New life who dis?

Well maybe I’m a part of something that’s bigger than me
Like I’m a page in a book in a library
And inside my heart there’s a dying part that’s always searching
‘Cause I know that there’s a place where I belong

All that I know
All that I see
All that I feel
Inside of me
All that I’ve done
All that I’ve tried
There must be more
To this wonderful
Terrible
Beautiful life

If I sing off-key with a magnificent sore throat and deaf ears besides, they can't possibly remain mad at me.

They're not. I charmed them back to life and with each new cleansing breath they watched me smile just for them and forget every dark and terrible thing that I do.

Who is this?

Colony House.

Seems vintage. But rest your throat, baby. 

I'm good. A little better every day. 

Not if you don't stay quiet. You'll rebound and you'll be flat on the floor by supper. 

Make me some tea and I won't. 

Done. He goes off to the kitchen to put the kettle on the woodstove and find some acceptable tea bags (people from the UK are HELLA picky on their tea, let me tell you)

Wait. He called me Baby. That's not a Lochlan thing. He's got a hundred thousand nicknames for me. None of them are Baby.

Neutral (chaotic).

Adapt or die.

(I'm trying! I'm doing my best. That's the biggest copout line in the known universe. Doing your best means almost-failing. It means forgive me, I can't keep up.)

Adaptation isn't one of my strong suits. Charm is. Helplessness is. Quietude. It is. It is what it is and I take the blame and light it on fire because it already burns, so why not?

Who is he. It was a statement from Lochlan, of all people. Who is this 'Jake' guy you're hanging out with. What does Cole think of him? Who the hell is a minister in this day and age? Why doesn't he already have a life? What is he to you, again? And on and on, sizing him up, feeling me out, waiting to see if Cole would accept him into our incestual fold or cast him out like all of the others before him. If you're not OG you're nobody, their rule used to be and Jacob taught them that that wasn't reasonable.

Because people adapt.

(People except for Bridget. She's still eight years old, tripping down the moonlight path after the boys, hollering at them to wait up.)

And now it's the same argument, different Jake.

We should have left him in Toronto. 

Who let him come back?

I'm not going to try to pin her like that. She's not a prisoner. For fucks sake. Caleb can be the bad guy there. I'm not. 

No one talks directly to New Jake about because I won't let them. He is protected airspace. He is an outlier. He is everything the old Jake used to be except I'm not in love with him the same way. New Jake is handsome and dangerously charming and exceeding good at getting into trouble with me. He gives no fucks but he gives them good.

But I don't want him to eat my soul. I don't want him to never leave. I don't want him to blend in with the group and I don't spend every breath thinking about him.

It isn't the same.

And it's a sad Wednesday when that becomes his only saving grace but here we are. Because I was hungry for something I didn't love and I never ever get this right.

Loch makes the rules and then changes the fine print.

Back inside, Bee. Ben is amused. I insisted, via hand signals and a pipsqueak of a voice that it was fine for me to go outside. That cold fresh air is a panacea of sorts in many countries, that no one gets to tell me what to do, as I am an adult (kind of).

I'm taking some air, I said haughtily and marched outside onto the patio.

Where exactly are you taking it? Ben said, half-amused, half-annoyed.

I'll let you know when I decide, I told him but he ran out of patience within minutes, ordering me back into the house, away from the minus double-digits, the frigid cold wind that hurts everything and makes my eyes water, that reminds me of home so much everything hurts on the inside too, even though none of those parts are cold.

He holds the door and I walk under his arm reluctantly. He shuts the doors behind me, locking them, frowning at my back. I can feel it but I don't turn. It's better to just sense the disapproval rather than to turn around and confirm its' existence solidly. Better to float along in denial than account for my own defiant behavior.

The cold can't exonerate you. 

Not looking for absolution, here, Benny. I am stubborn and refuse to turn around.

Two days, Bee. He was sick over it. 

He was invited. 

Not the same. You don't go to that house.

The rule is hard and fast, but not as much as New Jake. He's harder and faster, and I was intercepted by him on my way to see Batman. I never did find Batman after all, but then again, I stopped looking so damned fast.

God machines.

I woke up with the worst cold, the worst round of bad dreams (I dreamed we went back to the castle in the prairies and all the pipes had burst and the cats were shut in the front porch and so happy to get out (it's unheated) and there were squatters. This stemmed from a memory yesterday that Ruth brought up during dinner about the time someone stole the concrete angel statue from our backyard there. It was a memory relating to talking about strollers being left places and being stolen, and I mentioned how hers was stolen, once and we went down a rabbit-hole discussion about leaving things unsecured and how quickly they can disappear. Like people here in the GVRD leave all of their shoes outside on the front porch and we don't because not only is the front hall large enough but things get stolen, so why bother? Ben and Henry both wear extra-wide, extra-large, extra expensive shoes and they usually have to be special-ordered so I'm not leaving them out, thanks.

