Wash it away.

August did that thing again where he's waiting for me after I come down the driveway from work. Only this time everyone else is gone and he's in charge of food + brood or so they call it when I get home from work, ravenous and needing to unload for a few minutes before I make my way back to a reasonable state of-

As if I do.

Come on. You know me better than this.

August's idea of a snack is fresh kombucha and a cold curry couscous salad. He might be trying to kill me. Over huge spoonfuls of the salad I ask him if he's ever had a pop-tart. He narrows his eyes and changes the subject. How long were you at Batman's? 

Long enough to start a war. 

Is that why you took a shift today? 

Maybe. Is that why no one is home? 

I doubt it. Caleb and Lochlan got into it pretty bad but Schuyler broke it up and then had a few terse moments with Batman. I think they sorted it all out. The only issue left is your movements. We take our eyes off you for one second, Bridget-

I was there for four hours, August. No one even missed me.

Right, well, you should have been at home. 

I know. 

And? 

What would you like me to say? Sorry? Won't happen again? Sometimes I get sucked in. 

So he's like a tidal wave?

More like an unpredictable current. Is that so bad? 

Who takes the fall for it?

We both do. Him for taking advantage of historically documented vulnerabilities and me for exploiting that history thoroughly. 

August is temporarily speechless at my self-awareness. I never said it wasn't there. I said I live around it. The twelve-year-old me is much stronger than all the rest. And it never changes.

So what happens now? 

A shoving match between Lochlan or Caleb or whoever, I get grounded, my circle gets really fucking small and Lochlan needs reassurance. 

What do you need? 

Do you have any pop-tarts? Couscous is like really old caviar. 

That's the best reason for a pop-tart that I've ever heard. Go find PJ. He's got some from grocery shopping this morning. 

It wasn't until I went across the driveway that I realized he dismissed me just like Lochlan does. Like a little kid.
 

Never the boss but somehow always in charge.

The saying goes something like 'you never know what battle someone is fighting' or something like that. It came to me as I poured endless coffee refills into the thick white china mugs diners love so much because they're cheap and virtually unbreakable. It came as I whiteknuckled my favorite coffee pot, pouring black sludge through the cracks in my facade into grateful expressions and wizened fingers wrapped around handles as if they were simply afraid I would take their cups away.

My boss finally let me go home, telling me the lunch rush was over as was the afternoon break one, and he held his hand out for the apron as I untied it from my waist and gave it back. I had been washing it at home. Apparently I wasn't told he washes everything at night and I don't have to.

When I got home PJ had blackberries and hot chocolate waiting for my snack. I ate it at the kitchen sink looking out over the ocean because I'm no longer allowed to go to the swing alone.

(I can move Jake, you know. He stays wherever I put him. I threatened Lochlan with the endless misery of the preacher he hardly tolerated forever being my own shadow, as I am Lochlan's.

I know that. But you don't need to be out there this week. Clear? 

Yes sir.  I salute him and he frowns.)

Batman summons me. There's eight or ten really intriguing messages on my phone when I finally get home, fishing it out from the bottom of my handbag. I'll start the furthest away and work my way back. That's the most logical way.

(What? No it isn't, Lochlan will say.)

You need me? 

I do. He smiles, staring at me without saying anything further.

He holds out his arms and I sink against him almost gratefully. Done for the week. My legs ache. My brain hurts. I just want to shut it off.

Have you eaten? He says into the top of my head.

I nod against his chest, my ear muffling his words. Blackberries. 

I'll fix us a drink. His grand charming trick is to fix one drink, for us to share. It's always been a cheeky gesture. A touching one, weirdly. That's how I know my list will be short today and I probably won't get time to deal with all of the messages on my phone as I'll be here for a while.

He takes a sip and holds the glass down to me. I think I know what you need. That smile. God. I hate it so much.

Hope is not in what I know.

He isn't real, Peanut! Jesus, I can see talking to yourself but if you've conjured up this two-way conversation in which the things he says surprise you then it's gone too far. He isn't real! You don't have to justify anything to him. You don't have to put him anywhere. He can stay in your memories. He put himself there. He doesn't deserve anything further. Jesus. Listen to me. I sound like you. He doesn't even have this much presence. I don't know what to do here. If no one here can help then we're going to have to go elsewhere. 

This is your doing. 

Oh, no, it isn't. 

You said make a story, Locket! And it was the only thing that MADE ME FEEL BETTER. 

You were ten fucking years old! 

And it still works!

It SHOULDN'T. Jesus. We did do this, didn't we. 

Did what?

Left you to grow up with only the coping mechanisms of a child. 

What are you, Rip Van Winkle? Did you just wake up? Jesus, Lochlan. I've been asking for help with this for a thousand years and now that I don't even want any anymore you're all swooping in to somehow try and save the day. 

Not the day, the girl. 

Same difference. 

No, it isn't. 

Well, it's too late. 

He smiles suddenly. It's never too late. Look at everything else that's happened. You and me. Back together. It's absolutely never too late, Bridget.

Broken hearts, broken bowls (I survived the tenth shift. It took a lot of biting my tongue but I did.)

PJ made me a snack today when I got home. A small bowl of spicy pistachios, his pocket knife with which to open them and a fresh glass of lemonade, made with less sugar than most people like, or so I'm told.

I like you more lately. 

See? I told you I'm becoming a better person by working. 

No, but by working you're usually too tired now to argue with me about the dinner menu. He winks and then frowns. You sure you won't cut yourself, because Lochlan will murder me if he finds out I gave you that knife to-

Oh my God, PJ. Seriously. I spend all day long around huge butcher knives now.
 (They are the only thing that can cut through the moderate-burned pies the cook churns out morning and noon. Seriously.)

Tell him you stole it them. Have my back. 

I always have your back. I wink, worried for a microsecond that my eye might be joined by the other one, and that they might both just opt to remain closed for the duration. To my relief they act normally. Thank you for the snack. 

See you in a bit, Jellyfish. I am dismissed to carry my dishes out to the orchard to the swing, where I sit in the shadow of the tree to eat and then fly for a little while. Just until I feel like I can answer with a quick-witted reply when they ask how my day was. Otherwise the tears will continue and then everyone is angry and frustrated at me and at themselves.

Where have you been going? 

The swing is occupied when I arrive. Jake slows to a lazy circle on the swing, not holding on, squinting at me in the sun. My knees buckle and I almost upset the bowl but he reaches out to steady me. I can see the ocean right through his face, a lone sailboat fighting the current from within his right dimple. His face is a whirlpool and I get sucked right in. I'm drowning and the only thing that will be left of me is this untouched lemonade.

I have a job now. 

Yes. Sam told me. 

There goes the bowl. And the glass too, for good measure.

He...can see you too?

No, but he prays to me sometimes. To my spirit for guidance. 

I think that will be a good explanation to calm the fluttering of my heart and hands but somehow it just makes it worse. Oh. I see. I say it slowly.

You understand this isn't how you have relationships in the real world you're so eager to be a part of. 

It's a long story, Jake. 

I have time, Princess. Tell it to me.

I drop PJ's open knife on my foot. May as well spill all the bad blood while I'm at it, right?

Jesus, Mary and Joel.

A break?

A day off. 

From me? The only person who actually doesn't try to keep you sick, to bring you out of your comfort zone but keep you well within a safe environment so you can make some improvement? You always fight it, Bridget but deep down you know better. You're always going to struggle against that regression. They set you up to depend on them for everything-

There's nothing wrong with that- (also? He lies.)


When it turns out like this, yes, there is something deeply wrong with it. 

Don't bite the hand that feeds you, Sam-

I'm not. I'm trying to help you, Bridge. I'm in the most precarious place of all trying to balance my job with our relationship-

Have a good day at work. I can't do it. I don't want to talk now. He is older, more experienced and has more miles on him than Jacob ever will and yet when he says the same words it destroys my resolve and I don't want to work on anything. Don't want to be anything. And I certainly don't want to remember anything about life before the Collective all assembled in one place for good.

