Instead of fluffing your ego I'll mulch your soul.

This is how I act when someone famous walks into my kitchen:

Oh my God, Katatonia just dropped a surprise spring release!

Is there a single?

Yes, but I didn't love-love it. I'll wait and see what the previews sound like. It's very...different.

He nods and smiles. I guess he's used to people fawning over him and not randomly talking about other things. I wonder if I should point out that I only actually do fawn over Ben but that's mostly because I love him more than life itself and I will always be his biggest fan.

Can I make you some coffee?

Please, but only if you'll have some too.

Of course.

Of course! Why wouldn't I want coffee at eight o'clock at night? Who does that? Wait, alcoholics do that. I take down two mugs and fire up the Keurig. He opens the fridge to find milk while I put the sugar and a spoon on the island, in case he takes it with everything. Coffee shop jobs die hard.

What are your other favorites these days?

 I rattle off a handful of up-and-comers and beloved ride-or-dies and he nods. Pleased he has a walking crystal ball in front of him or maybe he's happy to pretend he has a wife to make his coffee for five seconds. I can see he's still wildly rattled that I haven't gushed or asked for a photo or something.

Do you want something to eat?

No, I'm fine, thank you.

What are YOUR favorites these days?

Oh, well, I'm working on a good assortment. He rattles off three bands I've been listening to for years. Yeah, I know. But he seemed far more comfortable talking about himself and we both know it.

Ben is lucky.

Okay, don't-

I mean, I can see the stability is good in this environment. He's very content. You're a constant strength.

It's the other way around. He is the strength.

I see. Anything I can do to help?

No, thank you. We're doing great here. 

I see that. (OMG STOP SAYING THAT.) If you do need anything, however, here's my card. I'll put my personal cell on it. He writes a number on the back and holds it out while I look at it, pained expression all over my face.

If I've overstepped-

Do you know how many of these cards I have? 

He pulls out his wallet and tucks it back inside. I see. 

I don't know if you do. 

In my life I have to take my chances when I see them. It's lonely at my house. I'm looking to make it a home. 

I think there are websites for that. 

It's not the same. 

I see (TAKE THAT, FUCKER). More fun to swoop in and steal supposed surface-girlfriends from your artists? 

'Surface' girlfriends? 

You know, the ones that float. In the shallow end. With their purchased...assets. Ready to jump to the next pool that glitters more brightly. 

At the risk of sounding awful, it usually works-

It won't work here. (I give him mental credit for going for it even though I'm close in age to him, at least and not some naive twenty-year-old with wide eyes and Big Plans.)

Bridget, please accept my apologies for my assumptions and my terrible behaviour. May we start fresh? 

I don't think I'd like to do that. 

I understand. 

Beware the surface girls, hey? They'll suck the life right out of you. 

But isn't that better than a life alone?

I don't know if it is. Something to think about, anyway.

Still bothered but also here's a fun story for you.

(I wish I could keep as many boundaries with friends as I can with strangers.)

Ben had what we like to call a 'blow-through' yesterday. That's when his people come to him, instead of meeting in far away cities where things get done, where they disparage where he lives because it's not 'close to anything'.

Okay, he'll say, naming at least ten huge bands that record here. Every tour starts or ends here. Everyone rehearses here. But whatever.

People from LA are outward, vacuous assholes in this industry. If not, it means they want something from you. New York is a little better. A lot friendlier but a lot less patient. Put the two together and it's mildly hilarious. But I was still on my best, these people are way up there and I've seen their names in my liner notes.

So they show up, we host a huge barbecue, the rain holds off a little, thank God, the meetings wrap up and a final cocktail hour winds things down before they're all off to the airport to leave this godforsaken remote wilderness.

I'm on the beach with Ben and a few of the executives. They love Ben. He is fiercely talented, dedicated, has his shit together at last with a newfound industry respect for it and also he's fucking crazy. They've heard the stories.

One of them tries to make small talk with me. I'm sure he's drunk and afraid. So young and green.

Are you Ben's...wife? 

Ex. We're still close friends. 

Ah. What do you think of...all this? He waves his drink, spilling a little, indicating the house, cliffside and view.

I love it. That's why I'm here. 

It's great that he invites you here. Ben's a generous man. 

I'm sorry? 

If you hadn't divorced this probably could have been yours. He's so smug.

I start laughing.

Did I say something funny? He looks pleased but doubtful.

It's my house, dude. 

I'm so confused. 

Then don't assume and you won't be. 

He said it's his. 

It is. I asked him to live here. 

Do you work in the industry? 

No, I'm a retired circus performer. 

Cirque?

Atlantic City, New York, eastern seaboard mostly, in the nineties. Nothing notable. 

I need to quit drinking. 

Probably. 

I didn't think the circus paid so well. 

Oh, it doesn't. You have to grift for your dinner in that industry. Just like this one, only you sing instead of dance, I guess. 

I don't see why you and Ben are divorced. Or how this factors in. Trust fund?

No, and it's a long story.

Dammit, I have a flight to catch. 

It's okay, I wasn't going to tell it again anyway. 

Stay with me.

Lochlan brought out two whiskeys in one hand last night and in the other, a bluetooth speaker, setting it on the railing and cueing up some Sam Smith, a modern spin on our endless beloved eighties power ballads. Maybe we're sophisticated now? I ask as I clink my glass against his and take a long sip.

I doubt it, he laughs.

He takes the glasses, setting them on the table and pulls me into his arms, leading me around the front porch while the rain pours down a few feet away, soaking our world with holy water, washing away the sins and mistakes, drowning the past, snuffing out ghosts and driving enemies away. It's just he and I. Just us and the rain. As ever.

A spin with my hand up over my head and he pulls me back in. We need a bigger camper, he says softly.

This size is perfect for us. I didn't know they came in bigger sizes. This is the first camper I've ever been in. It's the first alone-slow dance I've ever had too.The radio blares a noise and fizzles out abruptly, ruining the mood and Lochlan swears, dropping his arms.

I need more batteries, he said back then. The bluetooth isn't updated on this, he says now and the cold rushes into the space where he was a second ago.

He takes out his phone and lets it be the speaker instead, resuming the music, because technology now enhances our long romance, instead of hobbling it. Because the past is the present and the future too. Because he's here and it doesn't matter what gets into this space as long as I can still reach out and touch him.

As long as I can still reach out and touch you, you mean. 

I mean both, I tell him and he's in close again.

Happy to hear you say it. He has me up against the rail now, hands on my head, leaning us out over into the rain, laughing as we are drenched in seconds midkiss. He leans us back in and pulls me away from the rail and down to the hanging bench. Another long kiss and he is trying to take my clothes off while I fight to keep them on.

Too cold, no blankets. 

I'll light us on fire, he says, breathless now.

Upstairs, I plea and he groans.

That is the one thing I loved about the camper. We only had to take two steps and we were in bed. 

Soon we can move back for the summer. I take the speaker and he brings the glasses.

I can't wait for that. Privacy, finally. He finishes his drink and then mine too, leaving the glasses on the table in the front hall.

Rainy day people.

The best place to have an existential crisis these days is the gazebo. If you lie flat on your back with your head sticking out on the step you get the added benefit of only being cold on your head, letting the rain wash your hair while your clothes remain nice and dry and heat blasts down on your prone form, drying you out like a husk of your former self.

Duncan is beside me. He asked if I wanted to hang out for half an hour outside to get some fresh air. Lochlan agreed to the half hour because surprise, he's on a conference call because the person who took the job didn't know how to do all of it.

Duncan is smoking his annual new year blunt. Because he's not going to give up his lizard kingdom without a fight and because he's remorseless and as hypocritical as the rest. I call him on it. Giving back your coins?

I stopped drinking. Keeping my coins.

Alcohol is a drug, Dunk.