I don't have to go to church today but I still have to do taxes. I don't have to walk the dog (it's Henry's turn) but I do have to make lunches. I don't have to stay up late tonight but I probably will as sometimes someone comes to bed way late and I wake up (or am woken up). I should take it easy but there are a bunch of chores. I feel so tired all the time and I can't seem to find any real energy at all. Maybe once the snow is gone. Or the clocks go ahead again. There is always much to look forward to.

Go back to sleep, Neamhchiontach. He says it softly from underneath the quilts. His hand wraps around the back of my head and pulls me in against his chest but I fight to breathe so he lets go again, no longer even half-awake, pulled back into a dream I hope was better than mine.

I think I'm going to go make some coffee, I say to no one in particular and no one answers me.

Gangs of Boundary Bay.

Right now this second in time, Dorothy's White Butterfly is my all-time favorite song forever and ever.

Right now we're trying to figure out how to eat a Toblerone bar in mixed company. I have chocolate on my teeth, the end of my nose and all over my fingers. It's in Lochlan's hair. They're just not easy to eat at all with the big spaces between the triangles and such. They melt easily. Maybe that's just Lochlan's natural heat. I don't know. I just know that August gave me a copy of an album called 28 Days in the Valley and told me I would love it and he was right.

Lochlan got a new logic board for his iMac and it costs almost as much as my jeep. Then most of the boys needed new shoes suddenly so we spent around three thousand dollars (!)(JeSUS) at the sports store and I just want to eat some more chocolate, drink some whiskey and watch a scary movie but I also really need to get going on the taxes that I do for myself, Lochlan and the children, who are learning to do their own taxes. I'll be glad when it's done, honestly but at the same time I'm not worried about it, exactly.

And not because I'm drunk and full of chocolate.

Okay, maybe just a little.

(I don't want to eat any but I love to watch it being made.)

The fever has broken and everyone has fraudulently assured me with much enthusiasm that I am not, in fact, insane.

I looked around to see if they were talking to someone else. Maybe someone's here. Maybe the ghosts are smartly keeping things north when they start sliding south. Maybe pigs do fly. Maybe Bridget knows exactly what she is and how she came to be this way.

I'm not hungry, either, and that always seems to pique more concern than anything else so to appease Lochlan I am picking at a bagel he toasted and covered with cheese for me. I can barely look at it, sadly. The orange juice is good though. It's cold. So good.

Eat, don't play. He snaps.

Yes, Dad. 

A glare ends the tease and he resumes his own breakfast. He's feeling a bit better too though maybe not so much after all. We're tired, oddly. So much time in bed and all of it restless. All of it low quality sleep. No energy to love each other or even fight off ghosts. No room for extras, no time for watching the clock.

Bridgie. Come on. 

He's actively monitoring my progress and I failed to make any. Trying, I say. Then I start coughing, which gives me a headache.

Okay, nevermind. Back to bed. 

Oh my God. I'm so sick of lying there. 

Then we'll snooze in the theatre. Chef's Table started. 

Season six? 

Yeah. 

Let's go. I bring my plate and he smiles, but just a little.

Sentinel.

The map of nowhere is in my hand
The roads are blurred, sojourner's land
So take however long you want
(but don't forget, my love)
You pledged yourself to come along

You're lost in reveries, holding back the tears
Faint sound of the wires
The butterfly is in the fire now
Lost in a memory, holding my hand
One heart's in the ground
The other is veiled in silver all around

God. Just don't mind me, feverish and wrecked in a dream state this morning as I lurched up from a shallow, overheated sleep, loathe to let go of Jacob. He arrived unannounced in the dark, one hundred and three degrees of insanity in the form of a long-lost love. He turned out to not be real to anyone but me and my flu turned into a fresh tidal wave of grief dragging me down.

Just the fever, that's all, says Lochlan, who is also feverish but probably not being visited by Jake in his dreams, instead he says he can't sleep and asks me to stay put for a bit so we can nap.

I nod and I'm out like a shot, back into a place with cool lighting and frigid air. I hear Cole's voice plain as day but I can't see him and I'm glad these lights are on, let me tell you.

He isn't here, Doll. 

I try to play it cool. Is he coming back?

I doubt it. Look at this place. Would you come back?

I'm here right now, so yes. 

Our friends trashed it in the name of trying to save you from me. 

That's not why they did it. You were supposed to go with Jake. 

Look at me, Bridget. I can't go where he goes! 

