The soundtrack for this morning was "Huh? ", "Really?" and "Eeeek!"

It's shaping up to be a strange day.

When I woke up I was upside down in bed on top of the covers and Jacob had one hand wrapped around my ankle. It must have been a spectacular dream.

Henry asked for Rice Krispies, which he never does, claiming he doesn't like them.

When we left to drive Jacob to his meeting we discovered a mouse living in the back porch, which would explain the hole in the bag of winter birdseed I keep on the floor of the utility closet in that room.

I'll be back with a real post this afternoon. Lots of appointments this morning. Ciao!

Pixies in the shallow end.

Yesterday I stood in front of the bathroom mirror holding a fistful of my hair out from my head and my giant sewing scissors. Frozen like a statue.

For close to a half an hour.

I just stood there, thinking.

My hair has an identity all its own. It's been long and very pale blonde with ribbons of darker ash and lighter white forever. The color of my hair matches my children's hair and my husband's too. We're a set of four. A blinding, vaguely Nordic, fully Irish flaxen presence, a towhead force to be reckoned with. It was stick straight forever until I let it grow with abandon and then it grew into crazy gentle waves and tendrils. It's called my crown, literally. Mermaid hair, princess hair, hair people covet so desperately they buy it in dyes and extensions and straighteners or they come up to me and ask me where I got it.

My hair drives me crazy sometimes. It's a love/hate thing. I go through a bottle of conditioner a week. It gets singed at the stove, it goes down the drain if I lean over the sink, Jacob is always pulling long strands from his beard, and off his coat. I tuck it into my jeans by mistake and get it caught in buttons and car doors. He sits on my hair without thinking, sometimes he lies on it, he's pulled out locks in his sleep because he's tangled in it. I veer violently from looking angelic to being Medusa. And yet it's comfort. I rarely wear it up anymore. Henry used to hold it when I fed him. Jacob holds it or touches it constantly, which I relish. And people stare at me and I admit I like that. It's been this way since I was around four years old. I'm possibly dumb enough to enjoy that kind of attention and admit it willingly.

But a small part of me would sometimes love to chop it all off and dye it bright red and be different just for a little while, not forever. Have it stick out all over in cute little turned-up points and become a smoldering firecracker, a ginger-flavored spicy pixie, instead of a vanilla lemon-drop princess. Why? Just to be different looking. Redheads are gorgeous creatures. I was born with bright orange hair which fell out within two weeks and then grew back in fuzzy and yellow and glowing. I've always identified with redheads. They get stared at a lot too.

Then slowly my common sense began to return in a trickle, because even if I say I hate my hair, I don't. I love it, unapologetically. But I didn't put the scissors down right away.

Jacob found me still standing there. When he saw the scissors he dropped his favorite coffee mug on the floor and it shattered into so many pieces I may spend the entire winter fishing shards out from between the hardwood boards.

Princess, what are you doing?

I'm thinking, Jacob.

Are you thinking about cutting it?

Yes.

Can I ask a big favor?

Sure.

Put the scissors down. Please don't change your hair.

I'm not. I'm just thinking about it.

You're thinking if you change your physical appearance enough you've have a clean slate, maybe feel different?

Something like that, maybe.

It doesn't work that way, princess. A big change can be symbolic but in the end life still picks up where you last bookmarked it. Altering your appearance won't change that.

I know. Somehow I know.

Bridget, I really love your hair the way it is right now. Call it a guy thing or a fetish if you must, just don't change it.
I just stared at him without responding. He had shaved his beard off early yesterday morning, sending his seventies sideburns and tickly mustache with it. Now he's baby-faced again, clean-cut if you ignore the shaggy blonde hair that he hasn't had cut since possibly June. He couldn't put any logic around his own minor treachery. He can shave off his beard and I almost cried but I can't cut my hair that he loves? Um, what?

I left the mirror and returned the scissors to my sewing basket.

