Stop it.

I am continuing to struggle here and no, I'm not that Princess. And no, there are no good guesses when people think I'm writing under a pseudonym. I only did that professionally. This is just me and so you're reading about a regular princess here. One soaked in brine and regret and sometimes full on sillyness. I had another death to deal with, another realization that life is slipping by. I finished a book, missed a show I would have loved to have seen (Jon Foreman opened for someone here a week ago and I had no idea-this on the eve of the release of his latest solo effort, no less and WHY didn't someone tell me??) and am playing Catch Up and (sometimes to their alarm) am playing Don't Care too. Why? Trying to withdraw from some seriously serious medications have kicked me off the cliff. Doing it while dealing with death? Harder still. Do I want to talk about it? No. Do I need to? 

Maybe. 

I got four weird emails guessing I was the Princess of Wales. HA. Because easy enough to fake and especially since Canada is a country with a King. Right? Right? 

No? I'm sorry but that's dumb and I am me and you all know that. I cringe a bit when someone discovers y little corner of the internet and skips the whole middle part. I might know a lot of musicians, but as I said constantly, I am not famous. Are there Getty images of me? Nope. Are there press photos of me? Not recently. 

Is it cold and raining today? Yes, it is. Henry is home from California. He went with Caleb on a business trip. He had a great time and we're all sick now because he caught a cold on the plane even with a mask. So I am wrapped in a sweater with the heat up and the bag of Jalapeno Cheetos on the table while I knit and Netflix. Ha. Some princess I am.

They brought you up (by holding you down).

 Littlest wild wolf loves the big snowflakes. 

PJ snorts. I am back downstairs for the first time in days. Silk cami, wool sweater falling off my shoulders, worn jeans and thick socks, necklaces twisted at my throat, my hair tucked behind my ears. Guitar pick that I found on the stairs now safely stowed in my back pocket with my phone, seven rings on my fingers, four on one finger. One for each husband with no ire whatsoever on the part of the first/current/final soulmate to this busted heart.

PJ sent me a text that pulled me out of my post-Christmas pre-spring long grief at the hands of the devil and suggested I make an appearance, that the wolves were restless. That a pack is more fearsome than a loner, that elder wolves have no patience and will eat their young without hesitation. That fur is cold and ruffled, unsettled and fierce. That no amount of charm is going to be able to pave over the holes in the road I have travelled as of late. 

And also to not ignore his message or he'd come up and haul me out by my hair. 

(It takes a lot to get PJ to advance to the second level of the house, as his suite is on the main floor and he goes out of his way to avoid surprise interactions with Caleb.)

Give me fifteen minutes. I send the text and turn my phone back face down. Caleb never needs the ego bite of confirmation that he is under their skin, instead better left to his darkness.

I am here now. Watching the huge flakes fall like feathers from the heavy clouds, keeping a cool grey hue over our lives, quieter now than ever. 

Lochlan is outside, shoulders rounded, head down. I can burn holes in his back with my eyes but he doesn't sense my presence. 

How long? I ask PJ. 

Sunrise, PJ says. I'm not shitting you, Bridget.You are our very own Helen of Troy. 

I ignore him and grab Duncan's sweater off the closet chair, heading outside.

Dotaine. 

He ignores me as I hurry to the edge of the world. 

Do-TAINE (Doe-chain. It comes out breathless, strangled). 

He turns, head ducked, now rising to meet my eyes. 

She returns. The prodigal daughter. 

Jesus. Can we stop with the new nicknames? I called you. 

What was I going to do, Neamhchiontach? Answer you?

YES. 

Fuck that. I'm not giving him any grace. 

You mean me. 

That too. 

I stare at him. Huge snowflakes cover our heads. Ice crowns, freeze each other out. Whiteout, snowblind. Ultimatums carved in ice. Love on ice. Regrets after he told me I was exhausting and Caleb could take a shift and finally do some of the heavy lifting. Always the same song with Lochlan. 

Did you say your goodbyes, Bridget?

I did. 

Did he weep for the loss?

Don't, Locket. 

At least tell me he was crushed with the sudden recall of his favourite plaything. 

I say nothing, setting my jaw, turning to look out at the blackened waves. After a beat: He can tell you himself. 

I'm speaking with you. 

I left, so I don't know. 

He must have said something-

Let's go inside.You must be so cold. 

I am fire, Bridget. And I can burn him to the ground. 

You told him to do some of the work. 

It was a bluff. A commentary on his lack of participation. And in return I got a week of threats. 

Saying what?

That you weren't coming back to me. 

And you believed him. 

Always. 

I'm not leaving you, Locket. Stop testing me. 

It's the only thing I know how to do. 

I thought you wanted a break from me. You said-

Stop listening to me, goddamit, Peanut-

I pull his face down to mine for a kiss. I don't want to hear it. I don't want him to feel like this. I don't want to be away from him. 

I'm sorry, Bridget. I let you down. I let the wolves in. I-

I am the wolf and I ate your heart and I should be the one saying I'm sorry. 

Why would you ever think any of this is your fault?