And then I see him. He is hollow, blackened and eight feet off the ground, wings snarled in a tangle, a web fanned out like feathers. All this time what I thought were wings were just tendrils of rage and misery reaching out to pull me in.

You could have but you chose a different path-

They made me crazy, Baby. 

I took a step backwards and then another and then I tripped over something and fell, hands down in the dead leaves to try and save myself and then I ran, veering into walls, unbalanced, dizzy and wistful, as a fever of sentimentality washed over me. I could hear him screaming my name the whole way back as I climbed over broken-down walls and through collapsed doorways, throwing myself up stairs blindly, violently.

I ran until I couldn't hear him anymore and then I wok up with a start. Jacob is staring at me, his hands around my upper arms. He's pulled me up to a sitting from sleeping position in an attempt to wake me up.

You were crying and clawing at the quilts. That was probably one of the worst nightmares I think you've ever had. He looks pale and concerned. He won't let go. I try to pry his fingers from my arm but he's holding so tight it's starting to hurt.

Let go, Jake, please! 

Then he's Lochlan when I blink, only he's blurry and shaky and he won't let go either and he tells me it's just a bad dream but I think that's just a very kind way of telling someone they've gone insane.

Make it up to you later.

The flu is making the rounds here and I'm fighting it. Fighting it so hard though I've got hives all over and my fingers are still cracked from the cold and snow, my toes and earlobes and lips are cracked too and I can't seem to fight anything off at all, least of all the devil who comes to annoy me almost hourly with things and suggestions and offers, if only to be sure that Batman doesn't get an audience with me because let's be honest here, no one really wants that.

I've asked Caleb to help me out by replacing all of my everything with hemp fleece. Sheets, towels, hell, clothes. I don't care. Everything hurts. Polyester. Cotton. Wool. Five-o'clock shadow. Air, cold or warm.

He laughed to cover the fact that he had no idea what I meant, and doesn't understand how stupidly sensitive my skin is.

I didn't really care though, the waves of nausea are keeping me from feeling too upset by any of it. Lochlan is sleeping through his own illness, Ben is fighting it from a distance and last I heard PJ was yelling at me to get upstairs to bed, that he doesn't want to see me until I feel a lot better and that now he totally understands why Caleb tries to lock me down as I basically wail an answer to anyone who asks me a question. I don't know if I'm one of those people you read about in the tabloids (Woman ALLERGIC to winter! Snow will KILL her!) or if I just sometimes can't get my immune system to wake the fuck up and fight back but I did manage to have a whisper-screaming match with PJ anyway because I always have enough strength for that, and yet I lost, as it ended with him pointing his finger up the stairs and counting to ten.

I was gone by eight because if he resorts to counting it means I'm really really getting on his last nerve. 

Blue hours and golden ones too.

It's a good day for rain. A good day for napping by the fire and for splashing through puddles in boots that are waterproof, guaranteed. It's a good day to move slowly under the lights and through the dim, a good day to wish for summer, or even Christmas, if only to have something wonderful to look forward to. It's a good day for dark jazz and dark roast, a good day for paying bills and organizing junk drawers. A good day for calling in sick. A good day for pasta and cheese, made on the stove as a quick dinner and a welcome warmth. It's a good day to hear a new guitar solo.

A very good day indeed.

It's a good day to stay in or go out, to shop until I drop or window-shop for nothing. It's a good day for chocolate cupcakes and a thick coat of carmex on my chapped lips from getting kisses all the time. It's a good day to turn the music up loud as a soundtrack to the race of the droplets streaming to the bottom of the sill.

It's a good day to watch the waves. It's a good day, period.

First person.

Batman was in the kitchen this morning and Caleb steadfastly refused to entertain any further disappointment, calling his rule a reflex action borne out of concern only and purely hyperbolic, not literal. He then all but shoved me right out the front door as he said I might be late for work and should check the time, because Jesus. It is late, but not too late to see that his missteps are now going to be scrutinized, dissected and overturned the moment he reaches too far or does too much. 

She has a head injury, he'll hiss at anyone who gives him the time of day, though I've now been seen by the doctor who said he didn't think I did but just to be sure we need to watch for the usual suspects and also I should probably take it easy for a few weeks. 

Right. So I promptly changed into my work dress and went to work. I work most holiday Mondays because it's time and a half. 

And I was tired. Tired enough that I rang up Batman a couple hours early and asked if he could come pick me up. He agreed, but only on the promise of taking me out for dinner tonight, if Lochlan agreed. 

At one sharp I was outside. At 1:02 sharp Lochlan pulled up. 

He glared at me. Lochlan doesn't agree, he said and laughed. Don't just go from one to the other, Bridge. 

