The water was six degrees, the mood an icy minus two.

I went for a swim this morning. Lochlan was going to say no and then at the last moment he didn't put up a fight at all. I wouldn't have listened anyway. Saltwater fixes everything, goes the saying, and they're not wrong, though once I stopped shivering I realized everything was still broken but now I am also struggling to stay warm.

I tried to put claustrophobic restrictions on Everett's access to me and got shot down at every turn. They want him to have a chance to see how I roll. Wow. That's a lot to ask. I don't think this is fair. I'm not a bug under a microscope. I'm not someone's science project. I am not a mannequin in a store window and I am NOT open to anyone's interpretation if you're in my home. There's no room here for error or misguided attempts to solve a problem that's hardly a problem, if you ask me. I know what's fucking wrong with me. I have a whole LIST here somewhere. Actually two. The fun part was comparing Jacob's list with Claus' and then with Joel's. Three, then.

I don't need a fourth list. I said this to Ben as he got dressed for the day and he laughed. He finally sat down and said he wanted to do for me what I just did for him, which was sit in a hospital room for so many days I forgot where I lived, and then I came home and worked my ass off helping him do anything he needed to do to get back to us. I would do it again too. I would do anything for Ben.

Then do this.

Since when do you owe me anything? You were the one who was here after Jake. You bought me a car. You walked the kids to school. You made sure I wasn't alone. You kept me away from Caleb-

And I would do that again too. 

God we're like two knights fighting over who is the noblest. 

Isn't it 'most noble'? 

Does it matter?

I guess it doesn't, Bee. 

I don't want him here. 

Give him two weeks. Remember, we don't have Joel anymore and August isn't nearly as objective as he used to be and Sam is in a weird place and needs a little room to breathe and-

Two weeks? Aughhhhhhhhhhhhh.

Two weeks. Give Everett until the Ides of March and if it's still a problem he will go. But also give him a shot. He's really good to talk to and is unconventional. You feel like you're talking to a friend. He became a good friend. That's why he's here. Few people get an opportunity like this. You don't have to go anywhere. You don't have to be away. 

But...but...four course meals and campfire projects! 

Ben laughs. I've never stopped (warmly) teasing him about the luxury-retreat aspect of his rehab. We literally paid thirty thousand dollars a month and he came home with wooden carved bookmarks for everyone and a sober outlook. He gained weight. He looked happy for the first time ever. It was profoundly terrifying. We can have those if you want! Any time, Bee.. 

I hold up my pinkie without a word. I want a promise. I want to be allowed to hold a knife capable of carving wood instead of only softened butter. I want to be left alone in my misery but more importantly I want them to be proud of me. Actually I don't. I'd be happy if Ben and Lochlan were proud of me. The rest of them can kiss my ass. But I also have my doubts here. I don't think I have Ben-type problems. Mine are different and obscure and well-hidden and I'm a super-overachiever high-functioning adult-child here and I don't know if Everett is ready for these sorts of horrors. 

He is, Ben assures me, wrapping his little finger around mine and then pulling my hand up to his lips to kiss it.

Then let's invite him to dinner. I am resigned. Fuck it. I want that pat on the head more than anything right now. 

He's making dinner for us, tonight. He's already downstairs looking at supplies and pots and pans in case we need to head out and pick anything up. 

Oh really? Wait, who is we? 

Everett, Lochlan and myself. 

Three musketeers, then. 

He's going to be your new best friend. Bridget, you'll see. 

I already have a best friend. 

Who's that? 

You.

I'm an ocean.

Oh, whoa, whoa, whoa
I said no, I said no
Listen close, it's a no
The wind is pounding on my back
And I found hope in a heart attack
Oh at last, it is past
Now I've got it, and you can't have it

Saturday morning sunshine and frost and there's a stranger in my kitchen when I finally deign to crawl out of the Devil's darkness which isn't so bad save for the fact that he's on his best, hoping for exactly this, only he's wrong and the hopes I've already smashed against the ice, shards on brick so you can break your neck when the sun blinds you and you fail to watch where the hell you're going.

There's no warning here, no advance notice, no guarded introductions. The stranger gets up and is in front of me before I can run, hand outstretched like we are normal people and I already feel that we are nothing of the kind.

I quarantined and have also tested negative before coming here, he assures me,

(Did I tell you about the time I was belting out REO Speedwagon's Can't Fight this Feeling and I sang On a corn-dog winter's night instead of a cold dark winter's night and I guess I was hungry and thinking about the corn dogs from the booth closest to our camper and Lochlan laughed all damn night and I had this feeling that I was young and dumb and would never be anything BUT young and dumb and damned if I don't feel like that now. Still. Except Line Without a Hook came out and I'm obsessed with that now instead.)

You must be Bridget. 

The one and only, Lochlan says quietly in his showman-voice from the table nearby and I automatically stick my hand out. 

Who are you?

Forgive me. The anticipation of this moment left me without my manners. My name is Everett. 

Dr. Everett what? Forgive my own manners. I'm guessing you're not actually here on an informal, first-name basis.

He is sizing me the fuck up. Surprised at my unabashed forthrightness. I'm not a shy person. I can be quiet and I hate interactions I don't expect but the very last thing I am is shy. I was the first person to volunteer to do my projects at the front of the room and the first to run out and take a bow for the audience at the end of the night. I don't care for fear of crowds or being in the spotlight. It will happen and there's no point getting worked up over it. I save my fears for the very stupidest things instead. Like flowering teas, peat fires and death. 

(Because you have to, at the very least, be reasonable about these things.)

I see in your difficulties you've definitely met your share of professionals. 

Yes but usually my husband doesn't install one in my kitchen without preamble. 

Lochlan finally talks to me. This one is on your boyfriend, Sweetheart.

Caleb didn't-

It was Ben. 

Everett's eyes get a little wider but then he checks himself. The stories are true but no one ever believes it until they meet me. 

I turn and stare at Lochlan with my own eyes wide. Where is Ben?

Out. Lochlan chuckles, in on the joke. Kind of cruel, if you ask me. 

Out? Where?

Breakfast with Dunk and a meeting, I believe. 

Oh. Nice. 

He doesn't need to be here. He wanted Everett to just show up and work. 

What, like Saturday morning mobile counselling service?

Lochlan laughs incredulously again and I realize I got it all wrong. Everett continues to watch me and it's bothering me but I can't deal with him right now. He clears his throat but I still watch Lochlan instead.

Bridget-

One second. Please. I tell him and turn back. Locket. Come on. Tell me what's going on. Wait. Am I going away? My voice disappears before I can finish the sentence.

Lochlan kicks his chair over getting up. He's in my face in seconds. No. You're not going anywhere. I told Ben this wasn't a fair way to do this but Everett's going to stay here for a bit and see if we can set you on the right road again. 

Again? Ever, you mean. 

Eh, some years are better than others. Everett's from Ben's last stay. He was really incredible with some of the grief work and Ben came back to us so much better. Do you remember? 

