“I taught you to fight and to fly. What more could there be?” ~J.M. Barrie

Last evening PJ tried to block me from taking the recycling bin out. I can do it, he said. Go relax.

PJ doesn't micromanage me unless there's a reas- 

Move, PJ. I push backwards against the bin he's now holding but he's squared himself in the doorway, filling it.

Ben is with them. It's fine. Let them deal with it and don't put yourself in the way. Also, what gets into Lochlan? I thought he was cool with you doing you and was going to back off. 

Oh, he's fine with me doing me as long as no one else does me. He wanes between confidence and total paranoia though. Like I do. It's called being human, PJ, you should try i-

HEY. Don't shoot the messenger. I just want to know which side of him to stay on. Not like I haven't been in Caleb's position. 

Are you going to move so I can go manage my life?

Hell, no. 

Then I'll go out the front door. I take off running up the stairs and through the kitchen and out the front door, down the walk, down the steps and to the left toward the boathouse and there's...PJ. Who put down the bin, walked through the side door and waited for me. He cages out with both arms and dares me to try and get through him.

God. I've never hosed on a dare in my life so I run straight at him. The plan is to vault his shoulders if I can get enough speed but he closes his arms like a vise around me, my feet off the ground.

FUCK, PJ! 

Hush. Making scenes is his thing. I follow PJ's gaze and Caleb, Lochlan and Ben are at the top of the stairs coming down from Caleb's.

Lochlan shoves past both of them. The fuck, Padraig. He pulls me out of PJ's arms and tucks me in against his chest with one arm. Ben's face is completely unreadable. Caleb turns without a word and goes back into the boathouse.

PJ takes the bin to the garage.

Party's over, I guess.

What did you do, Locket? The question is soft. I don't even hear myself ask him.

Don't worry about it. 

Ben heads inside too and Lochlan turns to me, wrapping his arms around my head, sighing. Remember when you were following me? That first night you went into the woods, Bridge?

I nod. That was the beginning of everything. He asked me to trust him. Told me to listen to him. I've followed him around ever since.

Go back, Bridgie. 

I can't. It's dark and I'm scared. 

Then why did you follow me?

I wanted to see where you were going. 

Why? 

Because I want to be there. 

What do you mean?

Where you are. I want to be where you are. 

He accepted that answer, nodded and turned to keep walking into the dark, never questioning his little shadow again. I didn't actually know that he was Peter Pan then, leader of the lost boys, none of whom would ever grow up. I do now.

Why won't you do that anymore? 

I shrug under the weight of his arms. I don't know. 

That didn't matter when you were little. 

It's harder now. Everything is more complicated.

Then make it simple. 

What about Caleb? 

He's prepared to wait and see what you do. 

Did you threaten him?

I reasoned with him.  He pushed away and left me there, heading inside.

And I followed.

Feels wrong.

I look at them when they talk. The way their hands express their positions, the set of their mouths, the way their emotions play across their eyes like a silent film. I look at the way it all comes together into a watershed of feelings, be it desperation or rage. I watch it and I soak it all up like a sponge and I drag it around with me on top of everything I have within, becoming crushed and forgotten beneath a tidal wave of responsibilities, holding their dreams out in the palm of my hand. An offering, a plea for help.

I don't even hear the words sometimes. Sometimes they're holding my face, covering my ears and then I just get muffled sounds and swooshing from the movements. Sometimes I feel Caleb's words come out in a numbingly painful torrent that hits me like a blunt instrument. Or Lochlan's longing as a keen ache, easily projected on everything for a thousand yards, his face open, no attempt to bury his needs underneath ritual or circumstance. Or propriety. He never was one to worry about the complications, the expectations of marriage until he put himself in their position.

And now suddenly, it's important. 

And I can't handle the avalanche of this weird flitting panic that's pinging back and forth between us. It's a tennis ball coated in poison, cupping into our skin as it hits us, leaving a bruise and then a death sentence as we absorb the blows.

He said I could bring you. I finally say it. I didn't want to say it. I hate suggesting that but I'm trapped, here. I have no choice but does he?

What?

You can come, too. 

I don't want to. 

Then stay here. 

Not without you. 

Then you're coming. 

And I don't know what gets into him but he sits down and puts his head in his hands. It's a gesture you make when you need to think, when you're out of ideas and hoping one will come to you magically, eventually. I watch that too and I soak it all up like a sponge and I hope that in my next life I don't know him either so I can spare this feeling he has.

A word typed too many times.

It's got the be the first time we ever sounded like a bickering sitcom-era nuclear couple. Like Lucy and Desi. Archie and...and Doris Edith? Anyone. I can't think of any more right now.  Fighting softly at first. Lots of joking and then we're rocketed back to the beginning before being slung-shot right back to this moment. Back to where we always end up.

So help me if you go there this weekend, I'll...I'll-

You'll what?!

I'll make all kinds of trouble for you. That's what! 

I burst out laughing. Okay then. So we're clear. 

So we're clear, Bridget, I don't care if it's his fucking Bar Mitzvah.  You're not going. 

Did you get one?

What? 

A Bar Mitzvah?

I'm not Jewish. 

Oh. I get it. So I should stop waiting for my Quincearena. 

Depends. Are you Mexican?

I may as well be. I eat enough of their food. 

True. But you're not Mexican, you're Irish as they fucking come, and you're. not. going. Understood?

No. I smile at him softly. Those aren't the rules.

They are today. 

You're stringing me along. 

I'm trying to keep you safe. 

No. You're trying to keep me from him. 

In my next life I really hope I don't know you so that I'll finally be able to sleep at night. 

Take that back! Tears sting my eyes from the low blow.

I will when you promise you're not going, Birthday or not.

It's a stalemate. 

Do you even know what a stalemate is, Bridgie?

Yes, it's when your friend is stinky. I plug my nose and squinch up my whole face. Lochlan has just walked all the way back from town in the heat. He's sweaty and warm. His shirt, his hands are wet but he's got our groceries and a now-warm half can left of Rootbeer for me.

No, it's when you can't agree on something, no matter what. 

Then what happens? If you can't agree, I mean?

If no one is willing to change their mind then you have to walk away. 

But that doesn't help anyone. 

No, it doesn't. It's much better if people learn to compromise. 

Isn't that when you give a prize to someone who didn't actually win?

No, that's 'comping a prize' Compromise is different. It means you maybe give up fighting for something in order to keep the peace. Whoever the fight is most important to sometimes should get their way or can figure out a way to get their way this time in exchange for giving up their way next time. 