Don't grind my gears, Bridge. He growls it at me, getting up and stamping out his treat, smudging it into the concrete pad at the edge of the step. Better?

Talk to Ben about that.

It's once a year! It's a ritual, not a crutch. If it was a crutch, I'd do it more than this.

What's wrong, Dunk. You're far more short-tempered than usual.

Second. He's looking over the grass. We have a visitor approaching. I look sideways and see a blur but I know their gaits. It's New Jake. For fucks sake. What does he want?

He reaches us at last with a smile and a wave. Duncan stares him down. New Jake fails to notice but nods in his direction and addresses me upsidedown as I look up at him from the floor.

I need a passenger for this afternoon. I put new rear shocks on the bike and I want to see how it drives. Hoping to add a hundred pounds or so. Would you like a ride today, Bridget?

It's raining. Duncan says it before I can answer.

It's only a sprinkle. What do you say, Bri-

She's busy today. Duncan looks in the other direction, at an imaginary plane. Try PJ.

That's twice as much weight as I want to test.

Sorry then. Another time.

New Jake takes the hint and tells us to have a great day. I respond warmly with the same while Duncan ignores him. I wait until he disappears far away around the side of Batman's house and turn to look at Duncan.

What was that?

He sniffs around you like a hungry bear. I'm just trying to keep you from getting eaten.

I point to my ear. Too late, don't you think? You going to tear Caleb a new one as well?

Pretty sure PJ and Lochlan are doing that right now.

I jump up. You set me up so they could hurt him?

No, Bridget, I distracted you so they could teach him a lesson.

Thought you were my friend.

We thought Caleb was your friend.

He's never been. You all know this. And with that I'm gone, flying back to the house to try and stop whatever's about to happen.

***

He's fine. PJ held him down, Lochlan bit his ear until it bled. What an interesting twist and amazing payback because now he knows how much it hurts. Caleb now has two stitches (with Lochlan's assurances that he 'held back', so I transferred the appropriate amount to his account. We're so mature.

Scarred on the inside.

That title is my t-shirt today. It's supposed to be edgy and emo but everyone misreads it and says Scared? Of what?

I will stand straight, pulling it out and usually they'll continue to ignore the letters and try to cajole me into saying what I'm scared of. It's maddening.

But it's true. My scars are bigger and more prolific on the inside. On the outside I'm rocking a lot of little dings and dents, a couple good size permanent marks in the checkmark under my nose from the skateboard and two caesarean section scars that healed pretty poorly, truth be told. There's also a burn mark on my neck but I can hide it under my hair and it's not as visible as you would think. You have to look for it. I'm also missing virtually all of my fingerprints so touchscreens are fun.

Inside I've got my rebuilt motor of a heart and a hundred million stab wounds from where they've tried to kill me with their love and missed, leaving so many holes water pours out freely when I swim but my heart remains only mildly affected by their efforts.

Lochlan scowled at me, lifting his arm up to let me pass underneath as he held the door open.

Get what you wanted? 

No, I remind him for he knows the ever-present craving for the ghost looms large and that the Devil is the only one who can fulfill it.

Christ, Peanut. You make me crazy. 

I want company where I am, here in crazytown.

You don't need him, then. Here. Let me check your ear. There's been some concern about blood flow and coloring and I'm a little excited because I've been promised I can see a surgeon and get elf ears if this doesn't work and I still really, really want them.

Aw, it looks great. And with that those hopes are dashed but at least his own are back on track now. As long as I'm physically intact (only scarred on the inside) he can pretend I haven't forced a devil of a boyfriend on him, which is an incredibly unrealistic depiction of what this is but no one needs a refresher.

He's not coming back around this week. It's not a question, exactly.

No, I told him I'm taking a bit of a break now. I need time to think. 

Good. I have some news. 

News?

Info, maybe. I cleared the week. 

Really? 

I'll be home. Job's been passed on to another person who wanted it and I don't want it. 

What'd Schuyler say. 

See you tonight?

Oh, so he didn't mind? 

He's always surprised if I take a gig. 

Okay. 

So we can do some special things. Spend time. Heal your ear properly. 

With magic? 

If you want. 

(I need to find a shirt that says TOO EASILY FORGIVEN.)

Amends.

No church today. Instead homemade french toast, bacon, fried tomatoes and Jesus in the dining room as everyone linked arms, hands on shoulders on either side just like at bible camp or a Switchfoot concert (I love those moments) and prayed for Caleb's blackened, violent soul. We're going to fix it if it kills us or him, and we'll do it together as a collective.

I sent all the money back and he sighed audibly and had it transferred again, telling his favorite private banker that a miscommunication on our end led to it being rejected. This time he had it broken up and dropped into seven different accounts. Just to be a jerk but a loving, benevolent one. He has apologized to everyone and taken all of the blame for his efforts to hurt me, as he well should. This went beyond imprints. This was weirdly surreal and nostalgically brutal.

Last night after our big Burns supper he poured me a second whiskey and asked Lochlan if he could wash my hair for me. It was an intimate gesture from a man who doesn't know how to care for people so it caught us by surprise. Lochlan said yes so hesitantly it was audible in his voice, which caught me by even more surprise. We waited until late, heading up to Caleb's wing where he ran a hot bath with Himalayan salt and lavender bubbles. He rolled up his sleeves and undressed me carefully, taking caution as he lifted my camisole over my head, looking positively stricken to see the aftermath.

I stand there trying to decide if he's a hungry bear or a scary wolf or maybe some new undiscovered hybrid of the two, staring him down, bleeding him dry. He meets my eyes and stops moving. Just staring at me. Near tears but not quite because he is strong and this is matter over mind.

I'm sorry, Bridget. I meant to teach you a lesson. I did not mean to wound you. I wish I could take it back.

I wait for more.

It won't happen again.

Oh for- You say that every time, Diabhal.

Then I need to have more self control.

And how.

 It's difficult for me. Around you.

Then fix it with your money.

What would you suggest?

I don't know? It seems pretty straightforward. Don't bite people. Don't draw blood. Don't get so excited that you can't control your actions.

I can do it with most people.

Except the ones you love?

That's the irony here. He lifts up my hand and helps me step into the tub, wordless finally. It's so hot. It feels nice.

I rest my head on my knees and slide back to make room, thinking he is joining me but instead he's beside me, on his knees on the mat, scooping handfuls of warm water over my back with the washcloth. I close my eyes and startle almost immediately. I didn't sleep last night. I hope that changes tonight. He turns me around so I can rest my head against his arm while he gently washes my hair, being so careful it's as if he's a different person.

Finally he pulls the plug and turns on the hand sprayer, standing me up, rinsing all the bubbles off my skin and distracting me from the fact that I'm standing in pinkish water. He rinses until the water is clear and then helps me step back out of the tub and into a towel that he wraps around me, pulling another one off the stack to wrap around my hair, gently.

He bends his head down and kisses my shoulder, suddenly pushing the towels off me, pulling me in against his shirt, getting it wet. A long kiss on my mouth and he brings me down with him, into his lap while he fights to get his belt undone, to get his clothes off. He is gentle but fiercely affectionate and forgets my injury, pressing his head down against mine, on the left, as ever and I cry out. He stops on a dime, bringing me away from him, out into the cold before resuming, this time on the right side of my head, unknown territory as we have our ways. He locks his hands around my hips, bringing me back in over and over until I build into a release and then he keeps me in close as he joins me in a release of his own.

A long exhale and we have started over. Again. As lovers instead of bitter enemies of the heart.

Stripping off the rest of his things, he takes us both in under the hot spray once more and checks my ear for any further damage but it's fine. He kisses just above it now.

Okay? 