Though I keep saying it's not for good and every single time I am corrected.

(It is, Bridge.)

(Don't worry, Neamhchiontach.)

(We're not going anywhere.)

Would you go back and change it if you could? Joel asks over coffee, hashbrowns, bacon and eggs that got cold because this restaurant doesn't warm the plates in the oven before putting the food on them so that everything stays hot longer. I try to make butternauts and they don't form properly, butter blobs laying every which way on my plate. What a mess. What a fucking mess.

Change what? 

Being raised by wolves. 

No. 

You sure you don't want to think about that?

I have. And the answer is still no. 

Then why won't you listen to them when they ask you to stay home? 

I shrug. I'm stubborn...and...

And?

Maybe I'm helping them get over their fears too. So we can all be better people. 

That's pathetic. 

He's looming over my shoulder as I bring up my deposit on my bank app to show him. I got my first paycheque.

I was really proud. I made almost five hundred dollars. And that doesn't even include the tips I brought home each afternoon.

Just end this farce. I'll top up your account daily, if you like the thrill of it. It'll be far more, however. 

You've missed the point. 

Oh, I don't believe I have. It's been several weeks, Bridget. I think we should stop talking about ghosts and go back to talking about you putting in your resignation, or whatever a job like that requires. I have people who know the provincial labour code if you need advisemen-

I'm not quitting. 

You're digging yourself a hole for what? Pocket change? 

I'm trying to become a better person. 

You're already the best person, Neamhchiontach. You've brought life to this point, to the people on it and we miss you dearly while you're gone. I'm watching you throw yourself into one hole after another on a daily basis all the while ignoring the terms of our settlement. 

My pay doesn't even cover the cellphone bill so if you're worried about supporting me I'm pretty sure you still are. 

So why continue?

I told you a hundred times over already. 

He looks down for a moment and then back to me. His face is soft but his eyes are hard. I think it's time to quit now, Neamhchiontach. It's phrased as a gentle suggestion but it's very clear.

I told you it's none of your business. And the second restaurant is busier and less friendly, just to turn your screws. 

Good, Batman can buy that too. 

The owner isn't selling it. 

Anyone can be bought. 

See, I thought you were learning the opposite of that. For some people out there, money isn't their endgame. 

Money is the only end game. 

So by that logic you're complete? 

You're easier when you're mute. 

You're easier when you go away, Diabhal. 

This wasn't meant to be a conversation where you break my heart, Bridget. 

Hey, it's the club we run here. 

How do I make you understand this is so very temporary you won't have time to get your apron dirty? 

Unless you lock me in a room I'm working for the time being, and I'll decide when I stop. 

I didn't want to resort back to force but as you've reminded me, it's the only way to get you to do anything, isn't it?

Two steps forward, ten years back.

You found me drifted out to sea
It's automatic
It's telepathic
You always knew me
And you laugh as I search for a harbor
As you point where the halo had been
But the light in your eyes has been squandered
There's no angel in you in the end

Sam didn't let up at all, telling me that, just like in the song, Jacob clipped his wings so he could come down to earth because I needed him, and when his wings grew back and he was needed he left again, knowing I was in good hands. Maybe he was sent to get me through losing Cole.

That can't be right. Back to the hitching, tear-choked morning that gets all the light sucked out of it by default, plunging us all into the abject blackness that spreads from my brain in a slow circle as his words hit their mark, leaving my head full of holes.

What kind of angel lets you fall in love with them if they're not going to stick around to see it through?

It doesn't matter, Bridge. You fall in love with EVERYONE. EVERY. SINGLE. TIME.

STOP LYING. Bridget's suddenly eight, just to finish this vision for you, resorting to paper-thin responses as a child does. Whatever works. BE NICE. STOP SHOVING. LEAVE ME ALONE. MOM, BAILEY'S BUGGING ME.

That brings Lochlan out of the woodwork. (He knows that Bridget best. Sam hardly knows her at all.)

He's not wrong. But it's okay. I promise.

Okay? No. It isn't okay. It's not okay. Your promises are as shot through full of holes as my head right now. Blackness is pouring out of his mouth and I can't hear him anymore. Stop it. STOP IT. STOP IT. 

Neamhchiontach. 

The word that acts like a light in the dark. The absolution a spotlight on a life that saw me taking fault for everything that's ever happened when I shouldn't have.

I whirl around and Caleb is in the door.

Not a good time, Diabhal. Lochlan's got it. Under control. Yeesh.

Just in time, you mean. He doesn't look at Lochlan at all, instead holding his hand out to me. Come, Bridget. 

I take a few steps and put my hand out and he closes his around mine. There. We'll go escape for a bit and you'll feel better.

Jesus, Bridget-

ENOUGH. Caleb finally addresses Lochlan directly. I don't know what you're doing but you need to stop. This is the second time in a week I've had to step in and if things don't change I'll be in charge and you'll be banished from here. Am I clear? 

Bridget. Lochlan continues to ignore Caleb, staring at me, pleading with his eyes as if I'll magically get a grip on this flood of feelings that I would do anything to get away from today.

I stare at him without expression and then I get pulled along, out of the room.
I'm sure Caleb is right. I just need a break. I need to not have to defend every thought, every feeling, every moment. I need to think less, not more.

***

This morning things look slightly different. Lochlan isn't going anywhere. Caleb doesn't have the right to threaten him. But Sam is here and I think I need a break from Sam. Not friend-Sam, but Preacher Sam. Preacher Sam pushes too hard and I don't need that right now.

Bastard history.

August got positively..uh..cockblocked by Sam, who decided tea & porching was the theme of the evening and kind of peeled my skin off, leaving the organs of the former Bridget MacIntosh there to try and find some sort of container to maybe put her back together, or at least keep her together in. Eventually they found the skin, now shredded and transparent and all but useless, but good enough, as always, for that's how I roll.

I don't know if Lochlan is all that impressed with Sam today, if only for the condition he left me in, which isn't something you want to do in the name of helping someone, and there may have been a good shoving match in the kitchen while I sat outside eating toast in the clouds. I have the day off, don't fuck it up for me, guys, but then I heard the toaster oven hit the floor. Now we have a dent in the hardwood. Now we need a new toaster. I don't have time to buy one so someone else can do it, or we can go back to toasting things in the oven like we do when we rent a cottage that is supposedly furnished but they don't actually expect people to cook so there's no toaster.

Right.

That's dumb, isn't it? Who doesn't like toast?

Comfort food. Like comfort boys only I didn't get any August and I'm pretty sure Sam planned it that way. They have different methods of caring for the inside of my skull, which has a whole different set of instructions from the rest of me, but Sam decided I was doing GREAT and working was a wonderful way to distract and forget all about Jake. I told him I didn't plan on doing that and maybe Jake would have a word or two for Sam as well, because he's disloyal and damaging to even suggest that to me these days, and Sam implored that he knows better, that he's older and has weathered more of life than Jake ever will and I thought about it for a minute and then I went out to the orchard in the dark (don't worry, the electric fence is on, I'm free to roam) and asked Jake how old he was and he said thirty-six without hesitating and I turned and ran back to the house and I forgot a few things about the trip back and landed on my face a couple of times but I went right past Sam and inside to Lochlan with my usual snot-nosed holy-fuck face that I get when I can't believe everything has been a lie and boy, Lochlan's in a tough place trying to balance my needs with his own pragmatism and Sam's weird loyalty and August's surprise requests and Caleb's endless pressure so that started a fight and you know where that leaves us?

Yeah. A Thursday spent playing eighties ballads and indulging in the world's longest run-on sentences. The words just won't stop. If it gets any worse I'll have to stem the flow by throwing myself into the sea. That dilutes them back down to floating jumbles of letters and then I don't have to sort them out. It's a relief. I need all my energy to hold my skin together here anyway.

