All or nothing, baby.

If everyone's a casualty
Then take your time there ain't no trouble
If the weather's fine and we're feeling crazy
There's always drinks and dancing in the rubble
I'm spinning and you're spinning
The world's spinning and we're laughing
And I'm charming, the devil's charming
And we're ruined but we're still building
And I'm selling and you're counting
The world's stopping but we keep going
And we're ruthless and we're cunning
And I'm heir to it all

Sometime overnight, Jacob took a big step back. Maybe to stay out of the way, as I attempt to juggle Lochlan, Ben, Sam, Caleb and whoever else I am drawn to. You don't want to get clipped by a flaming soul on his way down, do you? Especially if you're a man of God. I bet it hurts.

Before last night and for the past ten years straight without fail when I close my eyes Jacob's face is right there. Every errant lock of heavy blonde. Every wink and each tooth. Every pore. The little scar from where he fell into a crevasse climbing Denali and the part of his temple where his eyebrow refused to fill in. Every hair on his beard. Every breath he took even though he hasn't taken one in forever. I checked. I'm still holding them all. This time he was way back. Almost out of reach.

I keep my eyes closed for a long time in case he steps back in close. I'm not sure if I'll be relieved if he does or saddened.

A hand lands gently on the back of my head. Peanut. What are you doing?

Fighting a headache, I lie. I don't want to tell Lochlan this. Every day of his life is an uphill battle for my heart, swords drawn, shield up, armour weighing down his agile limbs. I feel terrible for what I have caused. I also feel like we're even now. He ruined me as a child, I've ruined him as an adult. Now we're a perfect matched pair.

God, I love him so.

If he were to go, I would go with him. And that's something I can say so easily. I've had a lot of time to think about things, hearts, people and love. I don't think my heart will ever be big enough to contain him, and I certainly will not live without him. Not even for a day.

This would make him sad. Like everything does. But he is sad in a determined way. He'll fix it. We'll get there. He isn't going to ever give up that uphill sword fight. He thinks I'm worth it. I'm not sure I agree with that.

I don't want a normie life, Peanut. He reads my thoughts like the daily paper, absorbing current events, the weather, the classified ads. What is she selling today? What's she advertising?

Need?

Confidence?

Sex appeal?

Vulnerability?

Well, it says here on the front page that she just watched the Devil take a big step backwards, hurling bills by the fistful at anyone who ventured near enough, screaming that he can handle it, that he owns it, that he wants it anyway and can afford to maintain it. Shouting his worth from the rooftop while we cover our ears and duck against the dissonance.

Fascinating story. Glad that kind of stuff doesn't happen here, he says absently, not paying close enough attention. That sort of daydreaming will get you killed, he said to me after I almost walked in front of a turning truck once when I was picking my thoughts off the clouds where they grew, so prolifically he would have to venture in periodically to thin them out, pluck ones that were weaker, trimming back the overgrown ones, encouraging others to bloom. He doesn't care about the money. He never cared if we had any money at all, swinging widely to the other end of the rainbow, the part where it begins. No pot of gold, no treasure on this end, just a girl cranking out colors and pulling down dreams, trying to paint them up pretty to someday please her ghosts and men, failing miserably at just all of it.

Now you can have them professionally painted, the Devil says from right beside my ear and I shriek and wake up.

With sprinkles.

Everything is personal to the devil. Including any personal directive for me to have fun, any generosity extended, or any action Batman takes toward me whatsoever.

Caleb laughs, amused at Batman's ridiculously impulsive suggestion that we buy 50k worth of desserts and ups the ante because he can be a jerk about things like this, taking things to heart that have nothing to do with him at all, not understanding that he doesn't have to say a word. It's not a contest. It's not a competition. I won't 'love' Batman more.

He's being immature.

The Devil calls me this morning, tells me dinner is on him, chuckles again in his low, handsomely devilish way and hangs up on me when I pause, silent in my confusion. Ice cream always follows dinner so I clue in seconds later and call him back.

What are you doing? 

I told you, no one else gets to be the hero of your story. 

But you're the villain, remember?

And for that he hangs up on me again. I log into my bank accounts because curiosity kills the Bridget, always and almost pass out from what I see. I call him back. That's dinner for all of us for the rest-

Of your lives. Yes, I know. You can thank me later by staying away from Batman. 

You think you can buy my affections? Christ, Cale-

But he's hung up again. Great. I put the phone down, log out of the bank so no one else sees those numbers and head upstairs. I try to go into his wing without knocking but it's locked. I knock on the door and wait and after what feels like an eternity he opens the door.

You're being highly belligerent and unappreciative for what I thought was a significant gesture. 

Simple gestures are not supposed to come with contingencies, Diabhal. You're buying people again.

I disagree. Well, maybe not. Not persons, but EVERYONE. Because fuck it. I can throw down as easily as he can.

That's your prerogative.

You think Batman's 'ice cream' comes without strings?

It doesn't matter if it does or doesn't.

That's naive, Neamhchiontach. Every dollar from that man is a tie that binds you to him. 

You would know. Look what you're doing now.

Indeed. I'll be back later to help you decide what to do with your significant windfall. And also let this serve as a reminder. I built a double wall around my finances and you've only seen through one layer. Please don't assume Batman has more money than I do because I can assure you he does not. 

O-Okay. 

You seem surprised. 

I'm not surprised in the least.(I am! I lie! WTF!) I just don't see how his gesture provokes you so much.

Oh, I'm provoked, Neamhchiontach. Now, don't touch it today please. I will help you allocate it tomorrow. It took a lot of hoops to transfer that much so quickly and I don't think I want to be on the phone any more today.

Allocate it to what? 

Whatever investments you choose, of course. As long as they're of a decent yield. 

So it's not my money. 

It is, but I want it to work for you. This is too much to sit on. And no one ever made money by spending it on ice cream, so you know why I have more than he does.

This seems like a weird metaphor for my relationship with Batman and what you think of it. 

Of course it is. As I said, don't be so naive.  
 

That's some serious ice cream.

Here comes Monday morning. It's like staring down a freight train, like standing in a spotlight. It's full of messages that began from across the globe.

Butternauts!

Butternauts. Still marvelling at those things, on such a grand, lifesize scale. I wish all my dreams could come true life-size. I'd still like to own a goat. Apparently the horse I fostered wasn't welcome on the point because of livestock bylaws here and I know damn well the neighbors have their ears wide open and binoculars trained on me at any given moment. I've been known to be gardening and feel the hair on the back of my neck stand up, only to rise and give the middle finger to the sky. Like fuck off already, you don't need to check up on me, I'm just here trying to pull my carrots out of the ground so we can have them for dinner but I must have planted them in concrete because I have to dig all the way down with my fingers to get them out. Holy CRAP this is hard.

But it is Monday and once I harvested everything that was ready (please, someone come and eat all of these tomatoes), I sat down to look at the budget and found a bit of a windfall I didn't expect.

From Batman.

I message him. What is that?

Some spending money.

Some spending money is fifty dollars or so.

Not where I come from.

I can almost see his face right now. He's always amused when I talk money with him. I live in a house with a four-car garage and many wings and I still cringe when I buy my favorite rye bread because it's almost five dollars a loaf. I walk over to his house. It's so nice out this morning. He is happy to see me. I get a warm hug. He smells like goatsmilk soap. I bet he would like a goat as well. Then we could make our own soap.

This is too much. 

What would be acceptable? 

Fifty dollars. 

But there's ten of you in the house at present. 

Right? 

So I multiplied it by a thousand because you deserve it. Because to me, five thousand is acceptable for spending money. And you're all on vacation so I want you to all to enjoy. 

Market doing that well? 

