(So much) At stake.

Our library seems to be neutral ground. It's the place where Talks happen, where things get worked out. It's a calming, restful room with floor to ceiling windows overlooking the woods and a fluffy white rug on the floor. The standing shelves on the two walls that aren't all windows are white, the chairs are white, the couch is white, the walls themselves are white and the floor under the carpet is bleached hardwood, unfinished except for a regular coat of wax.

I love this room. It holds the books of our entire Collective, save for personal favorites that are kept in our respective rooms. So everything else, in other words. It's large but the conversational seating arrangement in the centre makes for a cozy vibe. It's hard to describe but so simple. It has been in a magazine online, just for kicks but I'm not going to tell you which. I don't sell things on my blog. Except maybe desperation but that's not really for you to buy, is it? If I like a product (like my shorts from the other day) I'll point that out but I'm not going to become an affiliate for everything. It was never my intention to write my words and then sell them out from under myself for the sake of a few dollars. I don't need the money, you don't need yet another sponsored post in your life, nor another ad.

Maybe that's why I'm still going, when I've seen some of my own favorite blogs write an entire post on a new toothpaste only to have a link with a discount code at the end. That's not content, that's shilling for a toothpaste company. Is it not? Within a year or two said blogger moves on. They weren't in it for the words, they were in it for the money.

I'm still here. Never in it for the money or I would have married Caleb.

And it's in this room that I meet August.

Not Jake's surrogate brother August. Not August of the past. Not August of the sometimes-difficult present.  Not August the struggle.

This man is new. He's wearing a button-down and a nice jacket. He's carrying flowers. When I open the library door after he knocks and refuses to just walk in, he thrusts the flowers at me and sticks his hand out. He says his name is August, and that I must be Bridget, and he's happy to meet me.

These are beautiful! I stick my face in them. Lilies. What are you doing? 

Starting over. He takes a deep breath. Something we should have done a long time ago but we can do it right now. 

What does this mean? 

We go forward as friends with no baggage. And no pain between us. 

Is that even possible? 

Let's find out. Are you going to invite me in? 

Depends. Are you a vampire?

Last time I checked, no, but you're going to have to trust me. 

Unsure of hardly anything, except him.

I was singing along with Elton John at the top of my lungs at the edge of the pool. Elton wasn't there, proper, he was in the stereo but I was having such a good time that I must have missed the look that passed over my head between August (minding his own business, sadly. As always) and Duncan, who never misses an opportunity to wade into whatever's going on on any given day.

Into whoever, I mean.

I sat up with a gasp, quilt in my fists an hour later in Duncan's room, as Duncan finally let go of me. Chlorine and incense fills my throat. His hands leave almost-bruises everywhere he touches me, Elton still sings in the background and I no longer what August is up to because he doesn't seem to want me to know.

I should spend more time at the pool, Duncan says softly. I wasn't sure if I was interrupting anything between you and August. I mean, I guess it's clear I wasn't. 

I shake my head. There's a lot going on with him. 

Interesting. That's not what he said. 

Please tell me so I don't act like a fool around him, Dunk. 

I could make my own case here and yet I'm trying to show you the virtue of someone else. That's the kind of man I am, I guess. He laughs.  He actually asked if you said anything about him. He said you've been avoiding him for months, that you two had a misunderstanding. 

A misunderstanding. That's what he called it?

Yeah. What happened? 

We had a...misunderstanding. 

Maybe you should go talk to him. Though I'd love to keep you. 

Okay. Sorry, Duncan. 

Short and sickly sweet are my favorite kinds of visits from you, Bridge. 

But I didn't go across the drive to August's loft. I went upstairs alone and hid out on my balcony with a book until August sent me a text.

Busy?

No. 

Come over? 

Can you come here?

Alright. Give me a minute.

I feel like I don't know what he's going to say but I know exactly what he's going to say.

12:8 (Intermittent Benning).

When you were falling from my tree,
I was not scared.
I thought you'd meet me back up there.
It never dawned on me you were home free.
It never dawned on me, no.
Benjamin, no
Benjamin, no
Where did you go?

(A freakishly good song off an even better album, if you want a listen. It's called Benjamin by Veruca Salt and it's on Eight Arms to Hold You).

I took today off, unexpectedly as Ben came upstairs around twelve forty-five and pulled me underneath him instead of going to sleep and since I still smelled of jasmine bubbles I think he was a wee bit hungry for me and that's okay, because I was for him as well.

I've become his drug, I think. Most of the time he can go without but then things reach a fever-pitch and what do you know, I'm currently running on a whole ninety minutes of sleep here.

Ben is not a take-his-time, it'll last an hour kind of guy. Ben is a six-or-nine-hour kind of guy. Sometimes more. Had I known that once upon a time I would have...

...done nothing differently at all.

(Snort.)

But we come to midweek (literally) and I am not in any shape to be moving quickly and that's wonderful today, and even more wonderful is the fact that both Lochlan and Ben are sleeping soundly right now. I'm up, of course because it's Wednesday and I've already completed three loads of laundry and done the budget. I messaged with Caleb who is relaxing still in bed but awake. I turned down repeated requests that I join him (yeah, no. All touched out and fucked to death but thank you) and plan to maybe just do some light gardening today and get the house pulled back together, because Monday and Tuesday were nuts.

Maybe later, after dinner I'll take a glass of prosecco and hang out in the tub for another hour with Lochlan and sleep, finally. That would be good.

But other than that, for Sam's requested barometer it feels like a calm day. A quiet day where everything is okay for the moment. A gift of a day to try and catch my breath. I did my mental gratitude dance for all things for which I remain profoundly grateful (tangible and intangible) and I'd like to get caught up on my music now, I think. And my Benjamin.

