jokes but he also rolls with it nicely.

Have fun and be safe, I text and I hear nothing back.

It's now five o'clock and Sam and Matt took me for my first visit to Popeyes Louisiana Fried Chicken (which is a fast food place way the fuck out in the valley but we were all bored and hungry so road trip) and it was delicious but then they disappeared when we came home and now I'm on my own.

 I'm plotting to haul out my roller skates, all of my body glitter and my Bee Gees Greatest Hits album because that's what this princess does when faced with a night all to herself. 

Neo-orthodox Unitarianism at it's finest.

One of the biggest tenets of AA is to begin by admitting you were powerless in the face of your addictions. It's a way to bring you to your knees, of course but I always thought it was a crock of shit. Start over, sure but the only person you have to blame is yourself and stating stupid things like alcohol controlled me or I was weak is weak in of itself and shifts the blame right off of where it belongs.

On you.

I struggle with this and I'm not the alcoholic. Never have been. Sam says I interpret it wrong. Ben just laughs and tells me I'm so stubborn he can see Youngest Child Syndrome from space. I agree, mind you but I also don't like blame suddenly shifting from I'm an asshole to It was the drink talking/acting/screwing up my life. No it wasn't, Matt.

It was you.

This is your fault.

And Sam is a fucking saint for letting you back into his life/heart/home. I don't even want to place bets on this save for the New Year will feature yet another broken heart and I know from experience they get harder and harder to put back together as time goes on.

Sam tells me to have an open heart and mind. That it's Christmas and this Christmas we're celebrating love all around us. And I know I'm supposed to allow Matt to begin again. We get endless chances to be good humans, even when we sometimes don't truly deserve them.

But love? We'll see. Right now, I'm celebrating germs and I'm cranky from not sleeping from this weird endless sinus headache so I'm definitely coasting on the good graces of God, his children and my army lately and that's fine too. I blew my nose to try and ease the pressure in my left eye and my matching ear exploded in pain. Christ already. It's been a long year and suddenly we're at the day I hate more than anything. Almost. Winter solstice, AKA first day of winter, AKA the shortest day of the year with the absolute minimum of daylight. Caleb always picks this night to spend with me because he knows how much I hate it but honestly I think I'd rather spend it fighting indoctrination. Fighting surrender. Fighting any more change and any more staying the same too.

Oh glorious wind!

This week's wedding planner is working underneath, and in spite of, the weather.

Monday is going to be rainy and four degrees and that romantic son of a bitch Andrew still maintains the wedding dinner will take place on the beach.

With...tents?

No tents.

Umbrellas and portable heaters, then? 

No. It'll be fine, Bridge. 

Oh, honey. It won't be fine and yet he refuses to make contingency plans, all the while I work around him organizing a multitude of contingency plans for every little thing, including backup tents stored in the garage where he can't see them, our portable space heaters and plans to still have dinner outside, just on the patio if it comes to that.

No one wants to eat if they're cold. No one wants to try and eat a wedding feast in the rain.

Sure they do, Andrew says dreamily.

You're the worst bride I've ever dealt with, I remind him. Let's plan for the best and prepare for the worst. Also you need to go and pick up the tents you don't need. I've reserved them already. 

You've managed to weaponize logistics, Bridget. He gives me a kiss on the cheek.

Someone had to, I tell him, and cough in his face.

Short and sweet, or maybe that's short and drippy.

I feel like I've become such a lightweight but work is cancelled for the week and I guess I'm officially on Christmas break? Though I keep sitting down and drifting off because I can't breathe and my face hurts. 

On the upside, Lochlan remains handy to cuddle with and we watched Krampus. Not even two stars bad. More like one of the greatest Christmas movies ever made. 

Single-digits rotten.

Today is crisp and beautiful pre-storm and I'm not at work.

The headache took over and is still here this morning and so I called in because a brightly-lit, noisy, busy restaurant is no place for someone in pain. I will hang out here in leggings and a big sweater and move slowly and quietly, drinking tea and watching Christmas movies on Netflix with PJ and Duncan, neither of whom enjoy cheesy Christmas movies but both of whom will coddle me until the cows come home. Maybe I'll try a wrap a couple of presents but maybe not, too. Lochlan is worried about my health and my sleeping and has instructed me to do nothing and for his sake I'm really going to try. Otherwise I'm happy it happened now and not next Monday because next Monday is going to be a little busy with the wedding and all.

I had a white flag waved in my face and Lochlan has agreed to the cheesy Christmas movies. But only the ones with two stars or less because he says if they're going to bad they may as well be the worst. I think a new tradition has been born. 

Twenty hours of work left before Santa.

No church today, though I would have loved to see the candle lit and hear Ben sing again without guitars burying his voice, but I have a huge headache from a renewed bout of coughing and I'm not pushing myself. Physically this week I already went too hard and now I have to pay the price, I suppose, so I had some coffee and cold pizza and I plan to just live quietly today, and hopefully this week overall.

This is Lochlan's lecture to me this morning as I insist I should go to church and he suggests I maybe just stay in, stopping short of outright ordering and instead trying to influence gently.

Which is nice. He doesn't want to the bad guy, even though he has every right to be and he is smarter than I, so I'll go with his observations and try and take it easy today. I work three days this coming week and then I'm off until New Year's Eve. Which is good because we're having a Christmas eve wedding here and it's getting really busy suddenly. So I checked my list, pulled Ben's big Goatwhore hoodie over my head and plan to do very little, though I do have presents to wrap and I am so behind.

I'll do a bunch of it Thursday maybe. Hopefully, or maybe a little later today. We'll get it done. Just not today. 

Fairytale of Horseshoe Bay.

I could have been someone
Well so could anyone
You took my dreams from me
When I first found you
I kept them with me babe
I put them with my own
Can't make it all alone
I've built my dreams around you

I woke up with that song in my head. Maybe it's growing on me as I age and make mistakes and live far from home. Far from people who break into chorus and dance steps on a sticky wooden floor and far from the snowy wonderland of trying to drive cars uphill on ice and the ever-present conundrum of how to cook a turkey when the power's been out for hours.

It upset me, that song and so I buried my face against Caleb's chest. He isn't awake yet. He tends to sleep until close to eight most days, though he will arrive in the kitchen showered and dressed, ready for the day almost at eight sharp before checking for coffee and any change in the stock market overnight.

His arms tighten around me and I squeak a little. My shoulder is sore from his teeth pressed against it, my arms weak from his hands holding them down and my legs ache mightily from being tense for hours. He wasn't traditionally rough but he still goes hard and I still need a little cautionary handling the next day as I move slower.

He's been romantic though. He had a fire in the fireplace and hot buttered rum drinks waiting when I arrived and he didn't put me up against the wall or pin to the bed by my neck. He was gentle and sweet and he said he wanted me to have my Christmas present early but a week is way too early and so he agreed to wait a little bit longer, and I agreed not to leave last night, to stick around and go to sleep and he found such comfort in that it made me want to cry. He's touched that I wear his ring every day, no matter what and not all that angry about PJ as he is learning to live in the main house and he's learning to put his temper away and that's nice too.

I always expect everything to be so temporary. He's nice today? Only a matter of time. I didn't cough all morning? I will tonight. The car started with no issues in the cold? What if it doesn't tomorrow?

(I'm never comfortable in my own skin, let alone in someone else's.)

It's not a matter of time. This is where I needed to be. He reassures me without trying to convince me. That's helping, too.

Something has to change, Diabhal.

It is, Neamhchiontach. It is.

Then can you help me get this song out of my head?

Let's try. He found his phone, hooked up to a neat little bluetooth speaker on the shelf and played Coldplay's Christmas Lights instead. And it worked on the first try.

Slower than slow learners.

A new daydream today involves Ryan Clark and Benjamin Burnley doing a duet. A girl can dream, can't she?

I watched the new Tourniquet video first thing, with coffee. I don't know why I did that. I think it's part three of a set that began with Red Cold River. It's uh..very metal. The song is amazing but sometimes I think musicians should stop with making videos. Even as they've been my bread and butter, they generally suck, honestly. Even some of the ones I've been in. Some are fucking breathtaking, but then again, that's rare. I used to hate live concert video compilations and now I think that's the way to go.

