Self-aware? Nah.

The Collective is a mosaic, born of broken glass and shells, cemented back together into a beautiful image so distracting you forget the destruction required to make it. That's us. That's honestly us.

Caleb is thrilled with Batman's rare revelations, excited to be in first place, all the while knowing his brother is sick with a need no one should have.

I have half a mind to cancel the birthday as well, an impulsive desire of my own in which the evil isn't rewarded while the good remain unfulfilled.

But I never go that way. I never meet them in their games, truth be told, I don't manipulate one against another anymore nor do I look past the end of my fingertips to see anything other than what's in it for me. A problem in itself, mind you, but also a far less complicated one overall.

Batman came back around last night anyway and we spoke of it, biting back the difficult sins like lust and greed, trying to smother everything with a thin lacquer of values, opaque to the harsh sheen of the facts, ma'am and yes, it's a problem.

I need a clone, a spine, or a personal assistant. I need a megaphone or a billboard maybe. It will tell them how I feel. It will be backlit with my moods. Red for STOP FUCKING TOUCHING ME and blue for when I've fallen into the hole.

I need them to understand that things are going to have to change.

I need to stand behind Lochlan for a little bit while he fights a battle without a smug expression or a wounded heart, and I need everyone to just take a few steps back so I can run off in front, instead of running after everyone all the time.

It's so tenuously good right now and they're trying to ruin it, best they can.

Manifesting a difference (keep on moving).

There's beauty in the butterfly
But also in the moth
There's beauty in the sinner before and after he got lost
There's beauty in the traitor if freedom's on the line
There's beauty in the outcast if beauty saves your life
And I keep on moving

Batman smooths my bangs back and takes my whiskey, putting it on the side table while pulling me in closer on his lap. He hugs me against his chest and I feel a deep sigh from his as he exhales into my hair.

Your hair has gotten so long.

You saw me a week ago.

Touching it. I like it.

All millionaires have the same moves. The same abject comments on appearances, which isn't warranted or welcomed but they do it anyway as if their mere approval is influence. I secretly vow never to cut it again.

(Oh I'm KIDDING. Christ. They all have varying opinions on my hair. If I want it long I grow it out. If I decide I can't stand it for another minute, I chop it all off. It's just hair.)

It's been more than a week, Bridget. His hands loop around my hips. He seems so content and I reach over for my drink and bring it back so there's at least something between us other than my dress and his shirt and pants.

It's been more than a year. He continues as he picks up his own glass and empties it into his face decisively, as if he has been dared.

You have quotas?

Oh, it was a flip comment and there goes the glass, sailing through the air in slow motion, exploding against the doorframe in a shower of stars.

Turn off the music.

I bit my lip and leave his arms to do as he asks. I guess I hit a nerve and my spirit animal told him everything he needed to know tonight.

There's beauty in the knowing and in the wishing that you could
Like magic ain't a miracle
Just your cards misunderstood
Well there's beauty in our doing
Though diminished in our name
The same beauty in a snowfall is also in a flame
There's beauty in creation as there's beauty in its loss
There's beauty in the sinner before and after he got lost
And I keep on moving

*(If you need a refresher, my spirit animal is Matthew Good and he put out a brand new album that is likely the most beautiful one of all.)

Annual conversations, annual best-laid plans.

(I don't even think I have to name names so I'll let you guess and answer it tomorrow.)

What are you giving up this year?

Who, you mean?

Bridge-

I thought about giving up campfire smells or music or sugar or the Devil but then I realized I could work on myself a little.

Go on.

So I'll try to give up boundless worrying.

No more fretting?

Right.

How's that going?

It's really rough.

He laughs and pulls me in, planting a kiss on the top of my head, I'm just happy I'm not on the list.

So I gather you're not giving me up for Lent this year?

Wouldn't dream of it.

Mu-sea-um.

 I got lazy this afternoon while doing a warm-up painting and instead of going upstairs to my extensive collection of shells and sea glass, organized in giant glass jars on a table in a windowed hall, I googled for sea urchin shell photos.

To my dismay I found a whole heaping pile of sand dollar photographs, which is sad until I noticed a bunch of heart-shaped sand dollar ones.

And now it's my dream to find a heart-shaped sand dollar because I definitely need one of those. Please don't tell me it's an exclusive region-specific anomaly, I'd rather just keep searching. That's what I did with the glass fishing floats, of which I have three now. I'll go to the ends of the earth to find things and then I keep them dear.

Aristotle's lanterns, indeed.

I'm not so much a mermaid, but a scavenger. A collector, I assure Lochlan.

A beneficiary, he suggests, to be kind.

Updated with actual useful chitchat.

I went all the way out to the valley early to clear my head, talking to Mark on the phone via bluetooth about a future project sometime soon (before my birthday, maybe) and stopped to deliver the Porsche's big summer tires, gas up where it's cheap and then I was home just a little while ago, voices quiet in my head, no one listening in (anymore, anyway) and big plans to have coffee with Sam on the patio.

What's up, Bridge?

I just miss you. Usually you would have come to me a week ago to make sure the pancakes were planned for tonight and that we were all ready with our pledges for Lent and this year nothing. The last time there was nothing I didn't know you and hadn't met you yet.

What are planning to give up this year? 

Apparently, you. 

Bridge, I've been-

Busy. I know. Matt has replaced us all. 

You told me to be independent. 

So you switched from needing us to needing him? I haven't even done that ever and look at my loves.

We're trying not to turn Matt into the point's unwelcome interloper. 

If he wasn't welcome he wouldn't be here. It's almost as if you two are skulking around in the off hours and we haven't seen you at all. 