Within an hour I was overwhelmingly glad I hadn't cut my hair. I'm sure relief is always more welcome than regret. I didn't think we were both so shallow but it runs deeper than that and I can't explain it. I guess when you have a trademark like the one I do, being easily recognized for my hair, my brand, an identity tied to a physical characteristic, you shouldn't fuck with it. A package deal. I'm not a superstar, therefore I don't need to try to reinvent myself.

My other remarkable characteristics that are shared by few constitute my lack of height, my color-changing eyes and the sacral dimple that always seems to be a fun surprise to my lovers. I can't change those either, and I wouldn't even if I could.

Okay maybe I would lose the dimple. I find it kind of an oddity. Like maybe I was meant to be a bowling ball with three holes but at the last minute, through a cruel twist of evolution, I turned into a human female. Sorry, that sounds really yuck but I'm laughing anyway. Or maybe it was a tail and I would have been a little more popular on the freak circuit but it just wasn't in the cards for me.

Made in the image of a Blythe doll with the freaky eyes, but anatomically correct, and real. A living mermaid doll.

And yes, I'm tired today. Too tired to write anything important. I need a bath. I have to wash my hair. I need to get started on the the ten loads of laundry we created over the weekend. So you get a two-page ramble about my hair.

Feel fortunate, I could have posted a two-page ramble about sex.

I still might.

Moon princess.

Snowy owl-sightings and snowier walks were planned for yesterday as we cleared out of our now-leafless Victorian neighborhood and headed up to the lake for the day. The days are growing shorter. Nights are long and the echo of the moon was visible in the daylight sky, holding low to remind us that the dark comes soon, keeping us rushing through our late afternoons.

The drive takes forever. We eat red pistachios and sing Nick Drake songs, and Jacob has the most hilarious running joke of taking any heavy metal song and singing it as if it were being sung by Harry Connick Jr. I laughed so hard I feared the pistachios might wind up shooting out my nose but they settled for choking me half to death instead. I haven't laughed that hard in ages.

Our walk was icy-cold. Frosty kisses were worth it. The kids kept giggling. Jacob would stop every ten feet, grab me and dip me back low so that my hair touched the ground. I was full of snow. He was grinning as we walked, his nose was red and his eyes bright. He taught the kids a silly song that involved lots of stomping and clapping to stay warm and then we finally got too cold and the dark started crowding in close to our twilight and so we turned and raced back to the parking area from the labyrinth of trails. Only I didn't run, I walked briskly and watched as Jacob pretended to run fast beside Ruth, pantomiming falling behind and then tripping and falling into the snow. She was howling in delight, Henry was chortling and had snot running all over the place. I was laughing so hard I couldn't say anything anymore.

Both kids fell asleep on the drive back to the city, and Jacob took my hand in his and sang to me the whole way home. Songs he was making up about a princess who lives on the beach and meets a prince that she falls in love with and he builds her a sandcastle with an oven inside big enough to bake a thousand chocolate cakes. It was quite something. This princess had pet oysters who gave her pearls in exchange for her affections, and there was a switch inside her castle that turned on the sun or moon at her command.

Only Jacob insisted that it wasn't a fairytale song but a true story and that I should recognize the princess in the song as myself. I told him I couldn't light up the moon at my whim and he pointed to the glowing sliver of crescent now clearly visible outside my window. He smiled and said I could do whatever I set my heart to. That I have control at last. That I am capable of anything and everything. That it's magical.

He's right.

Blue velvet.

Contrary to unpopular opinion (the boys), I am not out of things to write about. But instead of me writing, I'm going to treat you to a favorite entry from The Journal. Yes, that one. Jacob's book of incredibly flattering and incredibly horrible things that he's written about me. An amazing read. But I'm narcissistic like that. I love to read his descriptions of me for reasons I can't explain.