I nod but the tears are coming because I feel defeated and afraid and I really don't want to do this in front of someone. I remember the name now with the context. Ben actually talked about him a few times. But to invite here to the point to live without even giving me fair warning is still awful and I hate it and now I'm going in with a huge chip on my shoulder. Lochlan holds his lips against my forehead, squeezing me tight in his arms for so long I almost forget Everett is there until he speaks again.

Come and sit down so I can introduce myself properly, please, Bridget. 

Lochlan squeezes once and I nod against his chest. He lets go so slowly, so gently and I pat his chest. Don't go anywhere, please. 

Wouldn't dream of it. Another kiss on the forehead and he heads to the counter to make coffee.

Everett pulls a chair out for each of us. Almost facing each other but not quite. I sit in one and pull my knees up under my chin, resting my head on them, looking away. Good start. I'm twelve. I'm still deciding whether or not I want to do this or punish Ben for doing it to me. Whatever it is that he's done.

Antlers.

Two in the morning is the danger hour. Two in the morning is when he is vulnerable and kind.  Two in the morning is when his lifelong remorse hits him like a freight train, flinging him off into a dark even he can't climb out of and I must bring him back with me. Pulling his arm along in both my hands, wiping the sweat from my eyes as I try and find the strength to drag myself and the extra two hundred pounds of a devilman with me. 

He is eternally grateful and humble and raw. 

I love you, he says, his eyes bright in the now near dark of closer to home. 

When he says it like that I never answer, lest I fall right off the edge, back into the endless black.

***

In the morning Caleb is surprised to find me still there. He's surprised I'm not crowing for the success of my magnificent efforts to pull us back into the land of appearances, my strength all but eclipsing his own. And yet it is a gift from him, like this small box he presents me with as I sit up in his bed, looking out the window, sheets wrapped around me for warmth. 

I'm supposed to give you birthday presents. 

It's a very late Christmas gift. My apologies. It arrived at the beginning of the month. Open it, please, Neamhchiontach. 

I tear off the paper and wiggle the lid off the box. Oh. It's a pen. It's a beautiful handmade fountain pen from antler with copper bits and bobs and it's likely the prettiest pen I've ever seen and I have all of the Benu glow-in-the-dark ones. 

Oh my God, it's beautiful. 

I knew you would like it. But since you need something as beautiful to write in, this is also for you. He hands me a small packet now and I open that too and inside is a whole selection of notebooks. You already have a cover you love so this is just some papers to try. 

Wow, someone's paying attention. I have a journal. It's a diary, art journal and smashbook all in one. It's four inches thick and I drag it everywhere with me. It has three different notebooks in it now but the size I use makes it hard to find notebooks and I could order online but I prefer to feel the papers and the covers and make sure it's going to work. These will work. I don't have to buy anything for the rest of the year. 

Sure you will, he laughs. 

No. I'm good, for sure. 

You are far too easy to please, Bridget. But he is happy because I am happy. And all the things I want for can't be bought.

Run, Rabbit (but you don't listen when you should).

Oh my God. Late last night Caleb decided he wanted a birthday week instead of a weekend or even just a day and so since his birthday is absolutely non-negotiable, iron-clad and much anticipated, I let him pull me in by my elbows until he could bend his head down, nose to nose with me and ask me formally to spend his special week with him. He's simply gauging my response and I give it to him warmly, a kiss. Soft at first, sucking on his lower lip before his kisses get harder and he begins his lifelong attempt to eat me whole, the hungriest, fiercest wolf in the wood. It's always dark in this wood and you shouldn't be there, ever.

I finally break away for a breath but he still has his fingers locked around my elbows. Keeping me close.

Rules?

We don't need rules, for fucks sakes-

Rules, Diabhal. 

He presses his forehead against mine, squeezing my elbows briefly before remembering and loosening up a lot. I have slid all the way down his legs and am straddling his hips. Funny how we never change. Funny how we can't.  

No biting. No locking the door if or when you want to leave. Word is...Wenceslas. Mine?

No sleeping on the job. No industrial sabotage. No cutting it short if things are going well. We repeat each others' hards and fasts and then he resumes kisses all over my face and hair. By industrial sabotage he means specific things he does not like me to do or calling him by the wrong name, etc. Anything that purposefully fucks up our intensity together either by necessity or design. Sometimes it's too much and I look for an easy out because he won't listen. Sometimes I need an easy out because he does, he listens too well. 

Happy birthday, Diabhal. 

He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. This is the greatest gift you could ever give me, Doll. 

What's that?

Your time. 

Watching JT LeRoy and eating green apple fruit rollups with Lochlan and PJ. Come back tomorrow.

Edit: Wow! That was amazing! Infuriating and fascinating! So many adjectives. I'm a huge fan of Kristen Stewart and she hasn't disappointed me yet. Also Laura Dern who did a turn akin to her role in A Marriage Story and usually I can't stand her but she needs a meaty role to really shine. This was it. Damn. So good. My only complaint was that there wasn't nearly enough of Jim Sturgess. I love Jim Sturgess.

It wasn't until much later that I thought about his words and realized that we may not have the right, but we do it anyway.

I have returned from thy kingdom come and all beyond that burned
I've come from an age immersed in a mighty force of mortal rage

I cannot run
I hear your call
We're only chasing shadows now that castles cannot fall

 

I saw Matt last evening. He asked if we could talk on the porch and so I asked him to make some tea for us while I finished putting away the dishes. He did that and arranged a saucer of cookies too, balancing the plate on his cup, holding doors for me as we made our way out front. The rain was just beginning but at least it's still warm. I curl into the big bench, tucking my bare feet under a blanket, resting my head on his shoulder as he joins me.

We sip our teas and watch the rain for a long time. I'm almost asleep and I start to get annoyed. I have things to do and I can't have a rational conversation when I get very tired. I finish my tea and put my cup on the table. Not gently. Matt chuckles softly. 

What is it? I'm trying to sound neutral. 

Why are YOU angry? 

Am I angry?

Yes. I can feel it. 

Huh. Interesting. 

I see you're not going to engage. 

No, Matt, I'm not. 

Bridget, I really appreciate the boundaries and the respect you show for my marriage. 

I laugh out loud. Haven't done anything of the sort. Actually that isn't true at all, unless you look at the very big wide-angle picture right in front of your face.

And I think you have your hands full, he continues. This is just an outside observation.

From an insider? 

I wouldn't call myself that. 

You've been a willing participant in this commune, Matthew, so I don't know what made you go and jump back on...I guess a high horse here. 

The fact that you called out something that excluded me that involves my husband and openly questioned his devotion.

I'm going to call out anyone who twists the truth to protect themselves and leaves me to the wolves in the process.

I'm not going to be a casualty of your storms, Bridget. I will always take Sam's side. 

So will I but if it comes down to who to save from a burning building maybe you should be very clear on what Sam would do. 

He would stay behind and call the flames to distract them from the rest of us.

Oh my God, you're right, I sit up and turn to look at him. What do you want from me? To ignore Sam's narrative if it strays from the truth?