I nod, shivering and he grabs another towel, wrapping me up in it and he gets one for himself too, tying it loosely around his waist before embracing me again. He whispers against my good (uninjured) ear, thanking me for giving him enough trust to make it up to me. That he's going to work harder to be the man I want him to be. I nod. I hate promises than can't be kept. Be who you are, just don't rip pieces out of my ear, for Christs sake. Otherwise I love the intensity. I love being wanted so much it physically hurts him instead of me. I love the game. I love his passion.

It means he's alive. It means I am too. I sleep like a baby in his room knowing he's probably not going to change all that much but just enough to be trusted by the rest.

And my ear feels a lot better today, truth be told.

We can all hate each other and we'll do it dipped in gold.

When Lochlan saw me he didn't say a word, he just pulled out his phone and called the old doctor. The one who is kind and does not question anything. He arranged a car for him and we waited in the front hall in silence. By now it's been a few hours. My ear is still bleeding but only a little. It'll stop soon I think. There's blood in my hair though. It's truly minor. Lochlan doesn't agree, based on the fact that human bites are dangerous though I've pointed out PJ can stitch me up or whatever. He's so angry getting the words out is rough but the anger isn't directed at me. Well, maybe it is. Every time I try to explain Caleb to my own mind things get worse. Every time I try to explain him out loud things disintegrate. Every time I try to put a definition down on a page to what this is he physically rejects it and we go back to square two.

Square one was when things were good, when I had a crush and he merely exploited it to get at Lochlan, before he found his voice, I mean. Before he learned he could use force in any area he couldn't use cash or law.

He is textbook.

Yesterday afternoon I got seven stitches. Three in my ear and four in my scalp just above my ear. On my left because that's where he goes. That's where he'll be, head ducked down against the top of mine, too tall to match up. I can't feel the head wound but the ear one throbs, making it even harder to hear for the blood pounding through it.

Last night's emergency meeting on the beach saw Caleb on his knees. Last night's meeting brought a whole new fear as Lochlan wondered if we should banish Caleb or just drown him. His words eventually got so tight and so low with rage that Schuyler had to take over because Lochlan couldn't get any more words out. More than once PJ tried to talk me into going back up but I needed to be there to advocate for Caleb. More than once Batman suggested Caleb have some real-world consequences, maybe legal ones since that's the only thing he seems to understand.

I stood there with my throbby ear and numb skull and cold hands and reminded them of everything they forgot, everything they try and revise and everything we are. That they know damn well the fault lies with the catalyst and that's me.

Stockholm-

It's not, Locket, it's-

But it IS. 

Lochlan can't do this. He's too close. He's got my hand in a death grip and that's fine. Ironically it's hurting more than anything else and you think he's going to let go if I ask him to? Not on my life.

Get help for this, Diabhal. You're losing her. 

Caleb stares at me. How do I fix this? I can let them drown me, if that's what you want, knowing I'll be with my brother again. I'm ready, if this is what you want. 

It isn't. 

See? Caleb stares evenly at Lochlan. She's not going anywhere. 

Lochlan takes his advantage and swings. PJ stops him, with effort. He's on his fucking knees. He's already where you need him. 

Pay her. At the very least. Lochlan barks at Caleb and turns his back. He pulls me with him, up the beach, up the steps, inside where it's warm and my ear really starts to throb now in time with my head.

 This morning Caleb has had a hundred thousand dollars for each stitch I had to have transferred to my account. This morning the throbbing has stopped. I don't know if it's related. But it's more than enough to go and get supplies for our Burns Night supper. I'll figure out the rest later.

Lies.

Here I stand, helpless and left for dead

Close your eyes, so many days go by
Easy to find what's wrong, harder to find what's right
I believe in you, I can show you that I can see right through all your empty lies
I won't stay long, in this world so wrong

The fever returned some time during the night between when the sun ran away and when I went out to call in the tides, hoping they might pull the sun back. They refused but at least the water is nice and cold.

The warning came violently, up against the door as I begged him not to keep me there. Teeth chattering, eyes drowning in a sea of despair I begged him. I whispered Gingerbread in his fucking beautiful face a hundred times over but he didn't listen, didn't stop, didn't put me down. He's lonely with no one to take it out on and so it stays bottled up until he explodes. He's angry that I was sick, enraged that I was absent, frustrated even as I threatened to tell stories about my life with him again. Let me rephrase that. He's scared. There's no statute here, no time limit if you do something as wrong as he did. No way out if I decide to call in my cards. No looking back, is there, Caleb? He says it's easy. That if it comes down to me or him he's not going to go out without a fight. He says I think he wouldn't hurt me but he shows me just enough pain to convince me, and then he goes a little further still, just so I don't forget. 

I've started calling his bluff. Just do it. Send me to heaven and I'll be with Jake and you can go to hell with your brother. That made him rage like I've never seen and I was pulled limb from limb, as he bit through the tough flesh of history with his teeth, leaving full marks this time, leaving streaks of blood and fear in his wake. 

We could do this all night but then the tide finally hears my plea, dragging the moon away, bringing the sun back up until I am wiping the tears from my eyes while squinting up into the light at him, wanting to hurt him back until he can't get up anymore.

I hate you. 

I can't mean this, can't reconcile it, don't want to say it but it's the only thing that leaves a mark on him, truth be told.

He smiles ruefully. No, you don't. That's what keeps me forever safe and you forever in danger.

Better.

I'm cheering myself up this morning with the first full cup of coffee in three days and a healthy helping (with seconds, thirds and tenths) of the first five (okay three), America records. Lochlan doesn't mind. He loves them.

Now it's embarrassing story time for him, as I share with you a fun thing about how this band came to be for us.

Lochlan was born here (in British Columbia) and then when he was still in diapers but not yet walking his family moved back to Edinburgh. He didn't come back to Canada until he was in grade school and therefore has a massive accent still that pops out like fire when he's mad or excited or talking with someone else who doesn't have an accent and you hear it so much more strongly.

But anyway, while over there, as a child he became obsessed with American music, or as he put it, 'music from America'. All of the records have it written on them, he said, and specifically he assumed everything else he heard on the radio was from somewhere else. He had an argument with Caleb around age ten (Caleb was fourteen by now and FAR more sophisticated) that he could SHOW him music from America because he had the albums! SEE?

The story goes that Caleb may have been responsible for opening Lochlan's eyes to a world of music, something Lochlan would later do for me, as soon as he got past the mental hurdle that the only vinyl records his parents owned were the first few America records. Namely America, Hearts, Homecoming, Hat Trick, Hideaway and Harbor, having been obsessed with the band as youngish parents.

I can identify with that, except I do it in gigabytes instead of vinyl because I'm impatient and I jump around alot between songs and I can't really catch the quality difference anymore without my hearing. Besides, I'm chasing down a feeling so format is less important than you think.

But yes, Lochlan sang Sister Golden Hair to me once and I was hooked. On him and on the band. He still sings it, though my hair has risen in value to platinum at this point. God, we're old.

Anyway, song's out, Bridget's up and I can't wait to see the warzone this house is after not venturing downstairs for a day and a half. Yes, I will do it slowly. No, I won't catch any boys along the way. I said I was better, never said I was perfect.

Earning my degree.

All told I've had nine offers of sleepovers when I'm 'better'. If you're wondering how I get so run down this is a clue. Caleb, Schuyler, PJ, Batman, August, Sam and Matt, Duncan, Dalton, Gage. Maybe they think offering me affection without rules is what makes me feel better.

Well, they would be correct. Though a stack of new Archie/Betty comics and Lochlan stripping down and coming to bed at seven pm to hang out helps a lot too. There's no 'when I'm better' with Lochlan though. I think he likes it when I run as hot as he does.

One hundred. Still alive.