The coffeeshop mention that I again gave made me run and look it up and he's given me permission to transcribe it to my journal. It gives me goosebumps:

I wrote that I had met the most beautiful girl I'd ever seen a few days ago but today she met me to give me back my coat and she looked a hundred times more beautiful. She rushed into the diner on Friday morning in a flurry of bells and cool air and every head turned to watch her as she made her way to where I sat. Briefly I was the luckiest man in the world. When she sat down she stuck her hand out and smiled at me and told me her name was Bridget and she was happy to meet me, since last weekend our introduction was awkward at best. We both laughed, the sound from her throat a low, soft chuckle with a hint of rasp. She has a neat voice. I can still hear her in my head.

She took off her summer coat and sat on it. I had forgotten how small she was. She looked so pretty. She had on a white Indian kurta shirt and blue jeans and clogs and she had a blue velvet ribbon around her neck. With her coat she carried an umbrella and a patchwork tote. She has really great long hair. I really wanted to touch it but that wasn't appropriate.

The diner was loud and we talked a little, she asked me to repeat a lot of my questions, she wanted to know why I was back in school, and mostly she apologized for her behavior at the party even though I told her there was nothing she could have done better and I was glad I was there. There was something about the way she twirled her cup around in circles on the saucer and looked up at me through the longest blonde bangs and white eyelashes I have ever seen. I couldn't take my eyes off her lips, they were free of any lipstick or makeup, just pale pink lips and I liked to watch the way the corners of her mouth turned up when I said something that pleased her.

We were wrapping up our conversation and I was afraid I would never see her again and I wanted her to know it but instead of telling her that I said I wished she was single. She froze and I saw a flicker of pain pass through her green eyes before she collected her thoughts and began to rush to gather up her stuff. She told me she had to go and that she was happy and married and trying to get pregnant. She was upset and so I grabbed her hand, I needed time to apologize, I didn't want her leaving when she was distraught because I said something so reckless. I asked if we could be friends instead, because of our common interests. She made a joke about me trying to trick her so I could steal her from her husband and even though that's exactly what my plans were, I laughed and said something different instead.

I walked her out of the diner, unwilling to part ways with her but she was in a hurry to get to work so I said I hoped we meet up again soon, and I was gifted with another one of her softer smiles. She agreed and then turned and walked away down the sidewalk, head high, maybe knowing so many eyes were following her. Life would be like that for her. My own eyes followed her until she was swallowed in the lunchtime crowd of people, families and traffic. And then when I couldn't see her anymore I missed her already and that unnerves me. What kind of man falls that hard that fast for someone he has briefly met twice? Besides, I'm too busy working on my thesis to chase after any girl right now, let alone a married one. She's gone. She'll never be mine, my brain tells me. But then my heart says different, because I held her in my arms for a whole night and I can't explain how she has created these overwhelming feelings in me. I put her number in my book and I plan to call her in a few weeks and ask her out for lunch, hopefully we can be just friends and I can find a way to turn these feelings into simple caring for Bridget. If only I could get past her smile.

This KILLS me. Wow. If you ever wanted to know what a man was thinking at a certain time, it's a trip to find out. Maybe I'll post some more of his writing if he says I can. He was funny about this entry. He smiled and told me he had it bad from the first night for me and it took me forever to take him seriously.

This makes me wish I could turn back time.

Defining our normal.

We went to the doctor today. It's been a little over six weeks since I checked out of the hospital against my doctor's advice because I wanted to grieve and heal at home. It's been a little over two weeks since, again, without my doctor's consent, Jacob and I made love for the first time since the end of September. It has been a little over a week since I was given the very last of my much-loathed anti-depressants, having been weaned off them fairly quickly and with minor difficulties.

So tentatively I was peeking out at the world and wondering if all of my professional Bridget-keepers were going to clear me for normal life now, Jacob included.

And they did and it's bittersweet. We chose some birth control we can live with and we were told to go home and be happy and live normally, that I am healing just fine and am physically well again. Couple this with another follow-up today with Claus in which he declared that he knew I would find myself with time and the incredible support that I have.