A lot was said about him coming back, Bridge. 

And it's the end of February and all is still well?

All is well. 

Then come for dinner tonight. We're having pancakes. We'll go around the table and set our intentions and have a good time. 

Okay. 

Okay?

Yes. 
 

Not biting.

Lochlan's laugh is bitter and somewhat incredulous. So he's just going to go along behind me and appropriate my ideas? 

I don't know what he's doing. 

Don't worry, I'll be asking him. I'd rather he engage you on his big failure trips like last year. Works better for me. Fire is my thing, not his. His thing is money and he can have it. 

So that's a no?

Hell yeah it's a no, but I'll be the bad guy. 

***

Late last evening Caleb knocks on the doorframe. I look over my shoulder from where I sit wrapped in a blanket on the front porch, my Irish coffee all but forgotten as I draw while listening to the Blackout podcast. I finished Gaslight and I must say I'm really enjoying these while I paint. You get sucked right in but you don't have to take your focus off your work.

You can come out, no need to knock. This is a public space. 

I like your delineations on spaces here on the point. 

It seems to work. What's up?

You look very cozy. 

I'm enjoying the rain. 

So again I've missed the mark trying to plan an evening with all of your favourite elements, according to Pyro. I've chosen a bit of a re-do on your Valentine's Day and I'd like to plan something a little different with you now. I was mistaken in trying to keep it close to home, I think.

Diabhal. 

Yes, Neamhchiontach. 

It's your birthday, what would be fun? 

Dinner at a jazz club and some dancing, maybe a movie after.

Then that's what we should do.Though you know I'll sleep through the movie.

I know. Then you can stay the night. 

He's never going to allow-

It's just wishful thinking, Neamhchiontach. Let an old man have that. 

One of us is going down.

The new single, Hunting Grounds is out off the upcoming Mother album from in this moment and the refrain (the title above) made me laugh. The song is a direct descendant of Sexual Hallucination though, and I don't really love it. Not because I'm a prude but because I feel like an intruder when I listen to both. The In-Between (the first single) is absolutely stunning in comparison.

But one of us is going down.

It's true. This morning, shoved under the door conveniently after Lochlan and Benjamin left for breakfast and then church with Sam, leaving me to sleep as Japanese food still manages to give me a pounding headache at least one time out of every three trips (yes I drank a ton of water last night to counteract the possibility, I think I'm going to have to give it up regardless) I found a gray envelope. Wax-sealed with an X, my initials scrawled on the front in case a single B was mistaken and appropriated by Benjamin, who isn't home anyway and Caleb knows that.

BRC. 

He'll never get it right.

I don't open it, I just bring it with me down the hall in through two doors and he is fastening the top button on a dress shirt. Oh, someone's going to church.

Big date?

Depends. Are we going to the service?

I'm not. Ben and Loch did. 

They left you?

For three hours.

Was that smart?

Depends. I hold up the envelope.

You asked for more notice and so I have sent you an invitation. What do you think? Did you open it?

I'm not going on an Alaskan do-over. 

If we try that again we'll do Finland instead. Jesus. 

What is it then?

Open it and see. 

Just tell me. 

He stares at me wearily and then goes back to his own more affable reflection. It's an evening event a little closer to home. I'm not shooting so far to wind up far from home fighting with you, when I would just like to mark another trip around the sun with someone I love in a special way. 

I can't take the curiosity anymore and I rip open the envelope, scanning his handwriting.

Oh. Why didn't you say so?

I like to make things special, as I said. 

What time?

It's on the paper-

Oh, right. I will be there. 

I thought we could leave together. 

Right. Yes. Sorry. 

I'm delighted you accepted so readily. 

It sounds like fun and it's appropriate right now. (Appropriate, says the girl with one husband, two ghosts, two formal boyfriends and a handful of completely informal, casual ones.)

You and Lochlan are doing well and you don't have any screws to turn. 

No, jetting off to far-flung corners of the planet with a boyfriend who's in virtual jail for almost biting your ear off would be foolish and hypocritical. 

I am aware, Neamhchiontach, and that's one of the reasons I scaled things back this year. 

I like simple things, Diabhal. 

That explains Lochlan. He laughs and then rolls his eyes. You set up that joke perfectly. Give me some credit. 

You have to earn credit. 

Oh, I know, Bridget. I want to get back to good birthdays and I think this will do it. 

I always said a beach bonfire with dinner and slow-dancing by the sea fixes everything. 

Well then let's see if it fixes this. How is your headache this morning?

Oh, he knows me so well it's criminal.

If I burn all the suitcases they can keep all their promises.

Benjamin and Daniel came back early this morning, waking up the whole house thanks to their earlier vagueness on when the flight was actually coming in, when they were planning to leave and what the fuck taxi company they would take to get home since they couldn't give PJ a definitive answer. He would have picked them up, though probably not at four this morning. They were home by six, and I was so happy to be woken up early on my only day to sleep in it's ironic.

Schuyler suddenly had blinders on, giving Ben a warm punch-hug, closed fists against each other's backs before moving to Daniel to envelope him in the sweetest, longest hug I've ever been fortunate to witness. Tears even, from everyone as they are rarely apart and hardly ever for this long.

They head off with promises to return to head out for our big welcome home dinner tonight, already booked at a little Japanese restaurant that's happy to give us an entire room on a week's notice and we stop to marvel at Ben's presence in this house, a space he fills that was so sorely lacking all week. At the end of the day Ben is a constant now, a six-foot-four security blanket, a wall that we can close in or lean on or protect ourselves with.