I was told that I was nothing
Yet I was told that I was so pure
And I was told that I was dirty
Yet I was told I was the cure
I ask myself, am I God or shit?
Am I the high, the low? I'm fucking worth it
And I ask myself, am I love or hate?
You are the reason I have and why I can't quit

 I really want to have a warm bubble bath this morning and I tried to be stubborn but then I didn't have enough strength to turn on the hot water tap on the tub and Lochlan took that as a sign, he says.  I was steered back to bed, given my laptop, phone and a glass of diluted apple juice and a plate of crackers.

I really wanted to drink five glasses of the juice but I have to sip it until my stomach gets used to it so maybe by tomorrow. I really had all kinds of plans for today but PJ cancelled life and Lochlan cancelled everything else so the next few days are pajamas and lots of rest. I go at a hundred miles an hour doing absolutely nothing of consequence and so I'm always the first one down.

But that's neither here nor there. Caleb came in this morning to see for himself that my fever was way down. It is but he didn't believe Lochlan, of course so here he is. He is tender and affectionate and close in spite of the risk of germs. He holds my fingers and the side of my face and jokes that he's trading the car in anyway so may as well do it today. After a few minutes he tells me to sleep and get better and he'll be back this afternoon to check on me, or sooner if I need him. Just call. And as soon as I'm better we can have a sleepover.

We rarely text, he and I. He likes calls. It's faster, he says.

Ben comes in with the good headphones so I can listen to the new In This Moment single that came out on repeat until I get tired of it. I don't think I will, actually but he says to take it easy, not to rock too hard. He came back from the depths to make sure everything was good and told me not to worry about the restaurant, that very rich men will abandon a sick whore who's loaded so fast it's as if they were never there. I ask him how he knows and he said he's seen it. He says he's done it. That if you disappear no one asks questions, you can brush it off as a fan who had an issue or something, that you just sat for a moment as a courtesy and that she's not with you.

It made me sad to watch the way he described it. The look on his face says none of that life was worth it for him. He confirms, saying he's so much happier working away downstairs knowing he can come up for homemade bread or a hug or some time with his brothers or the kids.

It fascinates me though and I want to know why it wasn't empty from the beginning. Ben says it was always empty, that's the point, and then he's gone again and I doze off only to feel another hand on my forehead an hour later. I open my eyes to Schuyler and Daniel positively hovering in concern over me.

You look terrible, Daniel tells me. Your eyes are all blackened and sunken into your face.

It's actually kind of cool, Schuyler says. I know he's teasing me but I laugh anyway. They leave flowers and kisses but not on the lips because germs, suddenly and only stay for a moment. Schuyler tells me to come over as soon as I feel better for a sleepover.

I look at the clock and it's only nine and I forget we're up early as ever, hours and hours before normal, regularly people.

PJ comes and takes my plate. There's only one cracker left. He eats it. He leaves a fresh water bottle that's more ice than water, the way I like it and orders me to sleep until Lochlan comes back at lunch time.

Where did he go? 

He said something about getting Archie comics and not to let you have too many visitors so you're cut off for now. 

Something something cocaine, something something another restaurant I can never show my face in again.

Over the past few nights I managed to get very sick and today I am not only lagging behind Caleb as he heads down the sidewalk towards our breakfast reservation but I suddenly have an exceedingly runny nose and need a tissue. I make a last ditch effort search of my raincoat pockets and find one, mercifully, just as Caleb turns to see where I am. I  am stopped in the middle of the sidewalk folding a tissue around my nose. I can't even breathe. He looks irritated and comes back to me, putting his hand on my back to scoop me along faster now. Not an 'Are you alright?' or a 'Hey, let me wait for you'.

Instead he takes advantage once inside the restaurant, settling into old routines. Ordering what he wants and what he thinks I want, while I stare out the window and wipe my nose. Saying my name repeatedly while I pointedly ignore him until he begins with civility or at the very least, compassion.

What's the matter with you. 

I shrug. I guess I have a cold. In the mirror I can see how red my eyes and nose are. I look like I've been crying for days. Luckily this is not a new look for me. He reaches over and pulls a long lock of hair away from my mouth where it is stuck to my lip.

Who gave you that.

I don't know. Lochlan maybe? Maybe Henry. I'll start asking for spit samples so you can have a definitive person to blame.

He softens slightly at my words, reaching out a hand to gauge the warmth of my forehead before raising a finger. The server leaps toward him and he asks to add chicken soup to our order. They haggle a little and finally lentil soup is agreed upon. And tea. A pot, if possible,

If I had known you were this ill I would have rescheduled.

If we didn't do it now we'd have to wait until April.

It won't be that long but maybe it will be better than you being out in the rain. I'll call ahead once our food arrives and see if we can't truncate this to an hour or two tops.

Thank you. He could have done this anyways. I hate lawyers. Well, most of them. He's alright, though he no longer practices so I don't think it even counts.

The soup, tea, juice and fruit arrives first and Caleb excuses himself to make his call from the mezzanine. I'm not even hungry suddenly, the heat swirling my vision, clouding it over completely. I throw my hands out to steady myself and catch the rim of a bowl, sending the most colorful bites of a pretty fruit bowl to the floor and some poor server tries to catch me as I slide off my chair somewhat gracefully, considering. It's so quiet as if this happens all the time and I bet they think I'm some coked-out sugar baby starting her weekend on a Tuesday and that pisses me off.

I just have a cold, I tell anyone who will listen, as they steady me back on the chair, picking up dishes, whisking things away again. Maybe they're afraid I'll start throwing things? I don't know what coked-out babies do, I haven't been one for years (STORY FOR ANOTHER DAY). Someone goes to get Caleb and he's back, right beside me, gathering our things in one arm and me in the other. He tells the manager to contact him for his details to cover cleaning and food costs and we're out in the cold, his arms steel and my legs rubber. Wow, this feels weird. I'm not coming back. I feel like I'm going to black out at any moment. 

He puts me in his car, buckling the seat belt for me, putting my bag on my lap, and then putting our coats in the back seat. My shivering wakes me up a little more but I somehow can't ask him for the coats to warm myself up. I don't need to. Once he's in he blasts the heat at us until I am way too warm. Oh no.

Oh no.

Pull over!

He starts to tell me why he can't and how it's fine. I shake my head, lean forward and throw up on the floor of his beautiful Audi.

 I'm sorry.

Neamhchiontach, it's okay. Let's get you home. He presses a button on his steering wheel and the sound of a ringing phone is the last thing I hear before Lochlan's voice pushes past the noise in my brain. I turn and swim towards it but everything is so fucking dark.

***

I wake up with ice on my forehead and fresh warm pajamas on. It's dark outside and I'm still wearing my pearls. My face has been washed and Lochlan is sitting on the edge of the bed holding my favorite mixing bowl and a glass of water. I take the water.


Wasn't sure which one you'd go for. He smiles. Glad it wasn't my truck. Caleb backhands his curls gently from just behind him. Doctor's on the way. He didn't believe me when I told him you spiked a fever and he asked me if I was used to treating you like a small child.

What did you tell him?

I reminded him we raised you. (He said we. Not I. We.)

I hear the door chimes and then a commotion on the stairs and then my dignity ends up in my favorite mixing bowl but not much else because I haven't eaten all day anyway. It's foam. Stomach-acid foam.

The doctor comes in, takes my temperature right away and says it is high and did they give me anything to bring it down. He's not talking to me. I'm not sure if I'm delirious or just unimportant. Caleb says I've been mostly out of it and I'm still doing more throwing up than breathing so it's not going to work anyway.

The doctor concedes this and gives them diet instructions (which they know) and tells them to continually check the fever. If it goes any higher to take me somewhere, I couldn't hear. Probably to the ER.

At this point I fall asleep as I'm tired and I don't care.

***

Now it's mid evening and the pearls are away and I'm down to one hundred and one degrees! Just naturally like that. I don't feel great. Lochlan brings toast and more water but I can't.