That's part of it. He laughs again. Batman holds his cards so close. I don't get to see a transparent picture of his wealth but I've caught glimpses and he has more money than Caleb and yet he spends little. Just take the money and have some fun. 

After I distribute it I think I will. Ruth will be thrilled.

Does she spend a lot? 

No, she's a mad saver. Like her father. 

Ah. Good to hear. Have some fun, please, Bridget. 

That's the third time you've said that. I don't look like I'm having fun? 

From here, it appears that everyone is having fun with you, I just want to ensure that you are as well. 

I'm fine. 

Promise?

If I need you I'll be the first to let you know. 

I don't believe that for a second. This small gesture ensures that they won't wait to let me know. 

I knew it. It's not a windfall, it's insurance. 

It's ice-cream money. That's all. 

Right.

YOU'RE KIDDING ME.

Remember my favorite pasttime?

Someone went LARGE FORMAT with it.

Life-size butternauts!

A luminous late-July gloom.

Long before sunrise Sam is up and trying to tie his tie neatly before church. He's hosting a sunrise service. Last minute as his backup is ill. Sam was on vacation but he's agreed to help since he isn't away, in hopes that the same kindness would be extended should he need a day off down the road.

Here. I climb out of bed naked and stand in front of him, easily tying the tie backwards and from a disadvantageous angle. He looks in my eyes, bless him. Not like it matters, he's seen everything.

I fell asleep last night, my head against Lochlan's chest, feeling the thud-snap of his heart against my ear, hand on his stomach. Sam wrapped around my back, one hand extended around my ribcage, hand splayed to hold me close. I woke up and we were much the same, still, only Ben was there too on the other side of Sam, his arm reaching across the top of the bed, hand on the top of Lochlan's head. Lochlan is Ben's comfort object I think, and while he didn't mind finding Sam there on my right, he wasn't going to discreetly find a different place to sleep, going to crash in Sam's bed next door or back downstairs to the couch or studio couch, for that matter. Ben will just pile in, bringing a much-needed safety and security to the night that we welcome, no matter how many are in the bed.

You coming?

If I play my cards right. I wink at him and reach up to kiss his cheek.

Sam laughs. Didn't get enough last night? 

Of you, yes. Not of them. He knows I'm only teasing him. Who can get enough of Sam? Sam is a dream when you know you're awake. He knows when to be gentle and knows when to double down without ever having to ask.

Separately or together? He is curious. Openly inquisitive. We don't play games. We'd both like to dissect love proper, rip it apart, see what's inside, put it back together. Hack it for our benefits.

I shrug and whisper. I'll let them decide. Or you can, if you come back tonight.

Another kiss, a now-straight tie and he is ready, joyfully buoyant and fresh. He looks so young sometimes I almost feel bad for him but then I remember what he's like when the sun isn't just on the verge of coming up. They all have a kind of sexual Jekyll and Hyde energy that leaves them polar opposites whether it's night or day. By all I mean everyone save for Lochlan, who holds a quiet intensity with me that never wanes no matter what.

I don't mind. 

What time? 

Bedtime is elevenish, maybe twelve. But we're setting up the movie screen and projector on the side of the camper at the edge of the cliff at nine or so, so you're more than welcome to come watch a movie first. 

I may do that. I hear you serve lemonade. 

And iced tea! 

I'll be there. Now, you sure you don't want to come with me? I have a few minutes before I need to leave if you want to get dressed. 

No, like I said, I have plans. And what's wrong with my outfit? I give a twirl and he laughs.

Absolutely nothing. You're made in God's own image. 

Except the tattoos. 

Those are fine, trust me.

It's where I pick up my yearly supply of cotton candy. Just kidding. It hardly lasts the week.

It's fair day. There's a tiny fair out in the valley that encompasses everything I love. There are vendors, pigs, goats, rides and food. There's music. There's Bridget, dancing in the sun. There's me, sunburned and tired, complaining about having to leave even as they're packing the place up, waiting at the gate for me to leave already so they can all go home. PJ and Ben just have to come back from their meeting and then we can go. Henry and Caleb are spending the day together and don't want to come. Ruth and her boyfriend will be there, though probably not for as long. The others will join us but only for a couple of hours. Poor Lochlan. He fostered this obsession with amusements and so he has to bear the brunt of it. Even though he says he hates it now, that it's triggering and tired, secretly he loves it. I know it. I can see it in his eyes.

It's familiar. It heals.

We're going to rewatch The Twilight saga and eat take out Indian food. Happy Friday.

I will be brave
I will not let anything take away
What's standing in front of me
Every breath
Every hour has come to this

We're awake. It's four in the morning. I woke up like this. With tremors and terrors, I mean.
I was doing so good. And then Jacob flew and it all just went to shit.

I know, Bridge. I know.

I had figured out how to navigate Cole's arrogance, his violence, Caleb's crimes, his predilections and Jacob's crushing shock at all of it. I had put the past to bed. I had learned how to live around it and without it and I thought I had it. Jacob's absence has me leaving the door open to my brain hoping he might hear me and come back and instead all it's done is let everything back out and I'm back at square one.

Looking around, I think I hate it here.

(You new here? Oh, sit down. There's so much to explain.)

Square one, I mean. Don't read so much into it. Joel explained a long time a lot of what happens when Huge Trauma piles on top of Huge Trauma, but in beautiful, poetic and fanciful dreamlike terms so that I could process it properly and understand it. The way you do.

Oh, is it just me?

Claus was far more clinical and the other six or twelve (actually fourteen if we're keeping perfect count) professionals just had sweeping condemnations of letting me exist in the real world at all. According to most of them I should be medicated until I can't feel my skin anymore and just float through my days not even looking forward to lunch, because it would be better for everyone but also most humane for me.

Humane is a word you use to describe treatment of animals and I never forgot that, honestly. Even as they couldn't believe I could hear them. Well, fuck them. Fuck them all.

We'll be okay.

Lochlan's response to all of it was to draw the army tighter. To keep the status quo. All of them do. Too hot? Let's put in a pool. Too cold? Let's put in a sauna. Too dark? Open the curtains. Too sad? Live in a hug. Too far? Move in. Not enough privacy? Make a gazebo getaway or a music studio or a den, there's enough space. Or three living rooms. Because whatever. Too stressed? Someone will hold out a finger and stop the world as we triage whatever broken heart needs to be mended. When we boil the Collective down past the polyamory and the history and the various dynamics of who loves who most and who lives where the bottom line is no matter what we've done we're a family and we back each other up, even as we lust after each other and tear each other down, leaving deep wounds and new connections in a brutal swath of damage and repair across our point.

As long as she smiles here and there. As long as she stays here. As long as this is better than anything else. She'll be fine. We'll be fine.

I don't do drugs. I do this. I lose it and then I find it again, somehow. Miraculously and with help.

I put my hand up and cup Lochlan's face. I'll make it up to you.

He turns his face, kissing the palm of my hand. You already have.

This is how I medicate. Fuck off.

One of the greatest things ever would be if we discovered that Paint from Les Friction was actually Freddie Mercury, having been in hiding for almost thirty years. Listen to Torture. I don't know about you but my brain replaces the role with Freddy Mercury's voice, even though he would be in his early seventies now and the voice I hear is definitely late thirties.

I can age you using only your voice. I'm good at it. It's one of my many odd talents, along with tightrope walking, putting out streetlights with only my brain, and collecting lost souls to keep until the universe takes them away.

You want to know why Rocketman didn't do as well as Bohemian Rhapsody? It's because Elton John is still alive. One can only be built into mythic status when one is no longer here. Larger than life, brighter than the stars, it's a level one only achieves in absentia, in death. It's the reason why Jacob is not a memory but a force to be reckoned with, something I haven't actually been able to do because as I said, my talents are weird and small. Just like me. How am I supposed to conquer Jacob's memory when he's a legend, never ever relegated to just a man.