Comp-

Com-pro-mise. 

Compromise. Like a common promise!

He smiles.

So can I have candy for dinner?

Hell no. 

If I give you a kiss will you comprom..comprize for me? 

He laughs. Yeah, okay. If you promise to brush your teeth twice tonight. 

I nod. Hey. We had a comprompromise! 

Compromise. 

Right. Whatever! 

But as I look at him now I have no idea who this fight is more important to. Me or him.

Jesus tension.

Now that you see he's getting better are you heading out? Church is over and Matt helped me clean up from a rather well-attended lunch here at home. Nice of him.

I may stay for a few more days.

You need to ask me to do that.

Sam lives here too. I used to live here, Bridget.

You were offered a place here and you turned all of us down. Sam included. You broke his heart.

He seems happy to have me here.

He was feverish and delusional.

Bridget, I asked you to stay out of our way.

And I asked you to stay out of my house.

Sam comes in. Bridget-

Lochlan covers my face with his hand, lifts me up and physically carries me out of the room. He doesn't let go until we're out of earshot and then he puts me down.

I need to protect my friend-

Sam is a grown man.

He's got a broken heart too. If you knew what that felt like-

Jesus Christ, Bridget! I do!

Oh. Well. I'm rocked because he left.

You think you're the only one? This whole house is full of broken people. Matt included. So if he and Sam can find happiness or get back together or just have a few days to become human you better than anyone else should understand that and leave them be!

Which part broke your heart?

What?

Which part. I need to know.

All of it. From '83 right up until last night. You think you're tougher than you look then you need to look in front of you.

You love me that much?

That much and more. His voice breaks and my heart goes with it. Again.

Christ, Locket.

Yeah. Christ, Bridget.

55 in 7.

Next weekend is mine, Dollface. He uses an old nickname loaded with bad memories but when I look at his face there's no malevolence in it, just hope. He's sure that by commanding me to appear that I might consider it, that I may fulfill his birthday wishes with my submission to his gentle orders.

I nod noncommittally. I'm busy watching the figure skating. We just got home from a snowy, empty before-lunch showing of Black Panther and I'm still thinking about what a great movie it was, from the light humour to the crazy action, future tech and gorgeous clothing. I'd like to go see it again.

And now my brain is filled with twizzles, jumps and bright lights as the gala is on live television right now and we watched every single figure skating program throughout the past two weeks and I loved every second of it. So this is a thing for me, just me and isn't about the boys and so I resent Caleb's intrusion demanding time and promises right this second but I'm trying to be kind nonetheless.

It's a date. I'll let Lochlan know. 

I will. Please. It's a warning. If Caleb crows maybe I'll change my mind.

Fine. Have him confirm with me. 

I'm a timeshare. Classy.

I'll see you later. I stare him down. There's a Russian couple skating that I barely remember.

He kisses me. Indeed. I have some great plans for us. 

On the point, I hope. 

Of course. 

No surprise trips. Henry needs me. He's having a tough week, health-wise too and I like to give him extra support and everything else can kiss my ass.

No surprise trips. I understand. Caleb still feels responsible for Henry and agrees . Enjoy your...whatever they're doing. 

It's the gala exhibition skate. They get to do whatever they want. Let loose after all of the competition is complete. 

Ah. I see. 

You're not a sports-person. 

I play hockey. 

Right. You're not a sports-person. I wink at him. Get out so I can watch my show. It's live! 

Love you, Bridget. 

I bite my tongue.

S N O W D A Y

We won't talk about hockey today. No sir.

Let's talk about Dalton.

You know, Teflon Jesus. 

Who sent me a text this morning with  SNOW DAY surrounded by all of the snowflake, snowman and skiing emojis even though he doesn't ski and has never sent an emoji in his life. I put the black heart at the end of every single text I send but grown men don't use those things, I think, hardly ever.

Dalton texts me from bed fairly often. He is quintessentially lazy and will conduct all of his business from his bed and who is going to stop him? He works hard when he works and hardly works when he doesn't have to and if he's home he's embracing just being home. They try to teach me how to live in the moment but I am rigid and uptight, resistant to the best advice. I'm enthusiastic to a fault, however, breathless in my still flu-addled head here so I'm game for everything and so I text him back.

We should have waffles in the sauna

Ew, Bridge

But it would be going from warm to cold to hot to cold to warm. It would be amazing

No one eats in the sauna

We'll be the first then. Pioneers! Gastrosauna-ites. We can write a cookbook! Oh My GOD. Hot rock cooking and the ultimate busy person's guide to multitasking while relaxing!

You're insane

Yes but what does that have to do with anything?

How about waffles in the kitchen?

If that's my consolation prize I'm okay with that

Meet you in 15 :)

k :)

(You thought I was going to talk about something else Dalton-related, didn't you?)

Gold medal game spoilers. If you haven't seen the replay skip this.

Omg. What an amazing game last night. But can we please just stop deciding games with shoot-outs, taking away all of the technical skill and boiling a whole three hours of exciting gameplay and amazing plays and saves into a goaltender competition? Can we just have a tie instead? I would have happily shared our impending gold with the United States in the event of a tie. It would make a lot more sense than this.

But alas, we got silver, I think for the first time in twenty years, and there you have it. See you in 2022 in Beijing and we'll have this discussion all over again.

Now it's up to the men. Semifinals tonight. I'm ready.  I loved the crack in the paper: "there are no NHL players participating in the Olympics, this is the first non-NHL tournament in twenty-four years".  And yet our team has a (combined) score of 2140 NHL points. In contrast, if it comes down to it, the US has half that (1216) so all my hopes are on you guys now.

This is not a cry for help though it's probably the most pathetic thing I've ever written.

Got nothing against you and surely I'll miss you
This place full of peace and light, and I'd hoped you might
Take me back inside, when the time is right

(Guess what's stuck in my head now? On a loop. Just the chorus. That's the good part.)

Guess who showed up last night with flowers and a care package for Sam, who's fever broke around noon and Lochlan finally let go of him, and we realized I'm not the only one afraid of death around here, but probably the only one who freely admits it? Since my heart exists on my sleeve most of the time it serves as a loudspeaker, broadcasting my feelings to my little corner of the universe and sometimes to strangers too, as it did earlier in the day when the kind pharmacist asked me if I was okay, and I turned and looked up at him and said No, thank you and he frowned with concern as I walked away.