He and Loch had an equally long hug which was beautiful to see. They were speaking softly in each other's ears and I couldn't hear the words. Then he came for me, finally. From largest to smallest, I guess and I was off the ground in his arms, still half-asleep and in dreams but half-awake and...still in dreams.

The airplane fuel smell hit me like a wall, catch in my throat, tears triggered again.

Going to make that the last trip this year. Embargo for 2020, Ben says to me. He puts me down and presents his little finger to my face. Pinky-swear, he says solemnly.

It's February. You can't say that yet. 

Oh, I can and I am. Pinky-swear me, Bee. Come on. Don't leave me hanging.

It's a pep-talk! It's rambles. It's a ramble-talk! A pep ramble! It's an attempt, fuck off.

I've said before one of the upsides of waking up, raring to go at five or shortly after is that the energy that comes from being a morning person enables me to get all of my big crazy chores done before nine a.m. and then (be asleep by 8pm, sharp, yegads) I have more time to job hunt, spring clean, draw and crawl right up inside my own skull, a dark and warm host to the parasite that is my mind.

Some day I'll find the off switch and it will be bittersweet because I'm pretty sure that Jacob already found his and it's death and nothing else.

So I'm doomed to fret and worry through my days, but I'm at once an escapee AND high-functioning.

No, YOU figure it out.

Joel figures it out but only after Sam does what he can. Sam told me to go tick through my list, so I did the chores, did the budget, paid the bills, folded the laundry (including ALL the sheets and towels) and called to order in the summer tires for the Porsche because they are of no use to me now and I need to take them over to be sold with the car.

I also still need to pick up the new Jeep but it's...not...ready. ARGH.

I wish everyone lived moved-forward like me instead of these slow late-morning starts which stretch into early evenings because that's dumb and I have an agenda to keep, which is to continue moving forward at a breakneck pace until I crash into a wall.

And I don't even want to be a sad read anymore. I've had enough. I cringe when bloggers happily parse their diagnoses, and talk about meds and suicide and depression and death, even. I did that. I've been doing that nonstop, frankly, for a damn long time.

So ha! Bridget picks herself up by her bootstraps now! Or maybe someone else does. They must be strong, and her boots are only a little worn, but still fit and are comfortable, and honestly we're going to move forward even if I have to put my back up against my own life and push with my legs.

You heard it here first. 

Also, please come home, Daniel, I don't have enough energy to keep up with them. I thought I did and I was wrong.

(snort).

Smell the roses. And the oil.

I am changing beds and waiting for the Jeep to be ready at the dealership. It's having some things done. I don't know what things, supposedly they will give me a list. They're going to make it nice. That was a condition of selling it to me. I am the sweetest, most polite cutthroat negotiator you will ever find. I want it perfect and I want promises so if you make any, I won't forget.  I think it will be ready during rush-hour. Sometime between when Henry has to go to work and when he needs a pick up. I may have to enlist every driver in the house tonight to get things done and I am tired of dealerships and garages and tire-smell and parking and being nice to people and generally I want to go crawl up into bed and keep drinking wine and watching Netflix and dozing off every five minutes with Lochlan and Schuy because at least that's relaxing.

Just a note, yes, they offered to look after all of it but it's my mess, I'll see it through so I am. Even though I am mega-stressed but really it's just one little stick in a whole bird's nest over here.

At least the beds are all changed the final round of sheets and pillowcases is in the dryer. I should have used the clothesline. It's sunny and beautiful out today. It feels like spring.

Lochlan's other husband.

Schuyler has both arms around my neck from behind me, phone in front of my face while he tries to teach me the lyrics to Shallow, the song from A Star is Born, a movie I freaking loved and am never ashamed to admit that but I can't for the life of me hit those notes. He tries to coach me through a lower octave but I keep lapsing into the wrong part, as if I am now Bradley Cooper, he can be Lady Gaga.

I wrote Lady Gage there but only because Schuyler and Gage wear the same aftershave and the same kind of antiperspirant so they smell the same and it shouldn't surprise me this late in life but it does.

Schuyler is affectionate (as always) and In Charge today, as everyone is out. He's also stupidly lonely, as Daniel and Ben are away (yup, yeah, Christ) and Lochlan wants help with my endless sleeping and of course Schuyler can fix all of that and it's less risky than August (as ever).

If this is the level of affection that Daniel receives in my absence no wonder they are so stupidly happily. Damn. I'm on my figurative knees here from how nice this feels, and that's saying something because Schuy is always so generous with his hands/arms/kisses/AHEM UNPRINTABLES that we all benefit nicely all the time but this is truly next-level.

I love you, Bumblebee. His hand is wrapped around my neck, a kiss landing on the side of my cheek. I'm glad he's holding me up or that would have knocked me over. He really needs someone in hand to molest twenty-four-seven or things aren't right for Schuyler.

You miss him. 

Badly. 

Think we can keep you busy until they come back?

Depends on how much you stay awake, he laughs. You're a beautiful distraction. So is Lochlan. 

Oh. Don't hit me right where it hurts. That's a mutual feeling. 

Good to hear, he pulls me in underneath his coat collar. Makes it easier to ride out the end of the week without Daniel if I have you both. 

I smile into his coat. Not because of the analogy my brain finds in his words but just because double the affection in any given day makes a Bridget feel a whole hell of a lot better. Maybe I'll get my mini-vacation after all, if, like he said, I can stay awake long enough to enjoy it.

Broke.

You think it's all fun and games and romantic extravangances and new Jeeps and boys everywhere.

It is but it's everything else too and I'm not looking for sympathy I'm just telling you how I feel.