The boys say that Paint is Paint, whoever he is, and Freddie's long dead.

Just like Jake, right?

Right.

Holding close to the flames.

So don't tell me why he's never been good to you
Don't tell me why he's never been there for you
Don't you know that why is simply not good enough
So just let me try and I will be good to you
Just let me try and I will be there for you
I'll show you why you're so much more than good enough

The fluttering and stuttering began some time shortly after dinner, a quiet affair in which remorse rang loudly throughout the halls of this stupid house, echoing off the walls, settling on our heads like plaster dust when someone dances hard one floor above.

Bridget-

It's fine. I'm fine. (I'm so not fine right now. One of the beautiful side effects of condemning the boys for the past is falling the fuck apart. I do so good keeping my shit together most of the time. You wouldn't even believe it. I've been written about in psychiatric journals. They make me sound fucking insane. I'm high-functioning insane though, and that's the important part here. What you see is what you get. I have my coping mechanisms. Someone should charge admission to read here. Jesus Christ.)

You're not fine. Put that down. 

Three glasses of wine didn't even put a dent in the movements, they didn't help the words flow. Lochlan comes over to me, kisses the tip of my nose while taking my glass, marvelling at how I haven't spilled it yet, brushes the plaster from my hair and then leads me down the hall, where I am zipped into my fleece jacket before he takes me all the way down to the beach.

I screwed up, Bridget. I took a moment and ran with it. And then I dug a deeper hole and you fell in it and I don't know how to find that balance for you. Ben could but Ben's gone half the time and I hate myself for this but I'm trying to make you happy. 

We'll figure it out. 

I wonder how long it will take. 

The rest of our-

Lives. I know. I'm so sorry, Bridget. Happily ever after wasn't supposed to come at such a price.

Legacies and ligatures (a perfect counterpart for shipwrecks and soliloquies).

Just hear me out
If it's not perfect, I'll perfect it till my heart explodes
I highly doubt
That I can make it through another one of your episodes
Lashing out
One of the petty moves you pull before you lose control
You wear me out
But it's all right now

Well. That didn't work.

Prone on the hardwood floor. Face up, however. Looking upside above me where Caleb frowns.

Why did you do that, Doll? 

At this point I'm fairly certain he's about to take something heavy and bring it crashing down on my little skull, putting the lights out, ending everything all at once. It'll just be a flash of black and I'll be their memory and they will scatter to the four winds and never speak to each other again.

I'm torn between wanting that outcome and wanting to see how it all turns out anyway, even if it hurts.

And that's the problem. These kinds of fights are the worst.

I took myself over to August's last evening. It was that or I would have gone straight to New Jake, or worse, old Jake. I professed a deep-seated attraction to him as a whole, not just as a ghost, and for my honesty I was beautifully rewarded. Halfway back across the driveway I was intercepted by the Devil, who proceeded to make an unholy noise that I was later told was shouting so angrily even the cats ran and hid from the sound.

At least it wasn't Lochlan. Lochlan doesn't even know what do with me at this point. Lochlan's hands are tied and his heart is falling behind, running to catch up and then giving up, tucking itself in right where I left it, for me to find later when I'm done pissing off the Gods.

I sit up quickly just to see the stars. No one else can see them. I love that feeling. My eyes focus, one at a time on the Devil's handsome blue eyes, not so kind right now.

What have you done?

You did all this. Are you happy? I told you this wouldn't turn out well and you thought it meant they would come after you. Wow. Bet you wish now that that's what happened instead of this. You broke her! Congrats! 

Are you drunk?

Not nearly enough. 

Jesus.While he laments my lack of compliance I go off down the dark hallway in search of my boy, one middle finger raised defiantly behind my back at the Devil, who doesn't even have a stake in this night the way the rest of us do and doesn't he hate this. If I get this wrong August leaves and I don't think I can take that. If I get it right we both get everything we need. We promised Jake we'd look after each other. We don't intend to fail.

Or me, I mean. Because I don't want him to go and he's got one foot out the door.

BRIDGET. Caleb roars again, into the dark. He can't see me anymore and that's good.

I find what I'm looking for and pull it out, wrapping my arms around it. Lochlan's heart is heavy and weak. It's squishy and solid though. It's a perfect fit and a rare prize. I haul it back down the hallway and drop it at the feet of the Devil.

What? I smile at him, mirroring his rage in the best way I know how. Belligerently and with confidence. It may be an act but I'm good at that too. This is different from not being able to keep a poker face. This is pure showmanship and I've got it nailed.

Put that away. 

You don't get to order me around anymore. You created all of this and now you have to live with it.

We created this. Don't forget who started it all. There's no difference between he and I. 

Sure there is. 

Tell me what that is. 

(Tell you what again? You all passed around a TEN YEAR OLD and I have to explain why it didn't all end in roses and lemonade?)

Love. Lochlan held my hand. He held me. He talked to me. He took me out for food, and planted flowers and taught me things about the night sky. He taught me how to fall in love. You never took five minutes to do any of that before touching me. All of you. 

All of us-

All you did was further perpetuate it by putting us all together again. Bet it feels weird now, hey? You wonder why I seek out anyone but the lot of you when I can't help myself? Because they don't use me for their own needs. 

You think August isn't using you? 

August loves me. Sam too. Duncan and Dalton definitely do. Jake may, if given the chance and really if I get enough of them I won't need any of you, now, will I? Lochlan will still be there but the rest of you will wonder what the fuck happened when you're suddenly somewhere else.

I wished for weird.

And I got it, I think.

I'd take another chance, take a fall, take a shot for you
And I need you like a heart needs a beat, but it's nothing new
I loved you with a fire red, now it's turning blue
And you say sorry like the angel heaven let me think was you
But I'm afraid

It's too late to apologize (it's too late)
I said It's too late to apologize (it's too late)

The magic spell always seems to be broken with the soft gaze of the morning sunrise, and the shame rushes in to fill that new void. Or maybe it only does that for me, as the minute I let go just a little all the deepest darkest parts of me rush up to bask in the light.

I stand inside the patio door wrapped in one of the woven blankets we keep for chilly shoulders on the patio at night (the heaters are neither easy to operate, for me anyway, cheap to run or good for the planet, frankly. Wear a fucking blanket.) sipping my coffee while I watch Lochlan walk back down the path behind Schuyler and Dan's, taking a right around the pool, closer to the house before deviating left at the gazebo straight to the telescope by the edge of the cliff. As if he was always just right there and not at Batman's trying to circumvent my words published here for all to see. What is he planning? What did he say?

I finish my coffee but remain by the glass, zoning out hard. Missing Ben as he comes to stand behind me, then jumping out of my skin when he speaks.

What are you doing, Bee?

Waiting for Loch.

Ben kisses the top of my head as I turn. I lean against him, a wall of cool warmth in the morning cold. A stranger I miss.

Jake, huh?

Jesus, here we go. Like you don't fantasize on command.

I do. I wish you were taller. Every damn day.

I rest my chin on his chest and look up at him. I name three names of famous people he wanted and then slept with and he laughs suddenly.

Been there, done that. One you get it out of your system you stop daydreaming about it, you know? That's the difference. It's like you're a sugar fiend and the candy is right next door and we're all like what the fuck? Eat your vegetables but you only see the candy. Even though you TRIED the candy and it make you sick.

Jesus, Ben, it was a moment.

He watches Lochlan through the glass. Then you should probably lie next time.

Why do you think he went over?

Either to fight him or invite him. Guess you'll have to ask him which one. Just watch out for Caleb. He's the only person who would have been more offended in the light of day by this. And with that glaringly obvious comment Ben is gone again. My favorite stranger, always.