There was nothing in the store that could make Sam better. We've got a well-stocked medicine cabinet but our main uplink to God goes down and we're toast. 

He feels better though. Where my cold and sore throat persists endlessly, his cold turned straight into the flu and after two days of sleep he hit the boredom wall and wants to do things. If I could sleep for more than four hours ever I might be better faster too but I'm not a sleeper, I'm a maniac.

So yeah, guess who gets the orange juice, Nyquil (HA OMG STOP ALREADY) and humidifier and a Lochlan all to herself once again, since Matt is here again and Sam brightened up like a goddamned sunrise?

Hex.

It's dark when I wake up but he is yelling in his sleep, my memory thief unconscious, feverish and pale. His skin is cold but sweating, his hands grasp at nothing and he's calling my name. I put my hands on his face holding his nose to mine.

Wake up, Sam. Please. Wake up.  

His eyes fly open and he startles so hard I hear his elbows crack. It looked like that feeling just as you're falling asleep when you actually feel as though you are falling through space unchecked.

What's wrong?! He is delirious, shaking and confused.

We need to take your temperature.

I'm fine. Go back to sleep and get better, Bridget. I'll stay with you. 

(Lord. Why did you send me this loyal soul?)

Shhhhhhhh. He runs his trembling fingers down my cheek. His skin is almost sizzling and Lochlan gets up, swearing, and heads for the first aid kit. There's an old fashioned thermometer in it, the one we use after a error thrown by a digital one with low batteries. I need all the lights on to read it, however, so having your temperature taken around here is a miserable five minutes of blinding light and people confirming the obvious.

He comes back with a forehead thermal sticker. Use this. Oh, good. But then I got out the mercury thermometer anyway. It just seemed so high.

103.

Okay. Not the end of the world. I give Sam some ibuprofen and a huge glass of cold water and Lochlan wrings out a cold cloth to put against his forehead. No one's been this sick yet. Even I've barely run a fever, still flitting around from one moment to the next like a furious bumblebee. Sam is a wet noodle, draped weakly under the sheets, without strength or sense.

Is there any juice? 

Of course there is. What kind would you like?

Orange, if you have it. 

We do. I'll be right back. 

I tiptoe through the house and return in moments with his juice, his favorite blue hobnail glass in hand.

But when I come back he is already asleep again, spooned in Lochlan's arms with Lochlan's hand around his forehead, holding the cold cloth in place. Lochlan is already asleep too so I drink the juice and crawl back in. We can burn the bed later. Lochlan's an expert on that.

Bray for me.

Bridget-

It's just a cold!

You said that like two weeks ago. I'm calling the doctor. 

No! But it came out strangled, squeaked through a sore throat that only hurts when I stop moving and don't you know, I refuse to do that because then I'll be admitting weakness and no one does that around here. I have to keep up with the boys even though I'm half their size, half their weights and clearly one-quarter portion of their immune systems.

Bridget, plea-

Unless I can get those Hollywood vitamin-shot things then nevermind. They just give me those giant disgusting antibiotics and then I feel worse. 

I'm bouncing up and down as I explain myself. This is why they give me Nyquil with my dinner though I made it through all of the Olympic coverage and watched all five flights of the dance short program last night. See if I can do it again. I had a glass of ginger-ale, a glass of orange juice, a mug of hot chocolate and then a glass of whiskey and ginger-ale. Then a bowl of cereal at ten pm. My dreams were incredibly weird.

Must be the Rice Crispies, I told Lochlan sagely as he tried to pin me down long enough to take my temperature. We were naked, and going to see this play, only instead of seats they had bunkbeds and they wouldn't let men and women sit together-

Fever dream. He laughed. You should go back to bed. 

Instead I went grocery-shopping with PJ and when we got home Ben yelled at PJ for letting me outside and then at me for going outside. I muttered At least I had clothes on, considering in my dream I stripped down pretty fast. I really wanted to see that play.

PJ gave Ben a hearty middle finger and laughed. PJ knows you've got to get out the tranquilizer dart out to slow me down because some creatures move too fast and I'm one of them.

Ben frowned his scowly, scary frown and asked if I would take it easy this afternoon so now he and I are lying on the big sectional couch in the kitchen (great room combo, hard to explain) watching bobsleigh replays and I'm painting my nails with Sally Hansen polish in 'Expresso'. Ben said it was tongue-colored and has been making sick jokes all afternoon since. He put on my leg warmers. He said he was going to become a figure skater next winter but it's simply too late to start training now because the Olympics will be over by the time he's ready.

And I sound like a donkey when I laugh.

Just fangirling, look away if you must.

Not in church today. Damn. Too sick, too tired, too fucking GOBSMACKED from last night to make the effort. Ruth even drove Henry to work today. I don't know how he's doing it since he rocked his FACE off last night with his friends and I'm so proud.

Bullet for my Valentine was tight. Very incredible musicianship, great drumming (holy cow) and they seemed so surprised the crowd was ready in place to receive them. A good show all round.
I was actually crying with excitement though by the time they turned on the little Breaking Benjamin logos on the big steel boxes with two songs by BFMV to go.  I was wearing the hoodie I bought at merch (no giant eyeballs! HUZZAH!) since they didn't have the shirt I wanted. Wings! Jesus! I wanted that shirt so bad but the sizing was all fucked up. The hoodie fits perfectly.

And then Breaking Benjamin came on and ripped through eleven songs and yes they are indeed heavier live though they skipped playing anything off the new album that is upcoming because Benjamin Burnley was sick too (imagine that. The flu in Canada in February is like a rite of passage and then a regular curse, I'm afraid) so I think he had a hell of a lot of help from the band. The guitar player  (Keith! Not my Keith) sounds a lot like him, carrying one whole song on his own! He's also handed off the dirty vocals to Aaron on bass. And Damnnnnnnnnnnnn.

They were so good.

The Star Wars bit in the middle was so good. The nerdiness and heavy rock and then at the end the lights went up and Benjamin (not my Benjamin!) thanked the crowds and talked a little about being so thrilled and thankful to promote music in general and he charmed the everloving shit out of everyone with his humble awe and yeah, I was done.

They played Breath. Second only to Deathbed by Relient K for songs I've always wanted to hear live and now I have.

God, it was so good. Only missing Red Cold River off the setlists I've seen floating about it really was something I'm glad I crawled my way too because it was so worth it. So, so worth it.