('You' being Sam or Ben or Joel or Christian. I don't know.)

The headache persists and I maintain, like I have for the past three years, that I need a long break. I need someone to take over and take care of me. I need to not be the one buying groceries, saying no, paying bills, keeping it all together. I feel like I'm losing it. The part where I gave up my car and came home with a Jeep flew. The part where it has to go back for something things is dragging. I haven't caught up to life again yet. I feel perpetually overwhelmed.

Maybe we all do. Maybe this is the new Spring Fever.

I'm at that stage of life where everything is so tough and my legs feel like they're encased in concrete and I don't know what to do except to marvel at how white my knuckles get and hold on until I feel better.

But they'll be concerned if I go to bed before dinner.

Not that I care right now. Sleeping is the only relief I have from my racing mind anymore.

Brighter, smaller, slower (Hey, like me).

The Porsche is gone at last and in it's place, a second Jeep.

A third, if you count PJ's, but he steadfastly refuses to let me rename them. They have names, though I thought we could call them after the three musketeers: Athos, Porthos and Aramis.

He said no but he laughed when he refused so it was clever, I guess. We put them out at the end of the lawn up on the rock wall flexing and had a little photo shoot and then he tucked his safely back into the garage because he only pets it. I'm kidding! Sometimes he pulls it out into the driveway and pets it in the sun.

In marked contrast, I promptly scraped the door on my (new to me) one but Lochlan said it was very fine and will polish out.

It will be for the kids to learn stick on. I can already drive stick and trust me, I was looking for a second Jeep, a two door but automatic and I wasn't finding what I wanted and honestly to me being able to drive a standard is a life skill, just like swimming and juggling.

(I am fun at parties. I think.)

They've had a few lessons and are really good at it, at least, and I no longer have to worry about Ruth wanting to borrow the Porsche (it was a standard and she learned on it too, a little though I had zero interest in her bombing up the Sea to Sky in such a tiny vehicle) because it's finally gone. I also don't feel like such a hack owning a fussy, high-end car that had such heavy connotations.

(Caleb says that's imaginary. Lochlan laughs out loud at him because it's...not, actually.)

Now I'm a Jeep girl X 2.

Perfect.

Mother of all headaches. Pulled off all my long pink fake nails even. Hate that it hurts this much.

Rich men purchase, poor men plan.

It used to be easier to say that before I forced the rich one to apply the laws of California (an expression in our house. It means half.) to my life just to stick it to him further at one point for the fiasco that was Henry's paternity suit and efforts to muscle his way right in on a permanent rather than symbolic level.

Lochlan was given equal everything for a time. If I got a deposit so did he. It was five years of misery for Caleb and by the time I let him off the hook Lochlan could have retired in the past, he had so much in the bank. I helped him invest it, I'm not a hundred percent sure he understands the gravity of it because he still grabs his cases and runs off any time someone needs anything computer related because he has ego issues, like everyone here. I keep pointing out his dividends, his compound interest, his capital gains, as if to show him, oh I think I fucked this up but here's what you kept (because I am also stubborn and probably doing this wrong) and he kind of shakes his head but he's said before it's blood money and he doesn't want it, a curse born of a tragedy and fuck that shit poor is better and I agree but the poor one at the end of this life isn't going to be him or me, it should be the Devil.

Last night Lochlan appeared quite suddenly just before dark. I had been previously warned that he was 'working' all afternoon (rolled my eyes, I did) and not to eat dinner as we would have a date when he came home.

He was home the whole time, someone else took his truck. Plotting and scheming and planning.

We had what he has chosen to call an inside-out bonfire. He made a huge heart-shaped bonfire on the beach, picnic blanket in the centre, laden down with sweet things and flowers scattered everywhere.

Ready? he asks. We are standing far back from it. It's huge. It's as if the entire beach is on fire and the flames are up to my knees. He takes my hand but I pull away. Honestly it was an amount of fire I haven't seen before, not since the camper and I was afraid.

I don't know why, things have changed. This was romance, not danger.

He did that thing where he waits for my confirmation that I trust him and we stepped into the heart.

I lived.

Inside the heart was cake. We ate the cake and threw the flowers into the flames one after another to make ad-hoc wishes and when the tide rose and began to put the fire out, beginning at the point of the heart, it was time to go. I didn't want to go, high on sugar with smoke in my hair and salt on my skin I wanted to stay all night but it started to rain then and he laughed and said Mother Nature is helping because we're late for the next phase.

The next phase was upstairs in our warm room with more flowers, more flames and some unspeakable, unprintable acts.

No one can do what he does to me. Not Caleb, not Ben, not even Jacob. He ties my heart in knots and then makes it bloom. He cleanses us with fire. He makes everything fun.

And he's surprisingly not excited about the bees.

Happy Valentine's Day!

They got me bees.

We pick them up in March or early April. Two hives and sixish pounds of bees.

I don't remember what six pounds of bees looks like but I'm so excited I could burst.  My grandparents had hives when I was a kid and a few other family members so I'm comfortable around bees but only to the extent that I could do minimal things to help out at honey harvest time and otherwise mostly left them alone.

Honestly if someone asks you what your polyamoric commune got you for Valentine's Day and you can answer Six pounds of bees you have to be having the BEST DAY IN THE UNIVERSE.

Lochlan and I exchanged gifts privately as well. He got me a booster cushion (!!!!!!!!) for driving (It's been a thing for oh, about two (okay three) decades and I've had enough. Driving all these oversized trucks is rough when my ribcage is against the steering wheel in order to reach the pedals. When I drove the Porsche daily I had to extend my legs far forward and use the tips of my toes to push the clutch in.

