Vintage candy and the princess of persuasion.

I've been walking this road for far too long
To turn and walk away
I've been walking this road for far too long
Listen to what I say

Ben called them expiry dates, the final few nights before he flew out in which we would plan special dinners, movies, long walks, long talks, whatever we could come up with that would qualify as time together alone, stocking up so that we would each have enough to live on until he comes back at the end of the month.

So far so good.

(Good being subjective to whatever constraints you want to stand around that word, barricades against turning this day into one that is half-empty.)

I got an early Valentine's Day gift. Daniel will be home tonight and so I can send home the lumberjack (John) and replace him with my fairy godmother. Which makes me infinitely happy because Daniel is as close as Ben ever was and he calms me down and he keeps things light. John is so serious. (I still love you though, LoJack).

Daniel already called ahead and asked me to keep the afternoon clear tomorrow and we would take the kids skating at the rink with all of the old people while they blast static-Elvis through the loudspeaker and everyone must move briskly clockwise. Then he wants to shop for chocolates at 6 pm because they'll be on sale and most definitely from last year. Stale. There's a lifetime contest on to see who can bite into the most petrified ancient chocolate and live to tell about it.

So my hands may be fluttery today and this week I've taken up an old habit of listening to one song over and over again until I can hardly stand it but for now we stand at half-full with hopes of a refill even.

And I can't wait until Ben comes home so we can work on the best before dates.

Samwise.

Fading
It's over now
(Don't you know it's over now?)
Over now
(You know it's over now)
Fading
(Some kind of big surprise)
Fading out
(Don't you know your world is burning down?)
Burning down
(Your world is burning down)

I met Sam for an early breakfast this morning, a substitution for a run on a cold, snowy morning. His request, not mine, though I grew increasingly confused as he lingered over coffee, firing question after gentle question at me. How am I doing? How is Ben? Is everything okay with him gone? Is Caleb minding his boundaries? Have I talked to Lochlan? Is Seth reporting success on the away front as well? How am I really doing? How are the kids dealing with Ben being away? When does Daniel arrive?

And on and on and on until we ran out of taste for coffee and I reverted to one-word answers to try and subtley point out the elephant, that I wasn't going to bring up, so help me God, because I knew eventually Sam would for both of us. I didn't have to wait forever.

PJ is right, you know.

How's that?

You're an easy target, Bridget.

Because they saw me at the church?

No, you've always been an easy target. Ever since you left Cole. It started then. Jacob said they were relentless.

Sometimes they were.

Possbly more than you realize, Bridget. There were several who tried, at the time, to perpetuate rumors just to hurt you. Things about Jacob that weren't true.

Who? What are you talking about?

Jacob spent half his time doing damage control, trying to shut off the rumor mill before it could do harm to you. That's when he began his policy of open-door meetings and witnesses, to prevent any later misunderstandings. So many women had their eyes on him and wanted to make trouble for you.

I know. I find it funny, you saying it now.

No, it's really not, Bridget. But no matter what people say or do, they don't know and at the end of the day everyone will take what they say with a healthy degree of skepticism, I promise you that. No one is out to get you or me, just keep that in mind.

I don't care about them, I only care about you and Lisabeth. How is she?

Sad. We're both sad. But you had no part in this, short of warning us a long time ago that the church took up a lot of time. If only I had realized how right you were then. That was only part of a larger problem though. There's no single event that caused this.

I'm so sorry this is happening to you.

I'm sorry it's happening to you, too.

Don't worry about me, Sam.

I will always worry for you, Bridget.

I have been nothing but trouble for you.

You're not half as awful as you think you are. If you were I never would have kept the promise I made to Ja-

Oh, Sam. You didn't.

I didn't know with any certainty, Bridget. I suspected for a long time that he wasn't doing well, and he wouldn't get the right kind of help, the kind he sorely needed. His only concern was for you and the kids. That we look after you, together, all of us. That's why it doesn't matter what anyone thinks. It's why we don't care what anyone thinks.

What did I ever do to deserve this, Sam? What makes you all stick around for me? Tell me, because I don't get it.

I don't know, Bridget. I really don't. It's a different sort of faith, that's for certain.