Când trebuie într-adevăr să decomprimați.

Lochlan came home later that I from work. I was already upstairs in a shoulder-deep tub full of broiling-hot water and mountains of bubbles when he came in, dressed in his tan cargo pants and a button-down flannel shirt, buttoned all the way up to his neck with only the top button undone.

Well, look at this handsome man. I reach my arms up and he leans down for a kiss. When he does I hang my entire weight from around his neck and catching him off balance, he almost falls into the tub.

Just a minute, he protests, but he barely lets go of the kiss. Within seconds he has stripped down and joins me in the tub where the water is now around his shoulders and up to my neck. He sits back in the deep end of the tub, extending his legs, pulling me onto his lap where I give him a million steamy kisses and zero time to breathe.

How was the day? He asks.

Poured a lot of coffee. People really wanted to vent, I said. You?

Put out a lot of fires. Schuyler asked for a favor so I went-

It's fine. I smile at him.

It is now that I'm back home. I got lonely without you. 

You should come in for lunch then. 

I don't like to see you like that. It's hard. Watching you pander to a bunch of ungrateful-

It's breakfast and lunch. They don't care who serves them, they just want food. No one sees their waitress as a three-dimensional soul. 

They should. 

It's better if they don't. 

No more work talk. He squeezes me hard against him and the bubbles that were between us are forced up past my chin, covering my face. He starts laughing so hard he cries and I wipe my face off on the towel that's on the stand near the tub and then return to his embrace, pressing my wet head against his.

He tilts his head back, closing his eyes as I watch him. This is the life. Fuck everything else. 

Agreed. I paint a bubble-beard on him and he grins so wildly I laugh and add eyebrows. There. Now you're perfect. 

I thought I was before.

Well you thought wrong.

Slowest fashion ever.

'Tis official. It's summer. 

I pulled my Cousin Smoothy reversible shorts off the shelf when I got home from work. This will be year thirty-four for them, having bought them in a tiny clothing shop just off Spring Garden Road in Halifax. They have fruits on one side and surfer comic strips on the other. I always wear them surfer-side out since I prefer the pastel pattern to the primary-colored fruits but the fabric is still flawless, the stitching is perfect and tight and the pockets are deep and huge enough for iphones, something that didn't exist when I bought them in 1985. At fifteen I still wore pastels in the summer. Now I have to because they're The Shorts That Won't Die.

I wore them downstairs. I have to water my new poppies, peonies and larkspur, all recent transplant additions to the English garden side of things. I want to do it before helping with dinner. 

Oh my God. Lochlan says. Every year when you haul those out I can't believe you still have them. 

I'll have them forever, I think. It just seems inevitable. They're not even wearing at all. 

Is it weird that you're the exact same size that you were when you were fifteen though? PJ is incredulous. 

I can't do anything about that. I shrug. I just never grew. Failure to thrive or something. 

It's all the cotton candy Lochlan fed you instead of fruits and vegetables. 

Lochlan tried to get her to eat her vegetables. Lochlan laughs as he talks about himself as if he's not right here. Lochlan did his best.

He did. 

Is the company still around? Maybe I should get some lifetime shorts.

Yeah, I think you should. The problem is they won't be in their thirties til you're in your eighties and by then you'll have forgotten them. 

Yes but you'll still be hauling out your shorts and marvelling that this year they're seventy years old or something because you forget nothing. It's a gift. 

It's a curse, by far. 

Maybe you can remember the shorts and forget the other stuff. 

That's what I'm aiming for.

Blackened + brined.

True to their nature, Ben and Lochlan took another no-good very bad week and set it on fire before putting it out in the sea. I was covered in salt and ashes and darkness and I wouldn't have it any other way. I came out the other side relatively unscathed, put myself through a long boiling-hot bubble bath, and then put on a pretty dress and the ever-present sweater and went to church.

Sam winked at me when I met him at the door, since he left super-early to turn the fucking heat on because it's supposed to be almost June and yet it feels like February. No Jesus beach today, people would bitch him out until lunchtime.

Better? 

Much. I kiss his cheek and head inside to find a place while he chats with Ben and Lochlan, as if he didn't just do that two hours ago at home. At least their feelings for each other are still soft and the brotherly affection runs deeper than Bridget's momentarily existential crises brought on by the Devil's pointed barbs of questions, meant to wound lightly. Death by a thousand cuts, or maybe it's just a new and different tactic. Or maybe it's the same old tactic. I don't know, I'm just here for some Jesus to set me right before a new and very busy month begins.

That's how it's done, right? 

Glitter in a rain puddle (acting normal when she's nervous).

And in between the moon and you
The angels get a better view
Of the crumbling difference between wrong and right.
I walk in the air, between the rain,
Through myself and back again

He pushes his thumb against the cross in the hollow of my throat, whispering a prayer followed by an oath. Darkness in the darkness. Save our souls, indeed. My soul is contagious, poisonous, and his is too naive to notice.

Bridget-

Don't talk. I slide his jacket off his shoulders, fighting with his tie next. He takes over, pulling it off easily, unbuttoning his shirt before beginning to work on sliding my sweater from my shoulders, followed by my dress. I'm down to my slip and it's cold. It's so cold and yet my skin is flushed warm, pink and electric, static when he touches it directly.

He bends his head down for a brief kiss and halfway into it, I check out. It's so sudden, I catch my breath and he does too.

I shake my head, just enough and he lets out a deep breath that he's been holding. Instead he turns, picks up his shirt and wraps me in it. Maybe we should talk.

The tears drown me so fast I never even see it coming and I can't get the words to float.

Did something happen you haven't told me?