I can't.

Apparently it's the flu and you'll be better in a few days or a week.

Great.

***

The lawyers meetings are rescheduled for April. They were annual things, nothing too riveting but it would have been nice to have them over with before tax time instead of after. Caleb squeezes my hand.

Sounds like something I would say. 

We'll figure it out. 

Indeed.

A hundred shades of blue.

Lochlan had it all planned before I woke up.

I'm taking the day off, he said. We're going to go shopping, see a Bollywood movie and then go for Indian food. 

What are we buying?

I don't know yet but when I see it I will. Maybe....um...chapstick. An Archie comic. Candy. He grins. (When I was very young I loved to go to the drugstore and buy those things. I never bought anything else. Still don't, to be honest.)

Okay. 

Okay?

Sure. Sounds good.

I didn't think you'd want to do any of that. He deflates with relief.

Oh, if you don't want to we can do something else-

Maybe the movie is negotiable but the rest sounds fine. Maybe I'll even get a chapstick too. 

Just use mine. 

Shhhhhhh. I already do sometimes.

Icy slush, up to one's knees (if one is as tiny as me).

Thanks to localized road and parking lot clearing and the fact that the church has a rather steep driveway that was still all ice until late last evening Sam cancelled services for the day and so he staggered over to our kitchen in pajama pants and an Opeth t-shirt (who gave him THAT omg HOT) and blessed the tops of our heads sleepily before staggering back across to the boathouse to sleep.

Not sure how he would have managed had there been actual church today. I guess he would have filled his body with coffee and then he would have acted completely normal, though with a slight tremble with every word or move. It's how I operate so I imagine that's how it would be.

Lochlan and I are up and having an extended coffee date, then as no one else is getting up early since there's nowhere we have to be. It seems our neighborhood is back to the heavy habitual rain I enjoy so much here, which is good. I can drive in rain. Well, not at night I can't (hard to see) but it beats driving in a blizzard or on pure ice.

Tomorrow is Blue Monday but there are only five work shifts to shunt the kids to this week, which is great.

I need to start pulling taxes together for February.

I'd like to start spring cleaning but I need to be motivated first.

I'd like to find a new job.

I need a new coat. I realized a lot of my misery lately stems from the fact that I wear a sixteen-year-old barn jacket that I wore to get from the castle to the stone garage in the Prairies, because my wool coats hurt my neck so much and scarves only go so far and my hair isn't quite long enough to make up the difference as I do leave it tucked in but it's just barely past my shoulders and will be another six months before it doesn't untuck itself when I look around.

(I'm not really into fashion or anything like that. I'm sure you've guessed. Anything spectacular that I own was bought for me in desperation by someone who cares far more.)

Maybe that only makes sense to me, but I'm at that stage of winter where my skin is so dry I want to scream and so everything has to be soft, including clothes, sheets, towels, boys and my environment.

Am I rambling? I am. That's the joy of  Sundays at home. Lochlan just brought me a second cup of coffee so now I get to truly relax and savour it. The first one is always just for courage for the day and since I think I have enough of that now to move forward I guess we're good.

Watching my beautiful redhead read the paper out loud and sip his coffee. I'm so lucky.

I want someone to make a movie about OUR marriage.

Lochlan did not sleep in this morning. I heard the rain around four and turned over to breathe all over his face, and he did his usual move of pulling me up higher, sticking his face into the crook of my neck, wrapping his arms around me and drifting off again. I did too, wrapping my arms around his whole head and didn't wake up until eight but once we were up we were running. It wasn't until hours later that we stopped for lunch and looked at each other thoughtfully, for a moment.

We're getting that printer, he said. It will pay for itself in two years.

It's still super expensive. 

See that tank on the side? It holds one litre. You can fill it with anyth-

HUMAN BLOOD. 

See? I knew you'd come around. 

***

Let's talk about A Marriage Story. The acting was top notch, Adam Driver was incredible. Scarlett is always incredible when she has material to work with (Lost in Translation, Under the Skin, this) but the part I didn't like? The fact that the characters had unlimited budgets with which to get things underway, and the fact that in the end they all lived happily ever after. I didn't like the fact that they blindsided each other with the big stuff while having the little things about each other nailed down, held fast. I didn't like the strange intimacy portrayed by someone doing something as tender as tying a shoelace when they didn't at any point actually have a real deep conversation. I didn't like Laura Dern's loud speech about women needing to be saints, even if it's true because it screamed Supporting Actress Monologue to me, and Alan Alda made me super sad in a way that worked very well, because he was ironically wrong even as he was right.

I guess I'm relieved I didn't see myself in this movie. I guess I'm thrilled to have witnessed a beautiful bit of acting without losing sight of my jaded analytical approach to writing in film and I'm happy to have ticked this one off my list, truth be told. The longer I waited to see it the more I was dreading it, oddly enough.

The spoons were brutal but the weather? Beyond.

I capped off yesterday by driving through an actual, prolonged blizzard in which the horizon fell away from me, followed by the sky and then finally the road, and I made it to my destination by memory, using the track of a small pickup truck far ahead of me for orienteering, and the row of cars behind me for sludgerish haste. I don't think I've ever driven fifty kilometres an hour down the centre of a busy valley highway but I fucking did yesterday. Thankfully by the time it got dark out (oh GREAT) the snow had ended and I could (almost) see the road for the trip home.

I'm never leaving the house again. Actually, I lied. I already did. The sun is fighting to come out and we're supposed to get more snow tonight so we went out and cleaned off all the vehicles and the driveway and a spot up by the gates and the walkways and a good labyrinth for the dog to do his thing in the yard but still have fun and everything is ready.

I even graciously shovelled Sam's steps all the way to his fucking front door. People who are depressed wouldn't bother, right?

Right. I think.

Everybody puts baby in the corner.

Mornings like these I miss running. I miss ducking out of the house in my gear and booking down the street in a familiar path. I don't run here. There's nowhere to go, even if there were enough sidewalks. I don't have enough hearing anymore to risk the road, even against traffic and besides, my knees hate me for it-

So let's go anyway. Caleb arrives into the kitchen to read my brains, placing a kiss hard against the top of my head, rubbing the back of my neck gently. With two of us we can take the trails. 

(I'm not allowed to run alone in the woods anymore.)

Oh my God. DEAL. 

I run back upstairs to get ready. When I come in Lochlan stirs. Come back. He holds one arm up and then it drops in slow motion as he falls back asleep mid-plea. I kiss his cheek and tell him that Caleb and I going running. I don't think he hears me but it's okay, I'll let PJ know too.

I lament not getting new winter runners but the old ones will do. They're not one hundred percent waterproof anymore but maybe feeling the cold seeping up in between my toes is exactly what I mean, considering it's not like I ever wear shoes on the beach, winter OR summer.

And we're off, driving out of the neighbourhood carefully. I wonder if it was a bad idea because of the roads and maybe because the trails turned out to be full of snow far too deep to run in, but good for walking for men over six feet tall. We switched gears early on, coming back out and walking unfamiliar neighbourhoods instead, but thankfully shovelled, fully-sidewalked neighbourhoods. My runners are now encrusted with road salt and dirt and my fever has abated for the time being.

Good?

Good. An hour and a half is lots, as it's still tough going and it's cold and damp, below freezing so we call it a day. Caleb suggests breakfast, a moot point as I adore going out for breakfast. We find a new little place that is less of a hole in the wall and more of a dent, settling in, placing orders after a glance at the menu and being given hot cups of fresh coffee.

How did Jake do it? He asks me abruptly. I check his expression but it's open and concerned. He's not one to turn screws or even invoke He Who Must Not Be Named, as he's loathe to remind me of anything but himself, true to form.

Do what? I ask in my surprise.