So we are a cult now.

Pretty much.

Does this mean we can be pol-

Oh, don't even start with that today, okay?

I was kidding, Sam.

Yes, I know. But sometimes I wonder about you anyway, Miss Fidget.

To the choir.

PJ wants me to tell you I'm making a mountain out of a molehill, that just because Sam publicly pleaded for privacy on Sunday with regards to their formal divorce proceedings underway does not mean I am automatically the town harlot. That speculation is simply that, and I am an easy target.

The truth is I had nothing to do with Sam and Lisabeth breaking up, and those who spent last fall watching me slip into and out of the church almost daily for several months straight don't read here (really it wasn't anyone's business that I was getting grief counseling) and chose to talk about me. Then Lisabeth poured some fuel on the fire almost inadvertently by worrying aloud about me to others. Because she wasn't so sure. I've been her. I can't blame her. I wouldn't blame her.

Just like you can't blame me.

I wouldn't touch Sam. He's a friend, not a lover. Never ever ever.

So save the stakes with which you were going to burn me. When I have really and truly earned my fate, I'll go quietly, I swear. That time hasn't come.

(Now, God, could you please stop finding ways to mess with me? Thank you.)

Mmmm, pitchforks.

Word about town is that she runs a cult, a twisted, protected cult of polyamory and forced affection and no one gets out alive. That it wasn't Jacob and it isn't Sam that can be so enigmatic as leaders, oh, no.

Really?

Look down. That innocent looking one there? In the pale blue coat with the wind whipping blonde tendrils of hair into her eyes and her hands clasped in front of her, warm in her black gloves, no hint of a smile in her eyes, just many, many miles of roads travelled in order to put her in a place she can't name? That's the leader. Look out, she'll brainwash you without even opening her mouth.

And yeah, they've got a commune going on down there just west of the city proper. They all wear black and they're polite if you speak and they really seem to stick together and there are children but we wonder who they belong to and people come and go at odd hours and they're rather private. Some of them have the same tattoo.

I heard she wrecked Sam's marriage.

I heard she wrecked Jake's, too, before she married him.

I heard that she she uses sexual rewards for compliance. I heard her newest husband bites heads off small animals. I don't even know him, he's too scary-looking.

I heard she's really very sweet and down to earth and not at all like people paint her to be.

Oh, really? You must be one of them.

I heard she breaks your heart and then you die.

Yeah, I heard that too.

I'm not even sure if I heard all of it right. My ears, they're not so good, you know.

At least my skin is thick. Fucking good, hey?

Numbers.

It's a dime for a tin whistle
And a cigarette
God damn if you listened
But what else do you give

Depending on who you are cheering for, it's day 943, day 462 or day 2 of Bridget on her own.

Only for the last one there, he'll be back. Just like the first 2 but slightly different because he isn't dead.

And it's okay, I'm not crazy either.

I've had a good day so far. Up at 5 for my phone call, 6 for my doorbell and 7 for my run. 8 marked the first fall of the day on the ice, on my own portion of the sidewalk because I didn't shovel and it actually rained. In February. Sorry, I was busy yesterday feeling sorry for myself.

Today, I'm not doing that.

9 meant going shopping with PJ. 10 ended long I lasted, listening to Untitled Lullaby in the truck and 11 was when the need for coffee superseded my barely-singed credit card and we called it a morning.

At 12 we headed for home for lunch with the kids, and 397 is the number of grams in this bag of chili lime pistachio nuts that I'm going to snack on all afternoon while I wait for 7, when the goodnight phone call comes for the children and then 10, when I get my very own.

14982 is the number of sheep I'll have to count before my dreams come and take me from this day, for that's how many it took last night.

And 1, as usual, is the loneliest number. But not for long. Because in 20 days, he'll be back.

Repeat after me.

(This is the part where Ben must travel for his much beloved secret night job and I sorta kinda almost mostly implode but not.)

Look at me, my depth perception must be off again
You got much closer than I thought you did
I'm in your reach
You held me in your hands
But could you find it in your heart?
To make this go away
and let me rest in pieces

Ben's plane finally got out and I'm almost sober again. With any luck someone will bring me just a little more because this hurts like hell and it really didn't help that we wound up in the airport lounge waiting for his first-class flight trying to pretend it wasn't going to hurt like hell.