It was dinner. I insist weakly. Too tired to argue. 

It's never just dinner. It's pieces of your soul. I try to be patient but you really need to have some real rest and not the pretend kind you think we don't notice isn't real. 

Huh. It always used to work. 

(Did you sleep, Bridgie? He would ask when I was all but wrecked, jittery and loopy from being awake for hours, watching his eyeballs move under their lids, sure that he was reading Shakespeare in his dreams, or maybe Edgar Allan Poe.

Yes, I lied. Every single time.)

It never worked, Peanut. I just let you think it did. 

Sunday breakfast crow surprise.

I picked up my phone early this morning, while Caleb was attempting to make me coffee, and when Sam answered in his customary alarmed voice with a forced-casual Hey, I told him, my eyes glassy and my voice thick, that I wouldn't be able to come to church today because I'm a captive in this house until the snow is gone for the year, or maybe longer, I don't know exactly. I said all of this while staring at Caleb who stopped making coffee and stood and stared back at me, expressionless. Oh, maybe a hint of disappointment as I ratted him out faster than the rat can run or maybe a bit of surprise that I didn't say who was keeping me captive because there's only one person who tries this kind of shit.

It wasn't even a cry for help, it was simply a relaying of information in case I was missed.

Sam laughs and asks if I need him right now. He doesn't give Caleb an inch.

No, I'm okay. Just going to take a self-care day, I guess. 

And do what? 

Indoor chores. It's become a running joke that I don't know how to relax. Or maybe just always an overlying sad fact. It's rare and it's difficult but I can certainly do it so give me the credit, at least.

I'll be over later. 

Later meant three minutes, and Sam shows up in his suit and he's pissed. He asks me to give them a moment, and my eyes wide, I do, heading back upstairs where Lochlan isn't even all that upset if it means he doesn't have to go to church either.

When I come back down a half hour later, Caleb is sitting in front of a now-cold, untouched cup of coffee and he looks a little shell-shocked.

What happened? 

He gazes at me for several long minutes and I wonder if he's going to fib and say it's all fine or actually tell me the truth but since he lives here now he has nothing to hide and opts, surprisingly, for truth.

I've been threatened by a minister before so this isn't my first rodeo but this is the first time I've ever had no desire to push back, because he's...right. 

About what?

Everything. About everything, Neamhchiontach. 

The princess who cried enough tears to make an ocean, and other fairy tales for a snow Saturday.

Instead of retrofitting the rest of the house, Caleb...well, he banned me from 'outside' chores.

Instead of child locks, rounded corners and his beloved electric fence  as it is, and it's enough, he attempted to confine me and for that he got a whole stack of pre-sharpened, dangerously lethal words, short ones, though, mostly because I ran out of patience with his attempts to enforce rules he has no business making, in a house where he isn't in charge.

I'm only trying to protect y-

DON'T EVEN!

Then he cuts me out of the conversation, and proceeds to implore anyone who will listen that my irrational, incendiary temper is proof that I must have suffered some sort of severe head injury and I should be seen.

It's a bump. Leave me be. But I'm talking to a wall.

He just keeps saying things, and I wish now that I had left him in the boathouse where I could get away from him. I always want what isn't there and so now I miss Sam something fierce. The moment Sam comes back I'll miss Caleb. Maybe I did hurt my brain. Maybe next I'll fall asleep for a hundred years and then a prince will come and give me a kiss and I'll wake up and we'll live happily ever after. Pigs will fly through the skies and the prince will be named Jacob and he'll probably act like nothing happened and I'll just start crying and never be able to stop. Every again.

Maybe I should just stay inside. Pick a fairy tale. Pick a prince. Pick a beast if you will but whatever you do, please don't tell the princess what to do or she'll run right out of the story and never be seen again.

Let's play head injury or sleep deprivation? (I'll go first.)

I got flowers. I got a good arch to my back and I screamed into the hand covering my mouth and Lochlan said afterward that he was just getting started. I smiled and I didn't see the upright side of the world until the sun came up and then we made coffee and everyone sort of appeared and Caleb said something awful and Lochlan threw a good punch that PJ blocked but only the second half (with his face) and now it's all just a typical Friday.

I went outside to finish clearing the driveway (since even the smallest of the giants who live here has to do her part) and slipped on the ice and whacked my head on the side of Ben's truck. Might have cried for a moment, sitting there in a puddle and then finished the shovelling, soaking wet, all the while plotting a move to Fiji, or at least somewhere where snow and bears aren't a threat.

I don't think that's a good plan though. I hate the heat, and I hate bugs. I don't like tsunamis or typhoons or tourists either.

What do I like?