Newfie Surprise mens.

August was sitting on the steps of his loft when I pulled into my usual spot on the left side of the garage, in the hollow under the big tree that if you walk underneath and around to the right and up a hill behind the garage you come to the orchard, my garden, the tiny vineyard and the swing that sails out over the grass. That parking spot is the shadiest in the whole driveway so I claimed it a long time ago. Then my Porsche stays nice and cool instead of feeling like the sauna, which I don't want when I'm driving, frankly.

Hey Princess. 

I collect my bag from the passenger seat and stand up, smiling at him while I remove my name tag and throw it into the bottom of my bag.

Hey Augie!

He shakes his head but grins. Aw fuck. Don't look like that. Such a Newfie expression.

Long day?

The longest. I looked at the clock after about six hours and only six minutes had passed. 

Rough. 

It was. By Wednesdays I'm a mess, the laundry is backed up, the house is falling apart and it takes the whole rest of the week to pull everything back together. What's up? 

Just seeing if you and Loch are free later. 

Yes. I think carefully. Check with me around nine. Should be okay. 

Will do. He grins so openly and innocently it makes me feel guilty but also thrilled beyond measure to be missed so thoroughly during the days that I work. I don't know what I expected, but it wasn't that.

Longest. day. ever.

Worked all day, got off at three, filled the car with gas, ran some errands, dropped both kids off at work, had a shower, watered the garden, made some lunches for tomorrow (mine included), made dinner, played with my dog, did a load of laundry, mailed a letter, and sat down at eight at night to write and I'm empty. Too tired. Eye on the clock hoping the dryer is done before I'm too asleep on my feet to open it and fold everything that's inside. Still have to pick the kids up later. Oh my God. I'm not going to make it.

I have ten minutes, Locket. What should I write about?

Tell the world your husband is hot. 

Okay, then. Guess I'm done here. :)

Pride's a fickle bitch.

Worked a long shift today. So tired. Ben rubbed my legs for twenty-five minutes straight and now they're Jello but he's also the only one allowed to touch my feet. I have issues. No massages, no beauty treatments, I can barely stand to let Daniel cut my hair or Lochlan cut my bangs even. Doctors are difficult. Tattoos are alright, at least. (Side note here: my wings now look like they're part of the rest of my suit and I have had a lot of comments on them as the tips stick out the bottom of my work dress on the backs of my elbows.)

But yeah, for someone as habitually sex-addicted and affection-whoreish as I am, it's weird to hate to be touched. Or maybe it's a mark of those who belong to the Collective only. Maybe that's how you tell us from the rest of the world.

Also, I get paid this week! And as is tradition in this family, when you get your first paycheque you spend it selfishly and willfully on whatever the heck you want.

I don't know what to spend it on. I can't buy time, clearly (remember the fun of yesterday's moods). I don't buy jewelry for myself. I don't like clothes. I have enough art supplies to paint the point five times over. We got amazing pool floaties last year. I can't actually think of anything here.

Uh.

Geez.

It's not enough for a trip..unless it's a day trip. Maybe that's what we'll use it for. A trip into the interior maybe to a winery for lunch. Gas will be included in the cost because ow, it's so expensive right now. I'm going to keep dreaming on this until Friday when I see it show up in my bank account.

I can add five zeroes to what you anticipate and you could have your trip, Neamhchiontach. 

I don't reply. I like the idea of trying to plan it and not knowing if it can actually be a thing. And also now I remember why my legs hurt twice as much as they usually do today.

Spinning.

Are you complaining?

Yes, but I know my place. 

Sure?

Are you? 

I got admonished for having first world problems today. Instead of being endlessly grateful for my car, home, healthy boys and children, larder full of food, etc. etc, I had a little bit of a spoiled meltdown because the stress of not having any downtime to think for five minutes caught up and passed me, leaving me in a cloud of dust so thick I began to cough, choking on the potential of my squandered history of absorbing all the attention to be had within a twenty-mile radius. I'm not very good at balancing things, managing my free time or panicking over very normal things like flat tires, missed appointments or empty pantries. I've said that before though. I'm a planner, I'm organized and when I can't be in the way that I want, life goes nuclear for me for a bit and I have to hyperventilate myself to sleep and try again another day.

I'm not sure how people who have it all are supposed to be some sort of level, content, bland robots all the time but apparently that's how it works? Do they not worry or feel pressured or have bad fucking days, maybe? 

Of course they do. 

Well, then that's what I'm having and I don't need a lecture. 

He bit his lip. Maybe we should have gone to church. 

I laughed. Maybe. But then I'd have even less time than I do now and I just wish I could figure out the thinking part. To be able to think instead of being too tired. To be able to plan some projects or live past the end of the day ahead of me just a little. I went from living in the happily ever after to living in the moment and I need to switch it back and suddenly I can't. Maybe it's a bad time to write but I have to get something out or I won't have anything and the inside of my skull fills up with words and starts to ache and I don't know how to fix that but it usually ends up with my head exploding and the wrong words raining down on the wrong people, toxic clouds of letters rearranged with meanings they were never meant to represent, and then I don't have a face anymore and no one can see me and-

Leave her with me. She'll be fine tomorrow. Caleb's voice cuts through the chatter and my body goes into some sort of thankful, resigned flight mode. That's how it works.

Fairy tales and princesses, fires and princes.

Lochlan caught the nightmare after dark, adding weight to her limbs, slowing her down in the way that she responds best, and when she slept, she turned back into me. I harbour no guilt for my daydreams, as they were encouraged, cultivated and excused and you can't just waltz into someone's brain, cut the music and make sweeping changes unannounced.

Lochlan knows that but he has his own demons to fight and so the struggle endures.

I broached the subject of finishing the gardening this weekend and he laughed a soft laugh with a sinister edge that I promptly sawed off.

You can come too. 

Three's a crowd, he countered.

Never. We're inclusive here. Shots fired and.....man down.

Touché.

Don't challenge my simple needs, Loch. 

Don't make me share my beautiful life with the overbearing legacy of the man that had it and threw it all away. 

He didn't, he just borrowed your life and it didn't fit him-

Oh, SEMANTICS, Peanut. I hate him for what's he's done. 

Oh, but you accept the Devil. 

I do not. 

Semantics, Dóiteáin. 

He pulls me in underneath his arms and plants a hard kiss right on the top of my head, shoving me away without a hug after. I frown and he says I'm impossible and I nod as if that's old information.

Are we going to plant the tomatoes or what?

Sure. And then we're going to do nothing but spend time together doing nothing. We could use a few hours of that. 

Can we rewatch Sense8? And maybe some of the royal wedding again?

Yes. We can do all that. And maybe make some pasta and have some wine. 

Ooh, fancy grownup dates. 

We could use some of that, too. 

Dates?

Being grownups. 

I'd rather not, if it's all the same to you. 

Me neither. And he grins that tired grin, the one that's blurred around the edges, lined with time and space and still a thousand watts brighter than the lights on the Midway, just for me.

On growing a new moon (fifteen percent in).

Send us a blindfold, send us a blade
Tell the survivors help is on the way
I was a blind fool, never complained
All the survivors singing in the rain
I was the one with the world at my feet
Got us a battle, leave it up to me

The day is dim, dark and heavy with the promise of rain. I was outside for a little while doing a little gardening, planting nasturtiums for endless salads this summer, marveling at the lilac tree we planted that has grown out over the wooden retaining wall and is now far taller than even Ben. The soft grey of the wooden wall is the perfect compliment to the palest violet color of the blooms. I planted some lavender and some parsley, and some sweet peas. Maybe this weekend if it's not raining we'll plant the tomatoes, peas and peppers too. People would say I'm very late in planting but it doesn't get cold here in the fall until after Remembrance day and I like to plant from seed so I wait until the ground is warm and dry, rather than in years past when my kitchen was covered on all surfaces with seedlings. I don't want to pre-grow things, I don't want to cheat. I'm not chasing the warm weather here in the way it's done everywhere else.

