Rare form.

Neamchiontach-

DON'T.

I am drunk* because I tried some of the new mead and I already took a Benadryl because everything is spring-blooming and my allergies are so awful. My eyes are itchy, throat dry and my nose so blocked it's like the Suez Canal was earlier this week. I am half-expecting him to threaten me for spending time with TJ (Dalt) but Caleb is weary still from his whirlwind trip (and boy am I glad he got back before this new lockdown) and weary from life and from me and just finds it almost comical today.

Lochlan must have a hell of a time keeping you organized. 

He does. 

I almost feel sorry for him. 

You don't have to. He gets all the love.

Not Monday he didn't. 

Says who now? 

Bridget. 

You're mad now aren't you. 

I mean, I was here. 

You're tired. You're really old, after all. 

Wow. Thank you?

Don't mention it. 

*(Drunk because I got to day-drink after mopping the entire house and the porches too and then I cut my finger really badly and now I'm off the hook for most of the remainder of the week but also it is very hard to type with only nine fingers wtf.)

Revolving shore.

He was here for over a month, feeling his way through the fog and rain, tripping over my moods, veering around the boys with their lack of privacy but keen spatial awareness, who come in right close when you need them and hover on the edges when you don't. Here for a month trying different things and having good talks and feeling productive only to be faced with my uncontrollable, reluctant stonewalling in the next blink of his brown eyes. But now with renewed lockdowns here and a fresh wave of the pandemic, he is headed home.

Bye, Everett. 

In any case, we had a good time, he gave me a fair amount of new perspective and he also made me somehow more keenly aware of things I had refused to acknowledge before. He and Ben had a good reunion, and Duncan too, who probably needed some time with him more than anyone, as our poet goes so easily off the rails and needs to be talked his way back. He went to the same place Ben went and loves Everett to pieces too. 

Ben has once again needlessly yet profusely apologized for throwing Everett into the Collective. He said he had a sudden inspiration and wanted to do something. 

Especially when there are ghosts in the water, ghosts on the beach, ghosts in the orchard and ghosts in the dark, Bee. His face belies his jovial tone. Hahahah it's so funny but I'm scared, is what that says. 

He is grateful his problems are black and white. He said as much, more than once. He understands so much about me but at the same time the part he doesn't truly understand frightens him. It frightens all of them, save for Caleb and Lochlan, for the most part, even though that's a lie and it frightens them too.

But they simply switch gears and operate as if I am a child and it works great, an endeavour that most of the others refuse to engage in and that's when they retreat to the sidelines. It's practiced motion to them, and it works and that's all that matters.

I told Everett not to feel sorry for me. 

Look around. What is there to feel sorry about? 

That you don't feel comfortable in your own skin. 

I never have, so it's not like I know what I'm missing. 

He grinned, tightly enough that I caught it but not enough that the expression didn't reach his eyes. I got a big long hug, then Ben got one too. Then Duncan for good measure. 

***

Ten minutes later the doorbell rings and I thought maybe Everett forgot something. I haven't had time to check his rooms yet to make sure because when I am free I will strip the bed and the bathroom of their linens and make the room up for the next guest, whenever that may be.

But I open the doors and it's Ransom. 

They're going to finally finish the pool. He has everything, sorry for the delays. It's a new architect, same company and once we sign the papers they can start/resume/DO SOMETHING. 

Where is Emmett? I consider telling him we just had an Everett leave and what is with the old fashioned names? I love it. 

He has covid. 

Really? 

He's fine. Asymptomatic but he'll be off until at least the twelfth or maybe it was the twentieth. I can't recall.

Anything we can do for him?

You can message him and ask. 

I'll do that. 

Are you doing this build now or is Caleb? 

I can. 

Alright. May I unpack this here or in the kitchen? 

Here is fine. I pull my mask out of my pocket so he can show me what he needs to. He puts his own on and comes into the foyer.

He gets out all of the plans and paperwork and his iPad that will have a finished render of what this all will look like. I sign everything and he says abruptly that he doesn't need a deposit. I confirm, as I already paid it to the company when they made the previous ugly pool enclosure. I told them to keep it as part of the new one. 

Ransom looks surprised that I know what I'm doing. He gives me credit for nothing. Yes, alright then. We'll resume this weekend since the pouring has had ample time to set.

It's Easter. Seriously? 

That way it will be finished by the ninth. I have a big project beginning after that. 

This isn't big? 

This is ridiculously huge. That's why I need it done before the next big one. 

Well, don't rush. 

The schedule is fine. It's not a rush job, Bridget. 

I'll get Caleb to weigh in for you. I may not be able to give it all of the attention it deserves this week.

Got him. He visibly relaxes. Appreciate it. We'll be here Thursday to start. I''ll let Caleb know the time. 

(Jesus fucking Christ, Ransom.) Sounds good. 

Take care, Bridget.

Bye, Ransom.

***

Duncan is incorrigible and lights up a blunt the moment the sun goes down. We are watching a movie together. Don't worry, he did great in rehab and is down to one or two smokes a week. He's never going to give them up completely but he polices himself a lot better than he used to and he is too cute to fight with about it, though Ben doesn't find that and fights with Duncan every time it comes up. 

Bye, Dunk.

He is asleep twenty-five minutes into the movie so I turn it off and go to see what Dalton is doing. Dalton is the night owl. He is reading and makes space for me to come into his bed and cuddle with him, which I do gratefully. It's cold downstairs and I'm still in my warm-day clothes. 

Or I was, anyway up until that moment. Dalton has other ideas.

Driven by love.

Nolan called me yesterday morning to check in. He had garnered some influence and found me the private plane I needed on short notice when money didn't cut it but friendship did. I could have waited six or eight hours and had one. I did not want to wait. Ten days was enough. 

Ten days is nothing, Nolan barks. That guy should have stayed away forever. 

Then why did you help me? 

Because, Bridget, I would do anything for you. This was for you. He can go fry in hell. 

It stings, though. Just enough that I pull up some armour and say my goodbyes from behind it, slightly muffled but all attempts to be polite just the same. Nolan doesn't let me off the hook but at the same time he's exceedingly gently. 

Bridget, just because you want something doesn't mean it's good for you. Don't forget that. If I didn't have faith in the boys to keep you safe I wouldn't have helped you out at all. 

Yes, you would have. 

No I wouldn't. Look what he did to Ben. What if next time it's you? You're a third of Ben's size. You wouldn't survive it. 

He would never hurt me.

He already did. That's the problem and Bridget, they're just trying to help you any way they can but you've put up a defence of a monster and that's a mental illn-

I have to go. I stare at Caleb while I talk. I love you. Thank you. I choke out the words and hang up.

 I don't know why I'm awake. I was up until four this morning breathing into a paper bag, or so it seemed perhaps I should have been at many points, not the least of which the one where Schuyler helpfully pointed out on the way to the tiny airport where Caleb's plane would be landing that didn't he have to quarantine if entering the province from another? 

A few tears and a mad scramble on our phones and finally confirmation by the airport that as long as he's entering from another province and hasn't left the country, no, he does not. 

We got out of the truck and waited by it, seeing the plan taxiing around already and then it finally stopped and it took forever before they lowered the staircase and he was walking across the tarmac, head down. Not looking at any of us. Looking fierce. Looking exhausted. He stole a glance at Lochlan and went straight to him, embracing him full on. Lochlan is rocked back two steps, bringing Caleb with him. I can't hear what they say to each other but it's a close hug. A positive one. Caleb puts his bags down and finally looks at me. I fly into his arms, off the ground, strangling him with my arms tight around his neck. He squeezes me so hard I squeak and then he puts me down but doesn't let go. 

I was willing to do whatever it takes to make you feel safe, Neamhchiontach. 

Then stay here with us. Where you belong.

It took me the better part of two hours to work through the numbers I have and the resources those numbers provide but I managed to snag a plane in order to surprise my Diabhal.

It's me.

Is everything okay, Bridget? 

Look, I know you just got there but gather your things. Your flight leaves at three.