If that's what makes him happy, then yes.

This is not how I expected this conversation to go, you know. 

We're all just looking for our own fairy tale here, aren't we? We don't have the right to actively take that away from someone else, do we?

You've learned that. Do you think the rest of us can?

I do.

Then I'm doomed. 

Maybe not. There's a reason Sam is here and I don't think it's the one you think. Matt kisses the top of my head, takes our dishes and goes inside.

More than a Feeling bleeds right into Peace of Mind and it's perfect.

(Here's a bunch of subtext bullshit, all in brackets and notes. David Foster Wallace would have loved me for this. I hated him for it. Just write, I yelled at his books.)

Just write.

 I lost my spot in Monday Morning Truck Breakfast this week (we're...not sitting in restaurants but love going out for breakfast, you see), thanks to the argument with Sam (and Matt who is going to be collateral damage and I always told him he would be but now I don't want him to be so cross your fingers) so Lochlan took Sam out instead to set him straight. 

So I miss out on egg and bacon breakfast sandwiches wrapped in thick paper, never enough napkins, really good coffee in awkward paper cups I never fully trust, and Boston's Greatest Hits (came out exactly one year before I met Ben and why I remember that fact when I can't remember anything else actually makes me laugh) on the stereo in Lochlan's truck. It holds one CD and that's the one so he probably broke the Eject button right off or at the very least super-glued it to the head unit. (He used to play More than a Feeling on repeat as he ran the Ferris wheel on the Midway when I was very young, eventually getting the line I begin dreaming from the song tattooed on the back of his hand. I still love it. Still love the man. Still love the wheel.)

Should *I* be jealous? 

Should I grab up my bag and my keys and leave forcefully, feelings hurt (When are they not? They've always been bruised, battered and bleeding profusely), hoping to make it obvious that whatever hurt them is inappropriate, destructive and ruinous? 

They know it is. WE know it is. 

Lochlan will fix it and Schuyler will put on the finishing touches. Whatever words work. We know. We've heard it all before. Whatever makes her happy. Whatever happens. Whatever gets you through the night. Whatever she needs, we're here for her. (All disguised as something for me or something I wanted and really when it comes to Schuyler and Daniel they make a plan and if it's me I roll with it, truth be told and then I turn it all around and I take it, just like the song says in Don't Look Back, which follows Peace of Mind and that's perfect too.)

I guess I can stay put then, the usual instructions anyway as Lochlan slid his wallet and phone into the pocket of his peacoat. Keys in hand, nod to Sam, who met him on the front walk. Sam will always come to you and accompany you from your starting point, rather than meeting you at the end. That will be his fatal flaw at some point here. It's such a preacher thing to do.

(I'm still listening to Boston while Loch is gone. Ah. Amanda. The song I wished to change my name into just so I had a song like that about me. Ha. I was fifteen and just given to Cole by the boys as his permanent ward, a position I held right up until he died. He never wrote a song about me either. Ben did but he used someone else's name for cover and it's definitely not a classic rock ballad. THANKS BUDDY.)

Sam's knuckle tattoos read KIND SOUL. He's too good for this earth so I'm never letting him leave.

I've found a way to kill the sound/I SAID NO

 I broke all my bones that day I found you
Crying at the lake
Was it something I said to make you feel like you're a burden, oh
And if I could take it all back
I swear that I would pull you from the tide

Sitting at Sam's for breakfast. The podcast is live from seven this morning for church but we're not listening. Instead he's attempting to low-key lecture me for going to Schuyler's after dinner and not coming back until seven-fifteen (also this morning). I'm staring off into space mostly. Slack-jawed, holding my coffee cup too long, letting my bacon grow cold, more than a little alarmed at this but mostly too tired to care. 

I pull my cup up to take a long sip to try and hide my face while I roll my eyes as Sam's naked jealousy swirls around us, sucking all of the oxygen out of the room. Matt is fucking annoyed by all of this. It's a little stupid and I think I'll go. I appreciate Sam's efforts to give me an early Sunday escape in case I need it (I usually do) but if it's going to accompanied by this kind of attitude, well, Jesus's representative here on earth should take a break as I'm a grown woman and damn if I'm going to apologize to Him at this point. 

Not like He has my back. 

The cup is placed gently on the table. I'm not much of a dish thrower but when it comes to Sam the urge to chuck hard things directly at him to get it through his stubborn mind is weirdly overwhelming. I love this cup. He always saves it for me when I am over. 

Thank you for breakfast. I clear my throat, blot my lips on the beautiful cloth napkin and stand up from the table. His chair is on its back as he leaps up and knocks it over in his rush to block me from leaving.

I don't even. I look at Matt quizzically and he says Sam's full name so quietly I only hear part of it. 

Sam doesn't acknowledge this. 

Bridget-

Yes, I know. It's a routine and I'll change it up-

Safer to go back to the devil at this point, Bri-

YES I'M AWARE.

He is surprised by my sudden volume but doesn't say anything. 

I know, Sam! You don't have to protect me from Schuyler! I promise. 

Then why are all of these instincts welling up? 

Overprotection, probably. 

And here we were, worried about Cale-

Just stop, okay? 

I already did! Deferring to Daniel probably wanting his Saturday nights back with Schuy and I broke the cycle of Caleb stealing those nights now so it's done. Besides, I didn't go by mys-

You were never alone with me, either! We're going there. God, I want to throw this pretty cup directly at his face so he stops talking.

Oh. You...liar. 

Matt gets up and grabs his keys and wallet, leaving, slamming the glass door a little too hard.

Is it worth it, Sam? Is your need to save my soul so great that you would sacrifice your own life for me? 

He doesn't say anything and we're having a staring contest and then he starts to nod so slowly I clue in even slower and my eyes tear up. I was hoping he would say Of course not with great disdain. I was hoping this would be an easy save, an easier escape. I was hoping beyond hope that he would fail to take the bait even though I laid this trap so carefully, the odds never in my favour but for once that wasn't important and my ego goes out for a victory lap, sailing out over the open Pacific, dipping into the waves, splashing with joy as it turns and comes back, swooping in silently to its place with a triumphant fist pump that I probably would have done for real if I didn't know the kind of damage I can wreak with my tears. 

But I do and I hate myself and I love Sam so much it hurts even as I know how much it hurts him to admit this out loud without saying a word. 

Go get your man, and I'll go get mine, I advise, tears dripping off my chin now, tears welling in his eyes and he nods. And figure out your shit, Sam, because you've gotta realize you can't save everybody. You couldn't save Jake so what makes you think you can save me?

(The upside of Ben moving with a little more practiced carefulness thanks to his TBI is completely unprintable, sorry.)

Last night Caleb asked me over to his wing for horror movies and Mexican food, a true challenge I rarely pass up as Mexican food is loaded with tomatoes and spiciness and I cannot even look at a tomato during a horror movie. Salsa becomes something akin to some sort of immersive 4D experience and I end up losing my appetite. The game is we pick the goriest movie we can find and try and finish dinner before we get too grossed or weirded out to finish. Caleb finds it fun, as he said once 'down to earth'. 