***

Late last night came the knock on the door. An invite, then. He never did say. He told me to mind my own business. He told me not to worry so much. He told me to answer the door.

I opened it, looking up into the face of New Jake. Of course. It was an invitation. I'm not going to be sent to the workbench. No. He would like to keep control. He wants to have his presence known. He wants to be in charge. He's afraid but he's trying to be everything and give me everything right now while he has the chance. He wants to make sure I don't fall in love, only like I've said a thousand times: there's something about New Jake but it isn't love.

I shook my head and closed the door. There may be a new map here but I already have my route mapped out and I'm not changing it now. If it's not on my terms it's not at all, thank you.

I could just snap my fingers and lick my lips and he wouldn't even need his imagination anymore.

He leaned me back just enough for my hair to brush the bed. I am still suspended in his arms a foot away from the safety of my quilts, from earth. From the cool night air that surrounds us even as he radiates heat like the sun.

Say when. 

Never!

And he laughs with the most joyful sound. We've been devouring each other since sundown. My bangs are plastered to my forehead. His hair is half out of the bun he hastily put it into, and he looks like a wild man. Feral. Dangerous.

Also stupidly handsome and content and amazing and mine. All mine though he said again this morning I was free to do whatever I needed to do.

He plays an awful game and I like it.

If you could go to anyone right now, who and where. 

I think about it for a minute. I think about lying. I think about telling the truth. I think about angrily reminding him that this is why we fight. This is why I make and break more boundaries than I can keep. That this is the thing that keeps me recidivist, fucked up and ruined.

Answer without thinking. 

New Jake. 

Where?

Jesus, Lochlan. 

Tell me. He is hot and bothered. Gee. Me, too.

His garage. Up against the workbench. 

He's holding you up. 

Yes. Lochlan, I don-

He never even puts you down. He's got you in his hands-

Lochlan-

But he doesn't hear me. He's gone so far ahead, and I'm never going to catch up. I'm not even sure I want to right now. He's gone to a place I don't think I want to be.

Half Lizard King, half fairy godmother.

There's a rule in this house that if you break something you get to fix it and the fix better be as good if not better than the original so be careful or you may find yourself foundering for experts if you destroy something beyond your skill set.

I sat on the floor handing tools to Lochlan this morning, who at the crack of nine came home with a new door for Caleb's bedroom. The door to his wing was fine, it was the inner door that got taken off the hinges. He politely knocked on the first door, which was opened without hesitation. He told Caleb he had a new door and would put it on, Caleb said thank you very politely and left and we set to work.

I handed a level, two different screwdrivers and one single tiny shim and then he was finished. Luckily a door is an easy fix for Lochlan, who can fix anything anyway, save for my attitude and my interpretation of his allowance for my issues.

See how different perspectives make for different opinions of the same situations?

Yeah, me neither.

I got it. You're free. He starts packing up his tools and Duncan materializes out of nowhere (babysitting duty, don't think we couldn't sense him lurking in the front hall below, just in case) to carry down the old door. I rush off down the hall to get ready. We have a brunch to get to. Another dressed-up Saturday, another long table. Another sunny day spent with people we don't see nearly enough, and we're off and running. I wore the wrong shoes, something I paid for dearly over the course of the day, which involved too much walking, and also eyeliner that didn't like me at all, smudging in the heat. Lochlan eventually held out his elbow for me and said I looked hot. I said I was, and he said that wasn't what he meant.

I burst out laughing and we were good again suddenly. He pressed a kiss hard against my cheek and stroked it too. He squeezed my hand in his arm and said he loves me. He gave in first, while I held my ground as I still don't understand how his allegiance to the Devil trumps my need for the Devil but somehow it does and our histories are combined, complicated and chaotic. But our presents seems less so, even with the occasional missteps, hurt feelings or ignored boundaries.

When pressed Caleb breathed his usual crushing beauty of an explanation. He always has one, and they are always solid gold. You don't think he's the Devil? You weren't there when he said, voice breaking, My God, Brother, I couldn't let her go. Not yet. And Lochlan nodded and I am That Object again but also so weirdly thrilled I should be shot for how that feels all the time, just when I'm sure I've had enough of Caleb. That's how he works. Charm and cash. Affection and longing and power and the past.

It's disgusting.

It's the best.

***

My words about PJ hit home like a freight train without brakes and PJ went straight to Ben. Ben who sponsors a couple of people now, has a good solid handle on what has always been a tenuous balance for him and won't bullshit you one way or another if you want to talk addictions.

Ben threw it right back at PJ and asked PJ if he thought he had a problem. PJ didn't even hesitate and has already gone to a meeting. He and Ben spent most of the morning together and it turns out it isn't my fault. I knew that, I've been through the family program, and understand self-preservation on all fronts, but I still worry about PJ and I worry about his mindset, blaming me for this monk's life he leads. It's wonderful to constantly be with friends, and have financial security and privacy and a purpose. It's another thing for a true romantic to be without a love of his own. It's also been a huge blow to see the children he has raised from birth as a caretaker (and the most favorite hunkle of all) suddenly turn eighteen and twenty and not really need him anymore. They have assured him they do need him but gone are the days of homework and packing lunches and gym clothes and early bedtimes and pep talks and projects.

It hit me hard but it seems to have hit him harder. That touches me ridiculously deeply and I bled out and flew into his arms when he got home from that meeting, having been brought up to date by Duncan (everywhere suddenly to pick up PJ's slack), who was there for his initial meeting with Ben about whether he should go into the program or not. I don't think PJ will wind up needing to be sent away like Ben did, he just needs to get back in control and he wasn't too far gone so I'm optimistic.

Sorry, Babe. This isn't you. I don't know why I said that. 

You're just a mean drunk, that's all.

That cuts deep, Bridge. I'm bleeding here. 

Join the club.

Pretty little commune.

In the gloaming oh my darling
When the lights are dim and low
The quiet shadows fall around us
And softly come and swiftly go

When the winds are sobbing silent
With a gentleness we'll know
Will you think of me and wonder
As you did once long ago

I tried to leave him. I tried to get up, he'd pull me back down. I put my things on and headed for the door and he blocked it. I tried to play along and thought he would smarten up eventually. I remained there for a while. Finally I levelled the usual explanation that if he didn't make this easy I wouldn't make it often, and that freezing him out for his behaviour would be squarely on him. He ignored it. So I went for the door again and he grabbed me and took it way too far and I yelled at him and Lochlan kicked the whole door in.

Not sure how long he was out there but I never forget how fast he can move. We meet eyes and we both wished he could have kicked in the metal door of the camper many years ago for just a single second and then Caleb's on the floor and everyone is yelling and I just walk out through the carnage and meet Sam in the hall. Sam's face is questioning and he's there to make sure nobody dies. Or maybe he's there so if they do he can see them to their reward. Or their punishment, as it were.

He had decided I would stay when I was ready to go. And Sam nodded and moved to one side to let me pass.

Lochlan came back a couple minutes later without a scratch. Caleb has none either. He got thrumped on his ass to prove a point, they don't need to take it further. They still put each other in each others shoes more often than not, but it will be at their own expense, not mine. I can't afford it anymore.

PJ found it hilarious. But then again, these days PJ drinks far too much and is becoming less help than hindrance. Not to say he's in the way but he's usually half into himself by lunchtime lately and I'm soon to go fetch that bottle out of the recycling bin and break it over his head. If I could find it for the pile of new ones that has buried it.

Fuck off, Peej.

Notice when you overstayed your time with me, no one broke down the door.

You didn't try to keep me from leaving.

Oh, he pulled that shit again? Fuck him.

Fuck everyone.

See, that's the problem, Bridge. And the only thing Lochlan can do is bust in a few doors and pretend he's fine otherwise.

He sent me there.

What the fuck, Bridget.