Who did you speak with?

Nolan, of all people. He still doesn't like you, but he loves me and that's all that matters.

Bridget, we agreed on a few months to see if things got better.

I didn't agree on anything.

The chorus of madness.

I found what I was looking for. One tattered caveat that states that if I see the landslide coming from far off I can overrule everything. 

And it's here. 

When I think about changes I want in my life this is not one of them and I am not a willing participant to this extreme method of dealing with my special brand of trauma. At this point things are too far gone. It's not as simple as Everett thinks it should be (or Lochlan wants it to be). It isn't something I'm willing to entertain anymore. It's just not. 

And it's fine if it's a further symptom of all of this. It's fine if it isn't okay and I've made my peace with it and mostly they have too now. And somehow every time things try and get fixed that is the elephant in the room that everyone goes after, instead of the ghost. 

I won't let go of him either, truth be told. Not anymore, though I would like to figure out a way to keep him from just magically appearing. The worse things get in my head the more he does it and that is how I know things are bad. And I do know why they are so bad but I also think this is a special case and turning trauma into tragedy doesn't work for me.

They'll agree, for a time. I am really high-functioning, after all. Maybe a little too high and so it's alarming when it slides sideways, out of the blue. I am the impending natural disaster all the time. You think you're prepared until it happens and then you panic. 

Bless all of them. I love them so much. And I think in my case, in particular, the ways I have learned to cope with things I can't control is through love and that's the best possible outcome right now. 

We had a meeting last night. I laid all of this out to be inspected and considered. I pointed out the obvious pitfalls, traps and the fallacy of safety. I pointed out roles, rules and regrets and reminded them all of time being the one thing here that we can't control and also the only thing that proves my point. 

It's been so long. So, so long now. 

And so I am there last evening subjugating the entire army and no one could argue with me anymore. They're not going to push so hard after this week. Their attempts to find me some peace and Ben's attempts to kindheartedly repay me for something he doesn't need to backfired gently enough that we missed the sound. I have no blame for anyone. Lochlan has been trying since I was eleven to fix this and he's tried just about everything and then some more but this is a grievous, colossal, complicated part of me now that is too protracted to fix and the deal was comfort at all costs while I live out the rest of my miserable but beautiful existence at his (the Devil's) expense. It can't be fixed. It can't be helped, cured or driven out. I'm not possessed in that way, just in every other way. 

I'm not flexible on this, the way I am on virtually everything else. 

I will not negotiate the terms of my very existence and I won't suffer any further heartbreak under rules that I made, and I now remind them that if anyone doesn't agree based on what I've laid out that they are free to go, but oh I will miss them. 

But if they can't live peacefully with these decisions then the door is there. 

I would miss them so terribly, though, and it wouldn't be fair at all and to that end they also can remain here and live in this odd comfort, this brotherhood. My army. 

And no one moved. Not a soul. I stood back and watched as the wall fell on them, blocking any escape, covering us all in the weight of the past and we grabbed for each other's hands and just held on.

Thanks for clarifying, Poet.

I've resorted to staring at my own reflection in the window. I'm having a reluctant hunger strike. Food is the last thing on my mind. Smiling is a chore. The weight of my face is too great. There is nothing to smile about. May as well take the other one too and finish me off. Take the ghosts (Jake is still here but so quiet), take the dreams. Take it all. What's the difference anymore?

Hey, Bridge. 

I don't turn. I look tired and I don't want anyone to see it.

Just to set the record straight Lochlan was the only one who voted for him to stay. 

I turn slowly. 

He said you would break. He was adamant. He was scared to death. He said you were in love and that it wouldn't be much different than any other tragedy at this point and he begged us to change our minds but we didn't We either hyped each other up or we were looking for an easy solution. 

But he took the blame. 

He's that kind of guy. He's never going to say it wasn't him, or he didn't do it. You know that. 

But he's in charge. How did this go through-

It was unanimous, Bridget. We all said yes. He doesn't have veto over that.

I thought he did. 

Well, he doesn't and he was willing to listen to us, maybe he thought he was too emotional to force the issue. Maybe too close, if there is such a thing-

There is. 

Then that would be him, right?

It would.

What did you have for lunch? 

She had an olive. That's it. I've been watching her all morning. PJ the Rat. Remind me to keep a closer eye on him. Sorry my appetite is gone. Must have left when he left. I told them it was a bad idea and now they're wondering what's wrong. 

What's wrong? I told them all what would be wrong but once again grand experiments and their inevitable, crushing conclusions must be enacted and then reenacted until every last person admits defeat or their faults or the truth, whichever impulse they hit on first out of so many. Feelings are fireworks and it's always a holiday here on Point Perdition. 

Jesus Christ, Bridgie. You need to eat. 

I'm not hungry. 

Doesn't matter. 

I'm not doing this right now. I go outside. It's six degrees in the sun, if you're lucky. If you can find it in these dark clouds. Most of them I self-generate. I'm very proud of my cloud production. They are dense, high-quality VantablackTM clouds and good luck if you're caught in my storm. 

Lochlan follows. Peanut. I just want you to stay healthy. 

Jesus, Lochlan. I'm an adult. It was one meal. I had a granola bar an hour before! Sorry. 

He relaxes. Interesting because I lied. I didn't have breakfast either. If I eat I will throw up so I'll fake it until they notice because I can't afford to lose any more weight or I'll be a ghost too. 

It's not forever. 

I don't think it'll be through the weekend, actually. 

What do you mean? 

I need him to come back. You promised and you lied too so we're even but this is where he needs to be.

Bridg-

Just call him. 

We'll have a meeting. 

Great. Another meeting. Should be productive. 

What's the matter? 

EVERYTHING.

(Welcome to our spectacle, carny rides eccentical.)*

Yes, I still go outside in the orchard with my headphones in my clown jumpsuit (no mask though, I have it but I can't breathe in a mask while dancing) and do the whole diamond clown #17 dance from this video.

Hell, yes, it's cathartic. Hell yes, I have the suit and let me tell you, it's heavy. This is a better warmup and more exercise than just about anything else in the universe. I don't want to pedal a bike to nowhere, flip tires or do reps. I want to dance. And since everyone laughs when I express interest in doing Bhangra, this is it for me. I have found my niche and it's no surprise it involves clowns, is it? I freaking love clowns. Whoop whoop.

***

The party's over now because the rain has started in earnest. I don't even want to stand outside with the dog but the woodstove is glowing red in the kitchen and the groceries are bought and put away and even the eggs are in the new egg basket in the fridge and so my chores are done and I get to draw and paint for the rest of the afternoon and drink coffee and eat fresh croissants and then snuggle in with Lochlan to hopefully finish American Gods. At least that's how I see the day in my head now that I'm too tired to think too hard. 

*(Today's title is from Tilt-A Whirl, which is an equally fun song to dance to, FYI.)

Lent: week five.

Sam's come out of hibernation with the first day of spring. Present and combed, beard trimmed short, collar pressed, a new feature on this odd bug, noted also are the matching shoes, picking up the browns in his shirt and his hair. 

Are you objectifying me? Judging me based on appearances? 

Maybe. I wink at him but it's with effort to be jovial, generous. 

How are things? I feel as if I haven't seen you but I'm trying to step back and let the others have space to work with you. 

That makes me sound like some kind of avant-garde art installation. 

I hope you'll take it as a compliment, then. 

My eyebrows go up but I don't say anything. 

You look sad and exhausted, Bridge. 

Oh, he's just going to walk in and thrust his torch against every soft, flammable surface today. I try to put it out with tears but then he yanks it back. 

I'm fine, actually. My shaky hand gives it away as I try to wipe the lone tear that's headed for the floor suddenly. 

I didn't mean to upset you. What can I do? 

Got your crystal ball handy? 

God has great plans for you, Beautiful. 

You sound like someone I used to know. I laugh bitterly. 

Things are going to get better now. 

No, Sam. We're just going to wait. And then things will go back to the way they were. 

I hope they don't. What about you? 