(I have no idea what he meant by that. He is thoroughly charmed by how bougie I am,  I guess?)

But Ben said no, tucking his arm around me, pulling me backwards ever so slowly as he talked to Caleb in the hallway until I was all but tucked in against his shirt, cheek rubbing painfully against the button on his flannel shirt's front pocket and he put his right hand against my ear and I couldn't see Caleb's expression any more, not that I cared, frankly. 

Ben's confidence has returned. His bravado came with it. His ego never came back after that really good stint in rehab, thankfully but he also stood up to Caleb with a fierceness that gave me goosebumps of yesteryear. 

Long story, maybe. It's here somewhere. 

In any case, we didn't come up for air until almost four this afternoon, thank you very much and in my rush past Caleb to the kitchen, as I hadn't eaten, expending way more energy than I had the stores for, I heard him swear under his breath. 

I turned around, forgetting my hunger. What did you say? 

He doesn't deserve you, Neamhchiontach. 

You say that about everyone. I hold his gaze until he looks away first and then I leave him there, in the hall. My point is made. No hill to die on here, he doesn't have an argument to return.

25 years have passed and I never expected to understand this song firsthand.

Until one day the rain fell as thick as black oil
And in her heart she knew something was wrong
She went running through the orchard screaming
"No God, don't take him from me!"
But by the time she got there, she feared he already had gone

She got to where he lay, water-colored roses in his hands for her
She threw them down screaming, "Damn you man, don't leave me
With nothing left behind but these cold paintings, these cold portraits to remind me!"

He said, "Love I only leave a little, try to understand
I put my soul in this life we created with these four hands
Love, I leave, but only a little this world holds me still
My body may die now, but these paintings are real."

 

LIFE SKILLS.

 Not allowed to have an early morning kayak today because even though it's Thursday and it's tradition there have been a family of orcas hanging out in our little bay all week and the boys do not want me out there with them, either because I might disturb them or because in spite of knowledge to the contrary they think I might get eaten, looking like your average teenage seal in a dry suit.

In any event I am attempting to live on the top of the steps so that I can watch them until they leave again but it's far too cold to remain out there forever. I am doing my best though, coming in for hot meals and to see the kids. Warming up and going right back outside. Pawning off all of my chores. Asking the Devil if we can fence in the ocean with a big enough area that I can keep these ones, since I couldn't keep the last set. Asking at least if they can be protected in order to thrive and yet again explaining why I don't want to go anywhere or do anything right now because this is special, dammit, and we're going to see it through until they move on. 

***

Bonus content since everyone's mad I'm not posting more/longer entries right this minute. I'm sorry, I am having a late-winter meltdown and having a really hard time getting my anxiety under control. It's not as pretty as I like to be so I've practically gone underground but here:

Fun fact. I'm learning really slowly that kids these days kind of do know everything and it's all good. I bought a bunch of new kitchen utensils this week. All black silicone everything, including new tongs, as before I had a crunchy mishmash of metal and wood everything and they scratched the pots or were impossible to clean. Got home with my sleek modern haul and couldn't figure out how to unlock said tongs. 

 At all. Like what the fuck? 

Googled it and waded through a bunch of shit before finding the answer. So I figured I should share it with the group as everyone cooks all the time. 

Everyone over 25 couldn't figure it out, including those who worked in professional kitchens over their early years. Everyone under 25 rolled their eyes and showed me without hesitation. There's a little tab on the hinge end. Push it in to lock them, pull it out to unlock.

Henry rolled his eyes. I reminded him sharply I can still do a triple axel AND a flying camel spin on ice AND  I can do a pirouette return to a trapeze sixty feet off the ground so he can shove it. He opted not to roll them again, as last time he shot back whether I could do anything USEFUL and Lochlan took his wi-fi away.

(Which was somewhat hilarious. Lochlan was furious but I made him relent after an hour because Henry is as pragmatic and dry as Lochlan and furthermore he was absolutely right. Lochlan said he was grounded for the 'tone' of his perfect roast, that's all, but they both learned something that day. That Henry is fucking FUNNY and never misses a chance to light up anyone who puts themselves in his sights but also that wow, mom really coddles her youngest child far beyond what is necessary and lets him off the hook for everything. Which he knows, and that's the dangerous part here but he is a good kid. The best, and soon to be twenty years old.)

In the apocalypse the young will prevail. Good for them.

 I always think I'm in control, that I wield the power over this point, that the sun rises and sets by my command and that it's a well-run ship and I am Captain Bridget and this is my crew of tattooed pirates and we've set sail for bluer waters and smoother seas.

And then I snap out of my unintentional, pipe-dream-of-a-daydream, brutally reminded that I am a feral carnival child and that not only do I not make the rules, I can barely follow them, if at all and that if I dared to assume anyone was captaining this ship toward the horizon of my own life it certainly isn't me. 

The seas? Perpetually stormy. The girl? Drowning, as always.

Duncan just suggested I give up my handbag.*

I am busy making a million thousand hundred dozen pancakes because it's Shrove Tuesday. I still haven't decided what I'm giving up for Lent but I'm working hard on that, rest assured. I have some seriously nuclear cramps and my hair is a disaster and all I want to do is watch a scary movie and go to bed. Did that last night though and no sleep was had between a restless old dog, a blind old cat wandering the halls meowing loudly to herself and the rain that never seems to stop anymore. I guess it's February. I guess it's perpetually dinner time. I guess Easter is coming and we all have to suffer and tomorrow I'll get the cross made in ashes on my forehead because it's a stunning outward and rare display of religion so I love it and in the meantime help me figure out what I should go without. 

Don't say music, coffee or boys. Those ones aren't negotiable. I can do alcohol, internet or Netflix or even chocolate. Candy. Meat. Online shopping. Ha. I don't know. Help. I have twelve hours left to put in my decision. 

*(Edit: Not sure on the handbag. It's a crutch. Like a drug. I'm leaning toward a service decision instead. Post Tutorials or how-tos. Volunteer. Help people. Kindness acts. Donating one item a day for 40 days. Good deeds and pure-heartedness instead of my exhausting doomsday anxious cynicism. Think I might have my answer.)

Mondays are for the boys.

Schuyler's here with Daniel this morning, making brunch to make up for keeping us the full fifteen hours or so when it was supposed to be around three. They are cutting potatoes to fry, keeping an easy banter with Duncan and PJ while I stare. Schuyler's got an incredibly outward, easy handsome. Everyone on the point has a crush on him and it's hard to balance that against his alpha personality because if you stare too long he's the kind to ask you why you're staring and how you feel about it. If you stare too long at Daniel though, he's going to ask you if you have a problem. It's a delicious, thrilling danger that is much like a wager on whether or not you're going to burn yourself depending on how close you are to the fire. You know the risks. You also know the rewards. 