The heated part of the driveway, for one, and the fact that I finally found a cheap side of Caleb in that when they extended the driveway they only put heating in the new parts and not in the original part. So half the driveway is ice, the other half is bare brick and concrete.

The moment he finds out that I wiped out and smashed my head again he'll have the whole thing torn up and replaced with a horizontal volcano and I will never have to worry about ice again. And he'll expect credit for playing the hero when he's done nothing of the kind. The real hero to today's story kept me up all night and while I'm not complaining, I'm really, really cranky now. 

Death gospel valentines.

Hear me out
Hear me out

And I long for a day like this again
When I’ll never lose control

And some days I feel like the saddest, smallest evil overlord king, my oversized, beautiful subjects doing my bidding, bringing me small sacrifices they think will please me, and then once they've won my favour they take a deep shuddering breath, knowing that for the moment, they are safe.

Safe.

(I don't know what that is.)

(Shhhhh. Leave her be. Leave her mine.)

Duncan did that this morning, sleepily handing me my headphones, digging through his music, finding something I hadn't heard before. He ran his warm hand down my back, pulling the blankets back up over me as I drifted off to sleep on a droning, intoning guitar sound that reminded me that I might need a new crown. Maybe silver instead of gold this time. I think silver might be harder, and I've eroded this one down to a halo, points worn to blunted dunes over a empty sea.

(The song was A.A. Williams, Control. What a masterpiece.)

Just over here continuing to break my (former) psychoanalyst.

Breathe out so I can breathe you in
Hold you in

The angel wings tattooed on my back couldn't save me from Joel's scrutiny, much as they should have served as absolution from his own warped brand of judgement.

You seem happier lately. 

I frown at him. Practicing gratitude. 

This one of Sam's programs? 

Jake's. It's a warning that he sails right over, leapfrogging into his agenda, a man with a mission. I'm still not even sure what his mission is, to be honest, though I believe he's been tasked with mapping my heart, soul and mind. Good luck, Joel. It's going to take you the rest of your life. Or maybe longer. Your descendants will probably have to take up your life's work and continue on with-

Bridget. 

Yes??

Where did you go just now? 

I was just thinking that every time you show up and start flinging doors open in my head all the ghosts and the drafts and the dark come in and then I can't clear it all out by myself. 

Your visuals make me weep. 

I've heard that before but it doesn't change things. 

I just want to be on the front side of any landslides in the future. I want to make sure things are well and that most of all you are happy. 

I'd be happier if you weren't here trying to gauge the value of that happiness. 

Does he-

Not even within your limits, Joel. The topic is me. Not my relationships. 

Is this a New Year's Res-

No, it's a boundary and you can't cross it. 

What if I need to? In an emergency. 

There won't be any. 

He waits a few heartbeats, assessing his next move. Our conversations are chess games, world wars, a simple duel waged without armor.

Will you call if you need me? 

Someone will. 

I just-

I wait and say nothing. He's having a strange time trying to be composed, indifferent and yet caring too.

I want you to be well. 

Trying my best. 

I think going back to work has helped. 

Great. Yes, I'm too tired to be insane. 

No, I think it gave you a different narrative to take up some space. Maybe quiet the ghosts. 

Or I'm the greatest actress that ever was. 

That's what scares me right now, Bridget. And I'm not easily frightened.

Noble warming.

I begged for mercy and won ruthlessness, there in the dark, in the quiet snowfall that coated the point with an eerie unnatural light. I asked for leniency and won strictness, there in the light, in the quiet snowfall that coated the day, too. A day conducted in an eerie unnatural light that saw a sea-change in the morning tides, a literal shift floating on the waves in which a devil learns to be an angel again, of sorts, and one in which an angel is a little devilish sometimes too.

Don't get up, Neamhchiontach. It's a snow-day. Everything is mostly closed. Universities. High Schools. Stores and restaurants too. Mine's not. My restaurant was open.

Of course.

I have to go.

I put on my new shearling sweater and went in. Lochlan drove me in the Jeep. We didn't talk much, enjoying the snow, the quiet roads, the sleepy-Tuesdayness of life. He held my hand when he wasn't in 4-hi and we made it to my job in record time.

Maybe they'll let you go early? He squints through the windshield at the sky, obscured by snowclouds and huge flakes falling fast and heavily now.

Maybe. I get a hard kiss on the lips and he pulls away from the door.

I pour coffee and serve plates all day, automatically, remiss if I was to say I didn't focus one bit on my job. I was too busy thinking about the ruthlessness, too busy thinking about the strictness, too busy thinking about the Devil in a new place in my life and if he'll stay put there or force himself back into bad habits and while I expect the latter, I hope very fervently for the former.

A chore, a dance, a plan.