Kudos to the VPD for crowd monitoring and the crowd for the lack of meaningful weed smoke and orderly lineups and fun chats in merch lines. Bathrooms with no lineups and White Spot for food! And some of Henry's friends going back for more t-shirts. We treated them all to one each, but only if it was BB.

Kudos to Avenged Sevenfold for bringing Breaking Benjamin along. And for playing Afterlife super early, before we left. Because we left pretty early and we don't do that often but we made it home before the snow got heavy and I'm really glad we did, since half the kids weren't ours but we were responsible for them.

What a great night.

That was a better bucket list item checked off than the naked midnight motorcycle ride and making it rain combined.

89, 90, 91.

Right.

So remember the story I've told a few times of how going to a concert when you're deathly ill is one of life's finer ironies, since you buy tickets so far in advance God only knows what shape you'll be in by the time it rolls around? (AKA We saw the Red Hot Chili Peppers in 2006 and I was so sick I leaned against some strange boy the whole time because he was on my side facing the stage? But that's still not as gross a story as the one about the strange boy beside me with the copious nosebleed through the entire Tool show or the story about the very drunk man behind me at Roger Waters last summer that poured his entire new ice cold beer down my back and Jesus, maybe I should stay home from now on?

No, thank you. I was raised in Halifax. Concerts were like Catholic visions. They hardly ever happened. Here we're turning shit down left and right for lack of time, if you can believe it.)

And also the story of the irony of how I really don't like Avenged Sevenfold at all?

So guess what I'm doing tonight!

Yeah. I'm going to see Avenged Sevenfold's The Stage world tour, having seen them a little over six months ago when they opened for Metallica!

Why?

Oh I dunno.

Please.

BREAKING BENJAMIN is opening. And that has been a fifteen-year bucket-list band for me and I don't care if I have to lie down in my seat, I will be there with bells on and my smudged eyeliner since it's raining/snowing quite hard now and I'm taking Henry and his friends but I'm going to quiz them on the drive in (they're all HUGE Breaking Benjamin fans) and if no one wants to stay for Avenged we can leave early.

Cross your fingers that I don't die because so far I feel like I might.

Also cross your fingers that BB have merch other than the new giant-eyeball Ember album cover designs. I don't think I'll look good with a huge third eye on my chest. Then again, maybe I will.

Sons of anergy.

Caleb isn't going to meetings, naw. He told Ben he's near perfect, but sometimes he slides and he'll just stop drinking but be nice too because some people have willpower.

Ben said good luck with that, ducking out from under the shade thrown like a dagger and came home unscathed. Caleb later messaged Ben to apologize and as far as I know it's still unread. That's one of the great tics of the Devil that we've discovered. If you don't open his messages he gets crazy. Ben said he must be hitting the bottle again already to be so sweet and then Ben left his phone on the dresser and hasn't touched it since.

They both said brunch and company were great though. So there's that. There's just a little love lost between them, both of them harboring some slick grudges that sometimes skid away under the furniture and sometimes set it on fire but they get along honestly and without very much posturing, if you can believe it.

I know. It doesn't sound like it, does it?

I'm getting better today. This was a long week of illness and not feeling up to anything at all. I still did as much as I could, and I'll probably pay for that, but the day is looking up already. The sun came out and so PJ served lunch outside. Lemonade, hot chocolate and Hawaiian-flavored pizza pops because we eat like orphaned fifteen-year-olds if left to our own devices, and now I'm back inside with my runny nose and freshly-burned tongue to kill time until Henry gets home from school.

You can tell when he's coming up the stairs, all six-foot-one of him, ducking to get through the door, throwing his backpack on the floor. He'll ask what the smell is.

Burned cheese and the candle I got last week (Coal & Canary's 'Wood Stoves and Fine Merlots' scented one that has a wooden wick that pops and crackles while it burns and I love it. It's like a fire in my pocket though I can't burn it while it's in there because that would be mighty hazardous). Pizza pops for lunch.

Are there any left? Even though he ate lunch two hours ago. He'll always come back for a second meal of equal size. Just like his father.

Sure. Go find PJ. He'll start them for you. 

Thanks, mom. And I smile at him and think, wow. He needs a shave.

Of course I still love you.

And after this world is out of reach
Sober and silent, faded and violent
Hopeless, I fight to fall between
Never surrender, out of the embers
So save a space inside for me

Maybe I didn't say this because it wasn't my place but everyone seems hellbent on trying find out why Caleb went back to being himself instead of the jovial, agreeable man he somehow became over the summer last year, into the fall with very little hint of who he was before that.

It's his nature, his innate self, muted smooth by alcohol, quashed by an endless buzz and once again this is somehow my fault because I didn't blow the whistle on him either.

Would you have?

I didn't think so.

I like him half-lit, honestly. I like him slow and silly and a little bit more enthusiastic, a little more loveable. I like him kind and soft and friendly. I like that fact that his bright intensity was visible without needing something to shield your eyes with before looking.

He decided somewhere at the end of last week to quit, to teetotal, to go dry in order to smarten up, He's very disciplined, very dedicated, very healthy save for that endless drunk and it's more like him to stop then it was to start, frankly. It's not a sustainable existence as we learn over and over again.

I didn't know he stopped cold. He just didn't say or do anything except revert back to being Mr. Intensity, as I said and I thought I had done something wrong. Why do I take the blame for his moods? Years and years of conditioning, grooming to want to please him, that's why.

Ben made the observation before the rest of us saw a thing. Ben's good at this. Ben's taken Caleb out for brunch this morning so they can talk. Would I ever love to be a fly on the wall today. I don't think Ben is in a position to sponsor Caleb of all people but we have to do something to help Caleb as that's what you do when someone asks for it.

Even when they're being a jerk to you.

Blackened fingerprints and Valentine's Day.

A little peptalk from Lochlan and Benjamin and Caleb already made his apologies and joined us for the service this morning so Sam could paint ashes on our foreheads, a reminder that we need to live our lives the best way we know how. We get one chance, use it well and wisely. I rolled my eyes a little in the line as Sam drew a filthy cross on my face, sticking my tongue out at him. He wiped his fingers on it as payback, leaving me coughing and sputtering and licking the arm of Lochlan's peacoat to get the taste out of my mouth for the remainder of the service.

Can't take me anywhere except right to the brink of death and then and only then am I more alive than I've ever been.