I shake my head, fighting for air. It was a sudden crushing fear and I hate this. I hate this feeling. I hate myself. I can't even breathe and he wants to minister me, naked and raw. God bless Sam, he's so goddamned adaptable it hurts. He never stops working, even when he should be doing everything BUT working. If only Jake had-

(No.)

(Don't.)

This is it, isn't it?

What is? I'm not going anywhere. I'm here anytime you need-

No, I mean my life. This is it. Trying to find what's going to make it hurt the least, trying to figure it out.

Yes.

What? I look up at him with my tear-stained red face, quivering lip, runny nose, wild bedhead. So beautiful indeed. Wanted. Why on earth is it me?

This is it. This is your life. You're one of God's children and we get one chance to live a life, one time around to figure it out and make it hurt as little as possible so that we can thrive.

This isn't what I wanted, Sam. This isn't the way it was supposed to be.

I know, honey. But this is the way it is and we're going to help bring you through it.

Like this?

Whatever way it works. And what will work right now is for you to go home. 

I am home, Sam-

Lochlan is home now, Bridget. You tell me this all the time and then you run from him like you're on fire. 

I choke on a laugh. I usually am-

Go to him, Bridget. I'll find you in the morning and we can talk. It's a better plan than this one, for both of us.

I know. 

Goodnight, beautiful. 

Don't say that. It's a lie. 

Monsters (Bridget) and men.

This day is punctured full of holes, letting the rain and humidity pour in, wilting PJ's attempts at jokes about how I not once but twice in a single week failed to time my visit to New York with the opening of the whole park, jokes meant to mask his fear, the fear I see in all of their eyes as they wonder if I'm seriously considering Caleb's offer.

As if I ever do (looks around).

I mean, I did and look where we are now? What's to say I can't further extend him right up until the day he dies?

What if Lochlan dies first?

What if I do?

I don't have a crystal ball and I didn't like the readings I got from the fortune teller. She scared me worse than Caleb ever could and still I play games (she said I would) with the devil because that's what passes the time for us. I throw him a bone because he's a dog with a singular master. I entertain his offers because maybe one of them will sound good enough to get the wheels rolling again and just maybe someday Lochlan and Caleb will be best friends again, like they should have been, were meant to be, all along.

I ask Lochlan if it's a possibility while we sit wrapped in a blanket together on the porch, sharing a cup of tea. I've decided I think I already hate tea and crave a cup of coffee like nobody's business. I have no willpower at all.

It isn't, he replies. He doesn't even hesitate. Our moral paths differ wildly. I have them, he doesn't. 

People don't change? 

Monsters aren't people. I can get along with him for your sake, for everyone's sakes but no. It's not going to be the three musketeers living out our days-

Like we are right now. He lives one room over. 

Jesus Christ. You're right? 

So does that mean you might consider this? 

No, I think we have to find a way to move him out. 

Lochlan! 

Well, Batman has a big empty house. He can live there. Away from me. 

It's never going to get better than this, is it? 

I think this is pretty damned good, Bridget. I no longer want to murder him at every waking moment but I'm not going to fight him for you into my old age. You're mine. He won't be a part of our future so stop trying to talk me into it. 

Red eyes, best sides.

Home again, still in the air, trying to come down from this but my sweater is hooked on a star and I'm swinging through the night like the best damn trapeze artist you ever saw (if you saw me, and I wasn't that good, truth be told, but then again, Lochlan couldn't tell the truth so he always settled for telling me what was obvious, that maybe I wasn't the best, but I was something, and people noticed that something).

Caleb tried to rescue me from the night (boy did he) and had no luck. Ben reached up and unhooked my sweater at last and I fell down through the clouds, down through the dark, back into the light. Lochlan slept like a stone.

But we are back.

Back to reality where I never like to spend all that much time in case it sticks. You know, like dirt. Or fly paper. Or the awful feeling you have all morning after a bad nightmare.

I accepted Caleb's invitation for a swim this morning, to (symbolically, yes I had a shower) wash off the night, wash off the big city, the sand, the inevitable grit and glamour of the midway, thinking it was harmless, kind, even.

Once in the deep end he swam over and put his arms around me, holding me close. I missed you. 

I put my arms around his shoulders. My eyes burn from the reintroduction to chlorine after being dry from the flight. I close them and put my head down against his shoulder. He locks his arms and leans back, floating semi-vertically. I could fall asleep like this but then I would drown and I wouldn't get to finish my story and I need to see how it ends.

No you won't. He reads my mind, as he is wont to do. I won't let you. 

You should. 

I am also curious.

Give me your theories. 

This is like giving your hand away in poker. Absolutely not, Bridget. 

Why not? Embarrassed? 

No. You can go first if it's such a normal, everyday conversation to have. 

Fine. 

Fine. 

Fine. 

I'm waiting. 

You all eventually drift away and Lochlan and I remain. We live in a drafty cottage by the sea and pick wildflowers and go for long walks on the beach for the remainder of our days. Oh, and we eat pizza like three times a week when we walk into the village for a slice. But it's far better pizza than the kind we get now. Okay, your turn.

What if it isn't like that at all? 

What do you mean? 

What if it isn't Lochlan? 

I can't picture anyone else.

The look on his face said he wanted to drown me but he faked a swift recovery. Maybe it will be me. Only the cottage won't be drafty, it will be custom-built for us and we can still go for long walks and eat pizza. You don't ask for much but I will give you whatever you do ask for when the time comes, or before it. 

I resume resting my cheek against his wet shoulder as we drift aimlessly in the deep end.

I promise you that, Bridget. Cross my heart. 

The three of us? 

If that's what you want, yes. 

Not dead.

Just back in New York. Because some of (okay, precious little) the park is open now, so why the heck not? I almost cried at the thought of a second cross-country return flight inside of a single week but Lochlan said we have a couple of free days so let's go get that ride on a wheel.

