High there (Fourth Sunday in Lent).

I sat in the orchard this morning in the cold sun and laughed at the sound of the fat fuzzy bumblebees making their way from one bloom to the next because I could hear them, loudly and clearly. It isn't often I get that pleasure but it was so quiet. No music, no planes, no sound carrying around the point from others, no arguments in the driveway, no fistfights up the back steps to the loft or to the boathouse, no lectures that go on for days to the point of boredom, to the point of sheer willfulness to do anything, everything, just out of spite by that time.

Just me and the bees. I am a bee, maybe. Though I have no black in my golden hair, and I'm not very big or very loud like these bees. I am in the trees, though these blooms are sparse and early.

I am sparse. I am early.

I'm a flower, not a bee then.

Okay.

(God, these pills are amazing.)

Sam comes out to see me, tromping through the wet grass in his mismatched suit, a smile on his face.

You're alone. The smile vanishes. It was a Friendlies Approaching smile and now he's just disapproving-minister, kind of half-in charge, half hands-off approach most of them have, as in I am here for comfort or physical affection but if this gets really freakishly complicated or violent, I'm out.

That's what Jake did, anyway.

I am not. I wave my hand up toward the hill by the water to where Lochlan sits on the tree swing, not swinging, just swaying, feet planted firmly on the ground.

Like some kind of metaphor too, I just don't know what.

He is currently fulfilling the role of super-patient, highly-annoyed and ultimately deeply-concerned husband. Because his wife is a fucked up tiny grief-monster with a massive appetite for whatever she can get her hands on to make this stop and yet it's never enough, it never stops. Nothing ever changes. Even the bees came back. Even the grief comes back. I want this to change but it's as if the moment I step out and say, hey I think I'm doing bett-

It hears me, turns and comes charging back.

It's a monster. And that makes me the monster. The little blonde monster on the point that they pass around, a hot potato who is hard to hold, difficult to handle and burning for something, she just doesn't know what until she feels that heat.

Abruptly I remember to tell myself that I got my dream. Deep, romantic love on the edge of the seaside, a life beside the ocean, in arms at all times with few daily worries past what's for dinner.

But I got so many other things too. And maybe this is the price you pay for that dream. I wanted a neat little house by the sea, true love and peace.

It's definitely quiet here, the house is far too big and love is everywhere you look. Everywhere I look, anyway. Even in the dark corners where I become someone who doesn't appreciate any of it, instead favouring the losses because they overwhelm the wins. I do appreciate it. All of it. All of them. Even though I paid and continue to pay a magnificent personal price for it. But I appreciate even Sam, who saw from afar that I wasn't in the house anymore and came out to make sure I was safe.

Just making sure, Sam says.

Thanks, brother. Lochlan says it from the swing, his voice full of emotion.

Do you need- Sam sees an opening to minister.

We're fine. Lochlan cuts him off gently.

Sam comes right over to me, kisses the top of my head, then goes to Lochlan, does the same and turns and heads back over the hill toward the house.

They care so much for you. 

And for you. 

We're very lucky, aren't we? We went from being the only two people in the world to this. He smiles at me.

And it breaks my heart. I'm sorry, Lochlan. I spit it out in hot, frustrated tears.

We'll be okay. 

Yeah. 

I promise. 

And I smile, because that's a word that holds a lot of weight with this man now. And I can picture it because I'm fully high right now, but at least today, nothing hurts and that's a milestone with every single breath sometimes.

Bandaids.

I watched him by the pool. It's warm enough, though only if you spend enough time in the hot tub or the sauna before heading to the pool. It's warm indeed and as I watch him talk, as I let my brain register the fact that he is losing his accent slowly but consistently, that he is losing the blonde in his hair in favor of the same silvery-gold that I have now, that he has such little patience for impersonating ghosts even as he still needs things that people need, just like I do.

I use that to my advantage but he doesn't take it.

Instead he dropped me flat on my back on his bed in the sun, a bed that sways slightly from the heavy ropes suspending it from the ceiling. He dropped me there and he smiled his August-summer smile and he pulled off my bikini bottoms and got on his knees.

Heaven, like August, is a place you can go to. I went but the door was locked and so I hung off the knob, shuddering, sweating, crying out as August got back up and put all of his weight on me. Same moves as Jake. Same everything, same joke that maybe they were brothers instead of just friends. Same thoughts in my head that if he helps me pull on the door handle we'll get it open, eventually. It works and we spill to the floor just inside that threshold of heaven and then before I have time to look for Jake, or Cole, or Butterfield for that matter, August reaches up and slams the door shut, pulling me upright, pulling me away from it even as I reach back out for it, telling me I needed to go back, to let him be, to stop implicating him in this effort to stay stuck in 2007. That Jake is gone. That he isn't Jake. That he doesn't want to be Jake anymore.

And then he says if I want to come and see him for his own sake, for his own soul, that I am welcome absolutely any time and it will be different. That it won't be something Jake would do, but something new.

You're lonely. 

Everyone's lonely, Bridget. It's the human condition. 

And that made me more sad then the part where he said I should go.

It helps.

I don't want to help you anymore. I want to help me.

Things you don't deserve to hear.

In the beginning there was a fire, from which came a light. It burned warm and steady, always on, always there to show you the way. There to help you grow, like a surrogate sun. It was a light you could trust because you knew it wouldn't burn out, with a strong foundation and high flames. In the light you saw yourself. In the light, you saw your future. 