Caleb accepted his ashes with a stern look from Sam and was appropriately serious, this time actually repentant, heavy. Jealousy cancels out every ounce of common sense he has. It's always been this way for the two brothers only Caleb is the only one left to carry out this legacy of misery as Cole checked out so spectacularly already.

Sam attempts not to let his amusement distract the congregation from this very major Wednesday service. The room isn't even half-full but he's in his season here and we need to let him bloom. And bloom he has, weirdly pleased, surprised and curious to see Caleb sitting on the other side of Ben. The story they told is that Ben saved Caleb from going over the railing in a fit of desperation but what that means is that as usual, Lochlan did all the talking while Ben held Caleb over that rail threatening to let go.

Because he (Caleb) won't let go.

And I'm fine with that because the brain damage was actually in place a long time ago and I wasn't worried. Love through violence, decades of conditioning, threats and promises and he's done more hurt than any lack of oxygen would ever create. He's done all of this and instead of figuring out how to help me live with it he barges in with his own issues. He wanted to run the world. Lochlan isn't about to let him. In his listening moments he understands the arrangement we made to keep the peace; on days such as yesterday he can't remember shit and runs on fear and feelings.

We're more alike than most people realize, I guess.

But I don't want to live with those threats. I can live with him physically getting out of hand when he's riled up but if he comes to me wearing the vestiges of his former self I can't deal with it. I'm afraid I might blink and when I open my eyes Cole will be behind him. Or be there instead of him. As if Caleb can't be frightening enough on his own.

Instead today I'm surrounded by love. It's Valentine's Day and Lochlan is determined to celebrate love and I'll be right there with him. Ben celebrates love every day, somehow aware of how fleeting life is in a way only I can understand, and I love him for that too. I just can't seem to get any kisses now, as they all saw Sam wipe his fingers on my tongue.

Pancakes and death.

Bury me in this cold light

That line reminds me of Cole. So does this man, shifting from a fury in which he pushed my head underwater yesterday to this repentant, grief-filled and rueful man, average in every way except for any of them, thanks to his good looks and greater fortune which give him a pass far too often, honestly.

When your killer becomes your savior before your very eyes there isn't much left that you're going to trust throughout the run of that day, is there?

Give me up for Lent and I'll make sure I finish the job, Neamhchiontach.

I look at his medium blues. I know you won't.

I can ensure enough brain damage that they wouldn't want you anymore and then you'd wish I had.

Oh. You're back. I was wondering where you went. 

Ruefulness is not Caleb's strong suit, nor does he ever play the sympathy card long enough for me to feel it at all.

Don't deny me, he sang (It's getting better, baby).

The Devil's greatest trick actually wasn't convincing the world he didn't exist.

I remember the smell of your skin
I remember everything
I remember all your moves
I remember you
I remember the nights, you know I still do

So if you're feeling lonely—don't
You're the only one I ever want
I only want to make it good
So if I love you a little more than I should

It's in the way he uses Lochlan's habits (she can be soothed with music) and tries to pass them off as his. Tries to blur the edges. Tries to bend my brain into shapes that hurt now, shapes it no longer bends into.

I put my arms up around my head to protect it, sinking to my knees into the wet sand. It's cold. So cold. My skin pulls in his direction and my heart throws itself into the sea. Blackness, death is better than this feeling but this feeling is exactly what he wants.

I'm not giving it to him.

Not today.

Bridget-

His voice draws me closer still. His hand outstretched, waiting to bring me to him. Waiting to lift me up. Waiting to take credit for saving me or maybe for destroying me. His mouth is turned up, a beautiful, devastating line setting the tone for his face.

Come, now. 

I shake my head and keel forward until I taste grit and salt. I turn my head so my cheek rests against the sand. I make myself into a ball. Maybe I can roll underneath the tide, never to be seen again. Dramatic sure but escape is escape and you don't know this man like I do.

And now he's put Bryan Adams in my head and I can't get him out. So the whole mess is set to a host of beautiful ballads from my formative years in which they raised me only to tear me down, putting the pieces into their pockets, only to spend the rest of their lives fighting over an equal share.

Help me, I ask Jake but his reflection breaks in the surf.

Bryan will help me, if only he'd put down his microphone.

Shouts from beyond my hearing tell me if I wait, if I stay put, everything will be fine.

But in the meantime.

Here it comes.

A wave of cold threats, a promise of death crashes over my head, pulling my knees out from my chest, rolling me into the Pacific only to find she doesn't like the taste and so she spits me back out.

Jesus. Help me, I order Cole, who never helped me a day in his life and isn't about to start. His reflection fades into Caleb's and I scream.

Are you finished? His face is an inch from my own. He isn't an apparition. Too bad.

I wish, I tell him and close my eyes as another wave crashes over us both.

North.

I was about to write but SCORE! Women's hockey just opened up the game against the Russians with their first goal and I can't focus on words because I am glued to the Olympics.

I mean, who wouldn't be? Canada is eating everyone for breakfast and stealing their hearts besides. I always forget the sort of reverence the world seems to have for us out in the wild as I rarely leave the country these days save for quick trips down the coast to Malibu or Tahoe or to New York.

Wow, that sounded precious, didn't it?

Sorry.

I'm actually home sick today so Ben volunteered to shepherd me through the morning instead of God. Sam feels bad because he made me sick with his kisses, clearly. He doesn't kiss anyone else. They're all fine so I can blame him with confidence.

So hockey is on the big screen and Lochlan is making breakfast. He'll insist that I finish my juice even though I hate apple juice and love orange juice but I think we're out because there wasn't any yesterday, unless someone ran out to pick some things up but groceries are my job so probably not.

AHHHHH. We just scored AGAIN! 2-0!

Maybe I will dispatch a list or pop out later during my high point. Or maybe not. The figure skating starts again after lunch and we've had it streaming nonstop. Everyone has dropped what they're doing to watch and we've been blown away. I'm looking forward to the Bobsleigh too and will catch up on snowboarding and freestyle skiing in between. I've got my Olympic mittens on and everything. This is amazing.

Update: HA. Ben knows me well. Canada won in a shutout. 5-0! Which he already knew, as it was the replay of the game played earlier (overnight here, technically) and not live, as he said it was when he turned it on but he also knew I wouldn't stay home even though I was too sick to go to church unless I had a really good distraction. Hockey's always going to be a first pick for me, and I'm glad he didn't spoil the game. He counters that it's as much entertainment for him watching me yell hoarsely at the screen as playing so he got something out of it too.