In the truck on the way home we were quiet, each of us lost in our own separate thoughts of what normal life might be like, because we've never really known it before for anything length of time and yet, here it is.

What in the hell has ever been normal about our relationship? It's mostly been some quiet wonderful days that wire together the popping, exploding lights of heartache, pain and overwhelming joy. I'm not sure how to function like this.

Jacob was standing beside me, tense and and holding my hand while I sat on the table and waited for the doctor to return after my exam with some more information on future pregnancies. Jacob's hand was warm and damp, mine was trembling. Being here brought back everything but we remained in place because it's closure of a different sort.

Bridget, everything looks terrific. No pain with sexual activity?

No, none.

Jacob looked at the floor. We had expected a lecture. My doctor tends to do that.

Looks like you're doing very well. A model patient. Good luck with everything, you two.
Dismissed because physically the scars will fade. Emotionally the scars will fade. It's a contest, a marathon between my body and my mind now to see which one can claim resiliency first. My body always wins these races and my head plays catch-up forever.

When I look to Jacob to gauge his reaction to the doctor's placating reassurances, the fluorescent glow of the lights on his skin makes the dark circles beneath his eyes appear that much deeper and the hard set of his chin reveals his unspoken disappointments. We should have been sitting here hearing our baby's heartbeat for the first time. I hate those lights. The whole time the doctor was droning on in his professional voice all I could do was think about how cold those lights make the world, bathing our flaws in unflattering radiance.

This closure marks more step on the path to our future. We got through it. I'm planted back firmly on my axis, spinning with just the right angle at the perfect speed. There are no injuries to get past. No surgeries to heal from. No heartache to overcome, no death to grieve for. No fear of reprisals. No medications. No alcohol problems for Bridget at present.

Mark this date in history.

When we got home, Jacob took my coat for me and hung it up and we walked into the kitchen from the back porch and he closed the door. I turned back and looked at him and he was staring at me. Staring like he had never really seen me before. It was the same look he gave me that day in the coffeeshop back in 1997, the day he couldn't take his eyes off me. The grin that said he liked what he was seeing, a lot.

He laughed shyly, and put his hand up to rub his thumb on my bottom lip, like he does when he loves me very, very much and he's thinking.

Princess.

Yes?

Where do we go from here?

Up, Jacob. Up.

Yeah. Because there's nowhere else to go, is there?

I love you, Jake.

I love you, princess. And I thank God for you, every single day.

Pot, kettle, black.

I'll admit, I wasn't so impressed with Jacob's behavior yesterday. I never expected him to call from the airport to tell me he had been drinking and couldn't drive his truck home. You don't expect that from Jake, and besides, his birthday was barely a week ago. He's on some sort of destructive roll here.

The good Reverend is afraid to fly and it's worse than it was in August, because this time he was flying alone, and he is no longer comfortable with that. He's afraid he will die and leave us alone here on earth to fend for ourselves. God only knows, Bridget can't seem to fend for herself.

His solution was to have a couple of drinks onboard the plane to relax a little lot. Which is four drinks on the ground and far too much for Jacob, famous for not being able to hold his liquor.

He said he will not fly alone again. Ever.

His own very rare fragilities and weaknesses concern me. They astound me because I feel like I have become his biggest flaw. His excuse to fail at something that he used to be good at or seek out often because now he must stay behind and defend and protect poor little Bridget.

I meant fragile miss Bridget but I was too frustrated to even find my usual words, let alone spit them out in the proper order last night, this morning, an argument that keeps us traveling in circles since his return.

Christ, Jake. If you're going to give up everything you love for me then you're soon going to simply resent the ever-loving fuck right out of me and we won't be any further ahead. Maybe you're using alcohol to dull the pain over the choices you've made because I make you miserable.

So how do you think he responded to that?