In time the light became such a constant, such an ever-present glow that eventually you took it for granted. That's not to say that you didn't appreciate it, but to say that it was just another fixture, like the old rope swing at the lake, or the rusted out packard at the end of the field by the fence, buried over the years by blueberry bushes and goldenrod. 

And then lightning struck, just at a sharp point on the ground between you and that fire, and for a brief moment in time you were blinded, enraptured by this new, exciting source of light, and in your mind it shone brighter than the other light, which grew so dim in the face of this white glowing light. It was a bolt you couldn't turn off, and fascinated, you walked right into it, standing in that glow, warming yourself though you knew it might be brief, and that it might hurt. 

You went anyway. Because you always did. Drawn to the brightness in the world, drawn to warmth always. You walked right in without hesitation and the light from this beautiful freak storm welcomed you. 

And then abruptly, the storm ended. And the night was coming. And when it came you weren't afraid because the fire was still burning. The first light, the constant. The still-going. And it burned for you. 

And it still burns for you, Bridget. And that fire is me. 

Springsteen and nine.

When I wake up next I have far too much real estate in the bed, two-thirds, if not more. Ben sleeps heavily way over on the right side and I hear Lochlan. He's playing the guitar and sitting by the fire. No fire is lit. The windows are open wide instead so that I can hear the birds. I can see the worn hem of the neck of his t-shirt. I can see his curls, head bent down over the guitar.

The screen door slams, Bridget's dress waves
Like a vision she dances across the porch as the radio plays
Springsteen singing for the lonely
Hey, that's me and I want you only
Don't turn me home again, I just can't face myself alone again
Don't run back inside, darling, you know just what I'm here for
So you're scared and you're thinking that maybe we're too young for more
Show a little faith, there's magic in the night
You ain't a beauty but, hey, you're alright
Oh, and that's alright with me

I'm nine years old and I want him to explain, or rather I need him to explain every single line in that song, even though he said he changed some of the words. I do this while I'm walking in circles, trying to step on my rainbow shoelace that's come untied. Every time I succeed I trip myself and he lets go of the guitar he can't hardly play to steady me.

It's just a song. 

You play it every day and you sing it all the time. I can hear you. It's like under your breath.

Don't stand so close.

But you smell good. 

So?

Why is her dress ripped? Did they rip it off?

No. She left her life behind. They get out of the shitty small town. Like we'll do when I get my license. 

Are we going where they went?

What? No, Bridget. We'll go somewhere better.

Caleb said I was a beauty. 

What? 

In the song, he says she's not a beauty but she's alright. Caleb said I was beautiful. 

He's grooming you. That's why I'll take you away. 

Like a cat does to her kittens?

No, Bridget. Not like that. 

Why did you put my name in the song if you're not going to answer any of my questions?

Ask Caleb. 

FINE. 

When I woke up it was five in the morning and Lochlan is playing the piano and singing Faithfully. He doesn't sound like Steve Perry, he sounds like Will South when he sings and my sleeping brain was so curious on how he was going to pull off the drum breakdown and endless lead at the end but he did okay. He also banned the Devil and his shady doctors from the house and so I woke up and the skies were clear, no hint of fog, no chance of rain.

He didn't give me the pills. He caved in and let the others.

Don't fucking demonize him too.

Present, hazy victories.

The buds are opening on the cherry trees, the apple trees too, though I always think they're dead like Jake until the blossoms are full and pink in the orchard. The roses are full of buds and the rhododendrons already opened. I'm most excited for the lilacs, though the buds are teeny-tiny on those, barely visible to the drugged eye unless you're right up close. Once again, I bought dwarf lilacs, and once again they grew to be eight feet and then some in as many years.

Maybe it's a sign.

But I can't read it because I'm having a hard time keeping my eyes open, to the point that I didn't talk enough and Lochlan got spooked again and questioned if it was too much.

Yes, it's too mush, I agreed when I could finally pry my concrete mouth open.

Jesus Christ. But he's not talking to me. He's already figured out that maybe he can't blur the bad parts of my life like this, that he has to figure out how to weather them, a redheaded boat on a stormy sea the likes of which he's hardly experienced before. Lochlan has his own ghosts and I don't fault him for this. No one does. And he's trying so so hard and this isn't easy for anyone.

Stop it. He says it through closed hands, hands over his face. Stop. Just stop. Please.

And the Devil smiles and wicked smile and says As you wish.

There's some beautiful threshold between dulling pain and seeing miracles and I'm balancing directly on it, a tightrope of hope over despair. At the end of the rope Lochlan is there with his hands out, always, words of encouragement, support and pride. Driven to dive for me if I fall. To die for me even.

Down below (Don't look, Peanut! Look at me!) is Jacob. An audience of Jacobs. All wearing the same thing, looking up with concern but hope. Expectation. Awe. All watching the spectacle of my life to see if I can safely cross or if I'll hit the nets.

Caleb stands at the first anchor shackle and threatens to pull the pin. I can hear him shouting over the roar of the crowd of Jacobs. I can feel him threatening to send me to my dreams.

:(

Today was still drugged. A haze-Monday in slow-motion.

I'm fine.

That wasn't fine, Peanut. That was a level of not-fine the likes of which I haven't seen in a while.

A glitch, that's all.

A sign, I'd say.

And what does it say?

We got comfortable, maybe?

Caleb has other ideas. This is what happens when she's taken away from me. I can calm her.