Also there is Orange Juice. Sam said Jesus loves me. Yes he does.

Asking for so little.

When I woke up this morning Lochlan was tracing flames across his fingertips, his pyrokinetic soul awake just before his physical form. Flat on his back, arms up, he plays with fire the way the most of us will unconsciously trace patterns onto any frosted window we encounter. With flair.

He turns his head. You're awake.

I nod. So sleepy. Yeah. What time is it?

Nine. Sorry if I woke you.

You didn't. 

Last night he called me heaven in his hands, a rare openness that he doesn't show in case I think he's not going to be parental and judgemental and hard on me. He's not worried about spoiling me to cause favoritism, he's just the way he always is until he drops his guard and simply can't pick it up fast enough to keep himself from saying those things that he usually doesn't say. He's affectionate to beyond usual human levels but he's never generous with his words unless he's drunk or caught thoroughly by surprise, and he wasn't drunk last night.

Good, he says. He rubs his hands together and then rolls to his side to pull me in close. Morning breath and wild hair is all the rage these days, and we never have worried much about either. What do you want to do today?

Watch the skating on TV. Maybe get a pizza.

Sounds like heaven. 

That's the second time you've used that word in a single day, Loch.

Because that's what life is these days and I wouldn't trade it for anything. There's only one thing I want still that I haven't really gotten. 

For me to stay put?

Yeah. For you to stay put. He grins and licks my nose. 

I would post but I died of exposure.

Time to go, Bridge, has become the battle cry. Said softly at first and then later on with gusto and even glee as they threw their energy behind it, a healthy way to teach me to temper my reactions to separations with lots of them, announced at regular intervals to the point where instead of crying I either cling with all my might or worse, I simply won't believe you.

Because Rome wasn't built in a day and we all know by now it takes decades (or longer) to fix a Bridget once you break her, and she'll never work quite as well as before, just so it's very clear.

Ben tried to go to a meeting and I climbed all over him to get him to stay. Sam announced our talk was finished and I wanted to lock the library door, and keep him my prisoner. Lochlan had to go chat with Batman for a minute but I wouldn't let go of him. My feet were off the ground and he finally handed me off to PJ bodily with a plea to find August because this isn't working. 

Boy, it sure isn't. If they know anything about me they know that repeated prolonged manifestations of something I can't manage only serves to pound me deeper into the ground and then I'm buried and then I'm basically dead anyway so I tend to retreat to the ghosts altogether. Then it's an even bigger mess than before.

What would have worked? What I requested. Tell me when we'll be back together again. All Schuyler had to say is See you at dinner. All Lochlan has to say is Be home at three or so. All Caleb has to say is Of course you can go home.

(Wait, that last one is a different thing altogether and no, he's not working on it.)

I want promises that you're not gone. That you'll be back. That you won't leave me here alone. That you're still alive.

It's not a healthy way to cope with fear, Bridget. I'm staring in the mirror clinging to myself here. I don't want to hear that from August.

Maybe it is. Depends on who you ask. 

People who are trained to manage and support getting you better. Like me.

Then they and you don't know me at all. 

Maybe we know you better than you think. 

But as I look at the deep black pockets under my eyes that hold the ocean of tears I've cried before they breach and spill into my world, drowning me and everyone around me, I feel like I'm fairly certain they don't.

Paper princess.

No one is even remotely concerned that Schuyler was naked during our exchange (as he was in his own room, his own bed, his own life and he doesn't have to apologize for it but it was technically a PG sleepover, just with tons of cuddles and magnificent scenery).

Instead they are concerned that I cried when he told me it was time to go back to my own life.

It wasn't even the going back to my life part that made me so profoundly sad. It was the fact that he told me it was time to go. I was dismissed, though lovingly. The same way August does it except he's far less loving when I've outstayed my welcome. Fear of abandonment is the biggest obstacle in my head. Bigger than heights or monsters or anything else and it stings so brutally when it pushes its way to the front.

And they know this but they don't ever think they have anything to do with it, that it's between me and my ghosts or me and my Lochlan or me and my oversized, ridiculous imagination.

So they show me the door oh so casually and then get confused when I fall the fuck apart all over them, though I tried to keep it classy (it's Schuyler, after all) and managed to not ugly-cry all over him.

Still, now he feels as if he needs to do damage control, the others are looking for some place to lay their blame down because it gets heavy and someone has to hold it and I feel as if I am transparent, tissue-thin, prone to tear, prone to dissolve.

Sam, Joel, August and Lochlan are wearing their Very Serious faces today.  I don't know how all this gets so big when I am so small but it's so far down and profound and difficult and it makes me even sadder still that such a fun event like a sleepover with my beautiful, accommodating and deliciously unchecked fairy boys can become marred by the sudden certain proclamations that I must be getting worse instead of better. Damage/control are the same things in my life so I don't know how they plan to fix it. Take away a few more rules, love her just a little harder but not too hard because she's so fragile and then those fears will recede back into the dark part of her brain and she won't be able to hear them anymore?

Instead they could just offer to walk me home or give me a kiss on the cheek and suggest the next time. It's just the 'Time to leave' part that I have trouble with, I swear.

Sand witch.

There's something about the strength of the male form, admiring the ways muscles slide over bone as they move, the way skin stretches over hardened limbs, the way expressions match effort, the way colors blend to make each one different, each one special in its own right. The way the light hits them softly, without ever leaving a mark.

Like Schuyler's pale sleepy grin this morning as I poked my head up out of the covers, lost somewhere between the two of them, the unfamiliar temperature of their skin waking me early, abruptly.

Daniel, like Ben, didn't move when I woke.

It's time to send you back. Schuyler laughs softly. I think I'm too old for this. 

He isn't. I touch Daniel's face, watching him sleep. If someone touches me while I'm asleep that's it. I'm alert and I'm finished sleeping until the earth makes it all of the way around the sun again. His beard is so soft, the brown caramelized into lighter honey, his fine chiseled features giving him an aristocratic profile in his dreams. It's as if someone took Ben and said make him a little bit less fierce.

But only a little.

I turn and lie back down on my back beside him. He sleeps cool, and though he's far more cuddly in his sleep, I don't feel as if I'm lying on stone. Schuyler frowns and gets up, waking naked across the room to the ensuite. God help me. Bridget-

I know. I'll be gone when you come out. But the disappoint in my voice is audible.  I don't know where it came from. I hate leaving them. I hate not being constantly surrounded by positive free love, by unapologetic touch. My house is tense. My house is where the fight for every single touch rages unchecked. More. Most. We keep score.