I can take my time.

I look up as the sun pushes the clouds back for an instant. The sea is content today, her waves blunted and smooth, no whitecaps, no foam, no roil underneath the invisible wind. I don't want to be out in the bright sun so I gather up my tools into the big red bucket that I use for gardening and I head toward the house. Just before I top the hill I look back at the rope swing drifting lazily back and forth against the green of the orchard. I dreamed last night that I could swing high enough to touch the clouds but when I tried in my awake hours I had to settle for only reaching palest blue.

The swing slows to a stop and only then do I turn and make my way home, stopping by the stables to drop off my bucket of gardening supplies and then I spent a minute with the hose and stiff brush in the driveway to wash the soil and the dust off my bare feet before heading inside.

Lochlan meets me at the door.

Who were you talking to?

I was in the garden.

Yeah, I came out to see if you wanted some help and you were talking up a storm. At least you didn't wait for replies or I'd be even more worried than I already am. 

It's nothing. 

Is that where you put him? 

What?

Is that where Jake lives now in your mind? Is that why you spend so much time out at the swing? Is that the shadow I'm going to have to rip off your heels for the rest of our lives?

Loch-

I was kind of hoping he was taking a little break from your life, that you were focused and paying attention-

I am-

You are a dreamer, a magic fairy. A mythical beast. A nightmare. And you're never going to be mine, are you?

I'll be in the sauna (favoring my knee).

I walked into his house, still in my work dress and thick black sturdy shoes, aching knee and everything and I dropped my bag on the floor. The apple I didn't have time to eat rolled out across the floor and we became an eighties movie when I specifically requested my life to be an eighties music video.

Fuck.

Goons? Seriously? You sent goons to threaten my boss.

He needed to know who he's dealing wi-

I'm a PART-TIME employee! That's who he's dealing with. This is none of your business. 

You are my bus-

NO I'M NOT! I'm not! I don't know why you insist that I am. I never asked for anything from you. Not a thing. 

And you won't. You don't have to. That means we're doing our job. 

This is some massive Fifty Shades bullshit-

Write down your goals and stick to making them your reality instead of doing these stunts where you make sweeping changes in your life to try and fix what Caleb broke-

Stop changing the subject and tell me why you sent goons after my boss! He only moved me because I work hard and he didn't know if you were just going to shut the whole thing down. He was making sure I could keep my job.

Doesn't he know who you are?

Apparently I don't know who I am. Please. Do share if you can tell me. Last time I checked I was nobody. 

Let me reframe this. Is your employer aware that you come home to this house, where you live with these people?

He knows how to mind his own business. Unlike you. Maybe he doesn't care. Maybe he doesn't have time to worry about people that doesn't know. But good luck with your restaurant. You seem like the type to buy something and just shut it down. There's a lot of people out of work now.

I'm not shutting it down. You can run it. 

I have a job, thanks. 

You can do both.

Not interested, sorry. 

Are you going to throw me a bone here? I'm trying to help you. 

Doubling the workload wouldn't be helping. Maybe tell me why my knee is swelling. 

Because you run yourself ragged from the early hours right through late afternoon and you had given up running because of your knees. 

This isn't that kind of runn-

Yes it is. I can call a fellow I know who practices sports medici-

No, I'm good. Stop calling people. Stop doing things. If I want your advice I'll come to you and ask for it. 

But you won't. 

Right. Now do you understand?

Now I have time to play Zelda on the Switch they got me for my birthday.

Wow, just like that we went from spring to summer and back again, today being very fall-like. I woke up wrapped tight against Lochlan, in his arms, with the windows open, birds chirping so loudly I wasn't sure I even slept at all. Suddenly it's too cold for the pool again (I told you, said the Devil when I asked if he could put the heater on so that when I get off work it's bathtub-temperature). All of my older customers asked me to relay to the manager that the restaurant was very cold today and I nodded and said I would tell her and then I did nothing because it was blissfully ice-cold for once.

I got off work, forgetting I was going to bring home a pie, taking off my apron and rushing to the car so I could jump in, lock the doors and cry except that I have the next few days off so I'm celebrating instead.

I got my chores finished before five. I can paint my nails for the weekend! I have a Lochlan all to myself, a long weekend that suddenly isn't long, as I'll be working Monday's morning rush and a Ben that is changing his schedule around so that he will be with us too.

And maybe even Sam will be around, as it's not a huge church weekend, since last weekend was bonkers for him.

But GUESS who bought the restaurant?

No, not Caleb.

Batman.

So the owner's moving me to his other one. It's closer to home, which is good, and newer, which is even better. And boy, is Batman pissed.

(Also, with this weekend being finished I've officially broken my record for days on my last restaurant job. It was four. Four whole days. This one I've already worked six! But back then I also only made two dollars an hour.)

Sugar-dusted.

I'm pretty sure they are taking turns, one by one, to see which one can talk me out of this. I want to stick it out. Honestly it's a crap job with shit pay, a polyester apron so thick I could use it as a pool cover and sure, I don't need the job but I'm not taking it away from anyone as they couldn't fill it for months. The owner was taking orders. The cook swept under the tables when it wasn't busy. And as I said before, pay isn't the only reason you take a job. This one is a challenge (The sandwiches are confusing. I never check the soup of the day until it's too late and someone puts me on the spot and the blender and A/C are both perpetually broken.) But it's a challenge that ends with that table. When you leave the diner you forget about it. I don't have to worry about working nights and weekends. I don't have to be in charge of anything. I just have to smile and greet each person as they sit down and make sure they have ketchup and fresh coffee and everyone's so happy it's dumb.

I'm looking forward to my first paycheque. And also any food I buy at work is half of what it costs everyone else so today I had a rootbeer slushie with the peanut butter and jam sandwich I brought with me and it was amazing. I was so hot. I have a heat rash on the back of my neck from the apron band. I'm happy I have four days off after tomorrow and I asked the owner if we could get organic cotton aprons instead.

He said no. He looked confused. I didn't press the issue. I'll wear the one I was given.

But today it was Ben's turn to ambush me when I got home.

Bumblebee.

Big Ben. Done work?

I am. Are you?

No, now I have to do my chores. 

I'll delegate. But only on one condition. 

What's that? (I thought he was going to say something that would make me blush but he didn't.)

Quit and let me cover your salary. I'll even throw in daily challenges. You don't need to do this.

I do, though. But I'm curious about your daily challenges. 

Oh, are you?

I am. 

If you quit you can find out what they are. 

Did Lochlan put you up to this?

No. 

Caleb?

No. Why?

You're the fifth or sixth person to offer to cover my pay if I leave the job. 

Was Lochlan one of them? 

No. He thinks it's a good thing. 

That's because he's the only one who cares that you grow a little. The rest of us want to permanently hobble you so that nothing ever changes. 

It won't. 

Don't make promises you can't keep, Bumblebee.

Understanding owners.

Emmett went to my house to settle up with Caleb this morning and then somehow ended up at my work, inviting me out for breakfast, lunch or dinner to apologize for the overrun and overtime and overbearing noise. The boys aren't allowed to come to where I work. If they do I'd take my apron off and walk out the door and go home with them so it's better if I don't see their faces while I miss them.

You want to take everyone out for dinner? Like all of us?

No, just you. 

Should I ask my husband? 

That mean you want to go? 

Honestly? No. But I think you don't understand I'm not single. 

From what I understand it's open?

Not in the slightest. 

Then I've misunderstood. 

It happens. 

Friendly work dinner? 

Not this time. 