And on a precious few other attractions too.

Sometimes I forget I'm not twelve anymore. But I sure feel like it in certain instances. Up in the air fighting gravity is one of those most hallowed places. Lochlan beside me is another. I am topped up on sugar and sun with clouds, mercifully and we're heading home tonight on a red-eyed flight. I hope I can sleep through the whole thing due to mad exhaustion here but at the same time I'm incredibly glad we came back on the right side of the holiday.

New(f).

I fell asleep with the Devil and woke up needing angels this morning, but instead I put on my thick dress and sturdy shoes and went and made time-and-a-half for seven hours at work, where it was raining steadily and everyone was in a mood, including me. 

I came home this afternoon, parked the car and went straight up the steps at the side of the garage and knocked on the door. An old familiar voice said to come in and so I did, and yet only part way, hanging back by the second french door that separates the hall from the kitchen. I press the side of my face against the cool door and wait for him to say something nice. Or anything, frankly. I haven't seen him in days. 

Still in your work clothes? What's up? 

I just want to say...hi. 

Hi. 

Hi. 

He stares at me for a while. 

We talked about this. I let out a breath in a huge rush and he laughs again. You're terrible. 

I'm not the only one. 

I'm attempting to salvage a good friendship instead of taking advantage. 

That isn't what you're doing here. 

Oh? What am I doing, then? 

Trying to not feel used. 

Who's using me? 

Me, probably. But I love you. 

Come here. I throw myself into his lap, shoes and all. I smell like coffee and strawberries. This is horrible. I love you too. And I don't feel used. I just want us to be healthy and we aren't. 

Who cares? 

Lochlan, for one. Any sane person, for two. Jake, for three. 

He doesn't get a vote. 

By proxy, he does. That's why you're here. 

Is it?

He tucks my head down against his chest, stroking my hair, humming softly. I fall asleep and when I wake up it's dark out and he isn't there but I'm still in the chair, a blanket wrapped around me. I slide off the chair and crash in the bed and cry myself to sleep because I hate myself and then I wake up because who can sleep through that bullshit. I leave the blanket and walk home. I don't know where he went but then I see his hair through the half-cracked door of the library and I don't even check and see who he's talking to since I know it's Lochlan and I walk upstairs and crash into my own bed. Someone changed the sheets. It feels like bliss.

Proof.

And when the surface of the water closes over your head God is there to lift you up-

Eyes closed, head down in the first bench I vehemently shake my head.

He's there. I promise you. 

I shake it again.

The proof is sitting in front of me. Sam's voice gets louder and I sneak a look and sure enough, yes, he's standing right in front of us.

Your doubt is obvious and yet he remains. Proof of his love for you, that you won't be abandoned. 

It was part of a series I have heard a few times before, Sam's recycled Two at the table, Two on the walk sermons, that he adapted from an earlier sermon by Jake that he wrote years and years ago.

It was bullshit then, it's bullshit now.

And they both know it. But I don't make any further outward attempts to debate with Sam. I can yell at Jake but it just goes into the wind now and I just want to get home, maybe make a cup of tea and avoid the internet where no one will shut the fuck up about Game of Thrones and I have fatigue from that already.

I do. Sorry. It's just a television show. I'm all caught up and I had to laugh at the worst, most pivotal and destructive scene in the previous episode because it was something I would do. Seriously. Burn it all down to punish one person because sometimes you're driven that way. Sometimes your emotions make the decisions and you're just along for the ride. My life is a scorched earth campaign and yet even in a fire-ravaged, blackened existence, eventually life grows back, beginning with a few bits of green poking through the ruin and before you know it everything looks the same as before.

Sam pulls me in close. Why you gotta ride my ass in public? He laughs softly, putting on a hard New York accent. It's an inside joke and I return the next line as always to make him feel better and show him I'm not angry with him, nor he with me.

Someone has to, cause clearly you ain't gettin' any. 

He laughs and kisses my cheek and lets me go to shake Lochlan's hand. Lochlan who is dishevelled and tired and doesn't want to be here but brought me because I did.

And we are home now. Sam will be home soon and then I will reheat some pancakes for him too. And bacon if Ben left any. Then I'm going to sit outside and draw by the pool maybe, or just sleep in the shade. I'm not feeling well again suddenly. I don't know why. I think anxiety manifests itself inside me as a low-grade endless flu and I hate it.

I get a text.

Okay, new plan is to head upstairs at one and crawl in with Caleb, who didn't go to church but has offered nap space (He's there. I promise you.). I love it when he smells like sleep and clean sheets and soap. See you tomorrow.

Try.

It's morning. I already had a slow dance by the fireplace in our room, barefoot and in my nightgown, Lochlan in pajama pants and nothing else. It's warm enough that the windows were open and Blue Rodeo blares from his phone, propped on the mantle as we make a slow circle in each others' arms.

He absolutely hates it when I travel without him now. Won't have it any longer, refuses to consider such a plain and vivid logic in that sometimes it will happen, will no longer let go, as it were and I couldn't be happier. This is my place. He is my person, and as hard as they try to blur history, to sand it down and hope it blows away on the wind, I figure it's what led me back around to him.

I took the long way home.

He smiles, but says nothing, holding me tighter.  I don't think he understands that I mean from life, and not from New York but that's alright. We venture dangerously close to my open suitcase on the floor. I haven't unpacked yet. I didn't want to miss a moment.

I'll do it later. Maybe. Or tomorrow. Right now I need this.

The best part is Ben, sleeping soundly in bed, covers pushed down around his waist, expression so peaceful. He is out cold, relieved to be free of some entanglements that shouldn't have been this hard to end, but that's what life is, as he pointed out in the offices as we left. It's messy and it's fucked up and we should all be working harder to make each others' lives easier.