But I had an extra day here and it will count too.

He comes back and tilts his head to look at me as tears squeeze out the sides of my eyes and down my temples into my ears. Tell me it's not me making you cry.

I shake my head and wipe the sides of my face, dragging my hands down until he takes them and kisses my fingers, crouching next to the bed. Talk, Bridget. 

You can't hear my confessions when you're naked. This is too amazing. 

Then stay put and when I come out and get dressed we'll make some coffee and have a talk. 

I nod and Schuyler kisses my forehead and then my mouth before rising to head back to the bathroom.

While he was showering I left.

Space oddity.

Anyone else impacted by the Space X delay today?

Go for lunch, they said.

Okay. So I went. They actually said Go for launch so I missed the whole thing anyway.

***

Update: Yes, I know. Booooooo. Bridget, you're not punny.

Sorry, I'm back now. I was on the go because Daniel took me out for a meal and we wound up digging through vintage shops and eating ice cream in the rain and he's the perfect husband sometimes. Very tall, handsome and silly, kind of like Ben but also not possessive or scary. Daniel couldn't be scary even if he tried very hard.

He does try, however, to keep me for days and days and I never mind. No one seems to. We have these half-week sleepovers where I get to stay up all night drinking wine and watching Spanish soap operas in bed and sleep all day or shop or hang out and I can just admire these two very beautiful men. Schuyler gives us equal attention so I don't even feel like a third wheel, more like a lover, though one they can easily let go of, sending me back across the lawn in the rain as they will most likely do tomorrow because by then I will miss Lochlan.

Unless they just invite him over too. Then the visits are definitively shorter, indeed but infinitely more exciting.

If you get my..oh, nevermind.

Mogwai.

I was waiting impatiently
But finally this moment has come
To see you, to feel you,
This magic from far beyond

Can you see it?
Can you feel it?
Finally you are in my arms
Oh real love
Most real love
I've died to be yours

This morning I found out one of my favorite composers (Dobber Beverly of Oceans of Slumber) works as a mover by day.

This is the biggest travesty I've ever heard of but weirdly normal. My favorite singer sold insurance by day; My favorite fire eater still works as an IT specialist because once you're too old to live a circus life you still need to pay the bills.

(Thankfully Ben retired from the family insurance business and now does what he loves all the time. Wait. Too much of the time. Dammit.)

And though I thought I fixed the financial part of Lochlan's life he persists and Schuyler takes advantage and really some days I'd like to take Schuyler by the ear, force him to his knees and get him to promise that he'll stop monopolizing Lochlan's days with shit anybody could do.

He points out he likes to keep Lochlan busy and then Lochlan is too tired to fight.

Come to think of it, be right back. I need to send Schuyler flowers or something for keeping this whole place together the way he does, so quietly as if he's not engaged at all but really he knows where everyone is at any given moment and what they're up to. Maybe he should have been a psychologist instead. Or a private investigator.

Lochlan and Caleb have been at each other for days now. Not because of me, but because of each other, as always. I don't even think I have a hundred percent of the facts to tell you why today. I'm sure Schuyler does. I'll ask him when he calls to thank me for the flowers, and for the loan of Daniel who is babysitting me today with very few rules save for the important ones:

1. Don't feed her candy.

2. Don't let her out of your sight.

3. Don't touch her.

Ha. Who needs RULES?

*Tosses back handfuls of gummy bears, runs out the door, comes back to get caught in arms that aren't all that familiar as of late but will do just fine, thanks*

I'm a gremlin, already turned and you never had a chance. I don't love much but I love what I love harder than most and damn, I really really love the last five minutes of The Banished Heart as it builds from a single note into a symphony.

(Edit: Jesus, people. The title doesn't refer to the band Mogwai, though Take Me Somewhere Nice is also a really great song and gets little due, it seems.)

Jesus negative reinforcement.

Today in early church we sat in the third row to watch Sam struggle with his severe cold, which was bringing back memories of watching Jake fight through a service feeling so awful he shouldn't have been there in the first place but truly it would take a lot to keep Sam from his lead up to Lent, which is fast approaching (to him anyway).

I slid in after Caleb and before Lochlan and after getting settled into my seat, coat off but around my shoulders, dress smoothed out underneath me, my handbag tucked just behind my right elbow but underneath my coat, (the Fidget label looms so large sometimes), I took both their hands, Lochlan's in my left, Caleb's in my right. Caleb takes it as a sign of unity or romance or whatever. Lochlan finds it annoying.

Honestly I do it because I'm fucking cold. The church is freezing. The heat blasts from the vents and doesn't go anywhere. My coat is usually back on me or over me, like a blanket, by the end of announcements but the service hasn't even started yet.

Lochlan leans forward to fix his shoe (he hates dress shoes) and looks to see if I am indeed holding Caleb's hand. Caleb demonstrates that I am indeed by holding up our hands together to shoot a cuff to check the time. Lochlan sits back, settling in. Annoyed, he lets go of my left hand.

Once the service begins his arm goes across me. I am focused on Sam and figure Lochlan wants Caleb's attention for whatever reason but then the tip of my thumb gets very warm suddenly and Caleb rips his hand away from mine with a loudly whispered curse, gets up and storms out of the church. Lochlan snaps his lighter shut and repockets it with a hint of a smile on his face.

This magic from far beyond.

I said forever, and I mean forever

Lochlan makes himself into a human shield some days, some weeks, beginning yesterday morning when I got home, continuing through this morning when he put himself between me and life itself, making sure every breath, every thought, every word was filtered through him. I don't fight it, I prefer it, truth be told and let him run the days and nights, keeping up a wall, building an ark, keeping out rain and people and any bad thoughts or feelings, instead working to cement us. Me and Him. Loch & Bridge. The fire eater and that girl from the high wire. You know, the ones that do that act together? The one that you have to show ID to get into and come out of warm under the collar?

The ones that would slow dance in that empty bar (in five different states) until they were asked to leave because it was closing time and come to think of it, is she even old enough for you? 

She is now, though she wasn't then, she's always looked a lot younger. Maybe still does, though she doesn't feel younger.

No, I definitely don't but I'll take the stance, I'll take up the cause alongside him anytime. Us against the world.

Us against them.

Us against him.

But I'll still venture just far enough away from Lochlan's reach when I have to and he'll still hate every second of it until the day he di...no. Not that again.