I wish there was an easier way. 

***

Ben's hand comes up against the back of my neck in the dark. The wind is howling through the window, blowing the curtains wildly against the glass. Blowing the flames against the edges of the night. He pulls me up against him, his head bending down against my shoulder, a kiss I can't return as I am pushed back down flat on the quilts, turned over by the hips and then crushed underneath his weight, a casualty of Ben's hunger that now looms large but more sporadically than before. My cry is stifled by his hand over my mouth, pulling my head back up against his chest. His head is against the top of mine. I wonder if I'll die this way. I tap his forearm and he lightens his grip on me by more than half and I can breathe again. 

He picks a slow and steady rhythm, pulling me down on the upstroke and up on the down and it hurts so beautifully I hope it lasts all week. His hand slides down underneath me and soon I am in a frenzy against his hold, and then again. And then again, with fresh tears as the frustrations of the week go up in the smoke from the fire. 

He turns me back over, resuming his customary gentle-roughness, his oops-didn't-mean-to-break-that barrage on through the night, his attempts to make everything better. I hold on so tight, arms around his shoulders, my face held against his heart now, legs around his hips as he scoops me up hard against him, taking me to outer space a few more times before he comes with me to see the stars before he finally gives me a long kiss and lets go. It's cold for a mere second, enough for me to catch my breath and then Lochlan pulls me in close. Ben disappears and Lochlan's practised hands take over and by the time the sun comes up I have everything I ever wanted, including sleep, having slept jammed underneath Lochlan's chin, my lips against his Adam's apple, his arm thrown over my back, my arms tucked in between us, the customary, longtime position, consummate safety.

Jesus springtide.

The regret came with the sunset, the usual time of day when everything hurts more, stings harder, feels worse. The homesick hour. Whoever named it Golden Hour never met my mind because it's a searing ache that catches my breath in my throat and leaves me in tears if I'm not busy while it's happening. It's been that way since I was very young and Bailey was suddenly too old to be sent with me to the family farm for the summer and suddenly I was the only child there, working in the sun, standing in the living room watching the river as the sun set over the hills and wishing I was with someone who understood me. The moment I hit double digits I started spending summers with Lochlan and he turned them into a magical time of day but I still fight against that weird feeling of complete and utter abandonment. Bailey and I are not as close as I wished we had been. We're too far apart in age but at the same time she was more of a parent than our parents and I miss her every day.

I miss him too. I picked up my phone and stared at it. A single word message this morning confirming safety on the other side and I haven't responded. I am to forget. I am to try. I am to follow these new rules only I don't know who they're for. Him or me? What's the point of all this again? Oh, right. Improvement in the immediate, alarming issues and then a head-start or a fresh start or a new start or whatever the fuck this is. I don't know. I don't care. 

I pick up my phone and type a reply and then I erase it. I type another and then I erase that one too and it's like he knows I'm here. Another message pops up from him. He probably saw me typing but then nothing went through. The second message is just a heart.

Oh, he's trying. This is good. I send one back, off the hook, out of the fire and the frying pan and I turn off my screen, putting my phone in the pocket of my sweater. 

***

It's dark finally and we got through a mountain of early-spring yardwork. It's a new season. It's another fresh start and I am throwing myself into doing good. Into doing better. New music, new haircut, new jacket. New mittens. New gardening gloves and new shoes. A whole new me. New church on the podcast but piped through the big speakers while we listen and eat our breakfast in the easy silence of a rainy Sunday. New season. New hurt.

Brambles (Bridget-rambles, also very thorny if they catch you the wrong way).

 I don't think he could catch Jacob, that man was always four feet off the ground, walking on clouds while we walked on the hard ground. Never had dusty shoes. Never had shoes on. Who needs them when you don't have to fight your way over broken glass or sharp rocks, never have to step on the backs of those you climbed over to get to where you are now. Never had to be a mortal because he wasn't and he knew long before the rest of us that his heaven would welcome him so much earlier. He was a VIP. Early entry. Separate doors. Credentials? Check.

He caught Cole easily enough. Cole's black wings never lie completely flat. They stick up, bent and charred, singed and ratty, easy enough to grab, folding around his solid frame, tying the outside feathers closed over his blue-black eyes so I don't have to see the frightening expression on his face and then he threw him in the backseat of the car. Company for the road. Someone to talk to when there's no one left to talk to. Someone to be present for the fast lane, an exit in double-time just to get it over with. 

Probably thinking about the ones that got away. 

I take a breath and turn back. Not going to dwell on right or wrong or feelings or sudden failure or abrupt and uncomfortable homesickness of the space now empty. I go and sit in the room. Bed stripped, desk cleared. Suitcase gone from where it was open on the side table for the better part of a week. Promises given. Times set for contact if I want it. 

I don't want it. I was so busy. So tired. So shell-shocked and then it just became habit, muscle-memory and now once again the whiplash is fierce and stinging. I'm distracting. I'm working. I'm trying to sort out a lower, softer, kinder and more bitter version of White Dress this morning but I'm just not into it,  the image of the car driving out the driveway and pausing at the top is stuck in my mind and I was hoping the reverse lights would come on but then it was gone and with him, my ghosts. 

Maybe they were only here because of him. Maybe he was sent here to take them back, when the time was right. Maybe the joke is less of a lark and more like the truth than I realized. Maybe pigs flew overhead as he drove down the highway. Maybe we set off fireworks in the form of sparks here, suddenly able to focus again for the spectre of history, the fog of war has cleared. 

Maybe I'm drunk at eight in the morning because someone else has decided for me that if the day is fuzzy around the edges it's be easier even though I just said we could focus now. By we I mean them, not me, and you agree, so you drink half of it,

 (You stupid girl, this took way too long.)

(That's how I do things, you know this by now!)

(Bridgie, who are you talking to?)

call it breakfast, call it a day, call it a draw, call it how you see it. I don't care. It's not up for debate. It's done, and it's as big an experiment as anything else, don't you think?

If you love me, you'll love me.

What would you do if I wouldn't sing for them no more?
Like if you heard I was out in the bars drinking jack and coke
Going crazy for anyone who would listen to my stories, babe?
Time after time, I think about leaving
But you know that I never do, just because you keep me believing

Indulging in a rainy, windy day, a bottomless mug of the really good coffee, courtesy of August's Breville monstrosity and the new Lana Del Rey album, because August is one of the few here who tolerates my smalltown-beach-lovesong-acoustic aesthetic or whatever it was PJ called it yesterday in uncharacteristic but complete familiar and bitter disdain.

Lochlan still sleeps, bed swaying gentle three feet off the floor. This suspended bed will never get old for me, matching the surprise I feel now when August all but encourages me to bring Lochlan. 

No, that never gets old.

Yesterday morning I watched the car go up the drive. 

You going to go back to letting me help for the time being? 

All hands on deck.

All hands on deck, he repeats. I can hardly hear it. So soft. 

I turn and look at him. I don't say anything else.

It'll be okay, Bridget. Just like before when he wasn't here.  He made me rethink a few things and I think we can keep you on track. 

We couldn't and we won't, because we (I) wouldn't/won't let us (them). Ha.

I can sabotage the very best moments, and as always nothing changed. Except for that fleeting second of relief as he left, which bled down into the rain, colouring the water with a bloom of grey.

Ran into the dark, Lana sings and I nod. Yes, indeed I did.

A little oversharing and a little esoterism, all at the same time.

(Sorry. Not sorry, actually.)

This morning sees rainclouds over the water, a Foy Vance slow-dance to Fifteen through the kitchen while making breakfast together, nose to nose. Coffee on the patio, braving the uncovered stone area, ready to run at a moment's notice but for now enjoying the cool salt air, the cloying early spring pollen and the heavy dimness that surrounds us on the cliff, in the trees. 