In my birthday wishes this year that seemed to be the theme. That instead of debilitating me with their motions, their moods, their words, they're going to try to work harder to help me through. Lift me up, keep me safe from their own destructive thoughts and deeds, the ones that keep us mired in present-day quicksand, on the whim of the wind.

Don't you dare, I warned with a smile. Progress is good but we're creatures of habit. I love them for trying but I also don't expect sweeping changes overnight. We are the people we are because we've been formed this way and change is a freeclimb, a drive up pikes peak with an obscured windshield, a battle I've been fighting forever, and I run ahead, looking backward to see how much I've left behind only to turn around and run into it again.

Try morphs into Bruce Springsteen's Thunder Road and Lochlan's done it again. I couldn't make progress if I tried, for he triggers that twelve year old so fucking easily it isn't even surprising any more.

Notes from the hammock, drunk.

Mark Knopfler's True Love Will Never Fade is the year-apart twin of Jon Foreman's Learning How to Die. Tell me I'm wrong.

Also, Halsey's new song Nightmare has the chorus from a Tatu song from the early nineties. Don't believe me? Go listen.

And I still can't understand what the fuck Till is saying but I can sing along with him now too. At least on Rammstein's Radio, Puppe and Halloman.

Getting there. Getting somewhere, anyway. Okay, actually getting nowhere. Scheiss drauf.

Critical darling.

Sorry, Bridge. I didn't realize. 

Ben and Schuyler had me tag along for a (brief) trip to New York. Ben is entangled in a thing he's been trying to get out of for close to a year, Schuyler's his muscle. Brain muscle, if we're being specific because Ben gets mad and flips tables and says things he can't when he gets frustrated and Schuyler understands the law and works around Ben's emotions.

I went because they promised me a couple of hours of rides at Coney if I would be their assistant, and honestly I understand the law and can read the paperwork and am able to keep Ben level with some secret code words we use.

And it's not like we were going to bring Caleb, though he offered. So we took his plane. Thanks, Diabhal.

The whole way back we dissected the new Rammstein album because my German is broken and Ben's is as fresh as the day he learnt it all. Thanks, Wacken.

I wasn't actually necessary at the meetings and apparently they had 'limited space' in their huge expanse of offices (or maybe I was distracting?) so they sent me back to the hotel where I watched strange American television for a few hours and ordered room service.

Then we went to Coney, as promised.

Except that most of it was closed.

Memorial Day weekend. That's right. Schuyler said.

I can't believe I'm standing in one of my favorite places in the world and it's the week before they flip the switch and turn it all on?

I Facetime Lochlan.

Peanut. What's up?

It opens...soon. 

No, offence, but good. It feels stupid that you're there without me. 

I've been here without you before. 

And that's stupid too (damn his revisionist history. Damn them all).

I can't change that. 

Going forward, you bet we can. 

So what do I do in the meantime? 

Fly home. 

Okay? Okay (not okay).

Wednesdays have morphed into incredibly busy days. I didn't get to see my garden, didn't get to enjoy any down time and worked all day, hustled for three hours straight when I got home to finish my chores and get dinner on the table and now I have to drive to the other side of town to pick up Ruth from her job. I could farm some of it out but then I would feel bad.

Talk tomorrow?

Sure, he says, pretending not to be disappointed. Ceart go leor, Neamhchiontach.

I quit coffee, take II.

I did. I had a weak, horrible little cup of it yesterday and this morning I joined Lochlan for his very good Irish tea. Or English or Indian or whatever, it's tea. I have favorites but I'm not that fussy overall. 

I was a little crabby but not too much.

I survived and I don't have a headache and I don't even miss it, and I wanted to be one of those people that drank tea instead and now here I am. 

I just found out about a thing called Friday Night Lights in Deep Cove where they do a two-hour guided tour of Indian Arm (a place I kayak) and you get to see the bioluminescent seas and enjoy dark, quiet kayaking. 

Can we go? I ask Lochlan after reading the whole damn article to him out loud. 

Or we could just..go take the kayaks out at night. Except that you never liked being right on the water at night and you're going to scream the whole time. 

Maybe I won't. 

Care to wager on it?

Sure! 

Let's go. It's dark. Get your life jacket.

Wait. What?

We're going night kayaking. 

But there are things-

What things? 

Sea monsters, I whisper and he laughs.

Lilac season.

If you funnel yourself down through the layers of mountain, highway and concrete you reach me at the end, a quiet, small presence just around the corner from a windswept park, just along the edge of a cliff that drops to the ocean below. Not my ocean, again, as I've reassured myself a million times, maybe more, but good enough for now.

It is there that the lilacs opened for the first time this morning, and I stuck my whole face into a bloom and was surprised by a bee just minding his own business. He kissed my lashes, bounced off my face a couple of times and moved along.

Cole is the bee. There's always one drifting around the edges of my journeys around the yard.

I planted some stray ferns that escaped the woods, some mint and some leftover sunflower seeds by the (broken) gate. The old one that separates the side yards around the front of the house and past the porch. It is decorative and hardly functional and yet with wildflowers coming up all around it it looks incredible. Some of the larkspur grows there too, and daisies and a foxglove or two.

Caleb frowns at it. We'll have it replaced this weekend. Or maybe just removed. It dates the property just a little bit. 

Leave it. 

It's rotten, Bridget. The wood is so weathered-

I love it. 

He watches me, a study in walking cognitive dissonance and I refused to meet his gaze. Instead I watch the bee and I wonder why it doesn't bother him.

You always did love those little pockets of unexpected beauty. What did you call them when you were little?

Things To Paint. 