I pre-ordered the new War and Peace albums this morning from Demon Hunter. Now I have two more songs, though I can't seem to take Carry Me Down (the piano version) off today's pedestal, on repeat in the rain as I conclude that I have used up all of my nine lives as a curious cat and I now wish to be a fly on the wall, hearing everything or nothing at all as PJ holds his ground against whatever kind but menacing discussion he and Caleb are having.

Leave it, Lochlan orders. He's distracted, up to his neck in Henry's computer, optimizing the motherboard or something. Henry is learning as much as Lochlan knows as fast as Lochlan can teach him. Together they figured out they missed a step when they built the machine and I still can't figure out how to turn on the monitor.

As long as I can figure out how to get to my music I'm fine. This annoys Caleb to no end, who, against Ben's express instructions, tried to teach me to use Spotify. Spotify is a heated topic in this house. Very precious few people have it as the pricing on the back end is detrimental to the artists you're listening to. I balk at renting my music besides that. Fuck that noise. I need to own it.

PJ is back in a few minutes.

What body part has he threatened to take from you in the night and sell on the black market? I bet I can guess. 

PJ makes a face. What? No. He just wanted to know where I am in this new hierarchy. 

Below me, obvs. 

Well, obvs. He just wants to make sure I'm below him. 

And what did you say? 

You don't want me to repeat it. 

Hell, yes I do. 

I asked him when the last time he had good pussy was. 

Okay, yeah, I don't want to know. Never mind. I hate that word. 

I needed to be crass to make a point with him. 

Which was? 

You call the shots. Not him. 

And from deep inside the computer case, now up to his shoulders, Lochlan laughed. 

Nanny state.

I made it through the year and I did not even collapse
Gotta say, "Thank God, for that"
I'm torn between what keeps me whole and what tears me in half
I'll fall apart or stay intact

With tired eyes I stumble back to bed
I need to realize my sorry life's not hanging by a thread
At least not yet

So look at me now
Its finally Christmas and I'm home
Head indoors, to get out of this weather
And I don't know how
But the closest friends I've ever known are all inside
Singing together
Singing merry Christmas, here's to many more/i>

It's quickly becoming my all-time favourite Christmastime song, though they all are, if I'm being honest (Just kidding! It's still and always will be Type O Negative's Red Water). I love Christmas. I love falling asleep in the big chair in the living room in my uniform after coming home from work from a really busy day and waking up to PJ running interference between Caleb and Lochlan, both of whom have vastly different but the exact same ideals when it comes to how best to deal with this pathetic state of affairs.

Jesus, I just sat down for a second. I fall asleep whenever I stop moving and suddenly it's a job con?

PJ ordered both of them out of the room. No more arguments, no more ultimatums just get the fuck out and let her sleep and he'll wake me up later and send me off to bed.

He didn't clarify which bed and Merry Christmas to both of us because guess where I woke up? I still haven't found my work uniform. I think PJ was hoping I would stay forever in his room if I couldn't leave with decorum but he doesn't know me as well as I hoped, I guess. I got up and started to walk out and he was suddenly full of shit.

Okay, okay. Here's your clothes. 

Gee, thanks, Padraig. 

No, thank you, Bridge. Best Christmas gift I never asked for. 

Ah. Too decadent?

Wrong size. 

Motherfucker!

Indeed. 

Weirdly proud.

I got a Christmas bonus today. Cash in a Christmas card from the owners of the restaurant. It is the equivalent of a half day's pay but it touches me all the same as I work my ass off to see that people like their meal and that they come back. I mopped twice today. I'm so tired I could cry and I came home and opened my card while Dalton looked on. This is something because it's the first bonus I've earned myself in twenty years that wasn't related to doing work for Caleb or Batman. It's the first one that's all mine. No strings. No expectations. Nothing but joy and generosity.

I feel a little bad for lecturing the manager today on the most efficient way to clean the windows.

But only a little. Maybe he put extra cash in afterwards because he knew I was right.

Postfamous.

And I feel so much depends on the weather
So is it raining in your bedroom?
And I see that these are the eyes of disarray
Would you even care?

And I feel it
And she feels it

I have the remote in a deathgrip, heart locked down, brain switched off as Jacob's swagger of a third incarnation (after God. After Bridget.) fills the screen in the theatre. Matt is rapt, watching Jacob sing in his STP cover band, watching him work the crowd, watching him find the camera and then address it. Watching him rake his hand through his hair, lean way out over the crowd and act so not-preacher-like it's almost as if he was someone else completely.

It was a test, if you can believe it. Matt's heard the stories, Matt's been here through someone of my worst after-flight moments, but never have I offered to show him the recordings, the videos of Jacob's band belting out Stone Temple Pilots hits while the townsfolk positively screamed for more. Jacob has always been just a name to Matt until today. But right now I feel like I could and so I did and I didn't implode or anything.

Matt sits back, sinking in the couch, his eyes wide. Wow, he whispers, looking at me.

I don't look back, I can't take my eyes from the screen. I know, right?

Deep end, shallow end, meet me in-between.

Matt pulled me in close to a hug this morning when we arrived at cold, rainy church and the seats were all saved because we get there early anyway.

Can I request a plot near the telescope? The orchard seems so far from the beautiful view. 

No. It's already dug and everything. Don't make me use it, Matthew. 

I won't be. It's for keeps this time, Bridget. Sam is the greatest thing about my life and I've fucked it up enough. He's got tears in his eyes. Great, now I do too.

I hold up my pinkie and Matt wraps his own little finger around mine, whispering Swear before we take our seats. The litmus test will be when I show up to the boathouse, however. Then we'll know for sure.

***

I kind of fell off a cliff reading Yrsa Daley-Ward's poetry late this morning, after church was over, only to find out she has an upcoming collaboration with Valentino early this spring with her poetry on the Garavani bags. Looks like I'll be fighting for one of the four hundred available and I don't even like the bags. Just the words. As usual.

I'll get you one, the Devil assures. Because of course he will.

Or maybe the book he's reading is boring but I doubt it (It's called The Great Zoo of China).

It's raining and warmer today, everything is a lush, soaked green, a dim, muted rainforest weekend day meant for doubling down on snuggles and holding out for nothing short of extreme comfort. My hot chocolate was spiked with Irish cream, my boys have multiplied and the library is dark and quiet.

Lochlan dozes lightly beside me. He was reading, but his glasses keep slipping down his nose as his eyes close. Then he jerks awake, his arm tightening around me only to realize he is safe and then he goes to sleep again.

I like watching it happen. He was never one for blackout curtains or dark rooms and I would always watch him lose his grip on the day slowly and then all at once, his whole face going slack from where before his expression would be coiled and tense.

He falls asleep like no one else I know.

Every time someone pokes their head in the door I hold a hand up in warning. Then they fumble for their phone and text me their question/offer/request and then they go away again.

I said yes to the hot chocolate though, and I'll say yes to the leftover Friday-night pizza if it comes to that. I just don't want to move right now. He's so content. I'm so content.

AWD for Christmas is you..

The tree is up! It's lit and decorated and wrapped with miles and miles of vintage wired embroidered ribbon. It's a very forties-looking tree to that end, and every single ornament has a story. Everyone is very happy but no one is as happy as the cats, who parked underneath it and haven't budged since.

All the presents are bought. I just honestly need some time to wrap them and a moment to run out and lug home the turkeys for dinner but other than that the spirit is here and we're set. This weekend is for egg nog and making tourtière pies and maybe watching Krampus. Maybe sleeping in a tiny bit. Maybe coughing less, I hope (rolls eyes). Maybe not eating the entire dish of Hershey kisses that's on the table in the hallway.