It didn't help that he ordered me drink after drink at seven o'clock in the morning hoping he could dull the pain for me just long enough to make his getaway, laughing in his defeated way, telling me all I had to do was say the word and he would figure something else out.

It didn't help that my lingering kiss at the gate was the exclamation point on an argument we managed to craft before the announcement that his flight was rescheduled at long last. Never mind that that final kiss seemed to be more of an attempt by him to soak up whatever alcohol he could taste by proxy, and never mind that he slipped his lucky ring onto my finger before he left, even though it's supposed to be this very ring that gives the night job all of the magic, or so he claims, and when I tried to make sure he took it back he told me just to shut up and keep it for luck, because I need some,

He said that I would be in good hands. That I am always in good hands. As in fuck off and shut up. I'm gone and they can deal with you so I don't have to worry about you.

Okay. Yeah. I may be drunk but I know you, Benjamin and I know how exquisite your hatred can be when you shut yourself down in order to go work because otherwise you wouldn't go at all. So you don't need to be mean just to protect yourself.

Can I use that against you later?

Sure, whatever you need, Benny.

When did I ever say we were functional?

The good news is, it's all an act on his part because I saw his eyes before I turned to run back down the concourse, coat flying out behind me, heels clicking on the polished stone, heads turning as I passed, gasping for breath while the tears just fucking streamed.

This was right after I contemplated making a scene, yelling, I love you, you fucking asshole and he would have whispered it back because there is only one phrase in the whole entire world that I can lip-read and that would be it.

I hate the airport. I hate goodbyes and I hate waiting. I hate that everything echoes. I hate that I made it through the automatic doors while security walked about twenty feet behind me because really, a delicately-crying five-foot-tall woman in high heels who can barely walk upright isn't much of a threat and John caught me before I wiped out on the ice and he took one look at me and he said very slowly that everyone cries when someone they love leaves.

I know that, that part is easy. Excusable, almost.

But not everyone drinks at this hour on a Monday morning, princess. I'm really glad you called me.

I didn't say anything. He cajoled me the whole way home, stopping for coffee along the way and pointing out that in three weeks I will have Ben back.

Poor John. I'm sure there is nothing better in the whole world than a drunk friend with abandonment issues being your charge.

(Oh wait, I just described life with Ben before I married him.)

So, apparently there are worse things.

And for the record, I fully intend to keep my promises and get on with improving my outlook, curbing both my emotional outbursts and my flair for the dramatic while Ben is away, to give myself an unemcumbered shot at getting better without his influence, and oh, what an influence it can be, since I made no attempt to refuse four whiskey sours on the table when I hadn't even cracked a coffee yet.

And no one is allowed to give him a hard time, he was doing what he thought might work because, really, between you and me? No one knows what works or helps or makes anything better and so Ben fell back on the one thing that always used to make him feel better. I wouldn't have been surprised at all if he had called me from his destination three sheets to the wind, softly fumbling the words I love you and I'm sorry into the phone but instead he asked how I was doing as if he really and truly cared and it kind of surprised me because he doesn't do that when he's away. I confirmed that yes, I was pretty much sober the moment he was gone, because if there is ever a sobering moment it is always that one when they go out of sight.

I also confirmed that yes, I am making spaghetti for dinner for the boys tonight, because they're the ones holding the net, while Ben and I do our high wire act. Tickets are cheap but they go so fast. It's hard to believe your eyes.

It's so hard to perform perfectly with all these distractions. But I'm going to learn how.

The part where she lives.

I might be getter better. The cold seems to have loosened it's grip on me. My voice hasn't cut out today, my headache left after being chased off the premises by the mighty Advil Liquigel I took after waking up and the energy I can credit to a little fresh air and a big bottle of Mega C Vitamin water, something the dorky one swears by when he's on the road. All I need is a little extra sleep, which I should be able to pull off tonight, and I'm maybe home-free.