He told me to go.

Then he's more fucked than I thought.

I told you this. We all are. Also you're going to a meeting today.

Like hell I am.

Well it's your lucky day, because this is just like hell.

Sometimes it is, you know. And that's your fault.

My eyes sting with tears and I look away. Of course it's my fault. Even though Lochlan is tired and he sends me down the hall to keep the peace, to be a pal, to seem generous and above everything and then he hates me and hates himself and hates everyone and he tries to pretend it's fine. He spins it like I have all the power but I actually have so little. That, like everything else, it will just be unconventional. He did the same thing when we were on the road. He normalized the weird. It's fine that we're on the run. It's the life, climbing out windows in the middle of the night and picking pockets so we don't starve. It's par for the course, selling our souls to get jobs so we can survive even though the jobs were no different than prostituting ourselves on the corner. He packaged it up pretty though. We were together. It was an act. There would be rules.

Just like now.

The redhead would have played America's Rainy Day and it would have worked but of course and that isn't what this is, now, is it?

Well I know that you're gonna cry
Tears are running from your eyes
The piece of my life you take
Is one that so often breaks

It's the kind of cold miserable morning that sees Caleb put on California Dreamin', stereo filling my ears when I'd rather be sleeping.

Stopped into a church
I passed along the way
Well, I got down on my knees (got down on my knees)
And I pretend to pray (I pretend to pray)
You know the preacher like the cold (preacher like the cold)
He knows I'm gonna stay (knows I'm gonna stay)

You don't like it? He's missed the mark. I prefer the Mamas & the Papas version with the flute over the Beach Boys (or even America's cover and I don't often put anything above that band) with it's cheesy eighties saxophone solos any day.

I frown and he turns it off, returning to the blended-family music of The Blue Stones and Missio. I already made the choice for today. I rarely can be persuaded to switch. This is one of my flaws, to be sure. God help you if you're near me and you want to listen to something different and I'm not in the mood. I can't help it. I'm sorry.

The good part is nobody actually minds, as I have good taste in music and play an exceedingly wide variety while keeping a balance of perfect old familiars.

Old family liars. That's how my brain sees that. My eyes just see Caleb, in his Tom Ford boxer-briefs, cut perfectly from the same cloth as Cole, just more refined. He's sipping coffee. He looks energized. I finished my coffee and refused a second cup. I want to go back to sleep, want to go back down the hall but he won't let me and so instead he paired my phone with his speakers and told me to play something good, but softly so I can still hear him over the music.

He likes to try and prolong the mornings, calling for a slow-waking when the usual one will do. He's very easy to fall asleep with, and stay asleep with. I don't know why that is. Maybe the familiarity (liar). Maybe the fact that he's nicest and most generous right after he's ripped me to pieces with his teeth. Maybe he's no longer hungry and can be civilized. Maybe he's just content for the moment instead of perpetually wound and unsettled.

He and August are, strangely enough, a lot alike in that respect in a way that sees a visible relaxing of their shoulders, their minds and hearts and hands directly after touching me that works in a way that fascinates me. I would never tell Caleb that, however. He likes to pretend he's the only man in the world in perpetuity. Just enough to keep my heart together a little longer, he tells me and it makes my tears threaten, burning my eyes and I have to look away for a moment, thinking about something else while he assumes I'm angry about his words and don't want to hear it anymore.

The truth is that's the fuel that keeps me coming back, thriving on his need for me, living for it as a challenge to shut everything else the fuck up. The only control I have over him (something I always, always wanted) is that I get to decide when I see him. And when he can touch me. And I live for the gratitude and tenderness he shows as a result of that permission.

It's a fucking drug.

( You want new music? Go listen to America. Sister Golden Hair, Rainy Day, Moon Song, Lonely People, etc. It's all fucking spectacular.)

I can hear the windchimes on the other side of the doors.

It's going to be a beautiful storm. We battened down the hatches ever so slightly, closing awnings and the larger patio umbrellas and stowing the inflatables. Daniel was supposed to be sure any glassware and breakables were removed from the patio and around the pool but he didn't. I've banned breakables anyway but that doesn't stop anyone who drinks from taking out beer bottles and leaving them everywhere. By 'everywhere' and 'bottles' I mean that one stupid Kokanee bottle I can see out the patio door that is sitting on the table beside PJ's favorite covered chaise lounger. It's been there since Saturday.

Shame, PJ. Shame.

I've got my storm playlist cued up. Sorry, I can't exactly share it since we don't believe in Spotify (again, not renting my music), but it's mostly a solid blend of Pachebel and Oceans of Slumber. Heavy on the heavy, I always say.

Sorry, Dalt.

He hates it when I say that.

But I'm not sorry because it's PERFECT.

Going to work on myself today and heal a bit and snuggle with Lochlan and make a delicious rare favorite for dinner (can't tell you and ruin their surprise) and maybe run out between rain and get that bottle. It's going to drive me crazy.

Fair of face.

When Caleb tracks me down with a hat-trick breakfast offer I clearly fail to impress. I am in the garden barefoot, covered with dirt up to my knees and elbows, the soil freezing and damp. I have a fistful of rosemary and one of lemon mint too and I have bright nailpolish on and hair parted nonsensically, as it seemed fine when I washed it and now that it's dry I've got a bizarre zigzag across the top of my head that somehow delineates the silver from the gold.

With a frown he asks if I'm 'busy'.

Uh. Not really?

He extends his offer, the expression on his face deepening, perhaps unconsciously into one of sheer regret.

Tomorrow would be a better day for it. I'm sorry. I'd like to be home when Henry wakes up. 

It's Henry's eighteenth birthday. He is Monday's child, and an Indigo soul. He has an emotional map copied from my very own and yet he's also a wunderkind that I never could have hoped to be. He has my perfect ashes, pine and ivory-pink coloring and that alone is astonishing. He hates it so.

But seriously. I want to be here so I can give him a huge hug and yell Happy Birthday at his retreating back when he goes to the table with his breakfast muttering something about me knowing he isn't a morning person.

YEESH, Henny. You used to be. You will be again some day if you're anything like me. I get up at five-thirty every morning of my life with a smile that slowly fades over the course of the day and by seven at night I am all but finished, mimicking Caleb's handsome frown in my own completely non-handsome way.

Caleb is a good de facto Dad to Henry though. I will give him that.

I figured we'd be back long before Henry wakes.

True.

Mute (no color, no sound).

Weightless and dark when I hit the water, ears pounding out a rhythm of pain where my heartbeat forces air through them, out into the open sea. I can't hold my breath, violently breaking the surface to suck in lungfuls of sparse clouds and pale sky. The birds ignore me, just another fish in their peripheral view, splashing quietly within the vast Pacific, pink against the heavy black teal of the waves this morning, something I didn't think I would touch until they took me from the land.

My brain drowns to silence but my ears refuse to comply, working just fine, thank you. Lochlan's voice cuts through the hard water just enough for me to catch the sound, but not the words.

What? I look up from my habitual panic-tread as I'm not strong enough to float the way the boys do, spreading their arms languidly in front of them, an easy challenge. I pant like a dog, fluster around and dip below ear-level. It's a fight I'm not sure I could win.

I said come out. He is standing on the dock in jeans and his boots. I notice he has placed his wallet and phone on the wood and his boots are unlaced. Just in case he's coming in to swim too.

Fine. I swim over to the ladder at the edge of the dock. There are four ladders in all. One wasn't enough. Now one at each side. They have to be close. The ease of swimming in the deep end of the pool all but disappears when the fear of not seeing bottom rushes in around the edges, setting my nerves on end, making it hard to breathe. From Lochlan's vantage point he can see no enemies but I don't have (and will never have) his confidence, though keeping me out of the water is hard.