I'm sort of car-shopping as well, while I'm at it. While I'm off, I guess. I've finally had it with the way giant pickup trucks treat me on the highway, as if I'm a nuisance, in their way. I'm tired of their headlights shining directly into my eyes. I'm tired of hoping Henry hasn't grown again when I give him driving lessons, as he actually doesn't fit in this car at all, as a passenger never mind as a driver, and I don't like the little knocks and fits it has when it torques around corners and such. It's been a fun couple of years but I think I'm going to buy a Jeep. I like PJ's and he says it's a good vehicle so why the heck not?

I have time to shop. I'm a car salesman's worst nightmare though. You would think the boys do all the talking but they don't say a word. 

A single moment on a Thursday in early December, 2018.

Watching: Kodaline's almost-short film, in the form of two music videos, All I Want (Part 1) and All I Want (Part 2). Came for the nice guy, stayed for the dog (who looks a lot like my dog). It's ten minutes of wonderful, simple storytelling with a lovely song. I'm not crying, you're crying.

Listening to: Cary Brothers CHRISTMAS MUSIC (Takes me forever to find these things, sorry. Yes I know). Still love him. It's been fifteen years. 

Eating: Had Pad Kee Mao for lunch. I'm spoiled rotten. Now I'm drinking hot chocolate. Dinner will be late, I think. Or nonexistent, maybe, as PJ already sent out a FFY warning (fend for yourself).

Wearing: Leggings and a huge sweater, gold hoop earrings, wedding rings + boyfriend ring. Lip gloss. Mascara. (Why do people constantly ask for this? Who cares?)

Plotting: To put up the tree this weekend. It's time! I held out forever and it's time. Also the dog needs a bath. Badly. I don't know what he got into, maybe just the garden beds near the garage but he's grungy. 

Working on: self-care. I don't think I'm doing it right, still, though I remembered to put on hand cream last night before bed and I'm drinking the hot chocolate as a treat. Right? Right????

Ordering: Henry's graduation photos. Many, many copies for everyone. The proofs look amazing, he's a stupidly photogenic human. Like his father. Now I have to wait a month or more for them to arrive and we're in the home stretch of high school forever. I can't even believe it. 

(Actual content tomorrow. Currently busy referring a standoff between Duncan and August over something dumb. August thinks he's going to toss Duncan off the cliff. In this weather. They're teasing but I'm making sure no one goes in the water when it's this cold. It's not safe.)

The pie thief.

I went over to check on how things were going at the boathouse only because I like to be a good hostess and because it's Wednesday and on Wednesdays my restaurant sends home any full leftover pies for the Reverend and today was a positive bounty in that I knocked on the door with three. Strawberry, pumpkin and a key lime. Sam kept the pumpkin but asked me to share the wealth with the others and so Schuyler and Duncan took the key lime and Batman and New Jake took the strawberry. Everyone is happy. Our house doesn't need pie, trust me. We're cake people anyway.

Matt wasn't even home. He was at a meeting with Ben. I would have known that but I went to the boathouse first because of the pies, you see. Sam said things are going well, that he didn't realize all of Matt's confidence came from a bottle and I gently reminded him he should have, for that's how it generally works.

How about you come back late tonight with Ben for dessert? We can have some tea and some pie and Matt can work to get back on your good side. 

I don't have a bad side, Sam. I'm just protective of you. 

And my gratitude for that is bottomless, Bridget, but it's something Matt wants to do. 

Let's give him space to settle in. I'm going to give him a little time first. He doesn't need me breathing down his neck. He can ride to church with us on Sunday. I'll check with him on Saturday. Until then I just want him to feel at home. 

Bottomless, Bridge-

I already dug a hole in the orchard for him, Sam. 

People can change, Bridget.

Yes, and it's only for that reason that I haven't put him in it yet. 

I did tell him if he hurts Sam a third time his body will be buried in the orchard.

Matt arrived this morning with his pride under his tongue and flowers in his hand. One bouquet for Sam, and the other for...

Ben.

Ben is Matt's sponsor, but only after hours (weeks, months, actually) of conversation in which Matt has agreed to get some help for his issues (drinking too much, levelling ultimatums and dealbreakers and names called at Sam, at me, at all of us and so we cast him out and yet Sam was still in love.

Sam's in love with everything. God, me, Matt, Ben, Lochlan, the evening sky and the cold empty beaches too so when someone is that open with their heart they tend to get stomped on. And since Matt and Sam have had two magnificent go-arounds already, you can see we're a little hesitant to open our home and our hearts once again. The last time Matt burned every bridge to this island and then he came back and threw sharks in the water just to finish the job. Sam on the other hand, hesitated for less than the space of a heartbeat and jumped right back in with both feet.

He's getting help. Remember when Ben went through this? 

Oh. Don't compare apples to oranges, Samuel.

But we have agreed to give Matt a chance. As long as he sticks to the program.

He has his three-month milestone so far, ninety days sober and he's already like a different man from what I've seen. Gone is the quiet confidence, the understated ego and in it's place remains a frailty, an honesty I always wished for from him. Sam emerges as the newly confident, the sure-stepping, direct and positive force and Matt is buckling down to work at last. I wondered if it was alcohol but he hid it well.

Matt also seems more comfortable with Sam being in the boathouse. There's more privacy and he seems to feel as if maybe we haven't brainwashed Sam after all, that clearly he's free to detach slightly, to move out of the main house and be ever so slightly apart from the Collective as a whole. That's not to say that them living downstairs doomed their marriage, but that a little breathing room is never a bad thing and Sam's move has done wonders to reassure Matt.

Or maybe he's lonely for the holidays and feeding us a tale.

I don't know. I'm a little suspicious and I'm not alone. But he asked Sam if I spend time there (at the boathouse) and Sam told Matt, if you can believe this, that it's none of his business.

And Matt said he deserved that.

And Sam said it doesn't change his answer.

And Matt said he can accept it.

Because you have to, Sam told him.

And Matt nodded.

And there was a lot more to the conversation and all of it turned me back around from a blackened, wizened cynic into a champion of true love once again and that's how it came to be that Matt has moved into the boathouse with Sam and has given notice on his rental.

(None of this happened today except for the actual move.)

Ugg boots were made for people who walk all damn day and thank God for that.

Tonight the dryer runs in tandem with the furnace, as the temperatures dip down below zero and the sun pulls a blanket of darkness up over its head, the hemlocks crowding in close to lift up the moon and point to the stars overhead.

It's a good night for spicy french fries stolen from over broad shoulders and for egg nog, nutmeg and whiskey. It's a good night to pour over Henry's graduation picture proofs. It's a good night to finalize the Christmas shopping list (I'm down to a spare handful of things left to pick up) and it's a good night to go to bed early, as I really fought myself to go out the door this morning, where it was so cold I've added a cardigan to my uniform dress and the car never did fully defrost by the time I made it to work. PJ didn't start the car for me. Neither did Ben. Mondays are for being a big girl, I guess.

I'm always glad when Mondays are over, even though I armed my brain to the teeth with things to think about when I was in danger of being overwhelmed. That helps too.

Drunk Sundays.

I was woken up in the best possible way this morning, a sleepy tug of war to remove my pajamas while I tried to keep them on, and then an attempt to put me on my face when I sleep best flat on my back, believe it or not but eventually I woke up enough to understand what was going on and then I helped out, pulling things off, not fighting anymore, and I might have pulled on a few curls in my rush to be so close to Lochlan I might have been behind him by the time we were finished with each other.

Then church, because it was frosty and there are songs to be sung, by Ben no less, who has been recruited to lead hymns for the entire month and oddly he accepted, so everyone gets a treat and the ones who don't think the words match the picture, well they will be won over soon enough, as always. 

I've only coughed half as much as usual this morning, too, but someone made me a second cup of coffee (from a slippery slope, no less) and then Lochlan poured a couple good shots of Baileys into it and put it in a travel mug for me to drink during the service and we piled into Ben's truck and I may have dozed off a couple of times because Sam sometimes gets boring when I get really cold but then we got to the good stuff and candles are lit and Ben's voice soars overhead into the heavens, so high I'm sure that even Jacob could hear him. It brought tears to my eyes. It brought tears to a lot of people's eyes, looking around. 