(Huh. It's like I'm not even here.)

Hush, Diabhal. Lochlan I don't want to be on this stuff.

It'll wear off. He is dismissive. Hopefully by then you'll be too tired to scream any more.

It was a bad dream-

It was so tangible I was scared on your behalf! Those aren't normal nightmares and your mind, your mind isn't-

If you say normal next I'm going to kiss you.

He laughs and draws his hands down his face. Jesus, Bridgie. I was hoping we were out from under this-

It's a balance, Dóiteán. Caleb is calm and sure of himself.

Something she's always done better than the rest of us, Diabhal.

Sometimes everyone needs a little help. Caleb kisses the top of my head, folding me into his arm briefly. A reassurance that my ghosts will never be far, which is sometimes oh so little to ask for.

This is my garden...on drugs.

Church for me today was Sam coming all the way out to the vegetable garden and standing on the edge of the freshly-tilled soil, hands in his pockets, watching me muck about getting rid of the remainders of weeds and sticks left behind, plotting out rows and wishing desperately that I could throw my seeds in the ground now, today, rushing spring along like an errant bus on a busy boulevard. The mud is halfway up my boots and when I finally notice him it takes me a splucky-slow minute to get to him. When I do he steadies my lurch, smiles and then reaches down to find a little bit of dirt, which he picks up, using it to make the sign of the cross on my forehead while he prays for my simple, errant soul.

We grow from it and return to it. I wink at him.

You don't bury your dead. The smile is gentle.

I can't. I am earnest and forthright. It's true. I can't. I can't leave them behind. I don't understand people who park their so-loved ones in the ground, effectively anchoring them to one place forever. Cold. Alone.

This is good for you, today.

I nod. Pleased that he is pleased.

Will you be in for lunch? I'll be back a little early. He does shorter services in the weeks leading to Easter.

Yes. I'll help. 

If you feel like it. He's not going to mention the screaming. Not going to mention the fight I put up. Not going to mention the memories I drag around, rebuilding the mind-office, the darkened rooms full of file cabinets and their perfectly-organized thoughts, not going to mention Lochlan's fearful shouts and the wide-eyes as they looked at a little monster they thought was fixed, for the moment, but those moments are so few and far between. Grief grows like a weed all around me and I cut it back but it just regrows.

The good times aren't over, Bridget. He reads my mind. It's scattered like leaves across the grass in the heavier than usual wind.

Hope you're right. And I turn and go back to my work, which could be done by anyone else but today I need to do it. I need to see life on the trees and on the plants that survived the winter right along with me. I need to believe that things go on. I need..I don't know what I need anymore but this feels better than yesterday.

Plans.

Caleb has promised me an after-dinner swim this evening as the first of the year, much to Sam's dismay. Sam wanted the first swim of the year to be a refresher on my lessons. Never mind that they throw me into the ocean with alarming regularity, off a cliff, no less, he wants me to be able to swim around back to the point without assistance, by myself.

But your first rule is not to swim alone. Ever. 

This is emergency preparation, Bridget. Just like the fire extinguisher in the kitchen. 

And in the hall, in case the kitchen is already on fire.

Exactly. 

And the upstairs and downstairs halls-

Right. Preparation is key. 

So you're making me into a navy seal?

No, just a strong swimmer. 

I don't even think my shoulders or my arm are up to swimming today. I mostly plan to float. 

Also a plan. In case you're injured or tired.

You're becoming more like Lochlan every day. 

Really? He laughs. How so?

Contingency plans. Always a good contingency plan. 

Lochlan is very smart. 

True. But not academic smarts.

No, that's Caleb. Lochlan is life-smart. 

Thought you were going to say street smart. 

No, he goes above that. 

Yeah, he does.

Who does what? Lochlan comes in. 

We were just admiring your mind. 

How's that? 

Sam wants me able to return around the point alone in case of emergency and I told him that was a very Lochlan-thing to do. 

Yeah. He nods at Sam. Good idea. I didn't think of it though. 

You've wished for it before. 

But unlike Sam, who has more faith than anyone I know, I didn't think you could train for it. I just figured you were too small to fight the waves. 

I can fight anything. 

Yeah, you can. You're strong. A lot stronger than before. 

Tears. Geez. We've having a full-on circle jerk here and it's really nice. 

Imaginary daze.

HE FILLED THE POOL.

But it's cold outside. And it's supposed to rain tonight. So yeah. It's like baking a chocolate cake and reallllly wanting some but not being able to have any.

He called it a lesson in patience.

Ironic, that.

***

My love for Mark Morton (from Lamb of God) kind of reached a fever pitch when he said he was putting out a solo project. I was so excited. I love him. Mostly because he looks like John (yes, I've mentioned it before here, several years ago) and he's also hella talented, though as I grow up I skew doom/progressive, not so much thrash/metalcore. So while I've seen LOG live and and I've had a crush on Mr. Morton for like twenty years almost now, I thought he would sing, for whatever reason, on his album.

But like Slash (another famous guitar player who put out some solo work), he doesn't. He has guest vocalists.

Except for one song. So I threw it on the stereo and I'm like Hey! His voice is nice! He sounds so...friendly and not like what I expected.

