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

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

Whew!

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

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

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

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

The HASSELVIKA challenge.

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

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

You've changed a lot.

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

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

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

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

I heard what you said. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dueling iPads.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Habit.

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

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

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

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

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

You have. At least, I think you have. 

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

Noted-

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

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

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

Don't use my words against me. 

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

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

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

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

I'd like that. 

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

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

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

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

Did you enjoy yourself? He texts me later.

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

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

I don't reply.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Shotgun shuts his cakehole)

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

I nodded. That's a really good idea. 

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

(Oh, my heart.)

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

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

Of course they will.

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

Noodles.

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

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

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

Is that french, Bee?

Yes, I'm being fancy tonight. 

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

Like lint. 

Right. Warm and fuzzy. Little bit. 

Wow. Déjà vu.

Hmm? 

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

What on earth are you talking about?

Best books ever. You should read them. 

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

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

Christ on a pancake. 

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

No, we've assimilated, remember? 

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

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

Hey I've gone viral.

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

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

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

Hide her fucking car keys?

(Yes, you should do that. Seriously.)

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

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

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

Godless Sundays.

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

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

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

That's what PJ says too. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tell him, Peanut. 

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

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

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

And you wonder why you don't get better. 

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

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

You hardly even wear your watch any more. 

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

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

A Sea of trouble.

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

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

But why are you lying on the floor?

Someone put the patio furniture away for the winter.

That was you, Bridget. 

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

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

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

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

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

Stop it! STOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOP PLEEEEEEAAAAAASE!!!

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

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

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

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

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

Excuse me? 

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

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

I just mean-

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

Probably not as many as you, Bridge. 

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

Purely disfunctional or really really meant for each other.

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

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

I'm thinking tour.

All the land, I said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Why do you say these things?

So you don't get full of yourself. 

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

Yes, you are. 

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

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

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

Huh? 

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

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

Maybe we'll do something for them too. 

Like what? 

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

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

Probably. 

Like on an island? 

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

But the good ones do. 

It's an idiom. 

I thought it was called an island. 

No, no. The phrase. 

All good bridges lead to islands? 

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

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

Stubborn is my middle name.

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

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

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

Then go home and wait for me?

I think Caleb's right, Bridget. 

About what? 

You don't need to do this. 

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

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

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

We are the dead (loved and were loved).

Where do you want to go for lunch, Neamhchiontach? 

For Ramen, actually. Is that okay? 

Of course. 

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

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

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

Remembrance indeed. By the skin of my teeth.

Grilled cheese is ready, Diabhal. 

It looks delicious. Thank you.

Spoilers, spoilers.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(I hope it does.)

Warily warily warily warily, life is but a dream.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I did it.

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

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

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

Time for bed, Bridget.

I nod.

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

That they all are proud of me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Princess. 

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

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

Fetch.

When I left work today, Ben was waiting outside.

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

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

I work tomorrow and Wednesday. 

Not anymore. 

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

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

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

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

Need to stop anywhere?

No. Let's just go home. 

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

Polished.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I hate parties and other non-revelations.

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

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

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

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

I think I just did. 

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

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

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

Thank you, Diabhal. 

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

Then no more Neamhchiontach either. 

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

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

I'll reappear when people start arriving. Maybe.
 

Who needs fine when I'm going for perfect?

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

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

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

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

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

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

What's the difference?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Red lipstick, orange leaves and music to drown out the rain.

One time to heal, one time to hurt you
And now I can't even feel you
I had one time and now it's over one time
One chance is all, one time only
And if the sun doesn't call
I had one time
One

Okay, um, if there are no gay boys living in this house anymore maybe we could stop with the Corey Glover/Elton John/Sam Smith brokenhearted playlist and I dunno, maybe play the new SLIPKNOT?

I'm on board with that. PJ smiles very wide. He's finding my irritation hilarious. I'm drinking cappuccino at four-thirty in the afternoon, which will mean a certain emergency later when I can't fall asleep but I'm still pretending right along with the rest of the world to 'take a moment for myself' as if I know what self-care even means.

I don't. But I'm sitting here sipping from my favorite cup and Mr. Glover is winding his pipes out on a twenty-five year old heartbreak and I only hope it's healed by now.  I only hope I sound so good when I reach those numbers.

But Slipknot. Did you see the video? Terrifying. Well done, boys.

Oh, wait, who snuck Cigarettes and Coffee onto this playlist? Yes, Mr. Redding, you can stay too. PJ can wait a little longer. Like they all do when I get in a mood.

I got time. PJ's on board with anything. He always is.