After church we came home to now make a few dozen grilled cheese sandwiches and a big pot of soup and get ahead on some chores. I realize it's hardly even December but with work and being sick and everything else one of my fondest desires right now is to do as much as I can while I feel well enough and then over Christmas week (since every. single. person on the point now has it off because Christmas. because WEDDING!!)I can do what I want to do, instead of what I need to do, I can relax and I can enjoy a dwindling childhood in which even the children asked for such practical things, and I know these years are now numbered. 

The waiting game.

Twenty-four hours and I might feel maybe five percent better, at least with a cough I can hear things in, instead of that dry, breathless cough I've had since labour day, or thereabouts.

Since I felt so great, I figured I should join Caleb for his first annual (fourth? Seventh?) Christmas shopping trip and so off we went. I finished my shopping and he finished his. We had a quick breakfast on the go, in which for the second time in a single season I walked and drank my coffee without spilling any or burning my tongue or pouring the whole thing into my purse/onto my phone/clothes/boyfriend and I even managed to finish it and find a recycling bin for the cup.

So yeah. Success. Then when we got home we pitched in to hang up the rest of the lights and did a few other chores and I feel caught up. I feel productive. I feel tired because we walked a whole lot and I saw things and remarked on things I'm sure I'll find under the tree in a few short weeks because Caleb is incorrigible, stubborn and predictable.

A little like me, I guess.

I hope I can tack on another five percent of health every day for the next three weeks and be at one hundred percent for Christmas.

Lochlan finally caught up with me when Caleb graciously offered me back to him and he kissed me which I returned heartily before coughing right in his face and told him about my coffee success. And the donut I ate. And the weird things I saw. And the feeling that I got a lot accomplished but I missed him something fierce.

Well, we'll get coffee on the way to church tomorrow then, he smiles. I think he missed me too. Advent starts tomorrow.

I always like it when the big wreath is lit, one candle a week until Christmas. It feels important and sombre, it feels like a big part of the holiday somehow. We don't have Elementary school pageants to go to anymore, so this is as close as we get to finding the spirit nice and early and keeping it through to the new year.

A red inhaler, to match my favorite lipstick, and a lot of reassurance that even though I wondered if I would die from this, I won't. I'll die from something else.

Ben absconded with me yesterday, setting us up in the library under cover of the rainy hemlocks, with his laptop on the table and hot chocolates and a big fuzzy blanket and we watched cooking documentaries all morning, afternoon and evening and I didn't talk, I just dozed a lot and then this morning we were still there but the laptop was dead because we didn't plug it in and so we jumped up and went up to get ready for the day, saw Henry off to school and then Ben took me to the specialist. 

Whew!

Actually it was nice. Ben will sometimes insert himself as a physical, flannel wall between me and everyone else who is trying to be helpful, including Lochlan, who is too pragmatic to be comforting sometimes and too fretful to be calming besides. If Ben is worried he does it in a weirdly mature and quiet way. And Caleb is even worse, pacing and throwing cuffs and checking the time and proclaiming he or his money could fix it and blahblahblah that sends me into a tailspin without even preamble. 

I almost forgot I even had an appointment today, snuggled in behind Ben's arm. 

But we're back, armed with prescriptions for steroid inhalers and more rest and lozenges (! Since they clearly understand I. DON'T. REST. Or can't, I guess, as the only reason I did yesterday honestly is because Ben sat on me and then swore at me when I struggled to try and leave.) and a new timeline of two or so weeks to get truly better. 

And I feel better already. My lungs are almost cleared up, my ears are barely inflamed and my throat looks good (which is weird since I cough all the damn time lately) but there's hope and maybe I can move on to talking about something besides my wonderful, terrible immune system. Things like pizza! Because it's Friday and I don't have to cook tonight. Yay!

The HASSELVIKA challenge.

I went next door this afternoon to check with Christian to make sure he's looking at the Pinterest things I've been saving for him and he and Andrew were busy putting together furniture! Because the wedding is on New Year's Eve one of their gifts to each other is a fresh start, such as new bedroom and den furniture and sheets and robes and bookcases and much much more.

Because I don't know about you but stuff has baggage, and after you've had a couple or maybe hardly any relationships you wind up realizing all of your stuff hasn't changed but you have.

You've changed a lot.

So I barge in only to see Andrew holding a drill and Christian holding the instructions upside down and they both seem to be biting their tongues because I'm there.

Did I interrupt something? We have an only-knock-outside-of-normal-waking-hours policy point-wide so I don't think I did.

Oh, Christian was just telling me no one needs instructions and that's why we're four hours into this and don't even have a completed drawer for a nighttable. 

That's not what I said, Andrew, I said most people-

I heard what you said. 

I backed out of the room slowly and shut the door. Apparently I interrupted the final compatibility test of every good relationship: IKEA. 

Ignore this. I've reached a level even I didn't think I could get to.

Tuesday is another day of endless rain, another day of uncontrollable coughing wracking my poor body limp and aching as I tense up so hard now because it hurts when I cough. It's not a nice, polite cough, it's an abrupt bark, a seal-call, a mostly-not-productive but occasionally thankfully productive and today Caleb set a firm timeline by which I must be better or he will call in a specialist.

Lochlan pulled me in close underneath his chin only to kiss the top of my head and find a rather disturbing cut and a fair amount of dried blood, most likely from when I whacked my head on the concrete under the stairs on Friday, which is really great, since I wash my hair every day and shower every day too and basically didn't notice I had bled and wasn't doing all that great a job of brushing my own damn hair, apparently. Which, of course I'm not. It's barely to my chin and looks a little insane these days anyway, all pointy and flippy, the sparest of bobs now at last.

To that end Lochlan took Caleb's firm date and moved it forward by three days, to Friday. So Friday I get to see someone who maybe can make a difference in my health, that's been deplorable to the point where even I'm wondering if I can have a break now.

I did go to work though. Thankfully the diner was empty.

Dueling iPads.

Euphoria’s gone, it’s time to move on
I have to believe we can change
When the notes come out wrong
Stop singing along
We can’t be the same old thing
It’s New Year’s Day

Well, here comes the Christmas music, though the princess isn't going anywhere today, as I am still sick, if you can even believe it and even after topping myself up with daytime cold medicine, my inhaler and a big old cup of coffee I still knocked fervently at Death's door, hoping to be let in if only to let go of this misery.

So here I am. Back in pajamas and listening to my favorite playlist of the year. Too sick to decorate or do anything exciting, like make cartwheels through the rain puddles in the yard or walk on the beach but Caleb is keeping me company, reading the stock reports online, making small noises of approval or sadness depending on the numbers and every now and then throwing out a suggestion for something for us to do, as if it's a Sunday or something and we just woke up and never go to church and don't have an entire Collective to match social calendars with.

You can do things but I'm going to stay in and drink tea and add things to Andrew's Pinterest account for the wedding.

And Caleb laughs, which startles Lochlan who is snoozing beside me. He is getting a cold and isn't sleeping well and oh my God, we're going to go round robin with this stupid thing this year but he also weirdly can sleep while people are having conversations all around him. He attributes the thin aluminum walls of the campers to that, being parked in less than ideal places on the midway.

I never slept if someone was talking right outside our camper but at least the accommodations on the midway were better than the circus, a rotation of shitty motels in shitty cities that I wouldn't set foot in as a tourist, but as a performer I had no choice, really.

He also can sleep right through Christmas music. I can't even keep from singing along out loud though I cough all the time and I feel like I've been doing hard-core crunches for a month at this point. Everything hurts. Everything's wrong and this isn't depression, I'm just physically worn out and I'd like to sleep for a week and I knew if I went to work today and a customer said something shitty I might have said something shitty in return and so even though I probably risked my job by being sick again (twice in two weeks) it's better to risk it then give it up completely because of my skin being far too thin.

In any case it's nice to be wedged in here between these two just hanging out on a stormy Monday morning.

Especially if it involves planning weddings for other people. I feel like I may have missed my true calling here.

Habit.