Yes, he laughed. Again. He seems to think I'm funny when I'm mad. And I'm not, I'm frustrated. My goal was not to end up with Jacob simply so that I could ruin him too. He's not weak, my God, he's walked through fire to be here. He can withstand just about anything. He's strong and good and beautiful and I have come to realize that he isn't very strong at all sometimes, that I can push him over with one finger.

I'm not giving up anything, princess. I've just come to such a wonderful place in my life in which I know exactly what I want, and that's you. Traveling away from you and the kids for more than a day isn't something I need or want to do. And the pain from my life choices? Maybe if you'd wear your damn hearing aids you might have heard me for the past six months telling you how goddamned happy you make me. But you're too stubborn for that! Oh and if you're going to fight with me about alcohol, you'd best look in the mirror, princess. Besides, I'm home and I'm not planning to touch anything else for a good long while.

Okay, maybe not with one finger but I have my ways. When I figure out what they are, that is. He wins, again. Surprise, surprise.

Not the quiet reunion I was hoping for.

If you happened to be at a certain incredibly busy central Canadian airport yesterday afternoon you might have seen possibly the funniest and sweetest thing ever. Jacob, walking very quickly (a million miles an hour on his endless legs) and yelling my name across the concourse, which was packed with people. He was very loud, and only just a little drunk. Unable to drive in the state that he was in, and so he called me to meet him there. He only had enough wits to yell my name five times, so excited when he saw me, and trying to get my attention in the crowd, because he forgets that I mostly hear him now. He's never sure if I'm wearing my hearing aids or not. It wouldn't have mattered. He's tall and gorgeous and so loud, you can't miss him.

After tripping over a tour group of elderly Vancouverites and their collective baggage and a large gaggle of college boys who were blocking the stairs, he reached both arms out for me and suffocated me up into his coat to the point where I had to hit him on the back to remind him that I was better off breathing than a slightly-blue and completely dead plaything. He laughed and put me down and put his hands up to my face, planting a very sloppy, slippery, rum-soaked kiss mostly on my lips and slightly on my nose, too.

Then back to his arms I went. His hands into my coat, then tangled in my hair, and he surreptitiously checked to see if I had my hearing aids in. I clung to him like I used to when he'd return from being away for months. I dug in with both hands, clutching the back of his coat and balling up the fabric in my fists as if it might keep him grounded in my arms forever. He smelled vaguely of airplane fuel and even more rum. His beard felt soft on my cheek and I missed that. I missed everything about him so badly.

People stopped and watched. They do that when things like this happen. I would if I saw it. Because life is short and love is beautiful, and because Jacob made a complete spectacle of us.

    When spreads thy cloak of shimm'ring white,
    At winter's stern command,
    Thro' shortened day and star-lit night,
    We love thee, frozen land,
    We love thee, we love thee,
    We love thee, frozen land.

Hearts like paper.

Ruthie came home yesterday with a love letter crumpled haphazardly into the front pocket of her backpack, put there in secret when she briefly left the room to put on her snowboots. She pulled it out and unfolded it, a huge grin on her face. It was a piece of paper crudely shaped with safety scissors into a makeshift heart, a glorious display of the innocence of the grade-two set.

What does it say, Mommy?

It says 'to ruth i think you're pretty love james.'
She giggled and told me in hushed joyful whispers that today during morning recess they were going to get married on the ball field. I smiled and told her not to kiss anyone until she was old enough to drive. She smiled back at me, her satisfaction evident at having caught the eye of one of the more eligible elementary boys. He was tall (for a seven year old), dark and handsome and he routinely looks for Ruth's full attention on the monkey bars.

I realized how completely unequipped I am to handle this.

This heartbreaking thing they call 'growing up'. The inevitable highs and lows of watching your children repeat history in their own unique ways, with their own personal hopes and dreams ready to take flight, and quite possibly vastly different from what dreams you held at the same ages, and equidistant from the dreams you hold for them now.