But I listened and it didn't really stick with me. Kind of...safe. This album is testing the waters or maybe I'm jaded but I would have cranked the levels and drawn out the notes and really thrown the book at it. It's too safe. It's too benign. It doesn't have teeth or heart. Which disappoints me but I won't stop staring at him if I get the chance, or staring at John (if I don't) and when I ask the boys what's missing from this album they think I'm harsh or cracked or naive or just being bitchy because I really want to float in the pool and look at the clouds but I can't.

Imaginary Days for sure.

(Any thoughts on what I'm trying to find on this record that's missing? Email me. I want to love it.)

Crunch, crunch, soft.

Time management seems okay today. I did my annual first full day of spring plea for the pool to be filled, was refused (as is tradition) and went and whined to PJ, who checked my reality for me, proclaiming it very low and remediated it post-haste with another cup of coffee and a banana. We got groceries. I taught myself, PJ and Ruth how to make gỏi cuõn (cold Vietnamese salad rolls, SO MUCH EASIER THAN I THOUGHT) (THANKS YOUTUBE) and then I ate four of them. Not the huge ones. I forgot about sizing and bought smaller, I think nine-inch wrappers. So good though. I love love Vietnamese food, and their coffee too. I would eat my way across their little country save for the fact that it isn't on my bucket list. Maybe it should be. 

I was so proficient in the kitchen this afternoon. It was a marked departure from lying on the floor facedown this morning, hands clasped out in front of me, a dramatic request for just a little water in the pool. We don't have to fill it all the way. Six feet in the deep end will suit me just fine. 

But no. Too soon. Not yet. 

I bet there are people here who swim all year ro-

I said no, Bridget. 

My face is surprise and disappointment and he softens. Get up, Sweetheart. 

If I stomp my feet would it make a difference? 

Absolutely not. 

Damn. 

So get up. 

My arms hurt and I want to float. 

So have a bath. Or a hot tub. Both will allow you to float.

Yes, but I can't fit as many people in the bathtub with me as I can in the pool. 

So have it alone. 

Well, where's the fun in THAT?

Love letters to my own cracked soul.

I had to listen to Dare you to Move three times just to get out of bed. Today is a fight from the moment I opened my eyes and I plan to win. My corner's strategy is to power through. Take deep breaths. Envision it all rolling right off my back like a wave. Floating looking up at the clouds. Letting the weight disappear. Digging through the still-cool earth in search of life, but knowing where the (figurative) bodies are buried, and letting them rest.

My playlist is messed up and when all the iterations of Dare you to Move were finished, Wonderful Feeling came on. I have two of those (thanks, iTunes. Christ.) Okay, I feel better. Aspirins help too. My body hurts from running all day with coffee pots and arrows shot by entitled, spoilt-rude customers that I emerge wounded each night and everything aches something fierce and I have to fight that too.

I am two paychecks away from ten thousand dollars (not including tips, which can be really big. I just blow those because my charm demands a ransom for what it puts me though, after all) and I don't think I'm quitting yet. I want to prove I can fix myself and I'm not sure how this is going to do it but what if it is?

(Now today, people, please be nice in the ring because I'm really fucking tired and not in the mood for your shit.)

Beets, maybe.

They conveniently rallied around the Devil today, inviting him out for lunch, asking him for help with stuff, hanging out, being brothers as when one of the brothers in the Collective is hurting the others will always, always swoop in to help. By the time I came home from work, sweating right through my dress, done with customers, done with shit, done with life, they were having a grand old time tearing up the garden, sleeves rolled up, shovels and the tillers in overdrive.

I stopped and watched for a moment, smiling, though it hardly reached my face for being so tired. I wished for a picture, as I could have had it developed in black and white and added it to our history. Conquering the new world, or putting down roots, would be the caption.

In all honesty, these days we practice Irish gardening. I throw a handful of seeds towards the dirt and harvest what comes up. It works a little too well sometimes and some years it's a lot of work but with time management and all of this help we'll figure it out and come out ahead. Gardening is a very peaceful thing for me, and I don't care if it's flowers or food, it does more than pills, counselling, distraction or time.

I'm really glad they picked him up where I left him off. He needed it. I needed it too. 

Hasselblad heyday.

I went up to deliver Caleb's mail (it's my job this month. We all take turns and you get the task for the whole month. No one has to come dig through mail in the front hall. If some is for you it will be delivered to your room. It keeps my front hall clear.

I knocked and he said Come in and when I came in he was just standing up and turning off his monitor. Just a second too late.

What is that?

Just finishing up some banking-

No, your wallpaper. Turn it back on, please, I want to see. 

He sighs and lets his shoulders drop but he complies.

One of Cole's photographs of me.

You live in the same house. Do you really need a...a...technological shrine?

It's a beautiful photograph. 

They all were. But I don't want to see them. 

Then don't put them on your computer.

It feels inappropriate. 

It's nothing of the kind. My brother took a nice picture of my girlfriend, if you leave out all of the history. It's nothing you need to worry about. 

Do you have a lock of my hair and a few candles burning somewhere too?

No, I blew those out already. That's why you're here. I had a little summoning circle.

Oh, Jesus. 

Well, you asked. I'm just up here all day making voodoo dolls of Lochlan and casting wizard spells to make you mine. Seriously, Bridget. Thank you for bringing up my statements but honestly it's a good photo and if you stick around long enough you'll see they rotate through a sizeable collection of his work, including some even of Chris and Loch. So while I love to flatter you and you deserve it, it's really just a picture. 

It's never just a picture. 

No, it is. It really just is. I miss my brother. Let me have that. 

Captain Marvel update.