Every day spent away with Caleb is usually followed by a day of deprogramming on the part of Batman, who will never accept Caleb's efforts to change or even try harder. Every gentle smile, every healthy suggestion from Caleb is met with suspicion by Batman as an attempt to fool all of us or suck us in only to bring us close enough to poison eventually. To Batman Caleb is a deadly flower with a beautiful bloom. To the unaware (or unprepared), it's when you lean in to smell the fragrant blossom that you realize you've just been poisoned from the fumes.

Oh. I see we're going to have a dramatic reading this Sunday. I wish you had let me prepare something in return. 

Don't be disdainful, Bridget. I just see how easy it is for him to catechiz you into making him the hero of your story when he's nothing of the kind. 

What is it going to take to make you see that people can change? You did. I try and give him credit, soften him a little, make them as alike as they always were. It's kind but cutting.

Did I? I don't know if I have. Authoritarian has shifted to honest at last and I reach him.

You have. At least, I think you have. 

Then listen to me and listen to Lochlan when we tell you to keep your guard up, or we'll have to. 

Noted-

It isn't noted, Bridget. I know you well-

Then you'll know that at any given moment I have an army at my fingertips. 

It's the taken moments I'm concerned with, not the given ones. 

Don't use my words against me. 

I'm trying to protect you. That's all. We'll change the subject. 

He starts talking about holiday parties but his efforts to keep me safe from thoughts of Caleb only serve to keep my attentions on precisely that.

The rest of the drive to church is silent, the only sound the wipers against the glass, grating smoothly across the windshield as we drive under bridges and trees, then sliding easily on the drops that come the moment we leave those temporary shelters.

Maybe if you're free later we could have a walk on the beach? Ah. He does know me after all.

I'd like that. 

Actually I watched and technically they made us long blacks, which I love them for.

Christmas shopping with Caleb is a bit hilarious. He stopped somewhere and ordered Americanos for us to drink while we shopped, which meant I spilled a little, burned my tongue right off the bat and was struggling to finish it even as I realized an hour later it was cold and somewhat not a great idea to have right after lunch.

Lunch was a leftover cinnamon bun that I had for breakfast earlier in the day, also as we had a long list and only a little time, further constricted by the fact that at every turn, if I stopped to look at something too long or said I liked something, Caleb would insist that he buy it for me and I had to talk him down from it every single time. It took ages and we weren't even finished when we were done and we ran out of daylight besides, pulling into the driveway just as the automatic dusk lights flickered warmly on, him profoundly frustrated by that time, and me worn to smithereens because I still have. this. fucking. cold.

But we did accomplish a little bit and anything else I can finish off overnight, as I'll probably still be awake.

Did you enjoy yourself? He texts me later.

You need to learn how to budget, I reply. You would spend a fortune if you buy everything you see that you like.

I don't. I only buy what YOU see that you like, he texts back.

I don't reply.

So it's a Bridget-budget, he texts. A Budget. A Bridget. A Bridgbut.

Give it up. You can't make a portmanteau out of that.

No I can't, he concedes and we're good.

I ducked underneath the basement stairs (fully finished, but it's a storage space) to pull out the big rubbermaid bins of Christmas lights and decorations. Ben resisted, saying they would look after it but none of them fit. Hell, it's a squeeze for me even. I pushed out four huge bins and then realized I was missing one and ducked back in for the last one, and whacked the top of my head squarely and with force against the concrete header. I thought it was painted drywall but nope. It's painted concrete. Christmas decor will now feature tiny birdies and stars circling Bridget's head because ow.

"Stardom can be a guilded (sic) slavery" -Helen Hayes.

I can't breathe but I still fight while I can fight
As long as the wrong feels right it's like I'm in flight
High off her love, drunk from her hate,
It's like I'm huffing paint and I love her the more I suffer, I suffocate
And right before I'm about to drown, she resuscitates me
She fucking hates me and I love it.
"Wait! Where you going?"
"I'm leaving you!"
"No you ain't. Come back."
We're running right back.
Here we go again
It's so insane 'cause when it's going good, it's going great
I'm Superman with the wind at his back, she's Lois Lane
But when it's bad it's awful, I feel so ashamed I snap,
"Who's that dude?"
"I don't even know his name."

I'm just going to stand here and mark the time before I leap off the standard rotation of ballads and death metal into the vapid void of Christmas music, because this is how I roll. I know the moment I click the playlist I won't be able to shield my ears any longer. I've held out a little longer than normal because it's easy to let Lochlan pick the music or I fall into a void of a whole different genre.

(Shotgun shuts his cakehole)

In other news I've grown to be someone so anti-union only because it inconveniences me personally and risks the easy holiday of those I love and can't be with, which seems selfish, like everything else. Way back when I was little and they tried to unionize the show workers, Lochlan told me it was so everyone got paid enough, that we had the benefits we were supposed to have and deserved and so that we would be protected from the awful evil big bosses, the management, the underworld trying to peel a dollar off our backs even as we stood there and shivered and starved, stomachs growling like a thunder rumbling underneath the swelling music like a bass line.

I nodded. That's a really good idea. 

It is, Peanut. It means more for us. He smiled with his hollow cheekbones, starving in a way only teenage boys who never get enough to eat do.

(Oh, my heart.)

Now he still struggles to hold on to his weight but he also still believes in fighting for the little people, the workers, the bottom row front line of any war, corporate or otherwise and I have softened in crying that the world is against me in case my presents don't arrive at their intended targets in time.

It's a step back against the day and I remember who I am and what I came from and I call my loved ones to remind them that if the presents don't come, they will eventually.

Of course they will.

He was pleased with my nostalgia, and how I recalled being there, how I was able to pull myself back out of Caleb's mold, reshaping myself into the gritty little girl Lochlan remembers, the one he poured from that original mold that he made with his own hands, working nights, carving out small divots, forgetting other parts completely (I can't hear, I can't read maps, I can't make a poker face to save my soul, I couldn't save my soul, I can't breathe without affection, I can't pass up a piece of chocolate cake no matter how full I am.) and popping me out, proclaiming me perfect, even though I am far, far from it.

Noodles.

Dragged myself home last night, after asking to leave early and being refused (ha, we were short-handed so please please stay) and Caleb was making dinner. He made spaghetti with roast peppers and garlic bread and a really good wine that mixed well with my cold medicine, which kept wearing off so I would take more and I think I lost track of it completely and had to bail on cleanup help (with approval) so I staggered down to Ben's studio, where he had escaped to after dinner and came up behind him where he sat at the board and I threw my arms around him.

He reached up and pulled me right over his shoulder and into his lap.

See? It's the flannel! It's mag...nétique. 

Is that french, Bee?

Yes, I'm being fancy tonight. 

Ah, I see. It is magnetic. It attracted you. 

Like lint. 

Right. Warm and fuzzy. Little bit. 

Wow. Déjà vu.

Hmm? 

Lil' bit. I think it was the nickname Pa used for Laura in Little House on the Prairie. I could be wrong though. 

What on earth are you talking about?

Best books ever. You should read them. 

Okay. I'm going to escort you upstairs so you can go to bed. This cold has made you delirious. 

Right. But just a little bit. C'est magnifique. 

Christ on a pancake. 

We had those LAST night, remember? Speaking of food, do you want turkey for Thanksgiving? 

No, we've assimilated, remember? 

Oh, thank God. I'm too sick to plan a big fussy dinner this week.

(Update: It wasn't Little House. That nickname was Half Pint. Lil Bit was from Fried Green Tomatoes. Thank you Daniel.)

Hey I've gone viral.

Don't worry. I didn't stay with PJ very long. He was half asleep, but only the top half and didn't want to let me stay in my pajamas. I wanted to stay in my pajamas, so I gave him a kiss on the cheek, ignored his sleepy dismay and went back to my own room where I elbowed my way back to the centre of my bed where I belong and Lochlan pulled me in tight against him and told me somewhat thickly to stop wandering. But he was also hardly awake and so I don't know if he knew I left until later on when he repeated himself. That imprinting? It goes both ways. Even in his sleep he knows of my proximity. Even in his sleep he disapproves if it's too great.