Sam and Matt have chosen to spend Family Day (a holiday here) sleeping in, or I think my head would explode. I've been sitting in the crook of Lochlan's arm while we surf exceedingly expensive foyer designs as we are preparing to change up the front hall. It needs the rustic modern charm of the Tahoe house but in a more practical format. And we need more places to sit to put on shoes or rest your things when you're going out or coming home. Right now it's a double front door with windows on either side and in the doors and then you walk in to a square room with two closets (one on each side and a huge round table in the centre. A small bench ahead of each closet helps but I'm envisioning more wrap around benches with storage in them and maybe a rectangle table, also with storage. And a skylight. And make the closets a lot larger, with glass french doors to close keeping the rest of the house private if there is someone in the front hall. 

I have drawings. Everything will be white, except for the door trims (inside the room) will be pale turquoise. And the cushions on the benches a darker teal and my favourite seaside art prints on each side above the benches and the wreath on the front door is seagrass and glass floats. 

(Sounds fragile but it actually keeps them from slamming the doors in anger. They know how much I love my floats.)

Maybe a living plant on the table instead of the endless flowers that don't match. I'll see if I can get one of those seventy-thousand dollar bonsai trees that are eight feet tall. Dark and sage green cushions and whitewashed hardwood floors can round it out. 

Maybe I'll post before and after pics. Maybe pigs will fly. I'm not good with clutter and that room is a virtual whirlwind all the damn time save for the fact that I insist you put your coat on a hanger, put your boots on a boot tray in the closet and take your personal things with you, hanging your vehicle keys in the key cupboard (in case we need to move a truck) and god help you if you don't. 

It's the biggest first world problem in the world, that room but also there's no handy manual for living in a modern-day commune. 

Perhaps I'll write one. I'll call it Schuyler's Here and No One Cares About The Front Hall Anyway.

Come on be a man about it (look up Hannah Boulton's Anastacia cover for I'm Outta Love. SO GOOD.)

I'm outta love
Set me free
And let me out this misery
Just show me the way to get my life again
Cause you can't handle me

Haha. Just got home. Ruth has gone to try and get snowed in at her boyfriend's family's home (invited for dinner) and Henry's on Dischord setting up a night of online gaming with his friends. Ben is still ensconced in his studio doing something for Corey (two days and counting) and Schuyler decided to muscle in on Caleb's dirty Saturday night habit, stealing Lochlan and I for the evening and before I knew it I was safely installed in the centre of a sleepover, glass of wine in hand, bowl of corn chips in Daniel's hand, naked reality tv show watching underway with long drawn out distractions, furtive naps and exhaustive laughter. 

Sometime around four this morning we ran out of chips and wine and tv too and Schuyler made a big group text and said that Bridget was tied up and wouldn't be attending church today. Then he threw my phone into the chair on the other side of the room and had a gentle laugh against my ear before seeing us through to the sunrise, no Jesus to be found. 

Holy Christ. 

Fair enough. He laughs again.

I need to go home. I need a hot shower. Maybe an exorcism. 

It's a long weekend. 

Yes, it definitely is. I snort-laugh and Lochlan (way past drunk, almost headed toward silly, warm nostalgic Magic-Loch of the nineties here and this is why I stayed so long, because I don't want that to end) suggests we sleep a bit and then have brunch later. 

We missed brunch, I guess, sleeping in a pile until past two this afternoon and when we came back to the main house through the snow, Caleb was watching us from the upper back stairwell window. Lochlan pulled me in to his face by the neck, kissing me so hard I would have fallen but he was holding me up. 

That was fun. 

Schuyler's a charmer. 

He is, Peanut.

In a dangerous way.

Maybe, yup. 

No, I'm serious-

You're just tired. 

I stare at him and leave it on the hill. I want to walk away alive and I'm not going to pick a fight. He never comes next door with me. Last night he didn't even hesitate. Maybe his eyebrows went up more than once or twice but he let go a bit and it's been ages. He hasn't really gotten to experience Schuyler On Perpetual Vacation but frankly everyone should. I can always see why Ben and Schuyler got along so well. They both have a gift for making the most of the moment, for suspending worry, fear, trepidation or negative energy and making things fun and you leave them feeling as if you're different somehow. 

This gives me incredible peace of mind for Daniel. And for everyone here. Schuyler and Lochlan are unofficial equals and also way too much alike for my own liking but dammit if I didn't actually need to break the cycle Caleb had strongarmed me into always saving Saturdays for him and then ending up missing church because he wouldn't let go or wasn't ready to give me up quite yet. 

What's the difference? He asks on the stairs as I head up for that shower while Lochlan goes to make some afternoon coffee to bring upstairs. 

What do you mean?

You missed church again anyway. Why is it a bad thing if you're with me but perfectly fine with Schuyler?

Lochlan was there.

End of conversation. Caleb isn't going to invite Lochlan along. Ever. I could probably push it but then it's just intense and frightening and an endless power struggle in the dark. No one's reading wine bottles backwards or invoking breathless tickle fights in those nights. 

(The power of) Christ (compels you). Caleb says it under his breath. Just the one word, but I'll fill in the others and the demons will clear out and I can get my head on straight again. Sure my knees are on backwards too at this point but I'll have to deal with those later. Then I'll have to work on getting the stupid happy grin off my face long enough to get roasted at dinner. It's one walk of shame I'll happily strut through. Because I had fun and I'm sick of apologizing for it. Not like anyone else is.

Snow day.

Last night I got in bed late, as I stayed downstairs to watch the end of a show with August, and after he went home I locked up, did a circuit to check that everything was closed up and locked down, set the alarm, checked the cameras and then came upstairs, climbing up the middle of the bed after brushing my teeth and leaving a pile of clothes on the chair in the bathroom. I slipped down under the quilts and turned away from Lochlan, sliding backwards until I had my back against his chest and his arms went around me in his almost-asleep state, a kiss absently landing on top of my head. He hates it when I breathe directly in his face, hence me always sleeping face toward the headboard. 

Ben loves it. He said it makes him feel less alone and also alive and so he moves in closer, arms around both of us and I become sleep-meat. A Bridget sandwich between Ben's bread (soft and pale, God I miss that bread from home, there was a brand called literally Ben's Bread.) and Lochlan-bread, which I imagine to be a dark rye full of seeds and nuts, rustic and full of air bubbles but also dense and woodsy. 

I laugh out loud when I pull my green blanket in around me as they tend to make the covers lift up a lot and the cold air rushes in from the top. 

What's so funny, Bumblebee? Ben mumbles from my hair. 

We're a sandwich and my green blanket is the lettuce, I explain but he has fallen off the edge of sleep again. He's not on alert. Laughter is an audible cue to relax their guard.

Lochlan's arms tighten around me and I start my routine of trying to unfocus my mind, beginning with running up my body from my toes to the top of my head, a visual exercise, shutting off switches as I go, leaving each part in the dark in turn, signalling rest. Of course when I get to my brain the switch is broken and I flip it up and down, frustrated. I invoke my backup plan which is to run through a mental picture of all the places I love most, from the teepee on the brook back in the woods to the Big Ex grounds to the Forks market to Hither Hills to Miss Molpy's basement to the Louvre to Zanoagei Gorges to the Barkley Sound. I usually only make it to the Forks before I am out cold but last night I paddled silently through the predawn mist, looking for new and wonderful birds around the Deer Group islands and then I drifted away on the tides before waking up at five sharp. 