I had his (good, not the every day one) top hat repaired professional. In London. It took a leap of faith and seven months of nailbiting but they replaced all of the binding and the ribbon and replaced the very top circle as well as it had a...bite out of it (very long story) and could not be patched. Or it could, but I did a very poor job and they also cleaned it and it's beautiful again. He almost couldn't believe it's his, as he thought I  must have finally thrown it out or something.

That, well, that almost started something, as I would never do that.

So while our gifts weren't romantic in the least (presents rarely equal romance, something that has been promised in spades for later this evening, and boy am I excited), they were exceedingly touching and useful and helpful in everyday life and I'm grateful for Lochlan, grateful for all of the boys (who all got freshly detailed trucks-I ordered a whole team to come and do mobile detailing because they are very messy though far far better than we were when they were teenagers-

Wait, what do you mean 'bees and tophats aren't useful in everyday life'? Of course they are. Don't be ridiculous.

Wizard and sage.

Schuyler is less convinced that a good long kayak excursion has cured me. Also I cannot lift my arms to hug him when he greets me. Honestly he is a lot like Caleb in that way, he likes his lovers helpless, and maybe Daniel and I are more alike than Daniel wants to admit.

And also their lives are far less complicated so Schuyler spends virtually all of his free time keeping a close eye on Daniel's particular shade of blue at any given moment. I think because I am smaller sometimes I slip through the cracks.

But not tonight.

Aside from sore arms how do you feel?

Fine, I lie and he gives me a kiss, trapping one lock of white-blonde hair between our lips as I can't get my arm up fast enough or high enough to pull it away.

Liar, he hisses against my teeth. God, Schuyler loves a full house and people who need him. Hellbent on not being needy I push off and point out the time.

Already fixed, he says, pulling me back in. Daniel kisses the top of my head from the dark behind me and I can already feel myself relaxing but I step out from between them anyway.

I'm beginning to think you keep Lochlan running on purpose. 

Schuyler smiles. He's free to say no but maybe I do. 

You've got everything you need right here. I pull Daniel in front of me. He doesn't actually move but it's the thought that counts.

Schuy nods. I do. Daniel holds my heart and my soul. 

Then why am I here?

It's nice to have a pet. They both laugh and I am gone now, high on attention, wound out on the warm affection I crave more fiercely than oxygen. I make mental notes, as always on the way they check in with each other. A look, touch or a word. A pause. A rush in, too fast, so intense and then I blink and I am awake and no one else is and I don't remember falling asleep, I don't remember this night ending only I do remember smiling as I watch them lavish their affection on each other, a truer love existing nowhere else that I can think of.

And now I feel like I want to cry.

Schuyler wakes up and sees the look on my face. You okay? What's up, Bee?

Just had a massive attack of jealousy, that's all. 

He pulls me in close, talking into my hair. I will definitely be washing it today. Because of last night's antics, and because of his breath. It's not bad, exactly but it's not really good either.  There's no place for that. With Loch you two have the love for the ages. It's withstood wars and birth and death and sabotage and the Collective. That's something to be jealous of. 

I never see him though and when I do see him we fight. 

I didn't say life isn't hard, Bridget but you've got everything you need and I've already put the word out for some people to replace Loch so he can actually retire instead of just talking about it.

You say that every six months. 

He's a fixer. I don't meet many people like that. It's going to take six people to replace one of him. That takes time. I'm sorry. He's sorry. But you know he likes to be busy so I get it. 

Maybe I could keep him busy. 

You're the only thing he can't fix. That makes him crazy, you know that? He's scared to death someone else will be able to before he can. Jake was the biggest threat of his life and he's always got Caleb breathing down his neck-

Caleb isn't breathing down anythi-

He is, and it doesn't matter if he's not a threat. If he helps in any way then Lochlan sees red. It's not a bad thing. It'll get better. Everything will. 

I wish I had your optimism. 

Look around. I'm so lucky it's almost criminal. 

Me too.

Everything is better after you exercise or something (bah humbug).

Ectoplasmic. You know, when I need someone else to keep me warm.

He bursts out laughing. That's ectothermic. Ectoplasmic is ghosts.

Figures. I'm not actually picky. Living or dead is fine.

You should get up. We'll have a fun day.

I'm fine right here. Go live. Come back when I've had some sleep.

You don't need anymore sleep, Bridge. Whens the last time you washed your hair?

Sunday.

Wow.

I think.

That's a sign when someone isn't doing so well. They let their appearance and their hygiene slide.

LOOK AT MY PRETTY NAILS, DANIEL

What have those done for you? They keep you from being able to do anything. Bet he's happy to keep you helpless.

Oh, a rare comment on the devil from Mr. Impartial.

I'm not impartial, just quiet about it. I have a nice life here and my brother keeps a good eye on you so I can stay out of it. 

And yet here you are.

Look, I get lonely too and I wanted to know if you want to go kayaking. That's all.

Of course I want to go kayaking. What a ridiculous question. 

Then get your lazy ass out of bed and go take a shower. Christ. It's almost breakfast. 

(For the record, I am not helpless. We kayaked for almost three hours. I'm tired now, that's what I am. I thought I was before, though.)

Of no consequence.

Every morning now I wake up at five or five-thirty, untangle myself from an embrace that makes me feel feverish but safe, and hop in the shower. Sometimes I wash my hair and then comb it out with a wide-tooth comb, squishing up the ends so it will twist up and curl like Lochlan's, though it is almost too long for that now. Sometimes I pretend I am bald and fail to address it at all. Then I hop into a vat of cocoa butter because you've never met someone with skin as dry and hideously sensitive as me. I've swapped out to cocoa butter for my tattoos as well which is part of my own personal aftercare routine a week after the latest round. It just works better for me, might not for you.