Keep your cabin fever at bay. He's the only one, as far as I can tell, who was able to keep it from being such an albatross. 

Jacob kept up a near constant narrative that God was so good we should be endlessly grateful for every little thing we had, that God had provided for us and we were blessed and complaining would be bratty and selfish. So I bit my tongue. He also made such a huge effort to be over-the-top fun, always singing or finding something creative to be doing so it wasn't so serious. He knew how to pull the surface tension of life taut enough that when he broke it it made such a huge impact. He had a good balance anyway. 

That's the frankest you've been. 

Is that even a word-

Bridget, can we do that? 

Make me fearful of complaining about anything lest I get a huge righteous lecture, you mean?

No, break the tension. 

You are. We got out for a walk, we're doing things. It's fine.

You never relax anymore. 

Wow. 

You live with your tongue still bitten, you still hold for our permissions-

Stop. 

Sorry? 

Let's just enjoy our food. I don't want to talk about Jake, I don't want to be psychoanalyzed, I just want to eat my breakfast in peace. 

I can do that for you. 

Thank you. 

But see? Again it was something I had to approve. 

I didn't say anything for the rest of the meal or the drive home. I paid for the food though just to assert my own will. I don't think this is how it's done though.

The Wonderlands.

My green and blue world turned whiter overnight as we've now received the mother of all snowstorms. Muted and heavy, the trees have quieted, taking the waves with them.

The highway is closed. Schools are closed, shops are closed, it seems like the province is closed. The ocean is wide open and grey, roiling just under a coating of thin ice, breaking the moment after it forms.

We're trapped here on the point, just off highway 99, in a blizzard, with an amount of snow I haven't seen here before and it's beautiful and I love it. I can reach up now and hit pause on life.

Just for a little while.

(PJ is making me watch Cooking With Paris and complaining that I don't cook wearing kitten heels and holding a chihuahua dressed in Chanel. When he does, I will for sure, I tell him.)

Maritime language.

Who am I kidding? I tell the girl who lives in the sea.I'm not fierce. I'm not wild. I'm not capable or independent or ready for this year. I keep telling myself I'm going to bite 2020 off in chunks, swallowing them whole instead of vice-versa, but the girl in the sea just mouths my own words back to me silently. She's like a frothy, choppy little mirror, and I don't like the fact that she looks so much like me anyway.

Maybe she has her shit together and can stand in (or stand up) for me. Maybe she can haul herself up on the rocks and up the stairs and drip in through the patio doors, seaweed in her hair, barnacles fixed to her flesh, green eyes diluted a dark teal and they'll never know the difference. Maybe she can fool them all.

But if she's fierce, if she's capable, using the moon to pull her sea in and out at will, they'll know. They'll know it isn't truly me, they'll know she's an imposter, they'll be disappointed, first in me, and then in themselves as they wonder where they went wrong.

This is what happens when you protect your young instead of teaching them how to fight. It's a mistake I won't be making with my own.

***

I need a list because Sam asked for a barometer and then promptly stole the parmesan cheese from my fridge, taking it back across the driveway, promising to replace it the whole way out the side door even as I told him not to worry, I have a new one in there somewhere.

I figured a list of good things was a good plan. 

This week the weather has been awful enough to slow things down a little, or maybe a lot though it's been stressful getting around the highways, which are always closed because people think they can defy physics or something. So I learned to casually use my 4WD on the fly, alone or with others and I feel so proud. It's always been one of those mysteries (like why we can no longer buy the squeeze cheese with the disc cap, the Kraft Squeeze-A-Snak stuff, WHERE DID IT GO?) that I wanted to conquer.

Nothing can't wait, as PJ says. Ah. A double negative. I love it. He is right.

We have cake. And new tattoos. And peaty-delicious-smokey whiskey. Tons of groceries, lots of wood, all the chargers are charged, vehicles are gassed up. We are warm. We are loved. We are together.

We have Sam for a little God, Ben for a little rock and roll, Duncan for his coolier than thou attitude, and Lochlan for his all-round entertainer status and his internal, eternal fire. Caleb for his ice, for his vast knowledge of everything and his unwavering capability in any situation.

We have slept. We have laughed and we hold each other damn-near constantly. We are exactly two weeks into this new year and we haven't kept a whole lot of this viking/wolf energy we said we would bring to it but we have a lot of time left, too.

I point that out, tilted forward, hands on my knees, talking to the girl in the sea but I don't even think she hears me, she's too busy talking right back.

Meghan can be my new best friend. She understands my life.

I'm patiently awaiting the announcement from the Queen as I learn that Harry and Meghan have shipped their dogs to British Columbia. You don't bring your dog until you're good to go so this is fascinating news. I'm also patiently awaiting all of the people with all-season tires who always proclaim the roads to be 'fine' to be at work or wherever and out of my way for safety reasons.

Last night I was given a solid course in using four-wheel-drive on my Jeep as I had to venture out in a snowstorm to pick up Henry after work at like ten. I usually pawn it off on the boys if the roads look bad but I looked out, saw the howling, raging blizzard, plummeting temps and rapidly-accumulating snow and thought, yes, perfect. Now is a good time to do this. 

I did fine. We lived. No problems at all.

It gave me confidence.

This is our annual two weeks worth of West Coast Winter and I'll still be glad when it's over, though Lochlan has been ridiculously patient with my fears, cabin fever and claustrophobia. But at least it's light out later, right?

(You would never know that I am Maritime-born and raised. Jesus Christ. Actually you would, wouldn't you?)

In other news, the laundry is almost finished and I'm about to go out and help shovel. Not your usual Monday but actually it's absolutely a typical Monday, truth be told.

Fucking snow. LOL

The Sun was in my eyes (part one and part doom)

In church this morning and Mr. Sapphire Cufflinks (you know who I mean!) brings me coffee, which is nice because it's cold and I'll be able to miss at least five minutes of the service, as I'll have to pee and need to pick a good time to excuse myself, walk down the aisle, into the vestibule and then down the public hall toward the meeting rooms. There are two bathrooms just to the right when you start down the hall.

I put in my airpods and listen to a song by Woods Of Ypes (okay, two) while sitting on the counter, because the hymn Sam chose for this snowy cold Sunday was an unbearable Christian lament and the coffee turned out to be a great excuse because I'm really picky about what goes in my ears. Any music is better than no music, I always say, but also Driver picks the music. This is my life, I'll be in charge of the soundtrack, church or not.

When I come out, Sam is standing in the hall.

Are you sick?

No? I had an extra coffee so I didn't think I could wait until we get home to pee. 

I was starting to worry. 

I was only gone five minutes. Who's doing the sermon? 

George. He's ready. And you were gone for over fifteen minutes. 

Sorry. In a dreamworld today I guess. 

Let's return? He holds out his elbow. I take it.

Okay. And I want to ask him something but I don't. I don't want to wreck anything or start anything. I feel like he's brand new again and I need him in my life.

I don't have to ask because he answers me anyway. I miss you, Bridge. I miss our late-evening philosophical chats. 

Don't you have them with Matt?

Of course, but he has such a different world view. It's harder and more pragmatic. Yours is kinder, more imaginative. 

That's how I describe Lochlan and I. That's funny. 

Do you think Matt will be my Lochlan?

I think he already is. We walk back into the sanctuary to see Lochlan coming down the aisle. He waited twenty minutes because he knows some of these songs are even longer than others. He smiles when he sees me and I tell Sam at least I hope Matt is a Lochlan for you because it's wonderful.

Saturday lament (with bagpipes, if you please, Benjamin).