Caleb is fresh from a round of shovelling with Lochlan and they return to the kitchen, both with messy hair, ruddy cheeks and the sort of exhausted camaraderie I like best. Caleb grabs me in a tight bearhug, growling a laugh while Lochlan puts his cold hands on the back of my neck. I shriek and Caleb lets go but Lochlan does not, pulling me in tight, pushing his hands up the back of my sweater until I beg him for mercy. 

There will be no mercy here today!

Some tonight then? I smile charmingly at him as he moves his hands to the outside of my sweater again. 

He smiles but says nothing. I am spun back to Caleb who tells me if I want mercy tonight I'll have to beg for it, but he's smiling with his eyes when he says it. Was I cold? I'm not cold anymore. 

I nod, kind of surprised that their hour of shoveling resulted in such a warm exchange. 

What time? He kisses me hard on the mouth. 

Ah..

Lochlan pulls me back into his arms, answering for me. Nine. Nine-thirty. He's gazing into my eyes. I nod. 

Yeah. If that's not too late. 

You decide, Neamhchiontach. 

(I thought I did.) Nine-thirty is fine. 

Maybe the snow will get heavier. Can you imagine if the point gets snowed-in? 

I can't, actually. 

Oh, I can. Might be nice to be cut off from the world. 

(I thought we were.) True. 

Or we could have a self-imposed snow day. 

(I think I will.)

Three twists and a winch.

In a perfectly predictable twist of fate the windshield wipers on the Porsche refused to work until I got out and started them with my hand. Now they're fine.

(She goes in for service and a new battery in two weeks, and maybe now a wiper motor. All stuff in the frunk. Hang on girl, you got this.)

In yet another, we discovered this morning that when the custodian mops the sanctuary at Sam's church, he carefully closes all of the furnace vents in the floor first, so as not to get water down into the ductwork. Which explains why the church is so fucking cold every Sunday morning. Sam and Lochlan and I opened all of the vents again and it was almost toasty in there this morning. I was so delighted I didn't even fall asleep. Not even once.

In a third twist, Canada Revenue has decided to not release the 2018 tax package until this coming February 18. Which is the same day netfile goes live. Which means I can't do a thing except continue to collect paperwork for another week and don't have to do tax work today. It's a short week too, with Henry having a school inservice and Ruth only going three days a week for her university classes. It's supposed to be cold and snowy and awful out, much like it has been the past two weeks. I wish the Olympics were on but it's an odd year.

So what would you like to do this afternoon, Peanut? 

Watch King of the Hammers for offroading tips and drink hot chocolate. 

Sounds good to me.

My fingers are cold and the power is still out at every second stoplight and you're supposed to treat it like a four-way stop, assholes.

Stood outside in the freezing cold today and learned to use a rivet gun. Learned to pop out my taillights and pop out the gas cap trim. Learned how to shop for plasma cutters on sale. Learned how to drive in 4-lo again, still a little concerned about my strength and ability to jam that shift knob all the way back up.

Learned I still like Burger King fries better than the others, but fries from Five Guys are still the best of the lot. Five Guys is just really uh...too...warehousey for me. I like ambience. Burger King has way more ambience than Five Guys and it actually has almost none. But almost none is more than none at all so there you go.

I'm exceeding opinionated about things most people hardly stop to consider.

I found a shearling-lined zip-up plain hoodie that's kinda nice for work. If I'm still cold after Monday I'll let the Devil win and quit but then I'll start looking for a job in a warmer place but also not, because I broiled last summer. I'll look for something in a climate-controlled place. Like an auto supply store, as I've spent more time lately at Princess Auto and Lordco, Napa and Canadian Tire than ever before.

(And the dealership, because that's where all the really good parts come from.)

The Jeep is mostly outfitted the way I want now too, barring a good cage and roof rack and then subsequent kayaks on top. And a tent. And maybe the jeep-top hammock. Because freedom panels. I've got 'em.

Places, everything.

Oh..shit. Was bored and when I'm bored I tend to get into trouble. I watch weird things on Netflix. Usually they're too weird to even talk about but this time...well, this time I watched Tidying Up with Marie Kondo and now we're all completely and utterly...fucked. 

The boys like the show. Because we're all about self-improvement over here anyway and because half of them, or perhaps five-quarters of them (at least) are burgeoning metrosexuals as it is, they've decided we need to do that. Purge. Tidy. Organize. 

Nevermind this house is as neat as a pin. One of the funnest, most horrible parts of living in a communal family environment is that if everything doesn't have a place, there's nowhere to put something back and it will subsequently disappear. Into the void. Forever.

(For example, we have four missing ipads currently, because they don't have a place, technically speaking.)

So we're very neat, and exceedingly tidy. I think, anyway.