He is home, not this place, further to my thoughts from the other day. His crazy-long red hair, clipped words and devastating integrity always left me wishing I was cooler, older, more sure of myself and less inclined to fight him at every turn. This man who made me do math worksheets while sitting at a sticky picnic table under an awning, out of the sun in the bug-heat of August in the middle of a midway so that I would be smarter when I went into grade 6, because grade 6 was harder math than grade 5, from his recollection and that way if I did well in school I could continue to spend summers with him. Who taught me how to tie bows backwards on my shoes so they would lie flatter and not stick up, who braided my hair for me every single morning and then wrapped the braid around my head two or three times so that I looked like a Swiss milkmaid in just about every summer photo ever taken because he was terrified I would get my very long hair trapped in the machinery or caught in a door or pulled somehow but at the same time he loved it so and wouldn't hear of the suggestion to cut it even though I didn't care one way or another.

Get a room. Jesus. PJ mock-complains as he comes in and finds us trying to clean up from breakfast but mostly kissing instead. 

Did that, Lochlan mutters in return. 

Too bad you're not in it right now, PJ continues. 

And how, Lochlan agrees and then laughs out loud. It's a good day, oddly. A better day with more sleep, more perspective, and a corner turned, somewhat abruptly, to a whole new stage in life.

Burnout.

 Yesterday's rambles brought about another change, a lot of concern that flowed into concrete plans and help and company and I didn't have to run a scary errand alone, I didn't need to lose sleep without everyone else losing it too, we crossed some crazy sudden milestones around these parts and I feel like suddenly things have shifted, or maybe it's just a good day with good outcomes and happy endings.

Maybe it's the luck of my Irish. 

Second-generation Canadian, the only green I have on today is a cardigan I abandoned at nine this morning in the sunshine and my eyes, as always, like Lochlan's but much paler, more sage than olive. He has such distinct coloring and I am a cool-dramatic version of him. I had all my good luck charms with me today and things seem to be clipping alone and it's all good and I need to be thankful, here and take a moment to be peaceful too. 

I need to get some sleep. Last night there was none. ZIP. Holy. First we had a mini-emergency that woke us right up and continued until 4ish and then at 6ish we had hungers and then at seven we had places we needed to get to but now we are home and it's all good and done and I lived and now I can report to Everett but not to Jake and to snuggle in with Lochlan tonight but not with Caleb and it's definitely been the strangest Saint Patrick's Day but I can't even believe I used to wish I could go to a bar and drunk-dance all evening. That seems dumb now. Everything is bigger and holds more weight. There is more at stake and if I stop dancing and look around I see life happening all around me. I'm an adult and yet on the inside, forever seventeen. 

And I think this morning I made peace with that, oddly enough, instead of wondering if I would spend the rest of my life fighting it.

Escape artist.

Found a house in Rose Bay that I love, that I absolutely love, and I know Lochlan would love it too, and we'd love it in spite of the weather and in spite of the choppy wifi and the wind and the fact that it's a two bedroom mishmash with a questionable number of bathrooms and-a-half and a scary looking staircase and a completely untouched yard but it's also a stone's throw to some of my favourite beaches on earth and it's a stunning interior design and I could paint there and sleep there and count my minutes left on earth there, instead of here. 

Escapist fantasies, I know. The problems will travel with me. I repeat, and roll my eyes. Everett is curious and yet he really has heard it all and hasn't gotten sucked in. The theory goes that that exact reason is why I barely talk to him. Fun fact: All we've done is talk. We are sick of each other and so we break early for lunch with an open afternoon and I have a pre-St. Patrick's Day brunch with Satan planned that I am anxious to get ready for.

Only if you bring the entire Collective with you. 

Which I wouldn't anyway. 

The Collective was an experiment and when it's finished, it's finished.Whether it makes it to fifteen years or twenty on that absolute outside but I don't think it will. We're outgrowing ourselves now. This is the longest I have ever lived at a single address. Even growing up, as I moved to that house at age 8 and moved out at nineteen. I've already passed that milestone here on Point Perdition, effective this week. 

But we're all still here. Still collecting paints and pets and boys. Still figuring out cars and schedules and LED light switchovers that are actually bright enough but still nice. Still watching sentry over my tiny wraparound beach that technically isn't mine but the day I find a stranger on it for any length of time will be a strange day indeed. Still finding complete and utter privacy voids in the efforts to share our home and the property as a whole without making it seem as if it isn't everyone's home. Still keeping the rules of the roost intact because they work for everyone. We force consideration and thoughtfulness and respect for those around you and those spaces around you. Everyone is clean and tidy. No one procrastinates. Everyone pitches in. Eleven years on it seems like at one point it was never going to work but then it fell into place and I've been looking for a way out ever since. 

This is permanent, Neamhchiontach. 

Nothing's permanent, Diabhal.

The smell of sulphur and magnesium in the air.

 A warm kiss on the forehead and another firework explodes, lighting up the Midway for seconds in shades of red and green, the sound competing with the crowd for prevalence in the night. I take a sip through the straw of Lochlan's lemonade and notice it's spiked. I wrinkle my nose and swallow it anyway, tasting more vodka than lemonade but my eleven-year-old brain is accustomed to finding a surprise in his drink. He takes it back.

Take the edge off, Peanut. Besides, it's Sunday. I'll get you a regular drink. Don't touch this one, okay?

(We don't work on Mondays. That's our weekend.)

The edge off what, Locket? But he doesn't answer even though I don't understand. 

Years later I would understand. It softens the edge of the hole. So if you fall in you're not afraid. You don't get cut, you just relax your whole body and fall, landing on a black cloud. But you'll still fall in, because you took the edge away, and that was the only thing keeping you from falling head first. 

It took me a few extra years to understand that part, let me tell you. 

There are the boys. Let's go. He takes my hand, squeezing it and drags me through the crowd. Fireworks continue overhead. The music is so loud. Boston still playing through the huge speakers on the ride next to the field. It's the Scrambler and it always had the best music aside from whatever ride Lochlan was assigned to, usually the Ferris wheel. Every carny hates the stop and start and endless attention it needs to keep it loaded with the correct weight. Lochlan loves the methodical haul-and-go rhythm of it, loves the screams as people whip over the front. Especially mine.

We get to the group at the edge of the gate. They all nod. Christian says Hi Bridget, making sure to include me. Caleb asks me if I'm up past my bedtime, pissing me off right off. Cole tells me to ignore him. He's just bitchy because he's going back to school in a week and doesn't have time to babysit the rest of us. Lochlan asks who he's babysitting, that Lochlan's seventeen, thanks. 

And you're boozing up an eleven year old? Caleb asks him, watching my eyes separately focus on everything but the thing I'm trying to focus on, which was whatever Rob has. It's a harmonica. For later, by the lake, when Lochlan's off and we can go back to the camper. 

Maybe. Lochlan winks at him. This pisses Caleb off and briefly we are the Outsiders. Then cooler heads prevail and we go to our spot, best spot in town, to watch the remainder of the fireworks. All six minutes of them. 

Lochlan takes his drink away from me repeatedly and finally heads off to get me a regular can of Pepsi. Anything that doesn't have alcohol. While he's gone, Caleb tucks his arm around me, pulling me in against his chest. He is so much bigger than Lochlan I feel safe and protected. It was the last time I would ever feel like that with him, only I didn't know it then, snuggling in, resting my head against his chest, and his right arm. He's warm but not sweaty. He smells good. Like Old Spice. He lights a smoke over my head and it smells good too. I close my eyes because the finale is loud and bright and the lights are making squiggles in the sky and I suddenly feel carsick. 

My arm is pulled straight up and I am on my feet, awake suddenly. 

Jesus, Loch. It's Cole, complaining. Trying to back up his brother and stay on the crowd side. Trying to sound tough and in charge. 

Lochlan doesn't give a shit. He pulls me in against his chin, resting the cold can against my cheek. 

Let's go, he says to the dismayed catcalls of the others. We head back to the camper and he makes me drink a big glass of water from the drum on the counter. While I'm trying to get through that he's wrapping ice in a dishcloth, which he puts on my forehead, holding it there. With his other arm he reaches up and grabs a box of crackers off the shelf. You need to eat to dilute the alcohol. 