But it's fine because I'm not in any trouble. I put on my big girl shoes and went to work today still sick and came home afterward to find the doctor already here.

Must be viral, he says after looking at my throat, listening to my lungs and generally absorbing all of the hand-wringing and concern of the boys who are all but despondent when I'm sick but somehow loathe to fix it. Sleep? Naw, wake her up. Stay home and rest? No way, there are things to do. Split up her chores? Why? We all have to pitch in around here.

Hide her fucking car keys?

(Yes, you should do that. Seriously.)

But no. So I went and withstood nine hours of complaints and rudeness while holding a hot pot of boiling liquid (and boy, are people brave to bitch when I'm doing that, don't you think?) and a little sweetness here and there and figured out some stuff as I do every day and now I'm home and I made at least three hundred pancakes (that's what it felt like) and cleaned the mirrors and ran the dishwasher and now my chores are done and I can finally, blissfully sleep.

With Lochlan, who reminded me not ten minutes ago that I wasn't to be wandering tonight. He said he'll light a fire and bring up a nightcap for us and it won't be so late or so long and we'll asleep.

I'm so looking forward to that I could cry.

Godless Sundays.

Sleeping in this morning, forehead pressed against Caleb's neck and not even noticing I wasn't in my own bed until I shifted slightly but had space to move and that woke me up, wondering who was missing. Usually I'm packed in tightly in between, just enough room to catch my breath.

I startled awake at the empty space and Caleb just pulled me back in without opening his eyes.

I'm not sure anything beats your version of sleepwalking, Neamhchiontach. Waking up to find you crawling in with me has made my week. 

That's what PJ says too. 

Caleb swears and pushes me away again. I guess that's my cue to go back to my own bed. But when I get there they've left no room for me as Sam is taking up at least three-quarters of the space I had previously and I don't want to wake him or anyone else up trying to reclaim my spot. So I shrug, rub my eyes and head down to snooze with PJ. Might as well make as many weeks as I can. 

Because why lie on the floor when supposedly lying on a fake wicker couch is that much better? YEESH.

Did I mention I finished my shopping for the away folks this week?

Amazing. Also I've procured the advent calendars and new Christmas cards (hard to find black ones, y'all) and wrapping paper (Okay it's not black, it's baby blue with little snowmen all over it and it's cute!) and the two cases of tape that we will probably still run out of.

I even have a couple of gifts for Ruth and Henry already.

But I also have far less time than I did before and that's going to make things tougher this year so I'm trying to get it all done in the next couple of weeks or so. We shall see. Next weekend will be very busy and also I'm sick again (this. goddamned. cold) but Lochlan's been really great about delegating, since I never have the heart to.

We even practiced and I still couldn't do it.

Tell him, Peanut. 

Hey PJ? Can you...uh..find a place that makes that yellow curry I love so much? I miss it. 

You were supposed to ask him to get out the patio set for the gazebo. 

But then I won't have room to lie on the floor anymore.

And you wonder why you don't get better. 

You don't get colds from being cold. You get them from germs! Also the gazebo is heated.

Yeah, okay. I raised you. YOU get them from being cold. I can almost set my watch by it. And the gazebo counts as 'outside'.

You hardly even wear your watch any more. 

Don't change the subject. Also, hey, PJ. Want to help me set the gazebo back up? 

I watch the master but I'll never be able to order my friends around. It just feels too weird. Even for me.

A Sea of trouble.

I'm pretty sure true bliss is lying on the floor of a heated gazebo on a cold sunny Friday listening to the Black Holes album by the Blue Stones and eating Kung Pao noodles out of a microwave envelope.

You can't beat that sort of a morning, actually.

But why are you lying on the floor?

Someone put the patio furniture away for the winter.

That was you, Bridget. 

Well, I think we can get it back out. It's twenty degrees. Winter is clearly over.

An apple a day (will not keep you from getting chased into a pool to be tickled).

And I cannot guess what we'll discover
When we turn the dirt with our palms cupped like shovels
But I know our filthy hands can wash one anothers
And not one speck will remain

And I do believe it’s true
That there are roads left in both of our shoes
But if the silence takes you
Then I hope it takes me too

I'm pretty sure being sat on and tickled at the bottom of the pool while he sings Death Cab lyrics at me so loudly and off-key I think I might choke, failing to catch my own breath is a rarity for a random Thursday in late November.

Stop it! STOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOP PLEEEEEEAAAAAASE!!!

And Lochlan stops on a dime, pulling me up out of the rain puddle that found a way to try and fill the pool against Caleb's wishes because it's almost winter.

And so I'm soaked and cold and it's pouring and he's still singing but I don't know the words to this one, I only know it's great, and I wish for monumental payback in the form of holding him down and belting out a Type O Negative or even an Amon Amarth classic in my half-assed growl.

He did make it up to me, slicing up a granny smith apple with tiny slivers of smoked cheese on each and every one, but then he ate half of it. He always eats half of it. We shared the bowlful while we found fresh warm clothes to put on after coming inside and shedding our soaked clothes and then he asked what I wanted to do.

Get a start on Christmas shopping, I said. It might be tough to send things across the country this year.

He nodded. Okay. No music in the truck today though. 

Excuse me? 

It was a song, and I feel like you talking about me singing it made it seem like I was saying those things, and I wouldn't-

Oh, no one thinks you wrote those words, Loch. 

I just mean-

I'm just amazed at how many lyrics you can remember. 

Probably not as many as you, Bridge. 

Oh, I don't know about that. I learned from the absolute best, and that's you for a reason.

Purely disfunctional or really really meant for each other.

Driving down the highway late last night on our way home from dinner and on the stereo comes the saddest song in the world that you'll never get out of your head. That Rihanna/Eminem song Love the Way You Lie that's so stupid-catchy and I'm only an Eminem fan when he's really angry anyway so I know this one so I start singing Rihanna's part and then Lochlan picks up the Eminem parts and when we pull into the driveway it ends.

We've sung the whole song together and I'm not sure now if I should be plotting divorce or instead a world tour.

I'm thinking tour.

All the land, I said.

A moment ago I was sweltering from the inside out day after day and suddenly it's dark at 3:30pm and I have to scrape my car in the mornings, and then sit in it shivering while I wait for the inside of the windows to defog.

PJ has offered, no less than every single morning to have the car warmed up, scraped and ready for me but I like him warm better than cold and I need to keep him that way.

Besides, I'm beginning to think I'm on a roll here. Should I build just enough character in this lifetime I can give it a face and a name and just maybe, I'll get my Jacob back. But don't tell them I told you this or they'll pad the walls of my room with feather-down mattress pads.

Don't laugh. We have a big squared off eight-inch-thick mattress pad on our bed that makes you feel as if you're falling asleep in an actual cloud. Or maybe that's on an actual goose, I suppose since clouds aren't made of feathers.

But that's okay, neither are Bridgets. Bridgets are made of rusted thumbtacks and linty pulls of cotton candy, loose strings of pink yarn and stray tortoiseshell buttons.

Or maybe that was magazine prizes, popcorn boxes, lollipops and dried blood. I don't even know, Lochlan changed it every single time he described me and he would always include some ingredient that surprised and ultimately dismayed me.

(Why do you say these things?

So you don't get full of yourself. 

Well, that's silly, who else would I be full of. I'm Bridget to the very top of my head. 

Yes, you are. 

When I grow up will you start my car for me on cold snowy days? 

I asked him this as we sat in his mother's car in his driveway while on this day he decided I was full of frozen pennies, stuck in a mudpuddle, broken popsicle sticks and one single left mitten.

No, because I hate doing this. I'm freezing. Maybe we can find someone to do it for both of us. 

Huh? 

Like a neighbor or a person who rents a room from us. We'll be landlords.

Oh, I see, like of all the land before us. Like kings. But wait! Why would they do that for us?

Maybe we'll do something for them too. 

Like what? 

I don't know, exactly. I guess we'll have to cross that bridge when we get there. 

We're going to live on the other side of a bridge?

Probably. 

Like on an island? 

There are all kinds of bridges that don't lead to islands. 

But the good ones do. 