Ben has already folded all of his t-shirts so that they are stacked vertically on their edges and he swears he knows what he has now. I had a quick gander and noticed at least two hundred black band t-shirts in the drawer. 

You can't see the logos. 

Yeah, I know. 

I have three bags of clothing to donate and I only spent five minutes staring at my closet, wondering what brings me joy. Well, none of it does, frankly, as I don't shop for therapy, pleasure or comfort. I shop because being nude is unacceptable. 

I hate clothes. So it's easy to pick all black and pretend it fits/is comfortable/is warm enough/cold enough/appropriate enough. 

(I know. I don't think I'm an actual girl. They wouldn't act like this.) 

ACTUALLY, my Valentino dresses bring me joy but they're formal. 

So there. 

(Do I get my girl cred back? 

No? Fine.)

We've pledged to work through the weekend, since it's going to be stormy anyway, because everything and everyone has room for improvement, right? 

It is so, and it always will be to me.

Ice-cold pre-dawn finds me in a cloak made from a field of stars, tied with a kuiper belt as I watch the planets revolve around me in a never-ending loop, a static circle of bodies, in a sky as far as the eye can see.

What are you thinking? 

Nothing, actually. Just waiting for the coffee. 

Seriously, Bridge. 

Fine. Did you know that Gerry Kuiper discovered a whole whack-ton of meteors just chilling out by Neptune and once they get nudged into the circle of orbit they are actually tiny planets for a time? 

That's what you're thinking about? 

Mostly. I'm Neptune, and you guys are the tiny planets, except you're actually much bigger and I'm...Pluto, I guess. 

Except Pluto's not a plan-

WE DON'T SPEAK OF THAT.

A wolf-girl in sheeps' clothing.

I stayed home today. Can't do another cold day. Have a headache from the cold and from the time of the month that it is anyway and had to eat chocolate for breakfast just to be (somewhat) pleasant agreeable human.

Does this mean I 'won'? Caleb is up and remiss to not take the opportunity to have his coffee with me by the fire. I will burn all the wood in the whole province, but I won't be cold again. I'm also shopping for some sort of wind-cutting shearling-lined plain hoodie to wear over my work dress. Just in case it gets cold here again. The look on his face is not an amused one. He's angry.

No. It's a sick day, that's all. Because I'm sick. 

I'm glad you stayed home if it's that cold. 

I nod.

So do you think I am going to win, then? What are the odds? 

The usual. Thirty/seventy. 

Is that all? 

Yes. 

We sip our coffee in silence, me hypnotized and lulled into vacancy by the flames and him reading on his phone.

It's not a contest, Neamhchiontach. 

Everything is a contest with you. 

When you feel differently, let me know. He gets up, pockets his phone, kisses my cheek softly, takes his coffee and leaves me there to be wonder if I should just set my clothes on fire or I might never feel truly warm again. 

Starts bad, ends okay.

PJ walked on eggshells, worried I would crack under the weight as he stepped closer, not sure if I needed a hand or some sort of deadly weapon to wield against another awful day of being cold and tired. Even my period started, as if my body was like, oh, are we making her as miserable as possible? I have a magic trick y'all need to see.

I'll take a hu- 

I didn't even have the whole sentence out of my face and I was wrapped against him in one of PJ's famous massive bear hugs where he is all arms and beard and he doesn't let go until he's sure you're ready to pass out from being unable to breathe.

Then he'll laugh at you. But by then you don't even care, I promise. He gives the best hugs.

There. Think that hug should be called 'The Bloodletter' because I'm sure I squeezed out your whole period.

I laugh so hard I'm concerned I might cry again. PJ, it doesn't work that way.

The hell you say.

Not even kidding. Maybe one every hour for a week might work.

Still can't believe you can bleed like that for a week and not die-

What did I miss? Lochlan arrives at the worst (best?) time possible. Are you harassing her? At least feed her first. He holds up a bag. It better be chocolate bars. Wait. It better be cake.

I chased wakefulness today when I would have been better off chasing starlight. I froze to pieces, I got yelled at, and I finished the day in abject, utter defeat.

Because duh, it's Monday. Is everything in retrograde or is it just me. 

I parked my jeep (in the woods. Getting better at four-low, I am) and walked into the house, right through the kitchen, grabbed a bottle of scotch and kept walking right out the back door, across the lawn to the gazebo, where I went inside, hit the heater button and then sat down on the floor in my work dress and heavy nonslip shoes. Took a big long burning drink of scotch and then lay down on my back, staring up at the copper ceiling and I let myself cry. I let myself feel a little sorry for her, for me, I mean, and then I stopped crying and tried to be mad. I'm not good at turning helplessness into anger, though and mostly I look like a three-year-old, just up from a nap, stomping her feet at surely the most ridiculous of injustices. 