He reaches a hand down and grasps my wet hand, pulling me right out and up to the dock before I can step on the ladder proper. He grabs the back of my head and plants a kiss on my forehead, before heading to the cupboard for a towel. I am wrapped up like a burrito and pronounced fine, untouched by sea monsters or sea lions (more likely than the monsters) and then ushered back up to the house for a quick shower and a long lecture, behind closed doors where PJ won't be able to referee the stern limits of a man running out of patience set on a girl running out of places to hide from herself.

I agree with everything he says because he is right. I know he's right. I play it as cooling off from the weekend's oppressive humidity and thanking the sea for yesterday's bead face-to-face but his fear speaks right over me and I agree to stick to the little swimming beach he has made far on the other side of our beach where the rocks are all but stripped away and the floor has been raked to a fine sand. When I run out of sand, I run out of freedom, he reminds me.

I know this. I just wanted to run and jump off the end of the dock. Sometimes you have to break the rules. Sometimes you gotta just be a kid. Sometimes you need to just do the thing your heart tells you to do even when your brain knows so much better. And besides, he was RIGHT THERE.

Was it fun? He whispers, pulling me in close once again, now clean and dry. Now safe.

Yeah. REALLY fun, I tell him and he grins.
 

Agains.

This is living. Holy shit. Woke up to another dim rainy almost-fall weekend. I was whisked up the road for brunch at Troll's and a walk at Whytecliff for beach glass (I FOUND A GLASS BEAD) and a view of the fat white sea lions before returning home to a a replacement gazebo roof (long story) free of charge from the company that sent us a defective one originally and we have been politely fighting with them ever since and a quickly-pulled together round of chores as tonight is Henry's main birthday party. I finished icing the cake I made. I finished decorating while I did laundry. I made a few lunches for tomorrow. I organized my lists and phone for the week. We fixed a bunch of random small things that were not working and now I feel somewhat heartened and ready to face a new week.

We're also trying something that seems ridiculous but is working great-going to bed at around ten every single night of the week and waking up early, even on weekends and it's working. I'm tired when I should be and awake perfectly without physical pain in the morning. I may be one of those insanely enthusiastic morning people at heart but I also despair when the alarm goes off in the morning because it hurts to have to wake up when I just want to sleep.

We're trying to fix that. I'll let you know if it works.

Hey honey.

Just home now from hosting a massive restaurant brunch. Now no one is hungry for dinner but it was such a huge success and marks a rare departure from the norm of flipped tables and bruised feelings. This time I looked after the bill and everyone sat and talked long after the poor waitstaff wished for our departure, I'm sure. Graciously they hung back and we soon moved out to the street before saying our goodbyes and taking off for home. I'm tired but content. The kids were all amazing. The budget came in far below my own estimate. The food was terrific. The boys were on their best.

What a great day. Even Caleb kissed the top of my head and told me I was a warm hostess and did a really good job.

I did, didn't I? I came down this morning in a dress, returning upstairs to match the casual of the boys in smart pants, a wraparound halter blouse and flats. I left my hair down, now past my chin and no longer a cute french bob, instead a longish pageboy. God, I hate it. Not quite sure if I should chop it all off back into a pixie or let it grow back to the point where it becomes everyone's security blanket, full of bees and peanut butter, always caught in doors, watches and plates.

Yeah, come to think of it, I never minded the bees.

Better but only kind of.

I have had three hours sleep (long story, but sadly not a fun one so let's all pass, shall we?), some leftover salad and a cursory first listen to Dope Lemon's new album and now I have to drive across town to see a man about some balloons. It's Henry's birthday weekend and I'm once again ridiculously emotional about all of it but also way better organized than I first thought. So time is short but emotions are tall, as always. Happy Friday! Also it's thirty degrees in the sun. When I get home I'm heading straight for the pool.

You know when you have a favorite shirt and you see a thread so you pull it and you figure it will come out and the shirt will be perfect again, and then it unravels slightly and you're disappointed?

That's what I feel like only the shirt is my skin and the thread is my nerves.

I told them I felt this way and they said nothing at all.

Arrivals.

We discovered that if you play Bruce Springsteen's The River one of you will sing along. The passenger will invariably start singing The Animals' House of the Rising Sun over the top of that and the girl in the backseat will be belting out Bon jovi's Born to Be My Baby before it's through. That song is a chameleon. It's a sham. It's a classic and yet it sounds just like everything else too.

***

The subject came up abruptly after dinner. I am two glasses of wine in when he changes the subject almost rudely.

I have a position in London. Actually, I have several if you truly want a change of scenery. 

London? 

Yes. Ireland is next door. You could live there and work remotely. 

Remotely.

Via computer. He is impatient. Almost rude again.

How long is this available for.

The offer? Say four or five years. 

Perfect. 

Would you consider? 

Of course. Just not now. Henry is too young. 

Alright. We'll revisit it in a few years. Can you see yourself living overseas? 

Yes. 

Good. It's something to consider. 

***

Still okay with our conversation? I get a text during dinner. He wants to make sure everything is okay. I didn't go home last night, I was with him, and so tempers have flared, singeing the edges of everything in sight. I head over but he's already on my patio steps when I come outside.

Looking at real estate. 

That sounds like you're okay to me.

I found some things. 

For all of us? 

No. I think if we left that would be it for the Collective. 

You said last week you wouldn't break it up for anything. 

Hey, I'll invite them but they have to be willing to come with us. 

You don't think they will be? 

It's a gamble. 

Life is, you mean.

That too. 

He kisses the top of my head. Don't worry about it today. 

Uh-huh. Now it's all I can think about. Congratulations, Batman. You got me to consider the future for the first time since 2007.

Can we not find a way to ban Mondays already?

Everything's fine. I just don't appreciate Mondays enough.

But it's Tuesday now and I have a huge cup of hot coffee and right now I'm listening to Koda sing a better version of Radioactive than Imagine Dragons puts out and I'm absently playing the piano on the desk while I try and reply to a hundred emails and write and get my budget done and read the news on the side, but mostly I don't want to see the news.

I mean, a grandad dropped his grandchild eleven stories off a cruise ship. CHRIST. Who wants to read about THAT? Why did they put that in? Is it a cautionary tale on why we don't balance babies precariously on windowsills?

Just don't tell me. Please. I'll live in the soundless dark with my music piped directly into my mind.

That's my next plan. Become a world-famous brain surgeon that discovers a way to bypass hearing in order to send music directly to my amygdala. Mine is so large. There is room for all of it, trust me.

I just need help passing high school biology first or I can't get into the sciences program at school. Just like last time I tried.

Pause and hold.

Today is a paint-headache, french fry, Fleetwood Mac kind of day, sunny with a chance of rain, boys with a chance of heartache kind of day, a good day to call it a Monday and go to bed at eight o'clock with a big glass of whiskey and Netflix kind of day.

An I'll post tomorrow kind of day.

Fire and rain.

Well, the move is a bust before I even begin to pack, as none of the boys want to leave the point, let alone the country. Sam plants a kiss on my cheek as we get out of his car. He motions for me to wait as he comes around to my side, umbrella held high. The ground isn't shaking today but it is soaked right through with more rain falling all around us. I take his arm and we head into the church. It's early. He needs to turn the heat on and do a quickie clean. He prefers to have Jesus beach in July and August, but just a single service instead of two a day and there will only be one today but it has to be in the church due to this humid wet weather. When we get inside, he shakes out the umbrella, leaving it open on the floor. We go our separate ways, him to the thermostat to crank up the heat, me to the broom closet to fetch the mop and dusters. Between the two of us we get the whole church ready inside of forty minutes and then he asks if I can set out the hymnals while he turns on lights and prepares his notes for service. He disappears down the hall to his office while I got row by row with the cart, three bibles and two hymnals per row. There are never enough so people need to share but no one minds and he's actually not one to dredge up unfamiliar songs, in fact he's the opposite, making one inevitable leap past Jacob and leading the congregation in a rare popular/secular hymn refrain, which is always fun and appreciated as we don't need the hymnals then at all. James Taylor is always a frequent choice. I'm not sure why but I appreciate the lighter fare.