Ah, yes. Things to paint. Are you going to get your supplies and come out to paint this?

Maybe I will. We'll see.

Therapy.

If you could find me would you even know me?

How about a garden?

Really?

Sure. We could do a raised bed with room for some tomatoes and strawberries.

It was a surprise comment from Cole at the castle on a blustery spring day that stirred a long-dormant need to put down roots. Moving addresses every four or five years. Not having time to settle in, to grow. I'm still prone to beginning to write an address I had four addresses ago because I forget.

Okay, lets!

And the garden thrived. It thrived. We were giving produce away. It was a ten by six foot rectangle hemmed in with two by sixes and a few bags of topsoil and it freaking thrived. The kids would run past it and stop for handfuls of cherry tomatoes and pull out baby carrots that weren't even close to ready and eat them without washing them first.

That was then.

This is now.

Now my garden is the size of a olympic swimming pool and I call it 'the patch'. Last night I filled it with pumpkins, tomatoes and cucumber seedlings, mint, sage and radishes. Today I will finish with seeds kept from last year and sunflowers too. I want lettuce and peas and squash and cauliflower. Potatoes! It makes me so happy. I can't work in it when the sun is doing her worst but early in the day or after dinner that's where you'll find me.

I loaded my jeep with manure and came home with a surprise chore for the boys. I drove the jeep around through the big fence gates and across the backyard and I parked her on the bluff and we (by we I mean they) shovelled out all of the manure. Then I hosed it out and put her back in the driveway.

My life is basically perfect now.

Still too hot to talk about birthdays but I like to try and give you something, if I can.

Lochlan's hair is already rose gold. Thank you, summer, for making him glow. The chlorine just hastens the reaction and yet somehow he is as pale as ever because he doesn't suffer the first half of the summer sunburns in exchange for a tan that would last until Halloween these days.

We've grown old. Or maybe we've grown smart. We've grown. Gone is the living on candy, running til dark, filled up on doubtful fierce love and in its' place a better diet, marginally more sleep and a comfortable, secure love that I don't think I'd trade for anything.

We still fight over what kind of ketchup to buy at the store. Don't get me wrong. And he insists a hot dog is best wrapped in a piece of staleish bread, burnt on a charcoal grill while I've moved on to only liking them if they're seared bratwurst in a fresh sesame-parmesan bun with raw onions, sauerkraut and a second-tier mustard.

That level of elitism means no goodnight kiss for you. 

The pompousness of it?

Naw, the onions. 

This is not about my birthday.

Fun fact: Tool's 10000 Days came out the year Henry started kindergarten. He's going to graduate with his high school diploma in June and the band's new album comes out this summer.

I love this. Or maybe it's just relief that the new album is finally close. What a long wait.

Caleb and I have sought refuge in the pool thanks to the heat and are tossing about new ideas for my employment.

I could be the gloved hands holding up items for photographing for Sotheby's. Or I could be the one who replaces the real eggs with robot ones in the northern spotted owl nests. 

Or you could go back to your old job.

Which one?

Sugar baby. He smiles slyly as his floating chair turns a lazy circle, turning him away from me.

I consider this as he continues his rotation back into view.

What do you think? 

If I come back I'll need a raise. No one ever takes an old job back at the same rate. Oh, and there need to be perks.

I think you've forgotten what the job entails. 

Oh, I haven't. 

So is it a deal? 

I'm going to sleep on it. 

Can I join you?

Maybe. 

That would make it a deal, Bridge. 

In no particular order.

I have today off but instead of telling you about my birthday shenanigans I got distracted.

I trimmed off the dog's playoff beard, as it is thirty-two degrees and I guess we'll be inside from now on. Plus he's rooting for the Hurricanes. Why? I don't know, he's a dog. I...guess I'm rooting for Boston? Uh. Yeah. Boston.

I cleaned the house, got groceries with Dalton, talked to my parents (who are old, my father just was informed he's finished driving. My mom is a nervous driver with carpal tunnel and S T R E S S. They'll most likely never leave the house again and I'll find their mummified remains, or rather Bailey will, eventually after a few days without a phone call), dropped Ruth off at the bus to go vintage shopping with friends downtown, and let Daniel cut some baby bangs for me. My hair is to my chin. My bangs are driving me crazy. I like them better now though. We shall see.

Then I tried going online to read about Prince Harry and Meghan Markle's baby but the internet is consumed with some weird meta shit today about some youtuber? and his wife and his mistress and all of their personal information and how they justify continuing to keep everything public because he's a "PUBLIC FIGURE".

LOL

Who the fuck is it again? I don't know. Does it matter? Of course not but apparently these people have legions of fans enough to muck up Twitter, Reddit and every other place PJ has a login I can use.

Now, first of all.

Any arse with a youtube channel is a user. I don't care how many subscribers you have, the term 'PUBLIC FIGURE' is really overblown here.

Second? No one cares.

Thirdly? Really? Five tweets to justify that you took your cat with you when you left?

Okay.

This is why I don't go online, though I guess with my little blog, (something, like Youtube, anyone can have with a username and password) also I have followers too I just don't care for numbers, so much as quality content. Guess I'm a PUBLIC FIGURE too. Go figure. Go PUBLIC FIGURE. Go, Bridget, it's your birthday.

Which I will talk about tomorrow, as I'm so much crankier than I realized.

MAYBE I'LL TALK ABOUT IT ON YOUTUBE.

Ha. Yeah, no.

Well enough, alone.

С днем ​​рождения принцесса

PJ burned the card in the firepit on the patio but not before they saw it, just because I ostriched the whole thing like some sort of naive waif, thinking if I squeezed my eyes shut, it might not be there in real life.