Unfriendly brunch then? We can scowl at each other?

Emmett. 

Explain it to me? 

I don't have to do that. 

But outsiders aren't welcome. You're a closed group. 

I tread so carefully. We have those who have joined late but...not for me, specifically. 

Now I understand. 

I hope so. 

Well, then, let me say good afternoon and it's been a pleasure to work on this project and even moreso a pleasure to meet you. 

Take care. 

You too. 

I let him see himself out while I took a peek into the envelope of invoices and receipts he left me with. Then I hear a familiar voice in front of me.

You did well, Neamhchiontach. 

Oh, was that a test? Next time let me know so I can study for it. 

I thought he reminded you of Ben. 

Well, he does. But that doesn't mean I'm going to invite him to stay. Now do you want a coffee to go or will you just leave so I can get back to work?

Irredeemable (and not sorry).

I've been up since six, on my day off, which still counts as sleeping in since my alarm is usually going off at five-twenty. Sam was already awake.

(Snort.)

Happy Mother's Day, he whispers and Lochlan stirs almost telepathically, snaking his arm back around me and pulling me away from Sam. Sam gets up to go but leans down to kiss my forehead. See you in a bit, he says.

Busy day. Church will be packed. Every mom gets a beautiful flower and a package of seeds to grow more at home. Sam will talk of how mothers are spiritual in their own right, unselfish and nuturing and that today we celebrate motherhood. I roll my eyes and laugh to myself at the thought, as my own children will stay home sleeping in, in the sun on the point and haven't been to church for months, as they are allowed to choose whether or not they go and at this age it's a solid nah, but they will if Sam really wants them to. Sam lets them off the hook. He didn't go when he was their age either. They'll join us when they are ready again. He's fairly confident and so I let him lead.

Ben sleeps on. Lochlan sleeps on. I don't really want to go today. Too crowded. Parking sucks. Sam will be stuck there until two so I'd have to bring my own car. I text him at eight to let him know I'm sleeping in and he cuts and pastes an all-caps litany about eschewing Christ from some Fundamentalist website spanning some fifteen pages into my text messages. I laugh and put my phone down.

An actual day off.

I look around.

Huh.

Not sure what to do first. Make another cup of coffee or bring some juice out to the pool, since we don't have the outdoor kitchen stocked yet. Stay in and read or go out to the hammock and nap? Sit on the front porch and draw or finish the laundry and get ahead for the week?

Laundry wins, as I head downstairs and throw in a load of towels. I can have coffee and draw while the washer does it's thing, killing two birds with one stone.

My plans are thwarted when I reach the laundry room downstairs, running into Dalton in his pajama pants, sorting t-shirts from jeans, sporting his customary Sunday brunch boner. He's a rager in the mornings. He's super-sexual. Worse than me sometimes but also...better. Ha.

Sorry. I can wait if you want to put a load in.We both burst out laughing because we're horrible people.

Go ahead, Dalt. You look like you're ready anyway. (I can hold my own with the boys. They raised me on this humor.)

Wait. Are we still talking about chores here? Also Happy Mother's Day. He leans down and gives me a kiss on the cheek.

Yes, we're talking about chores. 

Damn. Too bad. He says and he smiles, hits the button on the washer and heads back down the hall.

I would have followed but I'm trying to follow Sam's description from the sermon he practiced earlier in which I am supposed to be 'unselfish'.

Christ, indeed.

He didn't die.

We brought Caleb home with us, inside the main house and we hung out in the great room so I could keep an eye on him for a bit. He went with us upstairs to sleep last night. He woke up with us when the sun poured through the blinds I forgot to close and he is indeed okay but I needed that time to see for myself.

Sometimes he's the worst monster and sometimes he's the best, as he wolfed down the eggs and bacon I made for the house and brought upstairs for him, proclaiming it to be the best breakfast he's ever had.

I'll return the favor tomorrow, Neamhchiontach. It's Mother's Day. 

I shake my head. You won't be here tonight. 

Sad to hear that, he says but he knows better.

Lochlan felt a little bad, but not too bad. Ben didn't feel bad at all but then I realized briefly that Ben could have also gotten hurt on the jump to the water and what would we have done then? With PJ too busy laughing and no one else handy. What if all three of them had gone in and gotten hurt?

Odds are small, Peanut. Lochlan doesn't want to talk about it anymore. He doesn't want me to write about it, think about it, dwell on it or worry about it any more. He says we should move on and enjoy our weekend together because then I'll go back to work on Monday and he's going to miss me.


This job of yours has really thrown the whole Collective for a loop. 

Why? 

Why? Well, the thought of you busting your ass for a measly eleven dollars an hour-

Plus tips.

Plus tips, and the fact that you're out of arms reach all day and struggling to figure it out alone when we'd all prefer you to stick close and not have to fight so hard to get through the day is tough. It goes against everything I am. 

But you haven't said to stop. 

I'm letting you figure it out. I raised you well. If it's good for you, you'll be fine and if it's not you'll tell me. 

I will. I promise. 

Hard to let go of you, Peanut. 

You didn't. Jesus. I go to the diner, I put on an apron and serve breakfast and sometimes lunch and then I come home. To you. 

Thank God for that.

Fight club (thanks for a great day off, guys).

I don't think I'm the feral one after all, though some will say they found me in the corner of a boxcar, lifting the corner of a crate to find me crouched underneath, filthy, unable to speak English and clutching a cone of blue cotton candy. That I grunted something, screamed and tried to run but Lochlan caught me and taught me the words I needed and I fell in love with him and grew up. But when pushed I revert back, so the story goes and this morning, well, I've got the caged look and monosyllable responses down cold.

Both Caleb and Cole were raised to act out their negative emotions physically and I don't understand how that happens. How do you raise a child to lash out in anger and then soften in tender moments to the point where the violence from a moment ago melts away?

I asked him this but he told me he didn't know. He isn't saying much either today, except sorry a lot. No excuses, just that fucking word. Four different letters that don't mean much. He's been saying it since I was eleven and he first cornered me in the camper.

Sorry. 

I didn't mean to. 

I didn't know it would change you. 

I was drunk. 

It's your fault I'm like this. 

Sorry. 

Sorry. 

Sorry. 

Keep the gun, you'll need it out here. There are people like me everywhere and that's one of the reasons I didn't want him to bring you.

I don't hear the sorrys the way normal people do, I guess. Not anymore. Maybe it's just a part of life. Maybe Boxcar Bridget didn't have such an easy life and maybe the fact that I do now in so many ways is a beautiful ending to a terrible tragedy. Maybe it's something I can't get used to and that's why I went screaming back to blue collars and campers so fast, so easily. Maybe it's why I'm more comfortable around old guys with weathered visages and plaid shirts. Farmers. Carnies. Working folk. People who don't have much, if anything. People who aren't so spoiled they can't see the reason for things, they can't control things, they don't understand things and are offended by that.

Maybe people raised with nothing are less demanding. Less judging. Less of everything, sure but better in so many ways.

Caleb's fine though. Lochlan dragged him out of the boathouse, down the steps, across the driveway and the grass too. PJ watched and did nothing which he probably lives for. I think Dalton filmed it to show Duncan. Ben followed them to make sure they wouldn't actually finish each other off, as Caleb is bigger than Lochlan and so Ben was standing close by as Lochlan pushed Caleb right to the edge of the cliff, finger in his face, words flying. Thick red Scottish rage making him unintelligible. To his credit Caleb seemed deflated, unable to push back, unable to defend his undefendable position. He got rough, he has to pay for that. Violence against me is unacceptable. To them. It feels normal to me. It's just the way he is.

(Sorry, Bridget. You just look so pretty when you cry.)

(What a liar.)

Lochlan leaned him way out over the cliff until they were finished the discussion and then started to pull him back and Ben, still pissed off, reached over Loch and shoved Caleb off the edge.