It was AWESOME!! The first half I was all lol aliens and the second half came back and put me on my ass. It was very very good and worth a weaker first half, which I was told sets up the Avengers world or something. I only fell asleep twice but rescued myself thanks to Lochlan glaring at me in the dark.

Lol. Aliens.

Also, managed to hear Heart, Lita Ford, Garbage and Hole in the same movie. WTF. 

Happy Saint Patrick's Day. My very own in-house Saint Patrick made coffee and french toast for us this morning, encouraged us to go outside and eat on the patio (which is fully decorated so I wonder if we're having a party tonight) and then got tickets to see Captain Marvel for the squad this afternoon.

I guess he got the morning half-right.

I'm KIDDING.

(Really not a Marvel person.)

(Maybe this one will change my mind.)

On the other hand the theatre has coffee. And nachos. So good enough. Lunch is decided. Actually coffee and nachos is not a good combo.

(Also I learned last night that when Thanos dissolved half the people on earth in the last Avengers they'e actually dead. I thought they were transported to another planet. That's weird. It totally looks like they're just being whisked away but WHATEVER, people. Give me the cliff's notes and eventually I'll figure it out.)

(PSS we watched Mortal Engines last night. AMAZING concepts which fell mostly flat. Can't figure out why. Why why why? Everyone in the movie was a beautiful soul. Why did this movie not work? At all? Let's all go think about it and touch base later. I realize you're not here for my reviews but I also don't care.)

The princess and the violet fog (spoilers if you're dying to see A Star is Born and haven't, yet).

Let me be naive here, just for one post.

Have you tried the gin? McQueen & the Violet Fog? It's like drinking rosemary-licorice cordial and it's very very good. I had way too much of it yesterday and yet I woke up okay today. Maybe because I got up at seven sharp and made coffee. I've decided to double my coffee consumption because honestly I'm cooking dinner now and I'm head-dropping while I stir boiling things on the stove, while I set the table. While I sort the mail (into eight piles. We get so much mail holy shit)

More coffee is not going to stave off the narcolepsy but the nervous energy it creates will help to insulate me from its effects.

So after thinking over my movie viewing yesterday I figured out why I didn't like it.

It was La La Land in a different package, with a grittier face and a far more tragic result of said actions.

I'm all for people going for their dreams but what happens if you find love along the way? According to Hollywood, you stomp that shit out post haste and continue on your way.

In the old days you would give up your dreams and settle, because love.

Modern days, hell, modern demands have changed that so it's the opposite now. God help you if you give up those dreams, and god help the significant other who holds you back.

Why can't you have a happy medium? Keep your dreams, and keep your love. There was no reason why she couldn't have brought him on tour. No reason why she couldn't have forced him to go, brought some keepers to handle him (because that awards show fiasco was so preventable) and then everyone is happy.

Instead they decided to be tragic. Fuck that. Choose love.

Shallow.

Ben came home early from his meeting and I am positively halfway to shitfaced, which is probably two martinis too many, but this is my fourth, I can't enunciate any more and I'm afraid he's going to be disappointed in me as I lost my grip on the day, a grip that was one-handed anyway, greasy enough to slide too far for my comfort and already way past theirs.

It's March break still, the last one we'll ever get. It's spring which hurts in a weird way. I always seem to fall in love in the spring and have my heart broken in summer, fall and winter, if we're keeping track but right now the buds are on the trees and it's a retina-searing eighteen degrees but cold in the wind. 

That's fine. I'm inside. 

Nothing particularly bad happened today, I'm just tired. I lie that information to Ben and he fails to believe it. He asks me if the concert cancellation (Breaking Benjamin (not my Benjamin) and Asking Alexandria cancelled their western Canadian tour dates due to 'production issues'. I know what that means, I'm not dumb, but I am seven hundred dollars richer again soon because refunds! Refunds and breathing space because we had three concerts in one week in April and now there's only two) had anything to do with it. Of course not. Shit happens ('production issues', apparently). I just...eh...I need more sleep. 

I'm watching A Star Is Born on my laptop (the remake with Bradley and ah..er...Lady? Not the Barbra Streisand one, but I'm going to dig that up next) and it's freaking GREAT. Their chemistry is blowing me off my seat. 

I'm glad you never met anyone like that, I tell Ben. Or rather, I almost tell him. Some of the words aren't fully formed. 

I did, he says. 

I mean someone who could sing. 

I did, he says. 

OH my fucking God! I mean Lady Gaga with her million award nominations and Saturday Night Live gig! 

Yeah, you're not really all that, are you? He said it as a joke but I just took another huge swallow of gin and put the movie back on just in time to see Bradley Cooper take a big swallow of gin, too. Oh, I get it. In this story, I'm the guy with a fucked up life watching someone steal my starshine. 

Gotcha, universe. Touché.

(Also I went into this knowing nothing, laughing about how much Bradley Cooper sounded like Sam Elliot with his Deep Voice and then Sam Elliot comes on screen. Yay.)

(Boy did I ever go into this knowing nothing. Oh my God. Next time go ahead and spoil it, please. Everyone was like It's great! It won awards! Well, to someone like me it's a battlefield disguised as entertainment and I don't have any fight left in me. Ben almost threw the computer out the window.)

Nice try.

I think they're planning something.

I waltzed into the kitchen in time to see PJ putting bags in the cupboard. He saw me and did a double-take and then all but threw the bags inside and shut the door. I saw a flash of green foil.