The card supposedly had a very simple message, a please have a good birthday dear and enjoy your cake kind of message, according to Caleb, the only one of us who can actually read colliquial Russian. I would have sent a photo of the message to the young doctor for translation but Caleb advised me not to waste his time.

I didn't think I would be, and I'd love to know the truth. Maybe the card actually says We're going to come and kidnap you afterall. Pack your shit, it's cold here in winters muhahah. 

It could. 

He assures me it doesn't or he would have taken steps already.

What steps? I ask him as we head outside with stacks of plates and cutlery for dinner outside.

Nevermind, Neamhchiontach. 

No, tell me the steps.

There are no steps, Bridget. It was an innocuous card wishing you peace. I had Batman (he does not call Batman Batman in real life, don't worry) look at it to be certain.

He speaks Russian? What steps? 

Caleb stops abruptly, looking at the sky for guidance (or maybe that's patience). I smash right into him, dropping the bread and butter plates and all of the knives and forks. Every single plate breaks and we both look at the stoneware carnage on the floor. I look back up at him.

What steps? 

You had this minute.

You got this thing about you
Everything that I think about you
Is gonna go and make me something else
You've been the smile on my face for about until this day
You believe it's true, and I believe it too
And everything's gonna be alright
When you say, "I, I've got this thing about you"

I got a belated birthday card from overseas. I couldn't read it, it was in Russian, and I don't want to show it to Lochlan or Caleb so I'll just put it in the stack of papers on the counter and whatever power it wants to have can evaporate over the course of the day, in the sun.

I have to work today but luckily I'm not hungover. Or tired! Or stupid. Maybe I feel like the Bruins' Marchand and I'll give one word answers to people when I'm pissed off, when they throw their money on the counter instead of handing it to me like a civilized individual. Maybe I'll teach the chef not to screech at me from the back. Maybe pigs will fucking fly and Jacob will walk back through the door and exclaim profanity-laced surprise that I made it this far without him, thanks to all of them.

Maybe Schuyler will apologize for strongarming the whole house on Saturday. Maybe Daniel will back up Ben instead of Schuyler. Maybe Lochlan will put his foot down. Maybe Caleb isn't as upfront as he claims to be. Maybe the sun will rise and set and rise and set and maybe I should have stayed drunk instead of this.

Maybe it would have been better,  but here we are. Come see me today. Buy a coffee. Make my day go quickly so I don't Marchand the whole fucking thing to death.

JESUS,

Oh gosh. Stretched out on Ben, still drinking champagne. Still ridiculously lit from within, drunk just enough to have a buzz that gives me wings and now my birthday is over. There will be no more drinkgs,  Ben will go back downstairs, Lochlan will reverse all o fhis crazyiness and the spell with be rbokne.

But not quite yet.

Stilld runk.

To know me as hardly golden is to know me all wrong.

I'm coming up only to hold you under
I'm coming up only to show you wrong
And to know you is hard, we wonder
To know you all wrong, we were

It was a strange choice of music for a slow dance but he took me in his arms anyway. Me of the champagne for blood, shit for brains variety of lover, him dark and handsome, tall and just a little silly. The dark sky threatened us with rain the entire time but the champagne took away the care for that. At one point I expressed concern that I'm going to have the worst headache of all time tomorrow, since I mostly drank from sunrise to sunset yesterday but that hasn't happened, thankfully.

We buy the good stuff now, Caleb laughs, kissing the top of my head this morning. I let him have a sleepover with us and he seems so content this morning. Surrounded. Not sure I ever met someone who needs affection as much as I do but if I did I think his name starts with a C.

What did we buy before?

The kind that you would think would be good due to price but actually isn't much better than the cheap sparkling bottom shelf bottles.

Oh.

Like wine, Bridget.

Of course, I say as if I know what I'm talking about. Of course. Right. Naturally.

Wait, what?

I think I'm still drunk.

This is great.

Ruth brought me home a big fancy cinnamon roll from the bakery and today, TODAY is suit day for Henry. And I figured out what to get him for a graduation gift.  I'm very excited for the pomp and circumstance because this is the end of public school forever. The end of herd-mentalities and bullshit policy and the end of Henry being a child, honestly. Shortly after graduation he turns 18 and life begins for real.

For real.

Caleb is coming to the shopping because he knows clothes (boy, does he ever) but not after because he isn't invited to sleep over tonight. Last night was a rare surprise so it's more than good enough.

And honestly I still default to Henry as Caleb's. Mostly because I had to force myself to accept it but also because Henry so desperately needed an accessible, living father it just became a de facto convenience.

They have a bond. They forged one against everything. And Caleb has provided for the children in a way no one could have, with a natural warmth and affection, a mentorship and a companionship that I didn't think he was capable of, something he did not afford me as a child, but something I embrace for them maybe even moreso because it was a surprise to me.

Jacob (Henry's father) didn't stick around the be the victor here, with all of these spoils, and I live with a whole squad of opportunists but also men of character, willing to stick out the hard jobs until the light shones through. And so they can have it.

Pre-empting the pre-empt.

When I woke up this morning it was dim and cool. Recent rain is still drying on the grass and I am told to dress warmly before leaving the house. He takes my hand and we make our way down to the beach, where he has stuck flowers in between all of the rocks, making a path to where we will have breakfast this morning, a thick plaid blanket weighed down with the smooth round stones that line the shore.

I ask if I can help but I am handed a mug full of champagne and am given a kiss before he assures me that he has this. That he's been up for hours (true). 

He builds a fire and then puts on the coffee pot. He props a small rack down over the fire, beside the coffee pot and proceeds to fry up eggs and potatoes, bacon and tomatoes. He throws some toast on the rack beside the frying pan. It smells heavenly and my stomach roars right along with the ocean. 