That marks a scant three hours of sleep and I am disappointed but exceedingly alert today. Lochlan is not alert. In the least. Ben is almost comatose in his slumber, since shifted onto his back, arm still snaked underneath our necks all the way across and curled around Lochlan's head. 

Stay. Lochlan barely finishes the word. He can't stay awake. 

It's snowing! I'm going kayaking. 

No you're not and if you leave this house you'll be in so much trouble.

Fine. I'll wait until you're up. 

I go downstairs but no one is up yet so I read for awhile, then rearrange my cartful on the stationery website that I still haven't ordered from.  Then I go down the hall to check in on PJ but he is just a lump of quilts in a dark room so I go back toward the library where I guess I'll watch the snow and read until I hear the sounds of the house coming to life. 

When I walk into the library there is a small grey coyote sitting just on the other side of the floor to ceiling window that presses into the woods in front of the house. He is not startled but he looks at me curiously. I stay in place, leaving the lights off. This is a gift, though it's usually a bear or a deer and so I am curious enough to move closer. That's a mistake. The coyote turns and disappears into the trees, leaving the snow falling gently.

I look for prints and take a photo of them through the glass before they vanish too. This part of the yard is inaccessible from the other and is not curtailed by the fence and so it's a regular occurrence to have company outside the windows. 

I can't focus to read and so I watch and wait.

Sigh. Not a public platform, no duty to do anything here but write letters into the wind, folks.

(I didn't come here to write about this. I had something I wanted to put down but I made the mistake of logging in email first and saw all of them and well, here we are. No post for you today, I guess, and definitely no post for me.)

Here goes (I'll say it once): 

Whenever a public figure/musician/person is 'metoo'd' people ask me if I'm ever going to 'talk about it'. 

Talk about what? 

I'm kidding. Yes, I know a lot of musicians and even some who have been cancelled. Personally. As such, since I saw the paper last night I am aware that Matthew Good is being cancelled as we speak. And I swear if I open my mouth about it, well, you'll never hear the end of it so I'm not going to talk about it. I will most likely continue to fight Lochlan to listen to an MG song the whole way through even though they murder me fully, and Lochlan will continue to try to skip the track to save my dear ruined mind. 

Yes, that's what I'm going to do. 

If I address these kinds of subjects, I can only speak to my own experiences and those I know directly. I may have met Matthew Good once or twice and if anything he seemed introverted, shy and awkward but also bitter and detached but that doesn't mean I have anything to say about this, because I wasn't physically there and opinions are always best left to those with actual insight. 

Anything else is ignorance, arrogance and assumption.

Stuck inside our own machine.

Six in the morning and Lochlan is very quietly covering Nelly Furtado's Try on his acoustic guitar by the woodstove, feet up, coffee within reach, his light falsetto making short work of the bridge. The lights are all on and the wind is positively howling outside. We're still facing down a week or so of minor snow but any snow is-

Oh, my. He has moved on to Neil Finn's Song of the Lonely Mountain. He's going through what I call my Quiet playlist, learning the songs as they are inoffensive and beautiful and heartbreaking each and I couldn't cull this down if I tried so he's got his work cut out for him for the next fifty years or so. 

This is so nice. Ben and Caleb are at their favourite points on the big couch, on their phones. Caleb picking stocks, most likely, and Ben fretting for the state of some of his friends who failed to diversify which works when there is a functioning music industry but not when there isn't and so if I could I would take Caleb's resources and pour them into Ben's friends to keep everyone afloat until this ends. 

Lochlan presses skip on the next song. Apparitions. He can sing it but you can watch me dissolve in realtime as I listen. Matthew Good is my spirit animal, my kryptonite and my certain destruction, I make no airs about that. 

All your faults in meeeee-

Bridge-

Loch doesn't want a vocal accompaniment, I guess. But now it's in my head. Ha. I can't outrun this. My psyche plucks out my hippocampus and my heart (thrown overhand, no less) in it's arms and comes running after me, flat out. 

But for now, I am faster still.

Back from the brink of the world.

(Hey, so yesterday's post is literally just an old war wound I needed to lick for a second and is not directed at anyone currently living here on the point, so don't assume. You can, however, assume I am fine and dealing with residual anger as it pops up. That's all, and sometimes I use this for a word-dump and I'm sorry if you arrived fresh as a daisy from breakfast and looking for entertainment. 

Also I didn't put a trigger warning on it because I don't do that, the whole site is a trigger warning. Hell, I am a trigger warning but again, thank you for the emails of concern. It's nice to have people out there who care.)

(Also had a week-long nonstop anxiety attack in there that almost did me in completely.)

I'm making an old favourite this morning, cocoa-molasses cookies (a variation on the recipe here) and trying to find a copy of the Violet Evergarden movie to watch, now that I've finished season one, the bonus episode and the special. Gosh, it's right up my alley. She and her gloves and her typewriter and her broken heart. I kind of wish I could whip off my hat and show mechanical ears the way she takes off her gloves to show her prosthetic arms but at the same time maybe not. 

I had a good laugh with Dalton over the fact that every character who carries a bag in these shows always always has an orange messenger bag that's completely nondescript. It's funny because I have an orange messenger bag and everyone comments on it and I love it so much. It's loud and ridiculous and matches nothing I own but it's also exactly something I would carry now that I no longer carry a designer bag. I gave them up and never looked back. I like function over form.

Dalton was a warm heart to curl up against this morning when I came in from running around the yard with the dog, who slept well and had the super-zoomies and wouldn't you know it, so did I and it was four less than zero out and they're calling for all kinds of snow this week upcoming but that's okay. It gets dark at five-thirty at night now and it's bright before I can finish my coffee each morning and I have hope because winters here are easier still than anywhere else. 

Caleb says that's why he moved us here. Easiest winter without leaving the country, or we would live in the Canaries right now, or Monaco or Sicily but since I won't leave Canada this is it, though it may not be forever. Our ten year plan is complete, the new five-year plan is now under way and then some big changes may take place, as that's what we've decided and it's not for sharing now but perhaps later. Ruth and Henry won't live at home forever but while they do everything stays the same so they have that glorious, underrated security and that's the takeaway here. 

Feeling safe.

The imposters were found out immediately but the charade has persisted through the years. Outward perfection. Perceived wealth. Oneupmanship, a sport as revered as any in these circles, where family tragedy was to be quashed down into a manageable, historical denial and the hype train rattles on. There's horror underneath every fresh coat of paint, and the lights we shine upon the hard parts are fuelled with gas. Designer labels and the exhausting pretense has left me cold, as I realized so early on that it was all so horribly wrong.