Why don't you feel like this? I feel great suddenly. Like I can fly. Or dance all night. 

I weigh a hundred and forty pounds. You don't even weigh a hundred. The smaller you are the harder you fall. 

That's not how the saying goes, Locket. 

With drinks it is. Eat, he barks. He looks so mad. He's so cute when he looks like this. I hate that I like that. 

I take a handful of crackers and shove them into my mouth one at a time while he lifts all of my hair up in one hand carefully, shoving the ice pack onto the back of my neck with his other hand. It feels so nice. 

I'm tired. Can we sleep? 

No. Not until this feeling is gone. I'm sorry. I should have paid closer attention. 

Sorry you didn't get to hang out with your friends. You can go back when I go to sleep? 

Not leaving you alone. It's fine. They're not my friends anyway. 

Why do you say that? 

I made my choice. Eat. 

What choice? I say through a mouthful of crumbs but he is busy getting our bed set up for the night. We turn it into a table during the day and at night we turn the table upsidedown and take the base off and cover the whole thing with thick cushions and it becomes a little bed. Lochlan hates it. He says he knows of a better camper for sale that has an actual separate bed and a little bistro flip down table and it has way more room. 

He never answered me but a few years later I understood that too. The choice was me over them, something the rest of them continue to resent to this day.

Brightest bulbs.

What's happening today? I slept until nine, got the sparks notes version of Sam's sermon, off the hook I am until much closer to Easter, and I can barely move thanks to the gardening. We got it all done and then some. Yard too, and then even the vineyard got some love, plus they put new ropes on the swing and gave it a light sand and a coat of wax. Last year we all but abandoned all of the gardening in August when Ben got hurt and the only thing I did was shovel some leaves in around the perennials in early November after seeing that the last tomatoes had rotted still on the vine. 

It felt weird clearing out the decay of a summer abrupted as we forgot about anything but saving Benjamin, getting him through the worst and into the clear but it was a relief to return to the routine I most look forward to. Green things are poking up all over. Renewal. Easter is coming. I wanted a head start and now I have it. Last year I think we waited until a week before Victoria Day to do anything at all. That seemed necessary then. Now it all feels different, sooner. There's a bigger push. 

But we are ready. I can't feel my hands. They all laughed at my twenty-year old rake. Supposedly all the tines broke off and I didn't notice. Now I have a shiny new one, brought home this morning. We moved the giant oregano plant (I harvest it until the end of July and then it is used for the bees to enjoy) and I hope it lives. It may be too soon. We did a ton of prep work. I can order soil now. We did a seed inventory and a rough plan for planting. 

I didn't think about anything except the garden. 

I'm not growing any ghosts, nor did they come to see how things were doing. I think actually that Jacob might be actively avoiding Everett but that's okay too. It's Everett's last week here or so I heard the hint of even though to my face they say his visit is open-ended and I guess he wasted his time but this is not on me. He and Ben had a good visit so all's not lost and I don't want to hear about it.

The plan for today. Watch it get derailed in 3...2...

Coffee on the patio with Sam and Matt this morning. They made their way over with matching mugs and matching loungewear in the form of soft brushed fleece pants in a dark green shade that I adore and black long sleeved waffle knit tops with a green band around the wrists. Their mugs say Mr. and Mr. and I'm sure they've got better coffee in them then I have in mine because they have one of August's fancy machines in the boathouse and I have the Keurig. I buy the Sumatra pods from the Starbucks line and I'm pretty happy these days. It's far cry from the work of the Chemex, anyway but honestly you could press a button on a generic gas station convenience store coffee machine, pay your dollar and hand me the cup to drink and I would be so happy so what do I know? 

I just like the whole vibe here today, here in the shade with half a cup still to go.

Already broke up two separate and distinct arguments about whether or not Lochlan has lost his mind and about whether or not he was secretly seeking validation (no on both counts) and I'm about to crack the whip and get them all gardening here shortly, as the sun is out and I usually roll up to this party far too late for my liking. We lost a major player in the landscaping out front and can easily replace it from one of the perennials out back that is taking up too much room there, and so that's on tap today and then I can schedule my soil delivery for next week and be ready earlier than ever. I'm excited but it's backbreaking work and I can't be out in the sun all that much. Fun! 

(Everett approves though. They all approve because she can't be crazy if she's too tired to move, right?)

Sensory overland.

I woke up with the sun, sleeping late, surprised when one side of the bed was cold. The other side is a horizontal wall named Ben and I leave him sleeping with a kiss, hurrying through my shower, drying my hair, struggling into warm jeans and Lochlan's flannel shirt from yesterday, unbuttoned scandalously low, sleeves folded up a million times, tails out. I slide every ring I own on my finger and grab my boots. 

The house is too quiet. He won't be inside. I feel like panicking and I look outside on my way downstairs. His truck is home. His wallet was on the dresser upstairs. His phone was also upstairs on his bedside table. His jacket is in the closet. 

The kitchen is dark. I look outside but I don't see him. I check downstairs. I come back up and check the library. Then the grotto. I put the dog out and feed him. I scan the yard once more. About ready to scream. My mouth is dry. My hands are shaking. My blood runs so cold in my veins my limbs are stiff and slow. I bite back a sob and pull my boots on, grabbing PJ's raincoat off the hook by the back door. I check the garage, the camper and the orchard. And even though I know I'm not allowed, I open the big wooden gate at the end of the cliff that leads to the stairs to go down to the beach. My eyes are scanning the rocks below while my brain tries so hard to turn them off. Tears are flowing freely now. My heart is racing. And then I see a thin plume of smoke rising up and there he is. Sitting by the fire setting up the little cooking rack that we stand the pans on for early breakfast. 

He stands up and waves his arms and then leaves them in an X for a beat and he's off across the beach to meet me. 

I'm just trying to catch my breath and compose myself before he gets to the top. 

And I fail. 

He's yelling halfway up and I have to focus but I can barely hear him with the wind. 

-And Ben reminded me almost as a joke that I didn't even have to wake you up, just to go set it all up and then think about you and you would sense that I wanted you and come find me. Geez, holy, he wasn't wrong but that's a whole step over weird how fast you were and- Jesus Christ, Bridgie, what's wrong? He's trying to wipe the tears from my chin, hold the rail and block me from the top of the steps all at once. He finally just grips the rail with one hand, scooping me right into his jacket with the other arm, head against my forehead, kisses raining on my temples. Tell me. 

I thought you were gone. I couldn't find you. 

He shakes his head. I'm sorry. I was trying to check our connection. It was just an experiment. I didn't realize what it looks like. I'm sorry, Peanut. He takes a step down and then turns back, so we are eye to eye. If I go anywhere, I'll take you with me. Remember when I first said that? What were you, all of nine years old? That's a promise I'll never break, Bridgie. I swear. 

The nine-year-old is so much stronger. She wipes her eyes with the sleeves of PJ's jacket and smiles through bleary eyes. You better, she challenges. No one would dare try and test that little girl. Not now, that is. 

You know the best part of all this? 

What? Oh she's annoyed now. Is there a good part? 

You felt me and you came running.

(Always crazy like that.)

Hi. Playing the piano shakily this morning, pounding out Foolish Games and singing. Jewel's one singer I never had any problems duplicating and she's not failing me now. 

Duncan's been in the doorway with his coffee cup for the better part of thirty minutes. I don't know if he's keeping watch or can't see Lochlan in the big chair by the south window. The living room wraps around. It's impossible to decorate so I settled on different conversation groupings.  There's a large fireplace in the way. 

Everett is in the kitchen just sitting there, waiting.

Can I ignore him for another complete day? Ben says I shouldn't. By rights this is Ben's problem, not mine. By rights I don't have to do anything I don't want to do. By rights I should be dressed in white, arms wrapped around myself, running into padded walls, bouncing off only to land on the freshly mopped floor, struggling to get up before doing it all over again. They will watch me from the small window in the door, glass sandwiching a panel of wire, so that I can't get out. As if there were anything to climb so that I could reach the window, for unless I take ten steps back, I can't even see out of it. 