When I asked Lochlan and Ben what they want to do this weekend (Drive over mountaintops? Freeze to death kayaking? Spend the whole damn thing at the movies?) they both demure on making plans, saying they are tired and we should have a quiet weekend to rest, since no one is sick (ha, still coughing a bit), and since we don't have to do anything specific.

But it's St. Patricks Day! I complained. My national holiday! The one where everything is green except whatever I eat because I'm allergic to food colouring. 

Eh, it's not a specific holiday, Bridge. But I see Lochlan struggling to keep a straight face so I let him off the hook because I know something exciting is coming.

Yeah, you're right. I guess I'll mark it in my own way. 

That's my girl. Hey, maybe we can go see Captain Marvel this weekend. 

Or we can do nothing. You said you were tired, right?

Yeah. (He (Monsieur MCU superfan) was hoping I'd be on board but I'm die-hard DC, remember?)

Typical.

What would you like for dinner, Bridge? 

Toasted marshmellows and cold vodka. 

Where? 

In the pool. 

When?

Moonrise, of course. 

You're weird. 

Thank you.

Pies offering.

I did go to work after all, and halfway through the day I turned and walked all the way to the last booth, pulling down the menu and finding Batman there. 

You were coming to see me, that day you got..ah..distracted with Jake. 

I was.

Why?

Maybe a loan. 

He laughs a big, rare laugh. For what?

Does it matter?

Perhaps. 

I need to buy all the Jeeps. 

Why? 

No one told me how fun they were to drive.

Maybe I should get one. 

Yeah, you should. Take mine out this weekend and see. 

You'll lend your beloved? 

It's insured. Ruth takes it, sometimes. 

Possibly. 

Does this mean you might come back and see me and actually find me at some point? 

They wouldn't be very impressed. 

That's fine. I don't live to impress the commune. 

Collective.

Whatever. 

You're part of it. 

If I were I would have a place at the table. I am nearby. Close enough to keep an eye on you. 

I soften briefly. He is difficult and and it's rare that we're into each other. So rare. I appreciate that. 

I'm glad to hear it. Maybe now I can try this famous pie of yours? 

What kind would you like?

Surprise me. Just warm it up a little, please? 

I'll be right back. 

Light be mine.

Ben had to pry me away from him this morning. Who wants to go to work when there are sweet reunions to be had? But under promise of more snow I went, because I knew it would be less busy, hopefully and more organized. I like it when it's organized. I hate it when I'm running nonstop. 

I got another kiss and Ben said he would be lonely until I got home and Lochlan glared at him and asked if he was just a third wheel or what? Ben didn't miss a beat, winked and Loch and said Shhhhh. I'm just letting her think what she wants. The minute she's gone I'm all yours. 

Lochlan laughed out loud and the happiness in the room made it even harder for me to leave. 

The day went fast and once I was home time slows back down, the way it should. We made dinner, I got caught up on laundry (have to wash my work dress for tomorrow since I only have one) and now they're looking at a gold-panning video online while I make my lunch for tomorrow. 

Maybe I'll call in sick.

Times change, routines don't.

Ben is home. I sensed him before I heard him, and when I turned around he had filled the kitchen archway, bag still in hand, smile on his face that said maybe he missed me as much as I missed him, and I dropped the pot into the sink and ran.

I am in his arms off the ground before he has time to say hello and I wouldn't have it any other way. His absence is a familiar ache and I always loved it when he came back. Still do.

I didn't get a welcome like this from PJ. 

He just doesn't want you to mess up his hair. 

And I get a kiss. A Ben-kiss which is one of the best kind.

Tired? 

Yeah. I didn't sleep. It was too quiet. There was too much space. I need my velcro friends. 

You got them. 

Okay, can we go to bed at maybe seven? I'm really wiped. 

I can do that. 

Lochlan? 

He's next door dropping off some papers with Schuy. Brace yourself when he runs at you. He's been working out. 

How so? 

Trying to get past the others to punch Caleb. 

That's a good workout for him. 

Not really but sometimes he's stronger than they are if he's in the mood. 

Where's Cale? 

Church, I think. 

Ooh. Alone? 

Yeah. I've done it. YOU'Ve done it. 

True. 

He smiles with crinkled eyes and I put my hands on his cheeks. I'm so glad you're home. 

Wow. I should go away more often to get a welcome like this. I figured you'd throw an Oh Hey over your shoulder and keep doing whatever. 

You should NOT go away more often and I've never done that in my life. 

Lies. You did it that one time I called Jake out and then went to Europe for three months. I've never felt so small. 

Oh, you deserved that though. You were being an ASS. 

I was. And I'm glad I'm not anymore. 

Me too. 

This is my brain on the sunrise.

I will not rescind a word
Of what I've said
For the vultures overhead
But for every line I vent
Another ten
I'm afraid I'd lose you then

Pre-dawn coffee from the firepit with Diabhal, who is soft-spoken and completely willing just to spend the time this morning. We've made toast with melted cheese directly on the grill over the fire and I give the ashes a stir, my own version of a dark zen garden, tracing patterns in the embers, envisioning them as water flowing black over my ruminations, eroding my efforts to shut him out as he deserves to be, these days.

The coffee is good. Hot, rich, tempered with just a little sprinkle of brown sugar. The bread is sawed rough from a round loaf of sourdough, broken with his hands into pieces small enough to eat, the cheese cut with his pocketknife and balanced on each piece of bread until soft enough from the flames to melt into the crumb just the way I like it.