No, actually it left me angry, not cold. Learning how to reverse engineer support, belief, warmth and encouragement is an impossible task now and the efforts to try and escape the quicksand of compulsive perfection and ultimately endless failure is a gift that should not be wished upon anyone, ever. All of it could have been fixed with simple acknowledgement or extra effort but back then one didn't look inward, you didn't look behind you as you ran (something I always do, no matter what, even if it means landing on my face) and you certainly aren't going to go and talk to anyone about the fact that you were the one that found him swinging from the rafters in the garage when you were of such a formative year, were you? 

No, because you can always slap on another coat of paint over that and just carry on, right?

I was already fucked up before you gave me to the wolves and yet that doesn't matter one bit, does it? 

My entire life now dedicates itself to changing history and fixing all of the worn spots, so that this doesn't happen again. Twice as much work for me because you wouldn't do any at all.

Jar of hearts, almost but also I may just get out a jar because it would make so much sense.

There is a glass bowl full of foil-wrapped hearts on the big table in the kitchen. That table is sort of a catch-all. People paint and draw there. I do the budget there. It's where we spill over doing meal prep if we run out of counter space. It's where we dump our bags or personal things after leaving coats and boots and shoes in the front hall. It's where packages that have been delivered are left for their recipients and it's the first area of the house decorated for any upcoming holiday in the form of treats left out for anyone passing by. The table itself is a heavy thick maple with rough-sanded planks and a bench on each side with a wooden armchair at each end. It can sit ten for a meal and looks like a set piece from the top of the wall in game of Thrones. It's probably my favorite piece of furniture just for the variety of use it sees every single day and now it's decorated again for the first time since Christmas. 

One more appointment this afternoon and I have a few days free on the other side of it. I can't wait. There's been like twenty things to look after at the end of January into February and I forgot that I hate being super busy. 

Wish me luck.

Peaking at twelve hundred metres above sea level.

Five kilometres, straight up in the snow. Ridiculous incline. Coffee at the top and then the hard part, coming back down. Up is so easy. The reward of being at the top is so beautiful, I look forward to it. The punishment of my knees on the way down almost crushing. Coffee again at the bottom. The backs of my hands are so cold I am almost crying but the tired I feel is a physical exhaustion and it's such a beautiful change from the emotional (heavy) tiredness I am profoundly grateful. 

Sam baptizes us with snow and then saltwater. He smiles warmly as he does it, grateful also for the change of scenery. It's hard to believe we went straight from this peak back to a mountain of chores, but with all hands on deck we aced that too even as it involved a major bathroom repair, a truckload run across town and some electronics rejigging to make sure all of the property cameras worked, as two had stopped. We walked the dog, celebrated Henry's school victory and now I plan to sleep like the ghosts do tonight because that was incredible.

Pajamas and brandy at seven? Lochlan smiles. He loved today too. 

Hell, yes, I confirm. Who's going to turn that down?

In the quiet.

Not a wailer. I don't cry out loud. I flood into my sadness like a rogue wave, drowning in tears and pain and I try to swallow myself up into a little ball. I don't make a sound. I don't cry out loud. I don't cry out loud. That's either the way I'm built or it's a reaction to early instructions, gun against my temples, told that it would be safer both for me and those I love if I didn't make a sound and so I don't. 

They hate it. I didn't say enough at breakfast and got called out hard. I didn't make enough noise, didn't give a good reaction to a great plan. I sat, holding my triangle of toast with cheese with both hands, staring out the window as Jacob paced on the point. I'm having trouble getting rid of him, as my mind doesn't want him anywhere in our sights but my heart won't let him go so there he is and there he stays. 

Lochlan is having a sleeves-rolled-up, all-business sort of morning, hair tied back in a ponytail, low against his neck, probably wondering how to do battle against the nine-foot ghosts of my past in the bright sunshine of an early Saturday afternoon without the collateral damage of whatever inevitable lobotomy might occur afterwards. I would welcome it, he would not. He said I have a mirth, a light he never ever wants to be without. A tender presence that means his world and he's not going to lose, he said.

He said he'll make the ghosts go away, not because he wants to punish me but because he wants to help. 

Jacob comes up and taps on the window. Time is money. Am I coming out? Am I going to put up with this guy calling the shots? I can infer all sorts of attitude from that one knuckle-rap on the glass. 

I nod. Of course I am. Lochlan is everything and Jacob knows this. The minute Jacob was gone, Lochlan took back over again and he's determined to get it right this time and legally, hierarchically, and reasonably I believe him, and so does everyone else.

Watch over me.

Neither awake nor asleep I am on the steep edge in between, arms out, fairly confident in my balancing abilities, walking the line between dreams and life, as always. 

Jacob slides my bangs away from my eyes with his thumb. 

Morning, Princess. Nice to see you sleep. 

Drugs, I mumble, still clinging to that edge and not ready to pick a side. Issinevitable, Pooh.

Necessary evil. He kisses my knuckles, reading them with a strange look. Not sure in the end that he actually adored my tattoos or simply put up with them. I should show him the big X on my abdomen if he wants to really be surprised. 

Mmmmm. I turn away from him, back toward Lochlan, who is out like a light. 

A kiss bounces off the back of my head as I fall back into a shallow sleep and I forget to pay attention. He is there. I have to acknowledge him but if I don't is he actually there? He can be Schrodinger's Jacob and I can be in denial. I'm not actually crazy if I don't tell anyone I talk to him in the most unscheduled ways now. He just flits in and out of my days or nights like a will o' the wisp and I have to focus or he's gone again. I'm only doing this to remember his voice or the way his eyes crinkle right up when he smiles, right? I'm only doing this so I don't have to acknowledge that he's gone, across the marsh with the geese and into the dim twilight again, flooding me with a homesick cure, burying me alive. 

In the actual morning I wake up, the ledge is far off in the distance, depth of field putting it behind the fog and Lochlan is in front of the ghosts, who bide their time and their directives, left by me in another life but still holding and will never change. I keep my enemies close but my ghosts even closer and Jacob looks concerned but satisfied that Lochlan is jumping through Sam and August's hoops to keep me on track, so I don't go right off the rails. 

Where? (Crap, I'm busted.)

By the stables, just in front of the blackberries. 

And the other? 

On the roof. 

Far enough to be safe. He has his own ideas and I don't understand his any better than he understands mine. 

An open letter and a lot of freezing.

 Dear hearts,

I hope this missive finds you well. I am not dead. Instead I got roasted. Instead of being angry, Caleb was flattered and laughed about it all evening. Too bad, I was looking forward to my overhand flight into the sea but apparently he only gets angry if I act too stupid in front of him or more curiously, not stupid enough.

If you want clarity about the deal, there's a fine line between being crafty and then being shrewd enough to be able to ask open, honest questions that create a need for transparency and hard answers from the other party. They will realize you are smart, but perhaps not sophisticated and so instead of pretending to know everything and play along, it's much better to play confused and call it all out so that it is laid down step by step and there's no chance of ambiguity or coyness later. 

Works for me. *shrug*

Besides, he points out that our age difference is slightly less than a decade and perfectly acceptable so it's not really a 'daddy' thing. 