Then I come downstairs, make coffee (currently swapping between Tully's and a no-name grocery store brand Mexican dark roast that I really freaking like) and read some stuff, mostly things like CORONA VIRUS WILL KILL US ALL, TRUMP SOMETHING SOMETHING IDIOT and HOW TO MAKE NONFATSMALLBATCHORGANICNONDAIRYYOGURTINYOURINSTANTPOT.

Yes, those are all real headlines on my black mirror today and I'm sorry I looked, frankly.

Instead, I peruse the new Vesey's seed catalogues, the latest of which they've sent me is one all about bulbs, and I wonder if I should plant some or if I should maintain the illusion that I am helpless and unable to be that pulled together.

Oh, but I am pulled together. Look at my nails. I tap them against the side of my coffee mug. So pretty. I'm so pulled-together I orchestrated a fun day out with my sugar daddy footing the bill so I would be pretty and fed and that's something, isn't it? It's how I was taught.

(That isn't how it went at all though. Caleb touched my hand, compared it to 80-grit sandpaper and looked at my short ragged nails and eight-year-old's hands and suggested I doll up for Valentine's Day and maybe we should get some lunch, as my stomach growled right then, blocking out his words briefly. I hedged my bets that this was his Valentine date so I agreed.)

(Apparently it was not.)

Caleb and Lochlan went another round last evening concerning their age-old war between the finer things in life and the plebian things in life. Caleb would like to fly us to multi-Michelin-starred restaurants for dinners, Lochlan's idea of a balanced meal is a corn dog AND a candy apple, though I never ever had room for both. And sometimes if we were very hungry, completely poor and he was feeling extra guilty, Lochlan would eat the candy layer off the apple and give me the rest, something we both hated but he didn't want me to die from a lack of fruit and vegetables but also couldn't afford to feed us both without stealing but he could jack up his blood sugar until we could get a meal so it was good enough.

Good enough became a battle cry for us, something that has built character and kept us ridiculously grounded all the while it's been a level Caleb will not stoop to, no matter what. He is rigid and resistant and jealous beyond reason.

Lochlan on the other hand is also jealous but simultaneously angry at me for feeding the beast, as it were, and also for having 'stupid looking nails' (ouch) and even for wasting an Olive Garden trip on Caleb when Lochlan would have liked to go and I will only go once every ten years or so because it's awful, honestly.

But the breadsticks-

The ones from Little Caesars are the same thing only not as salty, thank God. 

They're smaller though. 

Boy, Lochlan gets hangry now. He's probably making up for years of forcing his metabolism to run at the pace of newly-poured concrete so I wouldn't be hungry.

Want me to make you some non-dairy yogurt?

What?

Nothing.

You taught me this, Locket. All of it. 

You weren't supposed to bring any of them home, you were just to take what you needed.

This is different.

OG breadsticks.

For my grand finale, since I look so pulled together or something, Caleb let me pick the restaurant for dinner.

I picked Olive Garden.

Just to see the look on his face, mostly. I figured he would refuse. He did not. We went. That was interesting. More tomorrow.

Baby doll #214 is the shade.

OMG. I may have to take a month off. I got gel nails this afternoon and I am Baby-Yoda levels of helplessness.

I can't type. I dropped Caleb's credit card at the nail salon and had to stand and stare at him until he picked it up so I could pay. I left it on the counter when we came home because I couldn't get it put away properly and I can't stop staring at my hands because they put tiny little gems on my nails and it makes my diamond rings sparkle hugely.

Worth it.

But I can't type. Or do anything for that matter. Kind of fun but also frustrating. The nails are lighter than the acrylic solar bulletproof ones I had before though so maybe I won't be trying to pull them off with pliers and turpentine two days from now.

I also look completely pulled together and that NEVER happens.

Fire, sugar and pavement.

The sun appears to be shortlived, and we are back to the land of heavy petrichor, rippled windowglass and damp dreams, wrung out repeatedly but never enough to dry fully and so they remain smeared and blurry with thick wrinkles that never smooth.

Have you ever seen what happens to cotton candy when it gets wet? That's me, through and through. Sticky, clumped together, dissolving right through your fingers.You have to consume it quickly, as flames does to almost everything it touches, or it goes to waste.

It's still better than snow, still better than forty degrees in the shade sunshine too, truth be told. I have a nice umbrella or six and a plethora of volunteers to hold them, and barring that, a good black raincoat with the sleeves rolled up three times and a plan to sit by the fire all night to warm back up. That's sort of the best deal going. I also have a really great technical running suit that keeps me from getting waterlogged but it's also comfortable, seamless and breathable. Leggings and a long-sleeved top. I feel like a superhero without a cape when I wear it but Lochlan, crushing those dreams with his hands underwater, says I look like a four-year old in too-small pajamas on Christmas morning. He isn't a runner so he does not truly appreciate this set, and it has saved my skin (yes, literally) many times over living here.

We didn't go to church today. Sam did and I was given a long hug and a blessing this morning on his way out. He said the entire congregation is sick and he's down to faith as protection but didn't want to subject the whole house to it as we are struggling with colds anyway. I've been sneezing and huffing to catch my breath while laundering every coat, scarf, hat, sweater, bag and blanket in the house to stay on top of germs. I've been wiping down our shoes and boots on the regular. I've been replacing cups in bathrooms almost hourly but I'm worn out and am now banned from any more of that because it was pointed out we'll either get sick or we won't and since we already mostly are, there's no point left. I have wiped my life down with Clorox wipes to the point where it is bleaching my very bones.