Caleb landed headfirst on a wayward log that was in the water.

Ben then had to go in after him to save his life. Caleb took in a lot of water, has a nasty concussion and was short of breath so we went to the hospital for many, many hours then we brought him home.

Then the sorrys began. but no excuses because he has nothing left.

Caleb is just a monster. One I've spent my life trying to stop being afraid of. One I'll never outrun. That was worse so I've tried to embrace him instead and it's been very hard on me. You don't get it. You'll never get it and that's okay. And Lochlan's grace just shut off like a fucking tap.

But not for me.

Do you want to keep the job? Lochlan asked me in the hallway outside as Caleb was getting ready to leave the hospital.

I nodded.

Why?

I can practice my English, I said and he laughed. It was a strained donkey-bray kind of laugh, more an exclamation of disbelief than anything but I'll take it.

Caleb opens the door. Ready, he said, and the laughter stopped.

Too early, too late.

I'll put my armor on,
Show you how strong I am
I'll put my armor on,
I'll show you that I...

When I came home from work this afternoon Caleb was pacing the driveway. I parked my car facing him and he waited a moment because I didn't get out and then he charged across the brick and opened my door with one hand, pulling me out of the car with the other. I was marched up into his kitchen and let go roughly against the fridge. I grabbed the handles keep from falling and the doors opened and I felt a bit like a duck on skates while I attempted to right myself.

Have you quit yet or do I have to take action? He plucks me up off my precarious hang from the stainless steel handles and gives me a shake like a dog. Hard. My teeth chatter and I shriek at him and he finally focuses again and puts me down rather gently to the floor, making sure my feet are underneath me so I can stand.

I'm not quitting. You don't get a say in this. Sorry, Diabhal. It's a whisper but my guts are showering through.

He stares at me. I don't know if it's rage or resignation for a flicker and then I do. Very well.

(Very well? Who says that? Oh, wait, Batman does. And he's rubbing off on Caleb.)

I nod. Not sure if this means I can keep the job or he's now resigned to murder me after all. My nod falters into a bobble briefly and I square up in front of him, staring at the fourth button on his shirt instead of up into his eyes.

Do you even like it? You've come home crying twice in the first week and I feel as if Lochlan's forcing you into some sort of teenage Bon Jovi song where you go back to having nothing, being nothing because it's 'romantic'. 

I don't like it sometimes but other times I love it. It depends. 

On what? 

If I get the orders right. 

That's a very humble statement to make for one such as you. 

Such as me?

Yes.

I am nothing, Diabhal. 

Not to me.

The would-be sugar poet.

Progress. I didn't cry when I left my new job today. I have a nametag now. It says BRIDGET. When no one is looking I'm going to steal the labelmaker and print one that says BABY.

Just because.

When I got home after the lunch rush there were trucks all over the place again, doing a few little things we noticed after they left that weren't completed so I had to drive all the way down to the end of the driveway and park between the side door and Dalton's patio. My legs hurt and I wanted to lie down and his was the nearest bed from the car so I went into their suite and into Duncan's room, throwing myself on the bed, legs hanging out over the end, heavy black shoes and label still in place. The apron is balled up in my purse, which is now on the floor.

I pull the quilt up over my head, close my eyes and when I open them next Duncan is lying beside me, smiling.

Can I get a refill? He asks and I bean him with one of his pillows.

No. We're closed. 

Do you have to do this, Bridget? What if I...I mean, I can give you money if you need it. 

I'm not doing it for the money. Well, not yet. I'm doing it for the hustle. 

Also you smell like burned strawberry pie. 

Fancy that. As it happens, the cook burned one today. And you should save your money. 

If it means you don't have to do this, I'm fine with it. We'll make our own arrangement. 

Why don't you want me there? 

It isn't the diner in particular, it's just working in general. You're easily overwhelmed. 

Lochlan doesn't think so. 

That so? And what does Lochlan think? Tell me. 

He's so proud. He thinks this is good for me. So does Ben. I get out of my own head. I help others and I can sharpen my skills. 

You going to rob them while you serve them lunch? Or maybe walk a tightrope?

Not those skills, Dunk. 

What skills then, Bridge?

Blending into society better than I do now. 

Oh. So is everyone on board with this? Any detractors or am I alone here?

You're not alone. Caleb has forbidden me to work. 

And?

I will continue to defy him. 

He'll buy the restaurant. 

Oh, probably. But if he does that I'll fire the cook and I'll never burn the pies I make. So it wouldn't necessarily be a bad thing.

Baby Driver.

"Sometimes all I want is to head West on 20 in a car I can't afford, with a plan I don't have, just me, my music, and the road."

Lochlan, to his credit, has been very gracious with everyone. Moreso than he used to be, maybe he is mellowing after all. Maybe he has faith in me and in our grand plan to rule the world, or at least our experience of it as I embark on yet another item on the big list of the life that points us toward our dreams.

The Collective isn't forever. It never was. We know that. We understand that, as does everyone here. It's a stepping stone, a fun time, a helping hand living here where things cost so damned much. Everyone saves money if we all live together and no one has to be alone. The army will stand fast while I weather this long season of Life After Jacob, and the transition back to weirdness that was always the plan. But not quite yet.

In other ways, sooner than we think.

I may have rushed a little part of it. Walking the house spending time talking with everyone, painting a little, writing a little, trying to catch up on sleep and affection, being so OCD with chores and being Organized isn't all that productive. I needed to check off something on my list that would throw all that into the sea. That item that's been waiting for me. Get on with it, Bridge.

I got a job.

And it's not an executive job, no sir.

And I didn't have recommendations or networks. No one's lending me out. No vulture capitalists are involved. No pretty clothes and lovely desks are involved. Oh, you're going to laugh, just as the boys laughed when they realized I wasn't kidding before they turned super-serious.

Aw, Bridge, they all said. You don't need to do this.

But I do.

I got an entry-level job. Working for minimum wage. At a restaurant not all that far from home. Taking orders, pouring coffee, as the owner decided I needed to be the first person people see when they come in. Wearing sturdy black non-slip shoes and a contrastingly pretty apron and dress with my notepad and my bottomless freshly-made coffee pot in hand.

Yup. Me.

I was too busy to hate it until I walked out at the end of my first shift and It hit me that I didn't really learn enough to go back, but I will be returning. Tomorrow. Already.

Yes, I cried on the drive home.

That's sixty low-quality minutes (and a level of crankiness no one's even seen before now.)

I had an iced coffee yesterday midafternoon and it cost me all but a single hour of nightmare-laden, restless birdsong-filled sleep and today now I am weirdly high-strung and faintly miserable and yet I can't go to bed until at least ten-thirty tonight because that's when Ruth gets home from work.

I'm never drinking that shit again. I might go off coffee again altogether because wow. That was so awful I can barely quantify it. It's bullshit, is what it is.

I would love to be a coffee or tea-drinking fanatic but strangely it seems too challenging. Sam says some people just can't. Others are hardly affected. I asked him why it takes a mountain of heroin to get me high but just looking at a cup of coffee leaves me awake for weeks. I was hoping to shut him down with horror but he was incredibly matter-of-fact and I got a long lecture about different drugs creating different results using our individual biochemistries. Then I got a lecture about trying to shame the shameless and the devout. Ouch, Sam.

It's okay though, Ben was game to stay up all night, since he generally does. And we are all caught up on time with each other, mutual depravity and maybe a little shame too, but only if you look us both directly in the eye.

(Snort.)

And it's ten fucking degrees today, which means no pool time for Bridget, who doubled-down on chores yesterday afternoon so I could free up all of today for myself and that freshly-filled pool and this is what I get for my efforts. Nice.

Coffee for your thoughts? Sam asks as he veers around my scowl.

I won't write down the words I said in return.

Not even ambush..this was full PRObush and I love him so much it's gross.