Church turns out to be somewhat quiet and ill-attended anyway. For a rainforest people here seem awfully afraid of rain. None of the boys come later on, and so I stay behind to help Sam wrap things up, collecting forgotten umbrellas and sweaters for the lost and found box, loading bibles and hymnals back onto the rolling library cart and wheeling it back into the storage room. Sometimes the church is used by the community for outreach and for meetings and bibles disappear if left out so Sam put up a sign on the hallway door that says if you need or want a bible please check in at the office and if people do he has wonderful ones that are brand new sealed in beautiful cloth wraps that he inscribes with your name or the name of the recipient.

It's kind of nice to see in a dying industry. Not Christianity, but in people willing to devote their lives to spreading the word.

I wouldn't be able to do it. I have an abundance of questions and a deficit of patience. I'm also a card-carrying heathen so it would be hypocritical for me to ask people to accept the lord and live a Godly existence when I....don't?

Maybe I try to. In some parts of my life. Just not all.

When we get home PJ and Lochlan have been driven by guilt to set out a hot lunch of grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup for us, complete with homemade crackers and chocolate milk.

I'm warm again. I went to change into warmer clothes and Lochlan follows me upstairs.

Did Sam talk you out of the move? 

No? Was he supposed to? 

When you get a bug in your brain, I never know where you're going to go with it. 

Oh, I know we're not moving. 

We can, it would just take a lot of planning. And if some of them don't want to go-

I'd rather we stay here and stay together. 

He visibly relaxes. Me too. 

I'm not going to disband the Collective. Not in a million years.

Looking at real estate now.

Ack.

I was so happy to leave hurricanes, hills and wind in the Maritimes, and then we had to deal with tornadoes, floods and extreme cold in the Prairies and then we come here to the 'Hawaii of Canada' and there are earthquakes. All the time. And did I mention we're surrounded by volcanos? Oh and can't forget every time one or the other makes a peep we get tsunami warnings too.

Usually I pretend none of the threats exist but that's been a little tough the past few days as the earth moves mightily all around us. I remember the only time I truly was concerned about Tornadoes was one evening when the sky turned black. I actually put all of our shoes by the basement door, our bug-out bags beside them. It never materialized and truth be told I was resigned to seeing the house flattened and it didn't scare me all that much. Maybe I haven't seen as many tornado disaster movies. Two. Wizard of Oz and Twister. Maybe they don't bug me because I have a truck now. Because I would just pack us all up and leave. Same with hurricanes. They'll blow the windows out and the roof off and then you just replace all of it.

Floods freaked me out a little more. We had six inches of water in the basement once in the castle but it was a tree root thing and a nice plumber came and drilled the whole thing out. Never had another problem after that but watched the water approach all around our neighbourhood every damn spring. I hated water by the time we left, granted, I hated everything by the time we left.

But earthquakes. I don't know. The movies are so devastating. All of it ends in piles of rubble and &people trapped and things caving in and collapsing and I was all but hyperventilating last night when we went to bed, wondering if the point would collapse and crush us, wondering if the yard and house would just cleave off into the sea. Wondering how many people we can safely get out of here on the various small watercraft down below on the docks (five Sea-doos, 3 kayaks, 7 SUP boards and various oversize ridiculous floaties like golden swans and tropical islands.). Plotting to find a perfect place and buy an emergency, just-in-case yacht. Looking for some sort of out so I don't have to deal with it. We're prepared. We have water, generators, weapons, headlamps, and food and medical supplies, warm clothes, camping gear and a whole fleet of trucks.

But we're still sitting fucking ducks.

Where can we live that has zero threats? No natural disasters, no terrorism, nothing to fear?

Scotland, says Loch. But it's highly boring. 

There are no issues, though? 

Well, we have lake monsters, endless rain and Outlander tourists, but otherwise it's perfectly safe. 

This what happens when you ask France for help.

July 4th turned out to be a fun day. Rain threatened the whole time but never made good. We grilled hotdogs and hamburgers by the pool, washing them down with strawberry shortcake and wine and then when it finally got dark we lit sparklers on the patio and drew designs on the night, hearts and letters and happy faces too, toasting a country that made damn near a quarter of my boys only to spit them right out onto my doorstep where they quickly diluted their blood with maple syrup to fit in (it worked) and left their stars and stripes behind forever.

But we still try to mark Independence Day, though probably a little more quietly than most. Even Caleb joined in, arriving with a few bottles of what he thought would be a nice wine for the occasion. His bottles each cost more than the insurance on my Jeep, which is a lot. And he said he didn't go out yesterday which was extra-neat as I mentally tried to figure out where he keeps his magical millionaire wine cellar, because his suite of rooms doesn't have that feature and he has storage space but I never imagined he'd eschew an actual wardrobe with space for high-end clothes for a few cases of wine but the surprise is all mine, and the wine was very good indeed.

But now every time I go past his door I'm going to wonder if he steps to the shelf, pulls a book out only to have the entire floor open up, a staircase to a whole hidden underground lair, fully stocked with wine, cars and jets.

This would not surprise me in the least, frankly. I tell him this, drunk on his wine, drunk on sparks and contentment and he laughs gently and tells me it could be done.

Not here. 

Anything can be done for the right price. 

Oh fuck. Is this going to be one of those half-threats, half-promises that you'll somehow buy out Lochlan's share and have me all to yourself?

No. He is so amused his whole face flushes as he laughs. I meant we can extend the basement by digging an addition into the foundation. It can be done, and then we would have further rooms for a wine cellar or storage, or what have you. 

So stung it's downright embarrassing. I am rarely embarrassed easily but also far more drunk than I thought. I look away so he can't see my own flush of pink.

Caleb leans against me, pulling me in close. I could buy you if I wanted to, but this is all far more entertaining. He kisses the side of my head before letting go and taking my glass to refill.

Secretly I decide I'm celebrating independence from my former family today, that of Cole, and of Caleb too. Except the battle isn't finished yet, and I don't know who's won.

Agendas and empty stomaches (and earthquakes OH MY).

Who said I don't want you? He bends his head down for a kiss, an amused smile playing across his lips and -just barely- across his eyes. I arch my back to meet him. He has my arms pinned up high above my head, pressed into the pillows that have been tossed to the very top. His weight isn't hard to bear, it's a comfort. It's a prelude. It's an intro I hope never ends.

You did, yesterday when you called me a pain in the a- but his lips are back and he eats the word right out of my mouth and then whatever else I was going to say. I've forgotten by now. It wasn't important.

Dinner was a glass of wine on the balcony. A barometre and an omission. An admission and a plea. A reminder. A moment. My stomach growls and he laughs and says hush, you. We'll deal with you later. I laugh as I'm turned over, briefly weightless and breathing deeply for a moment before it's all taken away again by the return of his body pressed against mine. He pulls my face up and kisses me once more before letting go. Before systematically and sinfully removing everything I had on, even the extras because it was cold when the sun went down.

Finally, he breathes and we're moving together. Everything aches in the best way possible and I give in, arching my chin up to press my head against his chest, fighting his hold on my hands, trying to wrap my hands around the back of his head and pull him back down with me to stay. He pins me more firmly and laughs. Stay put, Peanut. Then before I can protest I am on my back again, his arms around me, in close, breathing the same air, basking in the same heat, keeping time with the same heartbeat until those beats slow down and the sun comes back up, a whole new day in which to fuck everything up.