The dawn is beautiful. The sun bursts quietly through the lavender-grey horizon gently and without announcement, casting a beautiful glow on our faces, erasing years, lines and deeds in a brief instant before casting shadows once again as it chases the moon out of the spotlight.

He's done it. He took a strongarmed action and strangled it off, returning to the patient Devil, to the reactive instead of the proactive emotional strategy he usually feeds off.

I watch him as I sip my coffee. He watches me back. Almost imperceptibly he nods. As if this is good enough, if this is going to be the way it is. He has softened around his sharp edges, mellowing at last, aging gracefully into what I always hoped he would be, but what I figured would always be just another daydream for a little girl looking out the window as the road wound like a ribbon around her life. She wanted to put the Devil in her pocket, along with the crushed paper cone from the cotton candy, and the seven pennies she found underneath the window at the ordering counter of the ice cream shop, so that she would always know exactly where he was, and he'd never be able to surprise her again. Then she would take her sticky hand and thrust it into Lochlan's and they would be safe.

Manic pixie dream boys.

Five nights straight all to ourselves and we've already resurrected old sleeping patterns, old habits and old feelings. Five nights straight of Ben being away (work. travel. argh. fuck. retirement. apparently) and I'm pretty sure that while we slumber away pressed closely together in each others faces, PJ is probably sleeping on the steps outside our door, an exhausted sentry, a one-man-band, tasked with keeping the peace. Not alone but mostly in charge while everyone else is off doing their dailies and he remains on high alert at all times because the moment you let your guard down otherwise Caleb and Lochlan will be at each others' throats because that's how their friendship is mapped.

Caleb thinks he is untouchable. Lochlan thinks he can carve rules in stone, that our routines will never change. Caleb has some foolish notion that we can move forward, all the while carving his name into the chip on Lochlan's shoulder.

We try to move on and then the past drags us down into the abyss. I worry that it might always be groundhog day around here, even as I tried so hard to move on, to find someone new, completely outside of the Collective and..it ended badly. It ended abruptly, and I went running back. 

Didn't know I had a reset button.

I was getting ready for bed, putting gloss on my lips from a little pot and Lochlan appears in my reflection, turning me around, taking the pot from me and putting it on the counter, taking my hand, finger still up, using it to trace my lips. His face is an inch from mine but he's very intent on holding my finger steady, gently sliding it over my lips. His mouth is open, breath held just for a moment as my eyes try to take everything in. Is he angry? Is he resigned? Is he fine with it, fine with everything or is he going to barge in with some sort of gentle demand that I can't fulfill?

He moves my finger to his lips and traces his bottom one. It's probably the most tender moment we've shared in months. Maybe even years. Then he kisses me and I replace the previous moment with this one, because it's soft and slow and perfect. It's not a Hurry up and prove I'm the One, it's a We're going to take our time moment.

He picks me up and sits me on the counter, legs dangling over the edge on either side of his hips. He pulls his shirt off and unbuttons mine, leaving it around my shoulders because I'm always cold. He pulls my hips right to the edge where he is there to meet me, and I cry out, surprised at the cold counter, and at the warmth of his skin, always. When he hears me he lets go of my hips and wraps his arms around me, lifting me up, taking me out of the room, into our bedroom, gently putting me down on the quilts, then following me there. Another kiss and he smiles and turns me over, pressing me down into the covers with his weight, pushing his arm down underneath me in order to pull me back up against him, hand firm against my belly, suddenly driving so hard into me that I have to make fists into the blankets just to breathe, just so I don't cry out too loudly.

His other hand is twisted in my hair. God, it's so long finally, he says, and I don't know if he's talking about my hair or the length of time we've been without this kind of comfortable privacy. He pulls my head back and kisses my ear, then lets go and I am shoved against the bed over and over again until he evens out, turning me back over, making me climb walls until I'm begging him to stop and then he comes too and I feel like his grip might pull my head right off, his other hand anchoring my thigh so hard he leaves a placemarker bruise, one that is still present this morning.

He slows to a crawl against me and another kiss is my reward for conquering the dark.

I like your lipgloss, he says. It tastes like raspberries. 

Everything ends in a fistfight. That used to be my complaint about movies, that it didn't matter what special powers anyone had, they would fight the enemy with punching and beating. 

My guys have super powers. They do the same. 

Six weeks of penitence, six weeks of grace (six weeks of violence, all up in your face).

As I learn to count my days
The less I care to veil
Something of a deeper truth
Is begging to exhale

When the time has come to bleed
And air my fill
Will you be there for me still
And if you turn and walk away
Well then I know
You were never there at all

Lochlan is watching the dark, watching a rare winter night with clear stars visible all the way to heaven if you remain still enough.

I gave Caleb up for lent. It is supposed to be a luxury, something you would miss. Something you would struggle to avoid, something difficult.

He is perfect for the job.

Just let me catch my breath, Lochlan says over the piano notes in my mind.

It can be more than forty days-

I don't know, Bridge. Just leave it. 

What will you do?

Give him up as well. He laughs but it's not a happy sound. I don't know. Fast, maybe. Pray. Something. 

Pray to who? 

Jake. Who else? As close as I can get to God, anyway. Jake is a good middle man. 

Why? 

I've done so many bad things in my life. I can't walk around like a hypocrite pulling faith out for special occasions. God let me down so I let him down. We haven't actually spoken in years. 