Ben doesn't even wait until we're on the beach before he deploys his fears and I have to grab the railing with both hands so I don't wind up carried off on the tide of his words.

I want second place back. I don't want to be the third.

Who said you were second? 

Who demoted me to third, or maybe fourth when I was busy? 

No one, Benjamin. Maybe we just need more time together. 

I was trying to give you time with Loch. And that seems to translate into time with Caleb. And I don't know if I want to encourage that. 

You used to be fine with it. 

I was there. Now I'm nowhere. I feel like I'm running to catch up now. 

You're not a third wheel. You're not falling behind, Ben. I love you. 

Burning building?

Oh, don't even. It would be you. Lochlan would save you over me. You're the first person on our minds always. Especially when you hole up to work. You think I don't miss you? You think I like coming down and finding the light on and having to turn and go back upstairs because I can't come in and see you when you're working?

You keep calling Caleb your boyfriend. 

He's asked for that formality. 

Well, now I'm asking to be above that. So it's very clear to him and to everyone how this works. 

Well then what do we call you? 

Lovers? He grins. He suggested that when we first got together. He refused to be friends anymore, and wanted to be lovers so we cemented it at Nolan's cabin and we've been inseparable ever since.

Lovers. I grin back.

We should cement this with some serious fuckage, Bridge. 

We have a birthday dinner to go to, remember? 

Okay, after. 

After are the speeches. I can't miss them. I'm the birthday girl!

And then? 

After the speeches we will go to bed. 

What if Caleb wants to see you? Or Lochlan? 

Well, we can bring Lochlan but Caleb doesn't get to come. 

Okay. Maybe Loch could use some serious fuckage too. 

From you or from me?

Don't matter. 

Wow, Ben. 

What?

Now I'm wondering where I am in this hierarchy, because if it's third, I don't want to know.*

(Editing for clarity. Though, who needs clarity when ambiguity is such a wonderful thing? Ben's first love is music. So that would make me second or possibly third, if Lochlan is loved more. Which he might be. I picked the right two, I think.)
 

And this is just the first couple of hours.

Guess where I woke up?

In the camper, on the beach (!!!), the sound of the surf filling my ears so beautifully it supposedly took Lochlan five tries to whisper Happy Birthday to me as we curled up together in sleep in a bed so tiny I slept like a baby, and never felt even once like I was falling. Our history in these tiny trailers is the reason why I can only fall asleep if I'm pressed in between solid things. Like a wall and a person, two people or absolutely packed in tight with heavy quilts. Otherwise I don't sleep and if I wind up untethered in the King size beds in my room I feel weightless and unprotected.

So yes, PTSD for everyone, as Lochlan didn't sleep at all. He fretted about whether we'd be warm enough, even as Ben and John carried the heaters down to the beach just in case, Caleb rolled his eyes and lamented Lochlan's choice of camper, without a heater. He would have spent more. Hell, he would have just built a house there.

But who needs a heater when Lochlan is fire incarnate?

I wasn't cold. I slept so hard I may never sleep in the house ever again, and being by the water's edge far exceeded the camper up in the backyard. But Lochlan finds it difficult to return to a time when he rarely slept, always on edge, always on alert. So I don't know how to fix that except the way I've been taught. If you're afraid of something the only way to stop feeling the fear is to immerse yourself in it. It worked with me for elevators, and Caleb's dominance, and isolation when I remained behind in the Prairies packing up the castle when we moved the Collective here to the West coast. It hasn't worked for heights for me though. I can't subject myself to anything higher than a Ferris Wheel, or in this case the Wonder Wheel. Planes are okay but buildings, ziplines, gondolas and chair lifts make me scream and I won't go.

I keep veering off-topic though.

We were starving when we woke up and Lochlan had breakfast ready to roll. Coffee pot in the fire. Croissants and cheese and apples. He put the croissants on a stick and warmed them over the fire while the water boiled. It was amazing. I didn't want to leave but maybe we'll be back tonight. We dressed in yesterday's clothes and made the climb back up the cliff.

Reluctantly.

And the backyard was finished. The inside is finished. The trailers are gone. Tools are gone. Mini-backhoe is gone and and flowers are everywhere. Decorative shrubs are gone and the steps are finished. The low walls are finished. The palazzo is finished. The yard looks incredible. They structured the back to match the front with its brick walkways and driveways and the fountain of the most alabaster fine concrete I think I've seen or touched, something that weathers to a beautiful soft ash.

And then I realize the pool is full. The chairs are back. The shades are pulled up, the barbecue is set in place in the outdoor kitchen and it matches the new outdoor kitchen here in my yard and wow.

Supposedly they worked all night on the landscaping and cleaning to get it done and then when it was finished Caleb and Andrew got up at four in the morning to begin to fill the pool.

And I didn't know of or hear any of it because we were sleeping at the bottom of the cliff, on purpose. So it was a huge group plan and Lochlan took the hit because it means more to him that I'm happy than that Caleb wins.

Except he didn't. I won't tell him though. I think it will be obvious when he sees I've transferred all of the costs of the camper and barge from his account back to Lochlan, since Caleb piggybacked on Lochlan's plan, taking advantage to score points.

Caleb comes out to stand beside me in the wind as I look over my new beautiful...er...grounds. I can't call this a yard. It would be demeaning and inappropriate at this point. Even the new grass looks expensive.

What do you think, Neamhchiontach? 

(Not Happy Birthday, not Good Morning but how did I do in the contest?)

It's incredible. I love it! And he looks so pleased with himself as I turn and look up at him. But I'm angry with you. And I leave him there to figure it out. I really need a hot shower and some new clothes. I need to change the trajectory of this day. It's my day, after all and Caleb isn't going to make it his.

First of all, it's not a contest, dickheads.

Caleb snapped at something or other when he was leaving this morning after bringing back a couple of books and so I chased him outside and asked what was wrong.

Oh, let's just say the playing field isn't level. 

What are you talking about?

Lochlan's allowed to make all of these sweeping gestures and when I try you won't allow it, send it back, refuse, or generally hobble all of my efforts, Neamhchiontach. I just want to spoil you for your birthday and every day and instead I have to watch Pyro win all the time by renting a goddamned barge and putting a camper on the beach. 

Is that how?! Wait, how did he get it off the barge? Does it float? Oh my gos-

With a crane. He puts his fingers to his forehead as if I've given him a headache. The barge has a crane so you lift it onto shore. There was a tug involved. It took a fair effort to get it far enough back from the tide. But you've missed the point. 

Which was? 

Why can't I make the gestures?

Because your gestures involve things like buying me the Eiffel tower or twenty-carat rare diamonds or-

Would you like to go back to Paris? 

Look who's the one missing the point now. 

So you're saying my gestures are too large. Too much. 

A little. Okay, a lot.

And I'm supposed to step out of the way now so the man who made you sleep in goat pastures gets all the glory. 

Caleb-

He'll never be able to do for you what I can. That barge stunt cost him his entire bonus for the project, you know. I don't think he had any idea of the costs involved before he planned it. Or how he's going to get it off the beach now that it's there. In any case, I feel like he's learning a lesson about going up against someone with actual means-

This isn't how life works. They don't learn. Someone doesn't love you because you impress them, they love you because you finish their sentences, you're within reach, you're alike in so many ways. You make them feel comfortable and safe. It's a deep attachment you can't put a price on or give a trophy for.

I leave him standing there and go find Lochlan, who is in the library reading, his glasses halfway down his nose, a fresh, significant haircut to start a new chapter of life (and also because I did manage to knot his hair up good yesterday and he actually doesn't want his dreads back).

Your bonus from the network. What are you going to do with it? 

Surprise the love of my life. 

Oh my God, he was right. 

Who? 

Caleb said you spent the whole thing on a barge to make the beach campsite.

He's wrong. 

Oh, thank God. 