It's an idiom. 

I thought it was called an island. 

No, no. The phrase. 

All good bridges lead to islands? 

You know what? You're right. Let's leave it at that, Peanut.)

Hey, PJ? On second though, would you mind starting it for me? I think that would be nice. And I'll bring you home some of that roast beef you like so much from the restaurant.

Stubborn is my middle name.

I think the last straw today was when Lochlan pulled into the parking lot at the restaurant only to find me sweeping up cigarette butts and straw wrappers from the pavement, my jacket wrapped around me, apron sticking out the bottom. It wasn't busy thanks to the observed Remembrance Day and so I was sent to do a lot of random chores today in lieu of waiting tables.

(I also spent forty-five minutes making sure all the forks faced the same way in the bin but no one seems upset about that.)

Alright, that's enough. I'm not going to watch you do that. 

Then go home and wait for me?

I think Caleb's right, Bridget. 

About what? 

You don't need to do this. 

I'm making twenty-two dollars an hour doing 'this'. 

Go inside, give them your apron, tell them that's your notice. 

Go home, Lochlan. I say it gently as the wind whips the hair into my eyes, hands covered in ashes, dignity locked securely in the trunk of my car. I have work to finish.

We are the dead (loved and were loved).

Where do you want to go for lunch, Neamhchiontach? 

For Ramen, actually. Is that okay? 

Of course. 

But we checked and nothing was open that we liked and so we came home and I'll make grilled cheese. It's a frosty cold Remembrance Day today, with little traffic and few people to interact with. Church was empty, so empty in fact that Sam culled in all of the folks who tried to sit unnoticed in the furthest rows, who then ended up right up front and he stood in the aisle, hands on the backs of the benches, and spoke as if he was leading a small meeting and then opted to give a very short sermon, releasing the tiny congregation. It felt a little like it did when the teacher would say we could leave ten minutes early, an unexpected freedom suddenly thrust into our universes to hold in both hands.

Sam went and helped all of the older folks find and put on their coats, and Caleb held out his hand for me, because I didn't take my coat off. I'm cold all the time lately, still stuffed up and coughing some and never ever rested. Ever.

Lochlan slept in. I tried to wake him but he said to pray for him and turned away. He made a sound like a kiss and trusts that I'll find what I need, that someone will bring me, that Sam will keep watch over me once I'm there and that I'll return and he'll be up and dressed, sipping coffee lefthanded the way he does, all but ignoring the world around him in a way that only someone who's lived with a multitude of distractions can pull off. He can fall asleep under a ride full of screaming teens and in a field with fireworks being set off directly overhead with a ridiculous ease that makes me so envious I'm always tinged a shade of green and yet he gets tired so easily now. Life has worn us down. God didn't have any answers for that, he only wanted to take stock of our gratitude for those who fought in the war. My poppy fell off somewhere between the front hall and returning to the front hall today. Not sure why but I usually spend fifty dollars on them because I forget to figure out a way to affix them until I want to take them off my coat but then again this time of year I'm numb and going through the motions.

Remembrance indeed. By the skin of my teeth.

Grilled cheese is ready, Diabhal. 

It looks delicious. Thank you.

Spoilers, spoilers.

I would talk about Caleb's new level of affection since he's come to reside in the main house, as he calls it (not what I call it, oddly) but instead a lot of people emailed me to ask what I thought of Sabrina. 

I don't think I'll finish it. The boys weren't all that impressed, as they are not the target demographic so that's okay, they were far more impressed with that scene in the Delta-V episode of The Expanse when dude hits the shield in the ring at 80000 km/h and his face torques out and liquifies in the COOLEST WAY EVER.

But Sabrina? I was so happy they were portraying witchcraft as an everyday normal activity until they mentioned Satan. And then I was like HUH? and then they kept doing it and mixing up Witchcraft and Satanism and I was like Oh, hell, no. Pick one, they aren't the same, they have nothing to do with each other. Then there was a little Voodoo and I rolled my eyes and decided the show just doesn't get it and I think I'm done.

But it did have promise and all of the actors were amazing.

But damn, someone in the writer's room or at the first read through should have quashed the Satan aspect so hard. Seriously, folks. What the fuck.

In other news, did I mention my Devil is being stupidly sweet? Cause he is.

Think I have this 'self care' thing down now.

I've spent this rainy Friday lying in bed with Daniel, Schuyler, Lochlan and Ben eating brownies and watching Sabrina on Netflix. Does it count?

(I hope it does.)

Warily warily warily warily, life is but a dream.

(I misheard those lyrics once. Lochlan said if I didn't want cavities I should sing Row, Row, Row Your Boat in my mind while I brush my teeth but I didn't know the song, his accent and my ears further messed it up, and it's been a cautionary tale ever since.)

This morning I feel better. I feel victorious and renewed. I feel like I conquered a ghost or a feeling or a day just by avoiding it completely, which seems a trickstery, underhanded, rather shady way of dealing with things, forcing one to shove their true feeling down to the bottom of their very selves where those feelings fester and infect the owner. For ever.

Sam laughs at my descriptions. It's early. Far too early for this and my legs hurt. Not quite, Bridget. More of a coping mechanism using distractions. You still need to deal with the feelings. 

I ask him with my mouth full of toast with honey. Oh yeah? How do I do that? 

As if we've never had this conversation a hundred thousand times before and he just grins softly because he's relieved, sharing in my victory, glad to be over the worst of it. I don't speak too soon, I don't need to knock wood as the beginning of the week was tough and careless, difficult, dark and sharp and yet eventually all good things must come to an end. Today the sun is shining, there's a million and twelve new red leaves on the ground and I need to make the rounds, get my hugs and reassure the boys that I am okay even as everything I do and say tells them something completely different lately.

Lochlan is the most relieved and yet still the most guarded of all. Every time he walks into a room he points at me and snaps You good?

I'm almost afraid to say anything other than Yes.

I did it.

I held my breath and I worked a surprise, unscheduled fourteen hour shift at the diner, the last four hours of which I did with tears in my eyes and nary a word to the whopping five people who came in long after the dinner rush. The manager tried to send me home, then the cook, then the cleaners but it was better if I stayed. Ben showed up and sat in a booth for what seemed like hours. I waited on him silently, refilling his coffee five or six time and he finally got tired of watching me suffer and left only to be replaced by Lochlan who sat in his truck in the parking lot until the restaurant finally closed and I was forced back outside into reality, my apron still on because I forgot to hand it in.

Let's go home. Lochlan says nothing else on the entire drive. When we get home I take a long hot bath, get checked on so many times I give up entirely and put on warm pajamas and Cole's grey sweater. I take a brand new bottle of Lagavulin and a glass and I walk out to the pool. It's empty so I walk down to the deep end and sit down and pour a glass for Jacob for his birthday. I pour it out, down the drain and call him a few choice names, taking a good fiery burning swallow from the bottle for good measure. I do this for a few moments while my legs seize up from running all day and then when I go to stand I find I can hardly do it, limping to the shallow end to climb the stairs.

They're all sitting there. All of them. Lochlan comes down to take the bottle, putting his arm around me.

Time for bed, Bridget.

I nod.

Sam kisses my cheek and tells me I did the best thing I could have done today, throwing myself into something to get through the day without dwelling on it. That it was a healthy alternative to previous years. That he's proud of me.

That they all are proud of me.

Usually that makes me feel so good, so...worthy but tonight I just feel tired.

Eleventh year gift: the lobotomy I wished for and never got (until today).

I woke up abruptly this morning, or rather, something (someone) woke me. I white-knuckle-gripped the banister on the way downstairs into the cold light. It's so quiet. I can hear my heart hammer in my chest as I keep going down, down, down until the floor gives way to stained wet concrete and errant leaves in the most beautiful shades of blood and ochre dot the path on the way to the big door with the rusted dog lever that I can't turn from the outside, meaning someone must turn it from the inside.

I climb over the sill into the concrete room. I haven't been here in a while. I thought they closed it for good. Blew it up. Sealed it off from my life, a memory I can't keep because it drowns me alive but Jacob showed me a different way to get to it, down a hallway in my mind.