It's never too late. 

Bridget, if you knew the things I wished for on an almost hourly basis you would agree with me. 

He sounds like Caleb right now only he doesn't mean me, for once.

Leave him be. 

You breathing is the only thing that keeps him safe. 

Why did you let me go then? On the trip? 

You asked me. Remember? But you're home now and I don't have to play this game if I don't feel like it.

Piefaces, poker hands.

Happy birthday, Diabhal. I hold up a plate with apple pie and one candle stuck through the centre, lit with a match. I don't sing. He takes the plate and exchanges it for a whiskey, the thick glass so heavy it actually needs both my hands to hold it. I nod and take a sip. He takes a bite of the pie.

Your cook is a master. 

Anyone can bake a pie. 

You don't have time, anymore, so I must give my overwhelming enthusiasm to someone else. 

True. It isn't cake though. 

Sometimes a change is good. He holds out a forkful but I shake my head. I don't eat pie. I continue to sip the whiskey and wait for him to talk.

I'm concerned you're going to give me up for Lent. I know the trip wasn't what you expected and I need to make that up to you. 

Actually, you don't. You've done enough. 

I don't leave loose ends. 

Sure you do. 

I was hoping for a little high-speed romance, some good bonfires in the snow, some aurora and a change between us. I missed the mark. 

You took someone with a bad cold, who shouldn't have even been cleared to fly, to Alaska. 

It's different. 

Boy, is it ever, I laugh in spite of myself.

So let me fix this. 

Lochlan isn't going to be receptive to another trip. 

So we take him with us. 

I really need to stay home. 

So we have a mini-vacation at home. With lots of pie. Damn this is good. 

I'll talk to him. 

I will. It'll make more sense. I have some ideas. 

I sip my whiskey again. It's making my gin hangover lose a grip on my brain. Like what?

Better surprises. And he kisses my cheek with his crumby lips. You'll see.

Thank God I'm still drunk or I'd really feel this.

I am home from the war. Home from trying to keep the peace because today is his fifty-sixth birthday and he wanted to spend it in the past. Home from trying to wage a battle as a worthy adversary when I am nothing of the kind. Home to Lochlan's arms which tremble with regret and home to stay, because I shouldn't have left in the first place. Home to sleep off what is going to be a two-day gin hangover.

Home with my monster. Who ages but never changes, who likes a different vantage point from which to conduct his same-old same old, who doesn't ever seem to understand that his charm (and his threats) have changed me, permanently, and not for the better.

Though I tried to keep things smooth, to make sure he enjoyed his trip with little pushback I failed to impress him with my lack of enthusiasm or maybe he just keeps forgetting who I am, that I'm not going to magically become a yes-girl when he flashes his infinite credit cards and his cufflinks. That he can call a plane on demand no longer makes me wish for a sugar daddy to cover my bills and fix my life. The only time I truly liked him over our blink-and-you'll-miss-it getaway was when he sat back by the campfire, looked up into a cloud-filled, aurora-free night and said Maybe they didn't get my memo and then laughed disparagingly  as we failed to catch the whole point of the trip, which were the Northern Lights.

The only Northern Lights to be had the whole trip were my labradorite earrings, often called as such due to their quiet flash.

It was then that I looked at him in the firelight, at his unshaven, relaxed face, at his capable hands holding a mug full of hot whiskey and cream and I thought to myself,

God, I wish I was home.

And then he asked What are you thinking, Neamhchiontach? and I told him because I have a really hard time lying. It didn't go very well. Not very well at all and he certainly made no effort to extend the trip, to stretch it out through today or to segue into another trip or anything at all.

The five years of good birthdays was nice but I guess that's over now. And it's my fault because I told the truth, because no one asked if I wanted to take a trip. No one asked if now was a good time or even if I ever had Alaska on my bucket list (I do not). It's my fault because I am ungrateful for all that he has done for (to) me and because I don't listen (I did) and it's my fault his birthday is ruined because I can't let the past go, even as he's the one trying to remake it, trying to reorder history, trying to soften the blows of the bad guy so I forget everything he did. The past is an albatross, it's a carving in stone. It can't be outrun because it knows where we're going.

It followed me here. It follows me everywhere. How is this my fault?

He comes to find me not that long after we get home.

Neamhchiontach. We really need to talk. 

We do, just not right now. 

ALASKA.

In March.

No more bad birthdays (a promise we've kept for five years now).

Tiny (and so beautiful) labradorite earrings in a beautiful little box that he holds patiently for me. Caleb has the patience Cole never could grasp but they share a temper and I'm always loathe to wake it up this early in the morning.

Instead I say nothing and wait for him.

These are for you. 

I nod.

What's wrong?

On birthday weekends you get presents, you don't give them. 

I'm not most people. 

I nod again.

It's actually going to be a very long weekend if I have to force your words out of you. 

Sorry. Just trying to read the moment. 

And?

They say it's a bestseller but I'm still on the fence. 

And he laughs a great big laugh out loud. It's easy to love you, he says.

And I nod again. Of course. Very easy. Too easy, and that's what makes this next part so hard.

I was thinking that I need a little getaway. 

Is that right?

With you. 

I need to be here, Caleb. 

Two nights only, for my birthday. It's already cleared with Lochlan and everyone else who matters, and we leave at two sharp so please pack early so we're not behind. I sent the itinerary to your email. 

Where? 

It's a surprise, and you're going to love it.