We watched It Chapter 2 last night and I'd just like to reiterate here that I remain the World's Biggest Stephen King Fan but only as it pertains to his written words and not to the absolutely deplorably bad treatments or adaptations from book to film. I don't even know at this point if I'm being punked or if they deliberately make everything campy and over the top cheeseball. Am I? Please tell me and I'll shut up, but it seems to me they could make a contrasting achingly-bright and incredibly dark film based on his words and have it be the most sinister and beautiful thing ever made but instead it is compelling story-wise but not that great visually and not even remotely scary. The only time I was scared was when I anticipated the part that was in the trailer, when Jessica Chastain's character visits the old lady.

But I knew it was coming and instead of leaving it dark and chilling they turned it into some brightly-lit, fully-visible slendermanesque moment and man, I was bummed.

Make Lisey's Story into a movie. I fucking dare you.

Better yet, make The Girl Who Loved Tom Gordon (My all-time favorite King book) into a movie. But make it good or I'll go to my grave disappointed, and that says a lot because I intend to have a viking funeral.

Girls can't be vikings, Lochlan helpfully points out.

Watch me, I tell him, looking straight ahead. If they can make It Chapter 2 and rake in four hundred and seventy-two million dollars worldwide in revenue, then I'm already a fucking viking. Because we're living in a make-believe world here, clearly.

Wolf moon.

Fun! The snow is starting and I've forgotten what it looks like to wake up to a world covered in white. I may as well live on the moon for how insular and isolated the point becomes in winter, or virtually all of the time, as my preference.

Sam and Matt had a whoop and holler as they came into the kitchen, stomping their feet by the back door and telling me that later, we will build a snowman.

Great, now I have the Frozen soundtrack in my head (haven't seen the second one yet, still) and that will flow seamlessly into Miss Saigon and by dinner time I will have plowed through Phantom of the Opera, Hair and Les Miserables, too. All you have to do is sing a note from a single musical (Broadway OR film) and I'll snowplow back into my extensive catalog.

Actually, no, I didn't like Hamilton at all, in case you're about to suggest it. The subject matter held zero interest for me, though the music is high quality, to be certain. Next up? Hedwig and the Angry Inch. I'm told it's a riot and all this time I thought it was the sequel to James and the Giant Peach (which is not a musical but a childrens movie). But my golden rule remains. The music has to stick with me long after the story ends or it doesn't get a second round.

(And the next person who sings Toss a coin to your witcher, oh valley of plenty in this house gets clocked. I freaking loved that part so much.)

Ghost conscience.

Nevermind it, I have my face in a big tumbler of Laphroaig, one ice cube that crackled and then exploded out of the glass, hitting the floor. Never had that happen before. Probably Jake telling me to stop drinking.

Yeah, no, fucker.
 

A provincial girl in a savage world.

I'm struggling with my words again today. It must be this slow alcoholic-chemical-SAD lobotomy thinking it's doing me a favour, shutting me down against my will. I prefer to be top-flight naive, difficult to engage but increasingly bright, shining like a beacon over the dulled lands of my-

(I just sneezed on my laptop. For fucks sakes.)

I wanted a word for the opposite of an anarcho-primitivist. Like I'm not ready to ditch authoritarianism for hunting and gathering per se, I would like to tone it all down just a little though. So in my research the only antonym for primitive that came up was 'chivalry' (no) and then finally 'modern'.

Anarcho-modernist doesn't really have a ring to it, though. Though it does sound like a vocational art style from the late seventies. I mean the 1870s. Boy. I bet they were with it.

(Wow. I just coughed on my monitor and PJ just shot me a look like he's never touching this machine again. It's okay. He has his own. They did say there's a plague in every twenties decade, right? Here we go. I guess I'll be patient zero.)

Then I looked up expat, since I wasn't superclear on that either. It seems to be if you're from away but all it means is 'a person who doesn't live in their country of origin'. I dug further, looking for a word that denotes someone who doesn't live in their province of origin but there was nothing, and then there's the 'snobby' definition of provincial stuck on the end of it so there you go, I'll be the provincial girl.

I'm just curious. It's a hobby. And it's far better to look up random words than to-

Why are you reading Kaczinsky's writings? 

He's fascinating. 

He's certifiable. 

Yes, but very high-functioning certifiable like me and not-

Bridget. 

What? Hey, technology isn't some neutral thing that we use how we see fit-

Oh my God. Stop.

At least he didn't call me Princess.

What kind of day is it, Peanut?

It's the kind of day where you tuck your t-shirt into your underpants before putting on your jeans. 

He laughed so loudly. Not sure if he expected that answer or another, but this is the kind of day it seems to be, after all.

Why did you call me Peanut? 

Sorry, it just came out. I'll stop. 

It's fine. And it is, as Lochlan rolls his affection out like springy pastry, flat and wide to cover a huge area before picking it up and dropping it on top of us. We are four-and-twenty blackbirds in a pie. Lochlan? He's the king.

His queen was beheaded though.

Not before she tucked her undergarments into her drawers, I bet. 

Wait. Undergarments means the same as drawers? 

I don't know, maybe. 

We are lying in bed, watching the rain pour down the windows in sheet after sheets. Those sheets are cold, mine are warm for August is almost as warm as Lochlan these days and he's made a rare shift to come and spend time here in the big house after a specific invitation that involved me crafting an elaborate story about how I am indeed made of sugar and will most definitely melt if I go out in the rain and also not letting go of Lochlan but we would love to see him nonetheless.

There is no method and there are no rules to this part of my life. We don't so much have secret code words as we do cyclical moods. He's free to accept or decline. He's free to leave in the middle of the night or sometime next week.

The only he can't do right now is tell me to get out, or tell me I'm not allowed to tuck my t-shirt into my underpants, because I'm a strong independent woman who needs all of her men, frankly and he had another laugh as he agreed to whatever I want. My little heart doesn't desire much but what it does desire is highly specific. My only regret this morning is that Lochlan left (WORKWORKWORK WTF) before I won our bet handily, in that he figured the minute he left (without his shirt tucked in, I might add, which is fine, you'll just BE COLD LATER), August would follow.

But he didn't.

Hoping he stays until February. At LEAST.

Tiny soaked thoughts, floating in a puddle on the drive.

Heavy downpours, flash floods, snow up on the highway. January in the lower mainland is a wet and messy affair, and I have come to loathe it almost as much as the same period in the prairies when the temperatures dip far below what seems reasonable, and the ice builds to a fever pitch right through until Easter.

This is hard on the mind, I think, though I don't know how exactly. The darker, shorter days aren't that bad, the rain is nice, actually, drumming on the windows to lull me to sleep, leaving all the rules broken so that there are lights on all day long and no one complains or turns them off.

I baked early this morning. Blueberry muffins. Seven pans worth and they were gone by eleven this morning. I forgot to take one when they were cool and so I don't get one, but it's okay.

But this rain. 

It's tough on a good day and almost impossible on a bad.

I need a vacation.

I need groceries.

I think I need a new raincoat.

Extra zinc for turquoise, just for me.

Last night the weather cleared just long enough for us to cook and eat outside, down on the beach over a fire before it was fed enough to roar up into the night, sparks turning to fireworks to the point where I couldn't tell them from the stars. There were six acoustic guitars in attendance wielded by five established bards and one court jester, who continues to learn at a pretty good pace, truth be told. I grew sleepy from the red wine and the roast beef, my belly full of homemade bread, my body warm under a blanket, sitting on one of the driftwood logs we have dragged into a loose circle.

These nights are the ones I love. We've just moved from the woods to the lake, from the ocean to the other ocean, from childhood into adulthood, from ignorance into character, scarred by time. The guitars are better quality and worn. The faces lined, the hair beginning to turn grey for some of us, white for others and not yet for the rest.

Lochlan heralds the end of the evening with a generous sprinkling of cooper sulfate, copper chloride and a polymer that he mixes in small batches to make the flames turn colour. Sort of like Mystical Fire packets but he uses a slightly different blend to garner deeper colours and longer lasting flames. Don't try this at home, he laughs, because in real life the packets you buy at the last-stop stores are engineered to be thrown into a fire without being opened first.