I'm still running though. It's been helping a lot.

Northern Cold.

Sunshine is coming! I saw the yellow dot on the forecast page, the one with the rays. I remember what that shape means. I'm watching the East coast get slammed with snow and storms and I don't wish to be there, this is fine. A little wet, but fine.

Okay, a lot wet and highly depressing. There's more than a couple of the boys who are beginning to struggle just enough that we have tightened up the Collective space and are in each other's faces virtually all the time, it seems and I wouldn't change a thing. I'll go ask someone for help doing the most mundane things and it works. We've made a list of fun stuff to do and we're ticking through it. We're trying new recipes, restaurants and film styles, hence the Taylor Swift documentary the other day. We're trying to wear brighter colors and we're turning on all the lights. We're holding those who need it constantly.

We're trying to get rested but not too much as sleeping all the time is weirdly just as bad as not sleeping at all. I'd love to test that one out personally, but I am not a sleeper.

Oh. Ben's up. Gotta go. Time for my walk on the beach. Bye!

Ignore my technological ineptitudes and I will ignore your judgement and we're even.

I tried to break up with iTunes again, but then I realized I don't actually have any other options and so I came back, we made up at least halfway and it has promised to behave better, at least for a while. There's some fun new bug that means I sync and around...oh, three hours later the songs populate my phone. But they aren't there when I eject it from iTunes. Which meant I was unable to play Woods of Ypres and had to go without and that's not a good scene for me.

I mean, the HORROR.

Right? 

I was very frustrated. I also spent like two hours researching and changing ID tags for my Miss Saigon soundtrack only to find out it did nothing.

I threatened to go back to Blackberry and Lochlan showed me the news that the handsets are going away. I said I should probably buy a few Key Ones or whatever to stock up (I still have my Curve and my Bolds!) and he laughed and said support would also end shortly so no point.

Great. I mean I'm not techy at all but the day I realized I could stuff fifteen thousand songs in my pocket I was pretty happy. Now I'm perpetually frustrated.  Everything just keeps leaping forward and I'm not able to keep up at all. It equals the exact same feeling I had when I was eight and the boys would run ahead, down the path to the ball field and I couldn't go as fast as they could and I got weirdly scared.

Wait, this is not anything like that feeling. Nevermind.
 

Taurus + Pisces.

Kerosene in my hands
You make me mad, on fire again
All the pills that you take
Violet, blue, green, red to keep me at arm's length don't work

There's things I wanna say to you, but I'll just let you live
Like if you hold me without hurting me
You'll be the first who ever did
There's things I wanna talk about, but better not to give
But if you hold me without hurting me
You'll be the first who ever did

He pulled the law of surprise and requested just the evening for a little self-care, a tiny-mini spa night which mostly involves checking my ear-healing progress, drawing a warm bubblebath, drinking a lot of champagne and deep-conditioning my hair. We get through all that, including at least three glasses of champagne each and I climb up into Caleb's lap, using my fingers to trace a Himalayan charcoal mask onto his face, avoiding his eyes and mouth, scraping my skin against his five o-clock shadow.

You leave it on for five minutes and then use a super-hot facecloth to soak it off and wipe it away, okay?

I'll put yours on. Come back here.

I can't do another one this week. My skin is too sensitive. It burns.

If you do it more your skin will get used to it.

I'm sure Caleb is just trying to toughen me up, to help me navigate through life without so many bruises, knocks and a bleeding heart that floods every room it enters. Scar tissue is a great stand-in for fierce confidence, something I can't buy so I'll never possess it. My heart floods blood into my sleeve, dripping down off the edge of my hand. I'll forever be almost, kind-of, not quite all the way there.

Like Pluto.

Hmmm? Caleb is sleepy-relaxed and leans back against his end of the tub.

Pluto's nitrogen lake is not only shaped like a heart, but when it's day there it thaws and wraps the planet in a vapour, and then at night it freezes again and contracts, so it looks like a pulse. It also, I pause for dramatic effect here, is the only planet in our solar system that has an atmosphere that runs in retrograde. The winds flow to the west while the planet turns east.

You run in retrograde.

I told you years ago I was Pluto.

That makes sense. Who am I, Bridge? 

You're....The Narada. 

Narada. The messenger to Vishnu?

No, the Romulan mining ship that comes whipping onto the screen in warp speed with all the pointy bits in Star Trek.

What happens to the ship?

It disappears into a black hole that Spock makes. I think it does, anyway. 

Funny how you know everything about Star Trek but nothing about Star Wars. 

I don't, I just really liked that ship. 

I'll take it personally after all, then.

This post is about Taylor Swift. I'm not sorry.

August and I are simultaneously watching the documentary Miss Americana and texting each other. I was not allowed out (it was too late and too awful outside because RAIN. We've had something like 1478930532 days of it so far this year, and it's getting old again. But it's not snow, so look on the bright side, people. You know, your SAD light.) and he figured that was a sign. It was, most likely.

Oh my goooood what a cute cat. It's one of those grumpy ones, right? A Scottish fold maybe? I don't know

She's got her diary, front and centre. And a kitten. This is some 13 going on 30 shit

Oh yup. 13

Wait. She said ink jet. Not well but jet. And a glass quill? Jesus. Early Cinderella here

Suddenly heartstring-pulling as she seemingly is self-aware and that surprises me. I have this vision of her as a cold-hearted music machine. Granted, I've heard maybe one of her songs. Uh. I don't remember.

August interjects here (and will be purple text)  I knew you were trouble when you walked in

Oh, right.