How do I tell my daughter that love is so beautiful and difficult all at the same time? How am I going to celebrate her love when and where she finds it without wanting to save her from the certain heartbreaks? How do I teach her that it isn't okay for a man to hurt you ever, even if you could never prove it? How do I teach her that I didn't do things the right way and I'm incredibly lucky that I ended up with her stepfather? How do I make sure she is happy with the one she loves, secure and safe, treasured and respected? How do I not cringe when she brings home the rough ones, a dangerous glint in their eyes, rapture in hers? How will I ever stand back and let her make her own mistakes without ever letting her know that I could have prevented things she will go through?

How do I keep her small just a little while longer while I linger on the innocence with which she played yesterday, forgotten in her preparations for her recess nuptials today?

Ruth is only seven years old now. If these are my thoughts and feelings brought forth by an harmless note to my daughter from a classmate, how are we ever going to make it through the next ten to fifteen years?

All these thoughts rushed through my head like wildfire, and Ruth folded the note up and placed it back in the pocket of her pack and banished my fears in an instant with her next remark.

Don't worry, mommy. James is going to have to share his Oreos with me too or tomorrow Steven will play the groom.

The courage of hobbitses.

This morning I'm listening to Encomium (Hootie and the Blowfish doing a smashing cover of Hey Hey What Can I Do), I'm coveting a pair of green cowboy boots and a Samsung SGH-i760 smartphone, and I'm sporting a pair of very tired, burning bottle-greens, thanks for asking.

The boys came and took me out for a second breakfast, I call it a hobbit breakfast because they are the only people who eat breakfast twice, and I am stuffed so full I can barely walk. It was a very rare and much appreciated treat for me on my last day alone before Jake comes back tomorrow.

I also did something else very smart, too.

So fucking smart some of you will alternately slap me on the back so hard I fall on my knees or you'll just fall to your own knees to give thanks that I finally went and did something that needed to be done without just standing behind Jacob's shoulders while he did it for me.

Oh yes I did.

Well, almost anyways.

I called Caleb last evening (still with the ceiling-crawl issues when I hear his voice, and I called him. Talk about baggage) and told him he had to back down because I can't take it. That he can't visit, he can't call and that right now I'm not in any place from which I find it easy to interact with him.

He was reluctantly flattered, not surprisingly.

I wanted to murder him.

I can see where it gets difficult. He looks like Cole, he acts, sounds and even moves like Cole. He has the same sense of humor, same passionate attitude, same laid-back yet stressed out demeanor. And since I said I still loved Cole (I know, I waffle. Sometimes I still do), Caleb transferred those feelings unto himself. Uninvited. I said I couldn't distinguish between them as two separate people and yet there remains a strange and wonderful barrier of complete unreality that keeps me grounded and mercifully out of trouble.

I told him I had no plans to spend any more time with him and that he wasn't going to get a free pass to step into his little brother's shoes and complete the heartwrenching love triangle that has played out over the past ten years once again, oh no.

Caleb is fully aware that Jacob won the contest, for whatever it's worth. And in a way that speaks volumes to me about the possibility that the brothers might be less alike than we can see on the surface, he understands the frailty of my emotions and my refusal to take any kind of chance, no matter what need he might harbor to set things proper.

It's not going to happen. Ever.

We'll welcome his letters, if he wants to write to the kids, and he can call them, if he can pre-warn me by email or text I will answer without freaking out and then give the phone to them. But I can't see him. I can't be in a car with him. I can't be having awkward moments in hotel rooms with him (because, my God) or non-awkward moments in the middle of crowded airports with him, I can't look at him and wonder if he hurts the women he sleeps with when no one is there to witness his depravities. I can't honestly wonder if he likes to grab their wrists and hold them down because he isn't Cole and that is none of my business.

I can't go there. I'll self-destruct completely just thinking about it.

And you know something? Caleb already knew about my feelings. He understood the trouble we were in and he had already agreed to stop contacting me altogether.