And I followed because I need him. I need to see him. I need to check in on a regular basis in order to feel alive because he isn't and sometimes I wonder if I actually am.

The lights come on, one at a time, from the farthest, darkest corner to where I am and when they're all on, I shiver because the room is still empty.

Princess. 

I startle, choking on my breath and twirl around. He's behind me. Standing less than twelve inches from my heels (now toes), smiling down at me. My heart breaks into a million shards and my brain follows it without question. Tomorrow he would have been forty-eight but he'll never see that, just like he never saw thirty-seven because instead of celebrating his birthday he was busy losing to himself.

And I wake up screaming because it hurts. Everything hurts. The parts inside my head that are loose. My heart. My chest is hammering, tears are streaming down my face and my vision is blurred and yet I can't stop screaming. I don't want to be alone down here. I don't want to be with someone who isn't breathing. Don't want to stand here in the cold. Don't want to feel like this. Don't want to be like this anymore. Don't want to hurt. Don't want to hurt. Don't want to hurt.

Fetch.

When I left work today, Ben was waiting outside.

You're going to follow me home? I ask. I'm too tired to see what's in front of me. It was very busy for a Monday. Steady and I did a lot of random tasks that I usually don't do like mopping and scrubbing shelves.

I'm going to drive you home. PJ already took your car. Do you have everything? You won't be back until next week. 

I work tomorrow and Wednesday. 

Not anymore. 

I take what he says at face value. If there's a plan falling into place here on the eve of...of Tuesday, then I don't want to be in the way when it hits the ground.

I have everything. I don't leave anything there. Well, the apron, if I remember to take it off, since they wash those nightly. 

Good. He opens the door for me, helps me into his truck and buckles the seatbelt around me. Shades of Lochlan, 1982. I'm almost relieved, as the hectic highway at three in the afternoon is always the last thing I need.

Ben is the first thing I need and after being virtually absent all weekend he is more than present finally. Just when I need him the most.

Need to stop anywhere?

No. Let's just go home. 

The whole way he holds my hand and I look out the window at the trees. No radio. No music. No jokes. No conversation at all. Just a comfortable, familiar silence, as is typical in the calm before the storm.

Polished.

I love it when someone engineers an early evening, picking up the corners of the night and knotting it into a tight bundle containing all of the dirty dishes and lingering partygoers and walks out the front door with it.

Honestly, now I understand the premium people pay for that sort of stress-free experience and I'm grateful for it, even as I had one too many sazeracs and stumbled just enough on the bottom step of our staircase just long enough for the Devil to catch up with me.

Wait for me, Bridget. I just have a call to make. 

Take your time. I have plans. I swing around and sit down on the steps. I'm going to have to call Lochlan to come downstairs and get me. It's just too far.

Fuck the call. Come with me. He takes my hand, arm around my waist.

No. I give him a shove and get nowhere. I have to go.

Coming with you, Neamhchiontach. I'll see you to your room. He leads me up the stairs though I attempt to hang back. I can't feel my tongue or my legs. I can't feel my brain or my ghosts either. Maybe the sazeracs win where the other pills don't. Maybe therapy is overrated and I just need to be drun-

I bring him right inside, through the landing and the little den and into our room. There's a few lights on, and Lochlan's suit jacket (that he hates) is draped over the back of the couch. I can hear water running in the bathroom so I drop Caleb's hand, leaving him by the door and go across to the bathroom, knocking softly.

The door opens and Lochlan's eyes meet mine, warm until they see Caleb is with me, then slightly guarded. Lochlan is stone-cold straight. No sazeracs for him. He's being the grownup as always while I will forever be the child.

Just for a bit. Not for the whole night. I plead with him, biting my lip, wavering on my feet, flushed from the alcohol and the anticipation and the tension in the room.

He nods, briefly and leans down for a kiss. I'll be out in a minute. 

But it wasn't for just a bit and when I woke up this morning I was tucked in tightly between them, sleeping one of the best sleeps I've ever had, no hangover, no regrets and no resistance. Nothing left to clean up and no one that I have to answer to. Take that, ghosts. Take that, Bridget.

I hate parties and other non-revelations.

I somewhat reluctantly handed over my menu late last night to Caleb, who made some calls and today starting at eight this morning the house was seemingly full of strangers, albeit silver-service strangers, who began to set up the dining room in anticipation of tonight. The food will be brought in shortly before dinner, set up and served and whisked away at the end.

He had a team of house cleaners sent as well who had the entire point scrubbed and mirror-shining in a little under three hours (that's seven buildings, if you're counting) and he had groceries delivered too.

He delegated the dog walking/laundry-folding/time-machine emptying and he sent out msgs to everyone to see if there was any want for an on-site barber. He tried to have a person come who did massages and one who does nails but I asked him to ask the boys if they wanted that. At their house. No one touches me that doesn't love me unconditinally. That's the rule. That's why Daniel cuts my hair. Jesus. This hasn't changed in years.

He shook his head in disappointment at me because I won't let him spoil me.

I think I just did. 

This is not for your benefit, this is for theirs. I wanted something just for you. 

This is for me. My house is clean. I don't need to grocery shop and I don't need to cook tonight. 

Sigh. I hear it though he tries to cover it with a cough. He's being magnanimous benefactor today, benevolent, relaxed millionaire in jeans and a seriously overpriced long-sleeved t-shirt. He's being the way I always hope he'll be before he destroys all of my illusions eventually.

Thank you, Diabhal. 

No more of that. I have a name, he says and I'm surprised.

Then no more Neamhchiontach either. 

But you always will be. And it's written on your back. 

Ditto. And I turn and leave before he realizes I ruined the moment, before he recognizes that the chance he took failed spectaculary and before he talks me into being spoiled in a way that doesn't suit me at all and only serves to make me feel more like his property than anything else in the world. And that thought makes me cry and I don't want him to see that either.

I'll reappear when people start arriving. Maybe.
 

Who needs fine when I'm going for perfect?

Wait on me girl
Cry in the night if it helps
But more than ever
I simply love you
More than I love
Life itself

I would have been planning a forty-eighth birthday party for next week-

(Stop it, Bridget. That's destructive, unhelpful, damaging thinking. Let's reshape the thought and see what happens, okay? You're doing great, by the way.)

I'm planning an anniversary party for this weekend for Daniel and Schuyler. Their anniversary was earlier this week and we couldn't do it last weekend so this one upcoming is better for everyone. Especially Schuyler, who is working on a big project and is very busy and so we are babysitting Daniel, who has taken to chiming in with Lochlan's singing, and every song is now a theatrical duet, which is fine because Lochlan's always been incredibly theatrical and downright silly and because the two of them singing I Guess That's Why They Call It The Blues while I try and concentrate on gathering ingredients from the menu for tomorrow's party is making me happy in spite of my efforts to sabotage every good thing in my life, as is tradition.

Like throwing pumpkins off the cliff. If you do it year after year after year and then suddenly you don't do it, not doing it feels weird so you should probably keep doing it, right?

(No, Bridget. That's wrong. That's only useful for positive behaviors.

What's the difference?

Positive behaviors are GOOD for you. Negative behaviors are ba-

I get it. Well, I mean I think I do. No, wait. No, I don't get it actually.)

My  knuckles are white. My nerves are exposed. My scalp is peeled back and they're poking in my brain. Some touches so familiar, some so foreign. I cover my head with my hands but it's useless and so I soldier on, exposed.

When the cacophony gets too loud Lochlan shuts it down. I'm sure Caleb has some numbers. We'll have it catered. Don't worry so much, Bridge. It's fine. 

I heard my name? Caleb comes downstairs. I wonder if I'll ever get used to him wandering around the house. He comes over and Lochlan asks him for some contacts for a dinner service.

He nods, putting an arm around me, pulling me in tight against his shirt as if he can see my brain, see the wires and the lightning and the carnage and the black burnt parts and he knows and he squeezes my whole body and Lochlan's shoulder at the same time.

I got this. Why didn't you ask me sooner?