Ben comes outside, frowns at the scotch and asks if everything is okay. He would take the scotch but he prefers not to touch it. That's fine. Right now I prefer he doesn't touch it either. It's for me. 

You alright? 

I take a huge swig again and wipe my mouth on the back of my hand. Bridget had a bad day. 

(Stomp, stomp.)

He laughs. Oh, did she? Maybe she'd like to talk about it. 

Nope.

(Stomp.)

Talk is better than anaesthetizing herself. The laughter's gone and the life lesson remains. He waits. Three minutes. Ten. Fifteen.

She knows. I hand him the bottle, tightly capped. Sorry, Benny. Days like this I want to quit too. And make everyone happy. 

Then why don't you? 

Because I don't want him to win. 

JESUS MOTHERFUCKING CHRIST (aka the coffee plan was a failure, as usual).

I pinned up my hair today. A poor choice because it's minus five on the point this morning and minus five here in the damp is the equivalent of minus twenty in a dry cold. Sam helps me into my long woolen coat (teal with as many buttons as I could have put on it just for the methodical factor) and then shrugs it closed around me tightly. He kisses me on the tip of the nose.

So sweet.

So cold, Samuel.

I already called ahead to make sure they turn up the heat and change the fans.

It doesn't help.

Don't take your coat off.

I didn't plan to.

But Lochlan is ready and comes downstairs in his casual suit, a blanket over his arm. Have a bag for this, Bridge? And I run and get a reusable shopping bag from the grocery store and we're set.

Lochlan drives the Jeep. I think he likes it. It only uses five times more gas than his truck so it's a winner for sure but it's so cute who can hate on it?

When we get to church PJ is three minutes behind us with hot takeout coffee. I don't plan to drink mine, instead I consider pouring it down over my head so I can burn from the heat but then I take a sip and who's going to turn down Starbucks on a cold day like this?

(Maybe it will keep her awake this time.)

Pj packs in beside us in his huge parka and in my coat with my coffee tightly tucked in between he and Lochlan it's not so bad with the blanket around me and eventually I forget my shivering fingertips and aching knees, focusing on Sam's words, talking about familiar weathers and the slow winter slide into spring, into Lent, into lighter times, both literally and figuratively.

Mentally I calculate when I need to have the ingredients on hand for the epic Shrove Tuesday pancake dinner I'll be making very early in March for the night before Lent. Mentally I begin to sort out what I'll give up for the forty days prior to Easter. Mentally I begin to get cold again, as PJ shifts slightly and Lochlan's bad arm gets sore, leading him to remove it from around my shoulders. Mentally I feel the cold locking me in it's icy grip and my only defense, as ever, is to fall asleep, head slowly nodding forward, eyes heavy, words running together in my head then disappearing entirely.

(Nope.)

I didn't wake up until I let go of my still one-quarter-full coffee cup, and it landed on my boots, barely spilling but enough of an odd surprise for Lochlan to very loudly, very clearly swear a blue streak in alarm while almost simultaneously lunging for the cup.

Only a drop or two was spilled, mostly on my coat, missing the blanket at least. His reflexes from throwing fire are exactly as incredible as one would expect.

He sits up. Sorry! He calls out to Sam, who was momentarily stunned into silence wondering what was happening. Dropped my coffee. Carry on. 

I reach for my cup back but Lochlan makes no effort to give it to me. He's not irritated, ever, by my inability to remain awake while not moving, rather he is always concerned instead and figures I will just fall asleep again.

He isn't wrong and this time my handbag lands on the floor. He leaves it there.

An unsentimental journey.

What if you had married me? 

He thought he was being sweet or provocative and he cornered me with the age-old question yet again. It was too late anyway, the candles had burned out, the rain had drowned our will to persist and the music had looped around, back to the beginning and my preteen brain wandered off again, trying to understand how all of these wounded-heart people became such amazing singers to share their pain in these beautiful/ugly ballads I love to listen to so much. 

I would need way more therapy than I've ever gotten thus far. 

It was an offhand, knee-jerk reply and my heart immediately rose to my throat as I waited for him to throw me off the face of the earth in a rage, or worse. 

And I would have gotten it for you. The offer stands. 

It doesn't work. (I'm the worst patient that ever lived. Honestly, just bundle me into a cozy straitjacket, put some headphones on me and leave to rock in the corner and I'm good. Or as good as I can be, I guess.)

If you'd give me a chance, it would. 

No. (Because 2019 is all about limits and protecting myself at all costs. How am I doing?)

You break my heart, Neamhchiontach. 

Ditto.