So do we mark thirteen years old from fragmented, iron rule into total hedonism or what?

We do.

How should we?

First by acknowledging that I want you indeed. 

You sure? I hold my breath.

More than anything. It's us against the world. Same as ever, Bridgie. Lochlan laces his fingers into mine, pulling my hand up to his face, kissing the back of it.

Second?

Second by keeping boundaries. 

I nod. I'm still holding my breath here.

Actual boundaries, Fidget. Not just lip service to them. 

I nod again.

What?

This doesn't sound like total hedonism to me. I laugh and he looks amazed.

Jesus, you're right. 

You guys were always too serious. 

There was so much at stake. 

If it's us against the world and everything is okay then don't worry so much about the rules. Boundaries. Whatever. I sign the word to him as I say it, just for effect and he laughs.

Nice.

I'm telling you what you thought was a harmless catchy tune was someone pouring their damn heart out. Time and time again.

A little voice inside my head said
Don't look back, you can never look back
I thought I knew what love was
What did I know?
Those days are gone forever
I should just let 'em go

When I was young, Don Henley was one of the most sophisticated, perpetually-jilted men in existence. When I was thirteen Boys of Summer appeared on the radio. A nod to fairweather romances, seasonal change and growth, Don sang it like it was.

I loved that song. Still do. Even the covers of it. The Ataris did a great one sixteen years ago, when Henry was in diapers and maybe Ruth was barely out of them. It's a vibe, that song. It's a song that takes on a completely different meaning from a happy go lucky summer song when you're young to a lament for times gone by. For longing. For Don Henley's weathered broken heart and for mine too.

This morning the lines I've copied above serve as a warning to heed the past but focus on the future. Thank you, Don, you always have my back. I'd have yours but honestly I have enough problematic men in my life at present.

Take this one, for example. The one in the dark suit and shirt, with the flashing medium blues, handsomely devastated by my words yesterday (they read. Why do they read?) and suddenly keenly, painfully aware that Cole's anniversary has crept up on us, tapping us on the shoulder only to have us turn around to get punched right in the face by it. By time. By history. By Cole's massive legacy that leaves us all wondering how he went so off the rails.

I listen to them when they say that. I write it down. I absorb it and nod along, agreeing with it even as I knew Cole as something vastly different. He was always cruel and violent. Always difficult. Always setting me up and tearing me down. Always making me wonder which side of him I would see, and then surprising me by changing it up constantly. He was oddly easy to love. Easy-going. Easy on the eyes. And he made it easy to fall in love with anyone, everyone else right in front of him. Worst of all he made it easy to shove Lochlan to the side, as Lochlan has his back, brothers until death.

Then death happened, Lochlan found out that Cole was the same kind of brother Caleb had been to him and the world tilted on one axis, leaving us hanging in outer space. In the dark, cold, silent space. No radios here.

Cole's legacy isn't what he hoped.

It's okay. Is anyone's? I doubt it. The way you think you'll be remembered is never how it actually turns out. It's akin to taking a beautiful picture of the moon. You wind up with a fuzzy, unfocused recollection of such a beautiful sight. You wind up wondering if it was all that or maybe you were just bewitched. Charmed.

And Cole had exactly an eighth of the charm Caleb carries on any given day, doling it out like gifts from a benevolent God. Exactly what we want, perfect fit. Right color and everything. God help my soul, he sniffs around it like a rabid dog.

He did love you, Bridget. Don't let what happened at the end change that for you. 

I haven't. Oh, trust me. I haven't. I need that reminder like I need another hole in my head. Cole was the one who saved my life when Lochlan broke my little heart into tarnished and blackened teenage pieces. Cole painstakingly put it back together again and then broke it for kicks all over again, just to see what would happen, under his brother's guidance. He should have heeded their warnings. He should have seen it coming.

Thirteen years out from under his rule, his intense, private cruelty, his outward insanity and charisma and I am still learning not to let them hurt me so much. Don's helping, for every time I get sucked into Caleb's charm now the radio dial spins like it's possessed until it finds a station playing that song and I am reminded why I went running back to Lochlan for good, whether he wants me or not.

I love you I love you I love you.

Go for a run?

Uh. Wow. Okay. Let me go throw on my gear. 

Hurry, Ben.

It's eight kilometres of oppressive humidity, light rain and silence before I speak. Ben has no problem keeping the slow pace I run, even though I run flat out like my ass is on fire. Eleven days from now-

I know. 

He died THIRTEEN YEARS AGO, Benny. 

I remember the night well, Bridge. We were still reeling from his attack on you. And then he just checked out of life with no explanation as to what made him snap. Well, I mean Jake made him snap-

Cole and Jake were friends! 

DUDE. He spent close to a decade watching you two fall in love. It was Lochlan all over again but on crack. He went mental. I probably would have too, save for I'm super-generous and too busy for a full-time lover. 

Ben-

Only partially serious here. But Bridge, you had to know he was wrecked over you. He would rather kill you than live without you. What does that say about him?

If he hadn't tried that he would still be here. 

And you think having Caleb around is awkward.

THIRTEEN YEARS, Ben. 

I still miss my friend. Sorry. As fucked up as it all was he left a huge hole that doesn't get filled. Sam and August don't fill it. Nothing does.

I know they don't. 

So why are you marking it now?

This is the first year I can think about it objectively, without losing my shit. 

Eleven days is a long time, Bee. It could still happen. 

Oh, I have no doubts. 

Should we gather the troops? He cocks an eyebrow at me as I look up at him.

I didn't know they were scrambled this time of year. They probably shouldn't be. 

You're right. You're weirdly objective right now.

Just in case. Don't tell Lochlan I'm losing it.

 Lucky for you he's had me shadowing you since last week already. He's a boy scout when it comes to your grief. Always prepared. The troops aren't as scrambled as you think. Ever.

But he's avoiding me. 

He's giving you space to mourn. Whatever it takes. But he's there if you need him. Cole was his best friend, Bridget. This is hard for him.

Thirteen years, Ben. That's a lifetime. 

Not quite.

I stop, hands on my knees. Gasping for air. I don't think I can run back.

I know. Duncan's just up ahead there. See the truck? Lochlan sent him out shortly after we left. I can see the texts on my watch. 

From far and wide.

Best Canada Day ever. I slept in, the dog slept in, the devil slept in, the whole house slept in. We got up slowly. Caught up on laundry and chores. Made coffee and then went in town to for brunch and to walk around enjoying the festivities for the holiday. It's the first long weekend holiday I have had off in a year and a half so it was nice to watch people fly kites, have their faces painted and sing O Canada, followed by an actual bagpiper, something I didn't expect and right up until I saw him, I thought it was my phone. My ringtone is Scotland The Brave. Go figure. Bagpipes aren't as big in British Columbia as they are in Nova Scotia.

Mostly though I celebrated because I slept all night. I'm sick with a cold (yes, again) but I used some of Caleb's cold medicine. It was amazing to just drop out of consciousness for a little over ten hours without a single interruption. Good stuff. I won't spam it here because I don't do ads. I got to have eggs Benedict. I got a second cup of coffee. I enjoyed dumb things I like doing and no one complained. We came home after a while, walked the garden to see what's up now and I don't have to cook dinner because everyone overate at lunch and the rest are still out, I didn't have to drive, didn't have to be in charge, didn't have to make excuses, amends or reparations and I can just let out a long breath (while trying not to cough, good luck, Bridget) and call it a perfect day.

As soon as the temperature drops I'm going to run the dog around the block and then put on pajamas. Because I can.

I can help. PJ calls from around the corner. I'm detailing my list here and he can read things on a screen from forty yards away.

You'll walk the dog for me?

No, I'll help you put on your pajamas. He winks and heads out the door. Proper thing, leaving.