This is my heart, bleeding before you-

They never turn the lights off and here, I thank them for that, because the dark is full of monsters and ghosts. And taxes. And bad news and chores and bullshit therapists, a long line of which waits to be the genius. Waits to be the saviour. Waits to be the one who puts the puzzle back together but I've eaten all the pieces just to make sure that never happens. 

I was so smart.

I bet if I got my lobotomy I wouldn't have to do this anymore but like he said, "You keep me honest."

I think when I grow up I want to write copy for the Bank of Canada releases. 

From this morning: "The Bank is maintaining its extraordinary forward guidance, reinforced and supplemented by its quantitative easing (QE) program, which continues at its current pace of at least $4 billion per week."

Not sure if I should offer to hold Mr. Macklem's coffee while he pats himself on the back or go spend like a maniac before they raise the rates and everything slides sideways again. 

Caleb is doing his best not to laugh at my absolutely mainstream, emotional take on this mornings readings. He sips his coffee and basks in the company, in spite of the fact that I am still in pajamas. Historically Caleb likes it when I dress professionally for work. He likes office stilettos and smart Chanel suits and red lipstick and long eyelashes and diamond bracelets and so today, since I don't even have to leave the house to work anymore, I arrived in my baby-blue Sanrio Sentimental Circus pajamas (clean ones) and thick red socks. I'm wearing no makeup, no jewellery, but I did bring my bag with me (RIGHT. WE'RE NOT GOING TO TO TALK ABOUT WHO CARRIES HER HANDBAG AROUND HER OWN DAMN HOUSE BECAUSE IF THE QUEEN CAN DO IT SO CAN I), which contains my favourite calculator (from Henry's Grade 11 math class) and my pens, notebooks, phone and laptop. Oh, and the lipstick aforementioned. And there's most likely a ring or two and probably a bracelet in there. And chapstick. And pepper spray. 

(And a lock-picking set.)

(But ANYWAY.)

(I'll add a picture eventually, in case you don't believe me.)

(Not right now though, I have work to do.)

It's taxes day. Here I go. 

I hate taxes. Especially this year but I already sent out a group message for everyone to count exactly how many days they worked from home in 2020, if they worked at all. I know that answer so I will know if they try and make something up.

Salt makes things even more toxic.

Burning wood on the beach this morning for the salty smoke smell which I can then carry through the day, for it permeates my hair, skin and clothes so nicely, a cloying mystery that makes me feel like a scary pirate half the time and a sing-ey-mermaid the other half.

Don't worry. The wood was too damp to hold a flame and I do it right beside the water. I also have a fire manipulator on hand who can deal with any dangers that arise. But honestly I got enough of an ember to leave a message on the logs for the next person to walk the beach (Ben or New Jake, most likely) and they will leave us a message in return. 

Lochlan is non-committal when I ask how much time I have to devote to Everett today. He says I don't have to see him at all if I don't want, even though this is supposed to be the week we double down on time and efforts and I'll get a pat on the head from Ben and maybe on of his old One Day At A Time coin tokens to carry, flipping it across my knuckles, trying to keep it from hitting the ground and failing, mostly. 

I don't think Lochlan was on board with this plan. I think Ben blindsided most of the army in an effort to do something Nice for me and his heart is in the right place but when it comes to organizing or surprising anyone he remains a bull in a china shop and for someone who tells me to live in the moment, I should maybe spend more time telling him to consider the others, too and their feelings. 

He will tell me that's the problem. Stop worrying about the others. They are all grown men. But I feel like they need to be taken care of as much as I do. I'm not the only one here with history. 

We don't struggle with ours, though. PJ says that but I know Ben does. I know Loch and Caleb both do. Batman sure does. Schuyler does, Daniel does. Duncan and Dalton do. Everyone's broken and the light shines through our cracks, blinding the ones who are whole. 

They need us. Otherwise they would live in darkness. They could not see. They would not learn empathy and compassion, consideration and insight. 

They might be worse off than their biggest problem being a girl who plays music too loudly constantly and when you finally go turn it off you realize she left the room hours ago and she's out in the field talking to someone who isn't there anymore. 

If that's the worst thing that happens to you in a day, you're doing good. 

***

Is that how you see it though? 

Mostly, yes. I admit. I don't want to think about it again. I just did. I'm having a rather bratty day, truth be told. Lochlan sees it and quietly suggested I not engage. That was all. It didn't mean I don't want to try or that I won't do the work. I just...well, not today. Today I am still underslept and mostly struggling with figuring out exactly which parts I can fix without losing something else. I remember once describing what it feels like here. It's like having an armload of Christmas ornaments. Every time you find another one to pick up, you drop one. So you pick that one up and drop two more. You get them all balanced in your arms and realize you see another one. You can't hold them all, you can't let go of the ones you have. That's how I approach damn near everything. 

That gives me more insight than anything you've said so far, Bridget. Everett smiles so kindly. 

You keep saying that but I know why you're really here. 

Why am I really here?

To get rid of Caleb. 

No. I'm here to get rid of Jacob. 

They're tied together. And so Caleb will be collateral damage. Or maybe he'll go and just take Jacob with him and that would be even worse, Everett.

How can you love a monster? 

How can you not?

Violet is the rarest, from the manganese (which turns purple in the sun, much like a corpse).

 It's a chilly, frozen-over morning today, bright light streaming in to warm our reluctant faces. It's a mental-health kind of Monday and everyone is moving slow like molasses on ice. The steps were slick, I am banned from the beach but I head down anyway, gripping the slippery rails like in death if only to prevent my predicted death from doing so, and quickly found myself crunching through the cold sand toward my favourite spot, way at the end where I can't hear you calling my name from the stairs.

I am not alone and I get a chance to introduce Everett to the shore, which is where I think, decompress, heal and draw energy from all at the same time. He wants to know what it means to me, the good and the bad and I am honest, talkative and open-minded, probably a first since he arrived, I am ashamed to say. 

But the chip remains and I ask him a few questions too. Like if he is really here to make another stab at getting rid of Caleb, or if Ben is up front about worrying that I talk to ghosts instead of the living when things get too difficult. 

Everett wonders if I trust Ben and how that works, as I seemingly trust the Devil far beyond what he ever earned and that doesn't make any sense. But I don't trust anyone when they say the Devil is here to stay and I don't trust anyone when they say the ghosts are fine. Those are two truths and a lie and it doesn't matter which is which anymore. 

We go over the lists, written by others, checked off and triple-checked ten times over. Does he think they are valid opinions? Do I? What would I change? What would he amend? 

The book of Everett is now open to a single page and we're all on it. Ben is right. He is oddly good at this and I feel like I'm getting to know a friend suddenly. Everett knows when to stop though, which is new. He does not push and instead asks if he can take me out for lunch in the Jeep and we will eat burgers on our laps and listen to the radio. He's going to creep into the locked room quietly through a window in order to pick through the charred remains of my scorch-earth memory. He's going to see everything and he said it's okay if I want to skip parts (for now) or come back to things (for later) and I pointed out that I know, that's how it works and he jokingly said that I should maybe enter the field as I might have more experience than he does and I don't doubt that but I also said that the chip remains. It's just eroded a bit. 

Do I want help? Yes. I want the ghosts to show up when I want them to and not when I don't. I want Lochlan to not know jealousy or fear but be perfectly fine with Caleb. I want Caleb not to be randomly, surprisingly scary. I want to be strong but still feel things. I will not be medicated. Crazy-light is just fine. I am high-functioning. I know how to manipulate but save it for important moments. They think I am helpless and little still. I would like that to stop. 

They think I am incapable of fixing this. And unwilling. And they are probably right. 

Everett disagrees and says I can have whatever I want, that the resources are there and the want is there and the work is manageable and let's just spend a few weeks talking. He manages to eek out another whole hour of conversation before I ever notice what he did, and I taught him to collect sea glass more efficiently than most, what is the most valuable colour, what to throw back and how to clean and display the best pieces in order to fulfill a metaphor for who I am. Broken but beautiful. Rare but also garbage. 