The cost of the camper was actually slightly more than the barge but not by much. If you add them together then yes, that was my bonus. 

Why did you spend it all on something that's going to bring up bad memories? 

Wait, wait, WAIT. Who said it's going to bring back anything but good memories? And I can spend it how I please, so if I want to make good on a promise you won't let me make good on, since you want to live in a camper by the sea but you also won't move, I'm then limited to making campsites and hiring barges. 

Oh. Yeah.

Oh yeah yourself. 

I still love it. 

You'd better. 'Twas expensive. 

(Oh, he's using Doppler radar. The faster I move away from him, the faster he closes the distance between us.)

Fate itself unraveled
Make the emptiness my home
Into the starlight will I go
Soaring into the unknown

I think I spoiled my own birthday surprise and I couldn't be happier.

Everyone seemed so busy today. Lochlan was so wrapped up in emails (not related to the project he's just completed but a random host of beta-software testing, Cirque du Soleil presales, random confirmations of upcoming appointments for his truck, teeth, eyes, arm followup, etc. etc.) that he let me start random dreadlocks in his hair. Though I don't know what I'm doing.)

PJ said he was just back and had a lot to catch up on. 

Like what?

PJ eyes left and right. Uh, you guys suck at deep-cleaning kitchens.

I don't. I even wiped every single blind on blinds I only drop down to clean. I scrubbed the crumb tray in the toaster oven. I bleached the inside of the dishwasher. Fuck you, Padraig. Find me a crumb.

Dalton and Duncan are nowhere to be found. Ditto August. Emmett is available, walking toward me and so I quickly turn and head briskly in the opposite direction.

Caleb is about to go for a run. Daniel is out. Andrew is out. Batman isn't taking the bait as he's smarting over the past week's rebellions and Jay's probably a bad idea. Sam is sleeping. Gage is away. ARGHHHHH. I just want to go for a walk on the beach.

Maybe tonight? Ben says helpfully from behind his giant mixing board.

Sure, I lie. It's come to this. Promise?

Do my best. He smiles distractedly and I head back upstairs, turning left down the little hallway behind the kitchen that also leads to the back foyer where the patio doors circle the entire back of the house. I don't even grab shoes. Who needs shoes? I walk purposefully across the backyard, skirting the concrete-pouring extravaganza and disappear behind the gate.

I look out before I head down the steps and right away I see it.

I scream-whisper because I know damn well I've ruined it but I don't care. I also don't want to scream-yell or they'll all freak and come running and I'm not supposed to go down to the beach alone. Too many steps. Too steep a drop-off. Slippery rocks, hazards, sometimes sea lions. Sometimes distracted Bridget and a hungry Pacific. Sometimes just to make them feel better I listen to them. Sometimes I agree with them.

But not today because look at that.

I turn back to the right to head down the steps and bump right into Lochlan. Who was standing behind me probably the whole time, because he has weapons-grade hearing skills and a loaded, somewhat angry smile.

Peanut. You fucked up my plans to surprise you.

Oh no I didn't.

The grin becomes relieved. Excited?

You have no idea.

At the other end of the beach, there's a brand-new tiny shiny camper set up. A fire circle is built. Two chairs are opened in front of the door, under the canopy. It's safe from the tide but not back far enough for me to miss, tucked in safely against the cliff.

This is my dream.

I wonder if he'll let me sleep out there, with him? I wonder what the weather is like for the weekend. I wonder how they got it down here. I wonder if it's finished inside. I wonder if I'll ever come back up except to spend time with the kids. If he wanted me all to himself, he's done it. I don't even think anyone save for us could fit into it.

That's the idea.

We're going to live here?

Maybe. Maybe some nights. But you don't get to go down there until Friday evening.

My birthday's on Saturday-

Right. Don't you want to wake up there? By the water?

And then I'm crying. Geez, not the pretty cry. I don't even have that feature. Naw. All streaky-red, blubbery gratitude-soaked relief that he did this. Finally.

Glad to see you're happy about it. He shrugs in mock doubt, pulling me in close, dropping the act, confidence blooming back. You think I don't know what you need but I do. I promise I do and I'm trying to make it happen. It may take me a little longer, you may think I'm not paying attention or understanding you but I am. Also what did you do to my hair? 

The renovations have spilled outside and they're going for broke. You know, while the 'guys are here'. Someone save me.

What would you like for your birthday, Neamhchiontach? 

He is thrilled today. So, so pleased that I demonstrated my allegiance past the end of his bedpost. Happy that I stuck it to the (Bat)man, beyond relieved that I set a boundary and for once Caleb winds up on the same side as me.

To have the pool filled!

Not until the work is finished. Too dusty. 

They're working here, not in Daniel's backyard! 

Soon, Baby. Soon. Trust me, I'd love to see you in a bikini again. 

Why? You see me naked. 

Something about it, I guess. 

Huh. Well, I've never wished in a million years I could see one of you in a speedo, so that's where we deviate, I guess. 

If you saw me in one, Bridget, you'd change your mind. 

Let's not continue this line of conversation. 

And he laughs. What a lovely sound. Not even a tinge of evil in it today. Done. Let's get back to the topic at hand, which was birthdays, if I'm not mistaken. 

Yeah. 

You're impossible. You hate surprises but you refuse to give me a list. 

You'll buy everything on it. 

Because you're conservative. Most women pull out the 'I want a private jet' card. You do the math and learn it's cheaper to lease one when it's required. Sort of a singular Sugar Baby, in that. 

I have everything I need..

Except? 

A night of really crazy horror movies and chocolate cake and maybe a walk on the beach. 

Done. 

Yeah but you'll fly me to New York, rent out a theatre, have a Michelin-starred chef bake a cake and the beach is in Montauk. 

I figured Lochlan had that covered. 

Oooh! I hope he does. 

So much for the singularity. 

I'm petty sure we'll fly commercial. 

He laughs again and we didn't actually sort anything out so I really hope my birthday present is an end to this endless construction and my house and yard back. 

What solidarity looks like to him. And possibly to you.

Excuse me, for the asshole throwing around words like 'cult' and 'human' trafficking' just know that you aren't correct and also the definition of human trafficking clearly delineates and defines commercial sexual exploitation so Matt, you can just fuck right off.

(Sam is doing great and Matt is offended by that. Which is bent in half, let me tell you, because he should be championing Sam like a true love would but instead he is kicking at the wall he built between them because he wants to be the hero so bad right now, even as he set down ultimatums and dealbreakers like blastmines all over his life with Sam and Sam stood his own ground and broke the deals, then. Because love isn't supposed to be like that and because Matt won't give a goddamned inch from his perfect life to accommodate a whole other human being into it. Sam always felt like an interloper, a visitor, a guest and that's not how it's supposed to be when you're in love.

So oooooh yes, we're a cult (what a shit word. We use Collective) and we've swallowed Sam up whole and I'm being trafficked and Caleb and Batman are evil and everyone else is a mere goon and what else? Matt talked at me for like twenty-five minutes and then I yelled at his retreating car for another fifteen but he didn't hear any of it, I bet.

I tried though.)

Matt, we went dry for Sam. We hold him up when he wants to sit on the cold ground. We surround him with love and support, with affection and loyalty and comfort when you're too busy changing out your winter to spring wardrobe and probably going for a hot shave, as it's all about you all the time.

Sam puts everyone else first, as do the rest of us and that's why you never fit in here. That's why you stood out, resisting our efforts to welcome you like family. But since you resisted please understand you know nothing about us and anything you do know is a gift. You talk such a good game though. You made so many empty promises to that man. You should stop throwing words around now because they hurt but only if we hear them and they stopped listening when you started yelling and I couldn't hear you because I don't, all that well. And we don't need that now, not from you.

You're not going to hurt him. You've done enough. You made your choice, you're not part of us anymore. Please go away.