I know you're spending the day with Caleb but I wanted to make sure the weekend starts how I think you'd like it most. Breakfast is the most important meal of the day, you know. Lochlan smiles at me as he loads two plates, and asks if I'm done my champagne yet because he needs the mug for coffee. I drink the champagne in one go and hand the mug back and he fills it and returns it to me. 

Best coffee I have ever had. 

Best breakfast too. 

When we finish eating he takes the plates and balances them on the edge of the fire before wrapping us together in a second blanket to watch the flames and the waves, like he used to do when we were young.  It's just dim enough that the fire turns the beach to black and white, glowing orange before a teal sea. 

Happy early birthday, Bridget. He kisses the top of my head. Wish I didn't have to give you to the devil for the day.

Reconnect.

Lochlan comes out to the top of the steps, where he told me to wait for him. He's got two drinks in one hand, glasses held pinched between two fingers, and in the other hand he has a small box.

Good whiskey and presents. Birthday weekend is off to a great start.

He hands me a drink and holds his glass by the top to clink with mine. Sláinte, he says. A purest if ever there was one. We take tandem sips as I eye his other hand.

And that is? Cookies? 

What? Cookies? Naw, Bridge. An early present. 

But is it cookies?

Open it and see. 

I take off the silver paper and glitter ribbon.

It's a new iPhone.

Oh hallelujah. It's an XS. 256 gbs. I will never have to curate my music again. It's a pretty silver color and he's already put my backup on it so it's ready to go. He even took an incredibly goofy selfie with it and made that my wallpaper.

Oh I love it!! Thank you!

It's less of a birthday present and more of a necessity. Turn it over. 

On the back it says Love you Peanut. Engraved.

I can never use another phone ever. 

Well hopefully it'll be a few years until you need a new one. 

Thank you Locket. 

I get a whiskey kiss and then he takes the phone and puts it in his pocket for safekeeping, because I have no pockets. Nowhere to hide anything. Nowhere to put things for safekeeping, save for my heart and it only has room for the most precious of things anyhow.

Like him.

Men and very good linen.

I still don't have a phone but you know what? I don't need one. They know where I am. The kids message PJ, Lochlan or Caleb (or each other) if they need something and really I spend way too much time playing Knock Knock on it (yes, still) than anything else. I don't have any social media to look at and horse pictures even get boring after a while. I miss music but I also have a handy leftover iphone 6 that plays it just fine.

I will need a camera, shortly. Henry graduates next month. I'm taking him shopping this weekend for a suit and shirt for his ceremony and maybe if we can find something for the prom, that would be great too but he's like me, he hates to dress up.

Speaking of which, Ewa i Walla is having a huge sale. I kind of bought everything. Sorry not sorry.
Everyone always wants to know where I get my coats with the tiny endless buttons, now you know. Their clothes are very generously cut and also I am fairly short so what looks cropped in the catalogue is actually quite long in real life. Everything is natural fibres. Nothing hurts. Their clothes are just beautiful in real life. Caleb hates them because they're unstructured, very civil-war-meets-European-farm with a side of hippie style and he prefers very high end perfectly tailored things so I told him to shop somewhere else for himself and he frowned at me but left his credit card on the table.

He just wants to make me happy, he says.

Clothes...don't do that, I remind him.

I know. 

Then what?

I'm glad you're feeling better.

I'm not but it's Thursday and I'm trying not to be mopey.

Oh, is that what you're doing? He laughs.

Maybe.

I had a good sleep. Lochlan waded back into the fray and took over heartbeat duties. His heartbeat is a hummingbird, a swift breeze, a percussion tap. It isn't relaxing but makes me feel like I should jump up and do something. It's less about the rhythm and more about his own nervous energy. He didn't feel physically tired and so neither one of us would sleep. Until finally Ben returned and his odd peacefulness sent us all into a slumber that rivalled anything I've ever had before.

I feel like with these two, I finally got something right.

I feel lucky.

Grateful.

Blessed, finally. Even when my brain tries to sabotage my perfect life and I can't control it eventually my heart wins out, murdering my brain in its sleep, hauling it up by the collar and yelling in it's face. Look! Look at this! Let her have this! Finally! Jesus!

Still trying to break your heart.

My ear is pressed against Ben's chest, his heartbeat a counter-rhythm to the rain hitting the windows. His fingers trace my wings. I've long-abandoned his headphones, having tipped over the edge into a dark silent void that even the music can't reach. Still he tries, and mostly succeeds where everyone else has given up in frustration, or drifted off, wringing hands, cracking knuckles, concerned but removed. Ben finds this Perfectly Manageable and that's why I love him. He's seen worse. He's weathered worse.

It's just a bad day, Bee.

A bad week.

It's just a bad week, Bee. He repeats it back to me and I laugh until I sob against his cool skin, his tattoo armor keeping me from dragging him down. He's tough enough for this. We worked hard to remove some of his emotion from this engagement without removing all of it. Just enough to keep him in a safe headspace of his own, still with his strange knack for comforting others intact. 

Ben was never someone we counted on for comfort, over the years. He was either absent or unwilling. He was rough around the edges and loathe to ever be soft. He was checked out before we arrived at the destination or he just wouldn't be able to deal with it. 

Ben has turned out to be everything he never was before. He credits me for saving him. I credit myself with ruining him. 

But here we are, clinging to his heartbeat in the dark, a radar blip that will lead us home. 

Tomorrow will be better, he says. He's tired. His words run together. His breathing deepens and his heartbeat slows ever so imperceptibly. 

What if it's worse?

If it is we'll stay right here. Like this. He tightens his hold on me, having drawn my wings on my back fifteen times over, maybe twenty, until they are engraved on bones, seared into my soul with his touch. 

Promise?

I do.