It grows cooler soon enough and the rain threatens a swift return and so by eleven we are all up and inside, with new glasses of wine, beach blankets draped up along the covered railings. Everyone scatters to the far corners of the point and the spell is broken by the fat cold droplets that begin to fall, soaking the darkness, washing away our sins.

Thief of hope.

You've taken all of my roles and redistributed them to the others?

It's not an accusation, just an observation. He's right, though. I have begun to mourn him while he is still alive, the glaring absence of his presence a fresh new pain that I've worked doggedly to bury somewhere in with everything else.

No, I haven't. I don't know what you mean. My voice is fake-bright and brimming with the lies spilling out of my face like a waterfall. (Oh, I know what you mean, Sam.)

Bridget, please. I'm just looking for what you already have. 

It was there all along, Sam. 

Selfishly we'd all like to be number one, though, don't you think? Don't you understand that? Maybe...Duncan or PJ are content to simmer on a backburner but I always needed more than that. Just. like. you. 

The forced focus on the inflection of his words annoys me. You're further diluting it, for. your. information. I match it, just to be a jerk. Just to twist the screws. We're about to embark on the first romantic fight of our relationship, and I intent to win it. If I don't it will kill me and I already died yesterday.

You're jealous.

Of Matt? I laugh. Matt is shallow and temporary. What we have is deeper. It's EVERYTHING.

It's nothing, Bridget. There's no promise, no commitment, no giving of oneself to it whole. No bringing it before God-

Oh Sam. Why do you get so hung up on marriage? You've done it twice. You know the saying fool me twice-

Third time's the charm?

What?

It's the saying, Bridge.

You think marrying Matt again will work?

I can marry him or I can marry you but I didn't get this far in life not to be happy.

You can't marry me, I'm already- And then I realize he got me. He's right. Oh fuck.

Right.

When?

Easter, maybe. Someone told us we shouldn't rush so we're listening to her.

She's a puppet though.

Oh, I know.

Would you have, though? Where were you when Jake flew?

I was still married, Bridget, or I would have offered.

Sometimes I wish you had.

It would never have worked but it would have been fun.

Don't say things like that.

Don't go around missing me when I'm right here. If you need me just come find me. I'll never abandon you.

Thank you, Sam.

For what?

For saying that. I know you mean it.

He nods. So can I be the thief again?

No, sorry. I need to do this. If the same things aren't working then they need to be different.

Couldn't have said it better myself.

Let's welcome a new memory thief in 2020.

When I die there won't be any show. No one will remember the girl with all the gifts, save for the ones I gave them to. There won't be any lights, no sandwich boards with my talents written on them in cheap acrylic paint, no drama, no wailing, no flinging of oneself into the sea or sky, no open sobbing, no wringing of tissues in dry hands. There will be some punched walls maybe, a few quiet sulks as they figure out how to go it alone with a missing presence but otherwise I expect things to remain quiet.

Until they cut me open, to find out exactly why I died.

There will be the horror, the tenderness, the unprofessional exclamation and surprise. Yes, they will confirm, she did indeed die of a broken heart, but look at it! What an absolute masterpiece! And they will heft it aloft into the light to see the heavy black parts, to see my neat, even stitches interspersed with Ben's hasty duct taping and Lochlan's cauterized seams, to see the parts so light they are almost clear-pink like candy, and to reflect on the fact that life does find a way, because shoots and stems are bursting from it, leaves curled up almost (but not quite) ready to open, flower buds tight and delicate, ready to bloom, ready to start over, ready for something, up for anything.

And what feeds those is this black underneath, they theorise. I wonder what's it's made of. It's not rot, exactly, but it's not alive either. 

It's her memories, Lochlan says from the corner. They weigh more than the rest so they've settled to the bottom.

Those are in her mind, the examiner says to him, almost dismissively.

Look for them, then, Lochlan challenges. You don't gatekeep Lochlan, there isn't a thing he doesn't already know except how get through this part.

Well, of course, it's right here, don't be ridicul- And he stops because again, there is that unexpected surprise. She doesn't have a brain.

Oh, she does. But her heart ate it, along with everything else. 

That isn't possi-

You tell me what you see, then, and I'll tell you what I know. And Lochlan settles in, getting comfortable. This is a new-old role for him, and he plays it better than anything else he's ever done.

Ruled by oak moons and Neptune.

Wake up, Princess.

I swim out of the depths of my dreams, toward the bright lights at the top, lungs bursting for air. I gasp when I break the surface, filling my lungs, feeling Lochlan's arm tighten around my ribs from where he has pulled me close. It's okay, everything is okay.

Jacob is kneeling beside the bed, one hand out, smoothing my hair back from my forehead with his thumb, a gesture so missed, so familiar that I want to cry.

It was just a bad dream. 

I know. I'm suddenly inconsolable, cranky. I smack his hand away and turn away from him, back towards safety as Cole snickers in the blackness behind Jake.

Lochlan wakes up when I move too much, programmed by years and years of being both a parent and a lover.

Okay?

I nod against his chin and he mumbles fuck off ghosts and holds me so tightly it's hard to breathe.  Close your eyes, he orders and I listen. Sleep, he barks and I try but fail. I wait until his breath evens out and I slip out from his now slack-grip and dress in the dark, watching through the holes in my sweater as I slide it over my hair in case the ghosts have snuck back in. Ben never came to bed. I'm pretty sure Ben came home in the middle of his meetings and now has to figure everything out from here so he's downstairs working.

I toss a coin inside my mind and promptly lose it as it lands on an edge, rolling away into a dark corner where the cobwebs are too thick to venture and the shadows too long to risk. Then I remember Matt lives here now and I make a left down the hall, knocking on the door softly before letting myself in. I climb in under the covers and a gentle startle wakes the Devil, who lets his surprise shine as he makes room for me, tucking his arm around my ribs, chin on top of my head.

Now I can sleep, he says.

Me too, I assure him, since the ghosts won't come anywhere near someone this frightening.

Me or you? Caleb asks, holding me harder, but I am already too far gone to answer, fast on my way back to my dreams.

Seven hours in and I've already broken every rule.

It's a beautiful sunny morning. A new day. A new year and a new decade even. I brought my music and my coffee down to the water to greet the Pacific properly, alone and with my hands, icy cold plunging outstretched into the sea as if I could put my weight on the surface and do a handstand. My coffee sits on my favourite flat picnic rock and Ben Howard shouts folk laments into my skull, his accent pervading his words so sweetly I get briefly distracted and miss the fact that I'm no longer alone exactly.

I startle and pitch forward onto my knees from where I had been crouching on my feet. I cry out and sit back.

Going to greet the sea with a kiss, are we? Bit extreme in this weather. 

Ben is home. Though his words sound like something Lochlan would say. They've rubbed off on each other to the point where they are burnished, blinding in the light. I get up and run to him, jumping into his arms and now he can be soaked with saltwater too. But at least he's home at last.

Happy New Year, Bumblebee. Or maybe I should change your nickname to wolfbait? 

(Oh. He's been bored and reading.)

Happy New Year! Why didn't you tell me you were on the way?

Surprising you is more fun. 

Happy New Year, Benny.

It will be, Bridget. We promise. We might be wolves but you're one of us and we look after each other.

It was a visual-

I know what it was but I also know how things are-

I hear a sound and turn to see Lochlan coming down the beach and when the sun hits his hair I forget about Ben, though I haven't seen him in days. Loch is smiling when he gets to us, hugging Ben first, hard, before turning to me.

Why didn't you wake me?

You looked peaceful. 

At least you didn't come down alone. But why are you soaked?

To his credit Ben didn't even rat me out, God bless him.