Cat #2!

"I just need to make a better record". Jesus, woman. Do it for you.

Oh here's mom. Isn't this weird need to please everyone her fault?

I really like the raw songs and not the stylized overproduced stuff. Joel should be ashamed.

It's so lonely at the top. At least mom's there. And Joel. Does Joel have a family?

What airline staff serves the food before takeoff? LOL

Taylor looks surprised at the C-word and then tells us cancer was hard for her. Taylor, she means.  Um..

Omg my dream fridge!

Cat. is. ON. the. table.

What's in that bottle that she's drinking? Wow, she cries alot. Love her.

"We" don't do that anymore. "This" is fine. Odd tenses. I like it.

Oh my fuck. You GO GIRL. STAND UP FOR YOURSELF.

Oh no. Mom, don't be a yes-man. Hug your child. There's dad and Joel. They just stare. For fucks sake

This is called Burnout, Taylor.

Aaaaaaand you fixed it!

Oh, I like that song. Wait, wasn't Jack Antonoff engaged to Lena Dunham?

She's starting to look like she's checked out live.

Brandon Urie?

Oh fixing the wooden expression on stage. Gotcha...

 And here's where I admit I got one hundred percent sucked in and failed to find anything wrong with the rest of it and am a huge fan now! Though I still don't know any of the songs, she seems like she is stuck at whatever age she was when she became famous and with a few quirks she seems like she knows and has learned and is game to admit she's still learning. I wanted it to go on for hours but it stopped way too soon and I realized I stopped texting completely.

I guess that's the story so far.

Aug

Augieeeeeeeeee

You awake?

Sweet dreams

Heavy with limited visibility (like my heart).

Okay! It's started snowing like mad here and I've already organized the Boy Squad (a term they hate) into finishing the laundry, running the dishwasher, getting a huge load of groceries, gassing up the vehicles, putting down de-icer on the driveway, hill and walkways, plus the steps to the beach, and now they're all milling around close by because I'm baking chocolate-chip cookies.

Bring on the snow. I'm ready.

(I'm also feeling a lot better. That helps.)

Hive mind.

It stuns me that I used to get tattooed and then go out and get shitfaced, dance all night, fuck someone and then wake up and do it all again the next night. Nowadays I hobble around the kitchen with my hands out to ward people off, yelling DON'T TOUCH ME HOLY FUCK I'LL KILL YOU if they even attempt to enter the room, forget all about being actually touched. Between my ear and the most recent spate of work I am candy-glass, shattering if you look at me.

I sleep fitfully, on the outside of Ben all through the end of last week, away from any involuntarily thrash or affection from Lochlan in his dreams. He already grabbed me once and felt so bad I grabbed him back in dismay, knowing he also hurts, just somehow not as much because he had less work done again. Dammit.

Mark just laughs as he watches me through the decades as I shrink into a violet when I used to be a mighty tree. It's okay though, I think I've reached the end of my tattoo time and then I want a little more, and then I'm sure and then I change my mind again. My theory is that you only get one form, may as well make it as pretty and unique as possible and thanks to Mark, I think I've done that.

Though, if I may, an entire swarm of fucking bees is a pretty awesome addition to a suit with very little gaps remaining. When in doubt, fill 'em up with bees, I always say.

Or at least that's what I say now. 

Caleb said I look dangerous when I showed him and then I screamed at him in surprise when he went to hug me on my way out.

Give me a few days to unclench my teeth and fists and by then the swelling should be down and I'll be back to normal.

(HA. Who's normal?)

If it glitters it's probably trash.

My soul wanders in a small loop, looking for a permanent home or purpose even, searching for meaning in the endless chaos of my life. It's sure but unsure, convicted but easily swayed, distracted but focused. I'm a magpie, an enigma, a storm on a beautiful day. Just like outside this morning where the sun beamed onto the clouds heavy with rain as they pushed in against the blue, turning everything grey and dim, muting what was supposed to be a day devoid of obligation or purpose.

At least for me.

But I can't embrace it. I can't work with it. I can't relax ever. I don't know why. Sam and Caleb separately gave me the same answer and it surprised me, in that my soul is still looking. I don't give Caleb any credit as when he takes it he locks it in a small box and it remains with him. I do give Sam credit as he has a direct line and can get answers as I need them, though I may not necessarily like them.

It's okay, he tells me. You don't have to like them. Or accept them. They're there regardless. 

Schrodinger's Jesus? 

In a way, yes, Sam laughs.

All-business Saturdays.

Sorry, I checked out of today. I spent four hours flat on my back while Mark attacked the gaps in my suit with tattoos of various things found in nature, mostly bees, taking it until I cried Uncle because no amount of Bactine or zoning was going to get me any further. Then he wrapped all of my new tattoos and Lochlan took me out for a chicken sandwich, which was so good. I had a huge glass of lemonade and then ordered myself a piece of chocolate cake too. He watched me eat, asked if I was good and then we came home to rest.

Mark is tattooing Ben and Loch tomorrow. It's kind of fun, like a mini-vacation save for the fact that I have to hold my wrists at an unnatural angle tonight and I also can't slide my legs up onto the chair across from me underneath the big desk because I don't want to scrape them.

I love my tattoos. I went through a long period of hating all of them but with some reworks and some new direction the love is back with a vengeance.

It feels great. Tomorrow I'll be wrecked but right now this is wonderful. I had no phone, no book, no television, no boys, just a random spotify playlist that Mark has cobbled together and the odd bit of conversation but not much because he likes to concentrate while he works and I like to lie there and guess the artists of the songs he plays.