*'Mkay.*

In other news, I had a fountain pen explode in my hands this morning and spent this afternoon getting a thousand dollars worth of dental work done. I lost a filling a few weeks ago and then part of one of my big baby molars went with it and boy, that was fun. I hurt so I'm going to whine at PJ while he takes dinner shift. Have a good night.

Perpetually and decidedly not yours, 

Toothy Miss B.

Just checking in to say it's been an absolute pleasure. LOL

Caleb got a little too glowy-crowy this afternoon, picking at Lochlan just sharply enough to make me annoyed. That's almost the worst kind of mad for me because I get frustrated and stubborn and easily flustered. So when his phone rang and it was on the table he asked if I could grab it as he was talking to Lochlan (or I should say boasting) and so I did and it was his senior lawyer, the partner just checking in to congratulate him once again. 

I answered Caleb's phone with the name of his holdings company, as one does when you're not the phone owner and it's business. 

Ah. Good afternoon. Bridget, is it? How are you?

I'm fine, thank you for asking. How are you today?

Can't complain. Listen, is Caleb close by? 

Sure thing, just one moment. 

I laid the phone face up on the table and yelled, Daddy! Phone! 

When he's off the phone he's probably going to throw me out to sea.

Wicked true.

 Oh my God. I think I prefer days where being in pajamas is optional and I can throw logs on the fire until they're all gone and then let myself be hypnotized into the ether. This rare alternative now smacks of cruelty and charge as I stand in front of the fridge at two-thirty this afternoon in my work dress, stilettos on, ipad case under one arm, stabbing at some cold rice and chicken while propping the fridge door open. I don't have time to heat it up, don't have time for more than a couple of bites because someone had an emergency meeting and then one ran super-long and so help me, I told Caleb if I wasn't home before the mass exodus of traffic hits the ninety-nine, just after dark at suppertime, there will be a reckoning the likes of which he's never seen before and will never ever forget.

(Spoiler: We made it. It's four thirty-nine and he has volunteered pajamas and brandy and take out. I have declined in favour of pajamas, pot roast, broccoli and diet Dr. Pepper.)

Besides, third fucking set of meetings* in a little over a week and I don't need to be there. He just wants something to look at when he's bored and someone else is talking, wants to stir the pot with Lochlan by taking me away for the whole day and wants to liven up his life for it is so quiet now without the two-thousands techbro music, cocaine and Russian prostitutes, all ordered and then written off by corrupt former frat-boy bosses anxious to live the Wolf Life. 

It makes me laugh. Caleb now lives with a women who buys living lettuce and sews her own aprons, who has a long list of lovers and he is weirdly not even at the top. I hate techno, cocaine AND Russian prostitutes (or from anywhere, for that matter) and as I've said before, if you're going to write something off on my watch better make sure you qualify.

I feel like I was designated Caleb's conscience when I was still in Grade 5 and he's been running flat out ever since, unaccountable, unchecked. 

Except he's an old man now, quick to anger, quick to be placated. 

What do you think, Bridget?  

Suddenly I'm being taken seriously? Right. I bite the end of my pen so they can see my sharpened milkteeth and spout off a bimbo reply. It's on purpose and it gets the polite laughter and Caleb's eyes flash so dark I am shocked as I return my gaze to my agenda. 

He wraps it up fairly quickly and I am steered, by the arm, stilettos on snow and gravel, back to his car. It's a short-term lease. So am I. Limited mileage (HA) overpowered (WAIT NO) and ridiculously overpriced (HAHAHA YEAH). Sparkly paint job (INDEED). He loves it. He swears under his breath but doesn't throw me in the seat, instead waiting patiently for me to get situated and then he closes the door gently. I already had my punishment. This is merely payback.

Once home he disappears to his study upstairs and I find my flannel pajamas. Going to wear them to dinner and start a new fashion trend. Crank up the heat and find Lochlan, who pours me a glass of wine and asks how it went. Caleb returns just at that moment and we grin at each other. 

Mission accomplished. Four trips into the city, two pair of ruined stilettos and one very good deal now done. He owes me so big now I can probably rename the moon. Taking them all with me when I do. The sad part here is the dumber I act the more they let me get away with (the lawyers, not the boys).

 *(nothing to be alarmed about. We were offered a price for some real estate Caleb has held for a long time, one he didn't plan to sell but seriously for that sort of figure I would hand off my soul again but in playing it cool and being all super nostalgic and wistful about it in the end we walked away with far more than the original offer and I'm still forever pinching myself when I'm rolling high. Get it? High-rolling? Ha.)

Perfecting strengths (and I never looked back with the same eyes again).

(Movements change first, then the narrative that you file away without fail, then finally the emotions come on board and when that happens you will feel so much better. 

August promised me this and I understood him and look forward to my efforts ringing with reward. It's such a slow process. I have a tendency to be so destructive it's bloody unreal. He said I need to stop expecting things to change overnight. I don't. At least I didn't think I was. Maybe I am.)

I did it right. Breathing didn't work and so I called in the biggest support and the first person I go to and then we did distracting, physical things and then I had some focus in dismantling all of our muddy gear, muddy trucks, ruined shoes, freezing fingers and then it felt satisfying to look at the photos we took and talk about plans for the next time and with that the contentment settled in and I felt a huge reprieve from the endless panic as of late.

This morning Lochlan played and sang Slightly Defect Hands and then Into the Fire and I brought my coffee over and sat with him because he sounded so beautiful. 

We had a great night, truth be told. Watched all the shows we're all keeping track of. Went up and had a long hot bubble bath together followed by s'mores and brandy in bed by the fire and then we didn't sleep all night. He wanted a second inspection of me, the first being a cursory check for catastrophic wounds and this one merely for imprints and bruising. 

He didn't find a thing and I'm not sure if he struggled with that. I know I would, as it's easier to find a concrete reason to hate someone who could be devouring the love of your life versus treating her gently, which implies love and only serves to catalyze jealousy into the opaque green glass of Lochlan's eyes, fusing him into a frustrated stasis. Caleb loves doing this and is playing with him, though when called on it denied it up and down. All it will serve to do is keep me away from him, and he won't be Saturday Night anymore for a long time. I don't fuck with that, sorry. Not going to put Lochlan through that. I follow his feelings in this case and leave my own at the door.

The night was unspeakably perfect. We have a routine and it's beautiful and by the time the sun rises the whole world is blooming with new love built on top of the original and it's so overwhelming I can't even describe it today but it's almost as if we have to rip each other to shreds in order to find our way closer to each other. Everyone says it's because of history but I always feel like we're trying to strip each others' skin off in order to fuse our veins and even our bones together into one.

(He starts in on Suddenly. I think I might burst.)

You can't do that, Peanut. 

Hush. Keep singing. I love this. 

Follow your own heart. 

I am!

You know what I mean. 

Right. Keep playing. Please.

Love you, Peanut. 

I love you too, Locket. 

God, I'm so tired. 

Me, too.