I'm just kidding on that last part. Well, maybe but the glass is technically garbage and yet it's so beautiful so what does that make me?

Sweet Jesus.

Sunday funday! I already listened to Sam's church via an early link to his podcast and Ben took Everett and Dalton into town to show Everett the sights and so Lochlan and I roasted breakfast marshmallows on the beach (you use a waffle to pull them off the sticks and then you drizzle chocolate syrup over the top so it's a sweet taco and yes, I will probably be diabetic any minute now but surprisingly my body burns sugar like a champion still) and watched the new Wrong Turn movie (good but oh, the credits LOLLLLLL) and then the new episode of Attack on Titan. 

Then he said I should do some shopping and I have a whole list but I'm not actually good at shopping. I ended up buying two outfits and some black socks with flowers all over them because my Doc Martens eat all of my socks. 

I made beef stroganoff for dinner with garlic naan. So good. 

I finished the bottle of Laphroaig. Lochlan helped me. PJ may have as well.

And that's Sunday. I'm going to bed now.

Gonna fly like a bird through the night.

He's trying to talk to me but Ben and I are trying to find ways to cover Chandelier as I discovered I love singing it but can't hammer my voice into that four-syllable build to the falsetto and I can't reach it any other way and so he's rearranging the whole song on his acoustic guitar because the drum machines were making me laugh. 

Plus with him I get the good monitors for my ears, the ones made for me, and Everett sits in the booth with Ben, a semi-politely exasperated expression on his face because I don't think he's used to loud pulsing music at six in the morning. My LochMessMonster is still sleeping. My bed is fucking wrecked and I'm glad I don't have to make it and my Devil is oh so quiet this weekend because I wear him out and I had a whole week to do it so he's been sleeping the better part of the past three days. 

That or he's avoiding Everett, since Caleb is suddenly in the crosshairs again. 

(Come for the ghosts, stay for the demons.)

(Do you think they would be offended if I had t-shirts made?)

(Maybe it should read Come for the demons, stay for the ghosts. But that could be taken two ways, and then only I can technically wear the shirt. I guess.)

I'm doing my part. Offering Everett a truthful view, no rose-coloured glasses here. No tinted windows. No pretty paint on rotting wood. This is me. I bounce between the men I love. I love some more than others. I make no apologies and no room for strangers either. I love to sing in spite of being deaf and I don't want to get rid of my ghosts or my devils. I've said it before and I'll say it again for the boys in the back. 

But if he's having a good visit, he can stay for as long as he likes. Though if he really wants to do Oms and bulletproof coffee on the patio he should enlist August instead of Ben. 

Because at the end of the day Ben will back me up. Every fucking time. Burning buildings go both ways. 

(You should hear Ben singing about being a party girl. Of course he can hit all the notes. Fucker.)

Sing for me again.

So if you see me losing sight

Of all the death in life
You'll find the peace in every time
I failed to see the death in mine

 

Lochlan wasn't sleeping when I came upstairs. He took his whiskey up to read and to give Everett and I a little time to talk after dinner. We eat so late now. Seven or eight and so it's nine by the time it's all cleaned up, if we're lucky and so by ten everyone is punchy and we've shifted to an ungodly early hour in the mornings too, much to my delight. I don't mind that but it is exceedingly difficult to carry on a conversation about my state of being when all I can do is yawn rudely in Everett's face. 

 

Meet me here at five am and we can have a surprisingly alert conversation, I tell him as he finally says we should give up, that it might be too late after all. 

 

Maybe not five. That seems extreme. 

I don't sleep remember?

And I didn't, because when Lochlan pulls me down into his arms I am suddenly wide awake in the familiar warmth. Lochlan smells like woodsmoke and candy. Like good whiskey and bottomless patience. Like home. And he gives me a kiss that reminded me I was home before tucking my head against his neck while he drives against me, his hands around my head, all of his weight crushing against me. I think we might burst into a shower of sparks or a slow burn but every time he pulls back enough for me to catch my breath cool air from the open windows rushes in to replace the heat from the fire that was burning when I came up, almost matching the heat we seem to create. 

 

He pulls me up into his lap and lifts me up over and over slowly and then finally lays me back on the quilt, crawling back onto me once more. My head is upside down. The flames dance downward and I am hypnotized as he drives. Finally he pulls me back up hard, head in his hand once more, fierce and finished and then he brings me with him as his final act and we lie back against the cool sheets while the curtains blow into the room gently from the wind, the only light coming from the fire now, which has died down significantly since I came to bed. I fall asleep easily. 

And wake up at five. 

 

The fire is long out. The Lochlan also out, still mired in dreams, flat on his back, sheets around his waist, his right hand flung out clutching my ribcage, protecting me from the dark in his sleep. 

I slide out from underneath his arm and he hardly shifts and go and take a long bubblebath. I hate Everett, I have decided, unless he wants to find a way to let me keep my memories but maybe lose the ghosts. Anything more and I will twist away until I can break into a flat run and after a few moments only then will I slow down, venturing a glance over my shoulder at what I may have left behind.

Guileless. It means childlike and innocent. Yes, just like Neamhchiontach, but in English. It was the first note he wrote, because I asked to see.

I have not been able to stump Everett yet on a song. If I start, he will finish. 

He is pleased that I am so delighted. We can go on Rock and Roll Jeopardy together except it's not on television anymore. I don't think, anyway. 

You really love your music, Bridget. 

More than these boys, I admit. (It's okay, they're aware.)

What would you like to get out of my visit?

Are these realistic, constructive answers you're hoping for or should I just list my wildest dreams?

Give me both, I'm game. 

But I'm not. I don't feel like being scrutinized. Every smile is gauged for value. Every word I say weighed for intent and truth. Every action I take catalogued and filed and I'm about to send Sam in with the gas cans to be Everett's memory thief because I've already had enough and we haven't formally started yet. 

You are reluctant. 

I've done this many times over. It doesn't work. Besides, you're-

Go ahead? I'm..?

An addictions counsellor. 

Fair enough. Except I'm not just an addictions counsellor. It's where I felt I could make the most difference in people's lives. I've been fortunate to work for some great organizations dedicated to helping people like Ben but I can do other things too. 

Fair enough, I repeat. Four days and he's already parroting my favourite phrase. It means I give up and I'm not dying on this hill to me. To him it is a diplomatic response to something he probably doesn't agree with. Oh wait, we're using it the same way. DAMN. 

Okay, now you have to call me something. 

I'm sorry? 

I called you a mere addictions counsellor and gatekept your credentials. Your turn to underestimate me. 

Oh, I have a feeling I'll be doing that the entire stay. Your past is very colourful. I don't often meet people who ran away to join the circus in real life, and I meet a number of people in unconventional lifestyles. 

Who's the worst?

Hmmm?

Who couldn't you help? 

I would much rather use my time here to focus on you. 

That sounds like you have a poor track record, Everett. 

No, there have been three or four clients who couldn't put in the sweat equity and never completed the program. They all continued to struggle until the end-

The end?

They all died. Either due to overdose or suicide.

Do you have ghosts too then? 

Five-eighths.

What if I warned you, you can't outrun your fate?

Would you believe with time comes grace?
In perfect light, in perfect place
Every dream was mine to lose
And that's what it took to lead me to you

 

So here's to the heartache
Here's to the mistakes
We'll drink to all the years, the tears
That led to this place

 
So here's to the heartache

What if I told you that everything fades away?
What if I hold you, but tell you there's just no escape?

 

He's a whopping fifty-eight today, which seems old considering the first birthday I was privileged enough to witness was a cold snowy day when he turned seventeen. That's how I know him. That's how he stays, in my mind. He's hardly changed, from the medium-blue flashing eyes to the destructive temper to the incredible jealousy to this devastatingly crushing charisma.

My monster, I love him so. He is decidedly non-negotiable, a new evolutionary kink in the perfect gears of my history. It can't be fixed. Instead you will hear a clunk-sound with every single revolution and eventually you won't hear it at all anymore. 