Nevermind.

I made a big breakfast for him this morning. I put on his favourite pink lip pencil that he likes on me because it doesn't come off on his face and the ring and the necklace he gave me and I've chosen sides for the day like I do every single day and it's rarely ever the ghost anymore who gets the loyalty as I have to focus on the living now. Especially when the living make such a beautiful effort like this. Especially when one consumes fire in order to breathe me in. Especially when one proclaims his devotion to a girl not yet old enough to understand what that even meant, but she knew that being given allegiance and love like that at that age was very important indeed.

The promises, the...covenants have stood the test of time. His eyes have faded a little bit, like mine have, like green does, but his love hasn't wavered, the looking around to see if I'm still there hasn't ever ceased to be a habit long-ingrained, and the bond stretches but it doesn't ever break.

It won't, he says, looking up finally, reading my thoughts as they warm my soul. Ever.

Spanners in the works.

He stopped moving all at once, one arm wrapped around me, the other pinning me down, hand wrapped around my neck. Sometimes that's the only way I can do this, with him, when we slide backwards into horrible roles too familiar and comfortable to give up easily.

Listen.

But I hear nothing.

Shhhh.

But he's pressing me against the sheets and I panic, I don't know if the army is about to storm the gates or if it's thundering outside, a good bet mixed with all this rain.

He gets up, pulling me up to sitting with him and then goes to open the window.

Listen, Bridget. Spring.

Then I hear it. A bird chirping. Maybe one of the ones we watched yesterday. They're coming back. Imbolc used to be a winter celebration and my most disliked one of all thanks to the long dark days and cold nights but here you blink and winter is finished. The seasons are vastly different from elsewhere. Here they are rain, cherry blossoms, more rain,  and forest fires. So the birds aren't ever gone for long.

He leaves the window open, returning to me, stretching out, his weight around me like a cage, knees and elbows enabling his direct attention, face to face. He's inside me again, an evil machine hellbent on being a part of me no matter what else or who else happens.

But on the upside, it keeps him nice as he's back to talking about nature and done with his threats to end my life.

At least for the moment.

A lingering kiss and he resumes his inward focus. I close my eyes. No medium blues. I don't want to see the set of his mouth. I don't want to be here so I go away, back to the lights, the screams, the fast-forward tick of the prize wheel, the cheesy scary music of the haunted house, the barkers chiding those who walk past their booths without stopping. I take my seat on the Ferris Wheel. Lochlan winks as he locks the bar across the front and I am whisked backward once he steps back to the lever, away from him. He grins as I disappear and he loads the rest of the wheel.

And then I am falling through stars.Who needs birds when you have this?

When he stops the wheel and pulls me out of my seat (eventually), he asks where I went. I don't know what he means until he explains that every rotation of the wheel sent me past him with a faraway, unfocused expression on my face. That it's like I forgot where I was.

I did, I tell him. I was in the stars. I could touch them but you told me not to stick my hands up on the rides.

He smiles. Glad you're listening. More glad that you have a happy place.

A happy place?

Yes, it's a place you can go, either physically or in your imagination that brings you comfort.

Suddenly his whole face changes and it's Caleb. Instead of green eyes and red curls I get blue eyes and dark hair.

Where were you? He is finished and my whole body aches like it always does.

I was in my happy place.

He looks so proud, briefly.

Someone doesn't like the rain. Or anything else, for that matter.

He glowers better than anyone, this one, and he likes you to understand precisely how disappointed he is in you to the letter.

You're adding things in to your writing and you think I won't notice, Neamhchiontach.

I don't care if you notice. I don't write for you. 

Maybe you should. The glower turns into a scowl. Maybe you should write about something other than me. 

I don't write about him, much. I don't want to engage in this game of semantics today. Today I want to marvel at living in a place where the rain never stops. Where everything is lush and rotten and I spend all of my free time now kicking mushrooms off the cliff. It's going to be my February Olympic sport, I believe, unless PJ or Lochlan puts a stop to it because they grow right on the outer edge and when you wind up to kick you're leaving your anchor leg on wet grass with a good downward slope.

And my balance isn't what it used to be, though it was once Olympic-level. Enough to fool around on a highwire and be fairly popular for it without hitting the net most weeks.

Sometimes hitting the net proved to be more lucrative, however because then the barkers would call people in from the street insisting that she might make it without falling...tonight. Don't miss it! 

(Oddly it never occurred to people that we might be faking that hype. They ate it up. And I fed off it like it was gravy on rocks to a junkyard dog.)

Caleb came out in the pouring rain, just as I reached the outer edge of Daniel's lawn and met Batman's, which is mostly deck and very little grass and so I had started to walk back. I feel as though if I had still been facing the sea and lashing out with my strongest leg into the air Caleb would have simply reached out and shoved me off the edge. I know I sometimes get these incredible urges to do it to him. Wouldn't it be so easy just to have him gone too?

But then I remember that he is the reason I still have yet to go through missing Cole. Why miss him when I practically have him still?

And then I also recall that Caleb loves me to pieces and gets angry and antsy when he doesn't get time with me regularly and comes out swinging for the hills every. goddamned. time.

I'll go back and edit, I lie.

Thank you. Things I think we've overcome, Bridget. It hurts to see you make reference to them when I don't expect it. 

Sorry. 

No harm done. I don't think anyone reads it anyway. 

Of course not. It's just for me. 

I still feel as though I'm the one responsible for you growing up into this beautiful woman. 

I nod. It's always safest to agree with crazy people.

He nods back. Let's go in before we float away. At this rate I won't have to wait for spring for a swim. He looks toward the pool. The cover is on but it's dipped in the centre, heavy with rainwater. It's a puddle on a puddle but if the cover doesn't have a little give it will break.

I like it. 

You always did like everything in the extreme. 

Lochlan says you have to live big. 

How does he live now, Bridget? He lives in your house and has to deal with you living big while he waits. 

I didn't mean that-

It's all the same in the end. 

Bullshit. Don't be an asshole, Diabhal.

It would have been easier just to push you off. You're right. 

Stop reading my mind. 

Pretty hard not to. Especially on a day such as this. Your feelings radiate. 

Well, next time fetch someone less fighty to come collect me and I'll go quietly. 

Into the night?

If that's where they lead me. I tilt my head as I answer him so my meaning is as clear as the raindrops on his face.

I could still push you off. 

Just do it already. 

No, I haven't had any fun yet today. Maybe later.