Until the next cold, that is. Henry still coughs a little at night. If he wakes up for whatever other reason, I pop out of bed, get his inhaler and a glass of water and bring them to him and then take them back and it usually takes him five or ten minutes to settle back down and fall asleep again. One of these days he'll be responsible enough to have the inhaler on his nightside table and maybe I won't have to get up at all but we're not there yet. Soon, just not quite yet.

In other news, I'm a mess. I looked at my reflection while we were out this morning and almost screamed. I had my hair twisted up into a little ponytail and my bangs are down to my chin again and the blonde is brassy and winterburned. I had no makeup on so my eyes were dark hollows. Pale lips. No jewelry. Jeans that are too loose again. Burgundy parka that washes me out. Mittens. I asked Ben if I was losing it and he said I only get this sick once or twice a year and not to worry. GEEZ, darling are you looking at me?

You know I must be feeling better when that actually bothers me. Remember Naomi Watts in Eastern Promises? No, no, after she would get off her bike. In the cold, with the red nose. Yes, that's exactly right.

We came home after getting all of our things done and I did not change my clothes or do much more than brush my hair, add jewelry and put on some mascara and some lipgloss but what a difference a little sparkle makes.

Maybe I'll just vomit glitter all over you. I feel like it actually, I think I had a little too much water and used up a little too much energy this morning.

Rotary girl.

It's a good day for double-toasted bagels and a few rounds of Exquisite Corpse (which is unfortunately named). A good day to play outside in the snow since it's a free day from school, and a good day finalize the grocery list for tomorrow as we batten down our hatches and attempt to ride out February as painlessly as possibly.

A good day to start packing because the extended winter break is over for Ben, a little earlier than scheduled and he has mustered his numbish enthusiasm to tell me it will be okay.

I know it will be okay, though.

Once it ends. Once I try and remember all the rules and mechanisms we put in to place to ensure that each trip out won't end in complete and utter disaster like last year. Once I remember that I married Ben and I married his other life too, since it's such a huge part of who he is and him going away to work is just something I am going to have to learn to get used to.

The whole thing gives me a goal for February. I don't really enjoy goals (or disappointment or pressure, for that matter). I don't enjoy living in this big house all alone either with some harried late night or early morning staticky phone calls to stand in for Ben's epic, irreplaceable hugs and presence. I don't enjoy living a life behind glass where everyone sets the charge and then retreats to the safety of the shelter to watch the explosion and subsequent shockwave from a safe distance and then runs back over to assess the destruction.

I don't want to be the damage.

(Change the things you can, princess).

Here's the thing, Jacob. I can't change Ben's vocation. This is his calling as much as yours was the church. It makes him who he is. What I can change is my reaction to it, how I deal with it or how I fuck it up for both of us, over and over again.

You're totally right, Jakey. I need to do this. I can do this. Everyone else seems to be able to manage it, and as a bonus, I get Ben back in the end. Safe and sound. One-piece man. No more puzzles, no more fragment-girl, left to founder at home.

No more fragile. No more spinning around the dial looking for a number to fall into. No more ancient, tested and true methods of riding out the fear unsuccessfully. All new for the new year. I do believe I have finally grown tired of myself and the way I think and it's time to make things better. I wasn't aware one could suffer that much grief and then proceed to lose several entire years but it can't go on.

It can't go on, Jake. You need to go. You need to let me go.

Oh, wait. I need to let you go.

Beautiful.

There is a video for that song. I knew that already, I just didn't bother linking it but here, since some of you wanted to know. Oh, and if your work does not approve of bikinis, save it til you get home, okay? (I'm talking to you, Duncan.)

It's not until you go to look at newly updated copyright notices and the like and you discover you've been putting the words down for just about five years now and there's no more trust in yourself than you had the day you started this stupid thing.

Yes, it's probably cabin fever, or maybe it's the fact that everytime I take a deep breath everything hurts like hell and I can't seem to stop coughing and I shouldn't have gone for a run and hell, I shouldn't have done a lot of things but really, the only gift I seem to have is the ability to write without stopping. It may not be good but it's goddamned plentiful. I daresay words are the one thing I never seem to run out of as long as they flow from my fingertips and not from my mouth.

I may just post all day. It's called being unsettled.