 

He prefers pie over cake for birthdays now but only a single slice and then never comes back for more. Strawberry, if it's available, with coffee ice cream on the side. He's more interested in the good French brandy of late nights, heavy rain muting the burn, reading my skin like a good book. That's what he really wants for his birthday, in spite of my efforts to cover myself with things I knew he would hate. Lyrics from bands he won't listen to, pictures of things he doesn't have any interest in, making sure I changed into a different person, wearing a different skin, since in my brain he ruined the first one but I know he couldn't help it and I'm not sure I blame him for that anymore because it wasn't a fleeting moment, it wasn't a spontaneous decision and I am to him what Lochlan is to me and I don't know if you can burden a soul with that sort of responsibility when they would give it away if they could. 

He wants to go for breakfast but doesn't want to eat in the car. We'll bring it home. Maybe have a picnic in the stables? 

(It's supposed to rain.)

He nods. First we need to finish this. 

You have to drive. 

We'll have it delivered. I can fill the time while we wait. He tilts his head toward me and smiles one of those rare big warm grins that always reminds me how much alike Caleb and Cole look but also reminds me that before me, Caleb was just a boy. 

And before him, I was a happy, innocent child. 

I take another drink to drown that memory because while it's not a good one, look at this. The price I paid was everything, and in return for that here I am standing on a warm private beach down at the bottom of the cliff from my huge house that is filled with a whole sleeping army watching over my beautiful sleeping children and I'm wearing diamonds and drinking Dom Pérignon from the bottle. I questionably whole, still completely crazy and moderately feral and yet well-taken care of. I still get to count Lochlan first and she, well, she'll come around eventually. I hope she will, anyway.

 

I finish the bottle. Happy Birthday, Diabhal. 

 

Thank you my Neamhchiontach. I am sad today, though. 

 

Why? I wipe off my mouth on my sleeve. Forever ten years old. Just the way he wanted, frozen in these moments forever. 

 

Because tomorrow this time, I'll be alone in the crowd again, and I think I've had the best week of my life. 

 

I take the compliment and put it in my pocket, fastening the button at the top. I don't give it back. This is how she pays him back for everything in her own little ways. It hurts him more, she says and I believe her. I'll always believe her. They should have, too.

Outwardly Caleb would move heaven and earth to see that I have what I need, that I'm comfortable in my skin, that I want for absolutely nothing. That I get what I need to feel better lest I feel like this forever. He will pay anything, go anywhere, agree with almost any plan, if it's a good one. 

But he also hates every second of it because he knows it begins a countdown of sorts and that he will disappear when the timer reaches zero, when his luck runs out, when the tides turn and never go back to the constant back and forth of right now, eroding my resolves only to build them back up later in the day. Sunrise and sunset are a mark on the calendar toward a time he actively loathes. 

Even though it is by design and he never meant to be here right now. Never meant to stick around. Never planned to fight for such a share as this. Never planned to hate the thought of leaving. Never planned to show his face again after making sure I was set for life until Jacob gave him the perfect opportunity to wade back in, to change everything and make the perfect life for the perfect army. Caleb made an open offer to show his remorse and I picked the beneficiaries and now I have that perfect life and he's still here and I'm still struggling so hard and Jacob didn't do anything, truth be told, save for that one tragedy and if I wasn't the way I am I could have dealt with it and moved on. 

The problem is, I can't move on. And with very specific reasons I am still here, still like this, still ruined beyond belief. 

I am always hopeful, though but now I know for a fact that I'm not going to let Caleb go. 

And of course that's one of the first things Everett wants to address.

And it's funny because everyone always goes into these grand plans to help me stop seeing my ghosts and the people who oversee those grand plans always want me to stop seeing my monsters.

In any case, I wrapped my arms around Caleb's neck last night and slept like a goddamned child. I'm keeping this monster. I don't care what anyone else wants.

A shimmering light.

Everett made two very large pots of Texas chili last night and a platter of garlic bread we probably could have used for a defacto kayak for its size. He asked if we usually cook our own food individually and I told him no, that most nights I cook for everyone, usually four nights a week or more, and then someone else will cook or especially on Fridays we let everyone fend. Sometimes Ruth and Henry will go and pick up fast food, sometimes we make pizzas and I only have to prepare the dough. Some nights we just don't eat but at least throughout the majority of the week we have sit-down family dinners and on special occasions the whole point shows up. 

He remains surprised that we have such a traditional family organization while not being traditional at all, and since he comes from a big family (one of eight children) he fit right in. 

Everett is kind-looking, handsome in a country-boy sort of way. Slim with reddish brown hair and tortoiseshell almost-round glasses. He arrived in jeans and a yellow and green plaid flannel shirt. He wears brown leather desert boots and wears a watch with a dial but no other jewelry. He does not check his phone. Ever. I watched him steadily all evening and not once did he pull anything out to look at. I don't know if he has an iphone or an android nor did he ask for the wifi guest password but maybe Ben already gave it to him. He listens to 3 Doors Down, The Fray and Joe Jackson. Paul McCartney and the Stones. He does not listen to metal though he said he can appreciate Ben's music, played for him while Ben spent time at the lodge, due to it's highly cathartic nature. Yes, he loves America (the band). Oh my God, good. He can stay.

At this point Ben asked me to stop grilling him. I was about to embark on his own flaws, upbringing, addictions. Qualifications. The important stuff that I need to know before I'll tell you the time, if you ask. I trust in reverse. You don't have it until you break it. You get nothing and you earn it all.

Everett is staying in the guest room on the main floor. The super-separated one we save for family members who don't visit often. It has a tiny kitchen, den and a walk-out garden patio. It's almost a duplicate to the suite that Duncan and Dalton have downstairs but way smaller. This goes off the same hallway as the library and the garden is right at the foot of the woods. So he has privacy and a little den where we can talk, or we can just use the library, big patio or the beach. He runs. He does not have an accent nor would he tell me where he was from but I didn't ask directly. He does match his fingertips up when he's explaining something which fascinates me. 

And Ben is right. He is easy to talk to, but so far not in a way that I forgot why he was here, because I still sat down to dinner on the edge of my chair in order to continue to balance that giant chip on my shoulder, as it tends to alter my centre of gravity quite a bit.

He has a wonderful laugh. My guard slips just a little.

Just a little bit, though. 

After dinner we spend two hours out on the patio talking. Or rather, I talk and he adds and questions and confirms everything Ben told him just to be sure he heard it all correctly and understands. 

I give him everything. All of it. I don't lie. I don't leave anything out and I wrap it up with my own theories. 

He agrees with them. 

I didn't expect that. 

None of it's fixable, I point out. I'm more qualified than anyone at this point to say that. I am closest to her. 

Fixable isn't the word I would use. I can teach you how to reframe and rework all of this in order to work to a place where you don't step out your door and immediately fall off a proverbial cliff. 

Reframing just sounds like looking on the bright side, Everett. 

Well, it isn't because that's just a platitude and I don't deal in those, Bridget.We're also going to look at the division of labour here in the house and your sleep patterns and between all of it I think you're going to feel better when it's time for me to move on. 

Do you think you will? 

Do I think I will what? I don't follow. 

Move on? 

Ah. Yes, Ben also mentioned you live at the Hotel California. I got the reference. I don't believe it's literal though. 

Ooooh. I had such hopes for you. The song is not about drugs, Everett. It's far spookier.

He laughed. Such a lovely sound. So pure but also jaded and somehow he's come out the other side of something. I want that so bad suddenly. To be on the other side of myself. I need to hold on to this feeling. 

I  sense that you've already decided you're going to work with me, he says before standing up and calling it a night. (It's a night, all right.) You coming in? 

No. Caleb will be out in a moment, I'm sure. Good night. Let us know if you need anything. 

This is luxury by my standards, and I truly appreciate your hospitality. I don't think there's anything here left to need.

Oh, just you wait, I say to no one, because he's already gone.