Because Jacob called him first and told Caleb he wasn't about to sit by like Cole did and do nothing while I struggle through my feelings. Jacob was going to fix the parts that were wrong and so he asked Caleb to stop calling, and to not plan to come and spend time, for now. That it's too hard for Bridget, and too soon, and Jacob isn't going to allow for anyone making life difficult for his wife, himself included, so not to take it personally. Caleb told me what Jacob said, word for word and ending with the most wonderfullest (more new words) sentence.

Bridget will not be hurt again, ever. I won't allow it.
Oh, music to my everloving ears. The hearing aided ones. Yes.

They agreed to meet for lunch tomorrow on Jacob's way home through Toronto and bury whatever hatchet they shared, and Caleb was very much in awe of Jacob's firm and devoted approach to my emotional well-being. To protecting my precious heart.

Aren't we all?

Again Jacob put his shoulders between the world and I, so I can be safe and that's fine by me.

He and I talked on the phone late last night for three hours, which also speaks volumes about how serious and non-flighty this whole situation had become. Jake was quietly very concerned and incredibly patient with waiting to see if I would come to him about it, and not wanting to call attention to it if I was simply being my customary over-reaching emotional self. He was prepared to call Caleb over a month ago and ask him to refrain from contacting me but he was thrilled and audibly relieved that I did it myself, unheeded. He's looking for the safe passage for us through the latest stormy sea and was moved that I found it too, without looking to him first to fix it.

He also said he much prefers to be the bad guy and is happy to have me standing behind him while he fights whatever battles rage near enough to us to warrant our defensive.

Because we didn't get this far to stop now. One more night and I'll be back in his arms where I belong.

    Wanna tell you about the girl I love
    My she looks so fine
    She's the only one that I been dreaming of
    Maybe someday she will be all mine
    I wanna tell her that I love her so
    I thrill with her every touch
    I need to tell her she's the only one I really love

Keep breathing, dear Bridget, keep breathing. He's coming home soon.

Of mice and monkeys.

Well, shit.

Caleb called to schedule his next visit, he asked hesitantly how I was really doing with Jacob away on business and possibly doesn't believe me when I insist that I'm fine. I realize everyone is waiting for me to fall apart again. Maybe I sounded a little weird because whenever he calls he says my name when I say hello and for a few seconds I have to peel myself off the ceiling and remind myself it isn't Cole on the other end of the phone. They sound exactly alike. No wonder I don't sound so good when he calls. I can't hear myself talk because of the damn screaming inside my head.

And that isn't hard or anything. Nope.

You probably guessed who the monkey is. Caleb doesn't seem to believe in thinking of my happiness or comfort level first and that's a brick wall I keep throwing myself up against because I have to come first. He thinks he has to come first and so he's going to keep visiting and keep calling even if he knows it's hard for me because he feels better. Wow, we're stubborn collectively. Which also doesn't escape anyone's notice.

I used to think he and Cole were polar opposites but I am being enlightened every single time I interact with Caleb that they are almost exactly the same. Caleb is simply Cole from the future, had he lived.

Yes. Hello. I know. Please don't. Don't let Bridget go there.

No more, please.

I need time before I confront him again because it's like a window into my past and my future all at once and I'd like to board that window up for just a little longer. Seeing him took so much out of me. He, on the other hand, wants to feel better yesterday and so if he's here a lot or checks in all the time then he is satisfied that he's somehow going to erase my past for his own peace of mind or possibly exist to drive me insane. He says he's trying to atone and it's bullshit.

I've been throwing out a lot of mental well fuck you toos his way today. Oh, I lie. All month long.

Jacob stays far out of his way. He's spooked by Caleb, not having really spent any time with him and yet having spent so much with Cole. He's apprehensive and aware of their similarities and what it does to me and yet he can separate it. I can't and it makes both of us nervous and weird. No pretty words for these feelings, I'm sorry.

I keep telling myself that they are two different men. I can tell myself that they are not the same and that I'm with Jacob and life is going to be better.

But Bridget doesn't see it at all.