Groundhog day eve.

(Firstly: Is If I Die Tomorrow REALLY by Motley Crue? It doesn't seem like one of their songs at all.)

Good morning.

February is Heart Month. The grass on the lawn is still green and the devil still seems to have a key to my house.

Also? I have a very bad cold.

Caleb is winning the war and sadly right this second I don't care, preferring to wish away the stabbing pain behind my left eye. It always hurts behind my left eye during flight landings and when I swim underwater too far below the surface. I'm guessing any minute now my head will explode in a big riot of confetti consisting of miserable blog paragraphs, hair metal lyrics, brightly-lit LEDs, the nutritional breakdown of Lucky Charms and still photographs of Tom Hardy.

Or something ridiculously similar.

Anyway, Caleb thinks it's exceedingly amazing that I never spent a dime of his money. I don't think he thought it would accumulate either. He yelled this at me this morning the second we returned from taking the children to school and his voice cracked to bits all through it and I looked up sharply and wondered how he got sick. Satan doesn't get sick, hell, Satan can leap through a tornado and still come out the other side looking like a young Montgomery Clift only far hotter and more contemporary.

Words? I didn't pay attention to his words. I told you I am sick.

Everyone is sick and you can't wage a war when you're reaching for kleenex and constantly checking out on Nyquil.

Or maybe you can. Ben calls it the war of motherfucking indifference in that for now it's on hiatus, and we will get back to it as soon as our energies return. Of course, lately we seem to recoup all of our energies just in time for a new round of germs to hit the house but that seems to be par for the course when you move from one city to another. At least for the first few years.

So, yeah. That's pretty much the extent of my comprehension level today. The lawyers have the day off, the stereo is silent, the children are the only healthy people in the whole house and for the stalkers who must.record. every. detail, I did spend a whole day with Ben's old iphone and sadly between iTunes still professing its hatred for me and the last iOS update that did something to his battery, I decided ringtones I can hear easily and a battery life greater than 30% when I head out the door in the morning needed to win out over playing Grimm and the possibility of a GPS that actually tells me were to turn. Until Thursday night, when I will wish madly for the GPS, that is. But then again, what good is that GPS when 4.2.1 broke the battery on the phone (conspiracy....YES) and I'm rambling.

Clearly I'm delirious and the Nyquil is finally wearing off so I think I'll just take more and go back to bed. Wake me when the fight is back on. Or when he goes home, because his son is sitting in a grade four classroom up the road coloring in a Haida killer whale, so really Caleb can go back to whatever hole he crawled out of don't you think?

I'm going to crawl back in mine.

(But not before Daniel makes me point out that YOU TOO need a designer hammer for the low low price of $38. What the fuck. Haha. Goodnight.)

Million dollar baby (Go on, take the money and run).

So this is what it feels like to be deliberately, bitterly drunk. Glorious.

Here goes.

2006.

Four beers in and Cole is the life of the party, the nucleus around which the rest of us revolve. He is jovial and psychotically thrilled to be here, home with his wife and tiny children and his friends. He's playing a song on his guitar. Phish, nothing else hardly ever, maybe some Rush sometimes. A lot of Zeppelin. But after a lot of beer he'll stick with Phish. Always.

Strings would be breaking, he'd play faster and faster. Knock over a beer with the neck of the guitar as he played. Loud and long. Some people would sing, most would just listen. He would shake his head and drop it down over the strings as if he were possessed and he'd smile that smile.

That smile that to me always said Come here, Bridget. Right now.

I would and he would kiss me and smile once more.

His dark brown curls would toss and he would flash those dark blue eyes at me. I never strayed far. I had a route. I was allowed to go to Lochlan and the kitchen and otherwise I would stick close. Very close. He would always watch me. Every move. Every glance I gave, every word I said. He loved me so. He admired me from the way the light touched my skin to the freakish grey-blonde shade of my hair.

Finally he put the guitar down and grabbed me, pulling me into his lap, kissing my cheek, squeezing me gently and laughing.

Are you having fun, Bridget?

I am.

Wait five minutes. I'm going to shut it down. Tomorrow's a busy day. Besides, we're just starting the party.

He pulled my face into his and kissed my mouth. Thoroughly. A brief cheer erupted and he grinned and pulled back.

The most beautiful woman in the world, he yells and swats me on the ass.

Lochlan nods. Jacob ignores Cole and watches me. Ben laughs. Chris applauds awkwardly, his hands full with two beers, one more for Cole, one for himself. Cole takes it and stands, reminding the boys that the week ahead will be long. They're helping him get ready for a show. A big one that he is anchoring alone. He is vaguely nervous about the process but completely secure in his talent, as usual. I am proud. His work is the one thing we ever agree on and besides, I am his muse. This show is like a catalogue of me. Frighteningly so. I am veering wildly between letting it all go to my head and wishing I could hear what people say when they see that I am the only subject and that Cole had good reasons for mounting such a niche exhibition in these times.

It doesn't seem to matter. The people come. He knows everyone. I am treated to a reception line of his well-wishers. I don't know any of them unless I have seen them on television. I am fed names through his beautiful smile and they are instantly forgotten. Cole keeps appearances but he knows I hear nothing and he chooses to believe in the perfection of his work instead. In the images he produces, I am not deaf. Maybe I am not deceitful either.

I am not the traumatized, stray rain-soaked creature that he brought in from the cold after being left outside by his friend.

Once the boys begin to leave I am at the door chatting with Chris when Cole comes up behind me and nuzzles his face into the back of my neck. Chris takes the cue and turns away, heading into the night and Cole closes the door.

You have made me famous.

He is smiling again and I begin to make the rounds, picking up bottles, noting where the dishes are, though most of the boys are well-trained and bring their dishes to the sink when they are through. Cole follows me into the kitchen.

Did you have fun, honestly, Bridget?

Sure I did. These are my favorite nights.

Oh, really? He waits until I put the bottles back in a box and then pulls me into his arms. He's buzzing high along the ceiling but otherwise perfectly lucid.

My brother is stopping by in a little while.

Cole-

I haven't seen him in three months, Bridge. You could be a little more gracious. He leans over me, bending me back against the table, soaking my kiss in beer.

I think I'll go to bed and you two can catch up, perhaps.

No, you need to stay up and say hello. He likes to see you. You know that.

I'm very tired though. I am near tears and he understands precisely what he is doing.

It won't be for long. You'll be fine. He kisses my forehead and almost as if on cue, the doorbell rings. Cole frowns at me and leaves the kitchen to greet Caleb and I am left to compose myself.

In a moment I hear their jovial voices and Caleb is in the kitchen. He crosses and gives me a long hug and then a kiss on the cheek and flowers, he brought flowers. Orchids. They'll die here in the freezing kitchen with the north-facing window. I fake excitement anyway. Practice for later.

* * *
Four hours later I am kissed on the forehead once again. Probably because there is no other part of me that is safe to kiss anymore, I am a living, breathing biohazard and I want to die. Caleb is leaving. It is four in the morning and I am mutely aware that I need sleep or I'm going to vomit. Maybe dying would be better. It was not as bad as some nights but far worse than others. My head hurts from trying to wrap my brain around why I still have any loyalty to Cole at all and then I am reminded with a jolt.

Ruth and Henry. Only I think Henry might be Jake's and wouldn't that be amazing if I could cut my ties to this family by half. That and I like it, or so they tell me. Endless praise. Encouragement as I can take so much, they are astounded. I am rewarded for my efforts in affection and in promises with false bottoms holding hidden lies.

I play the game because the alternative isn't nearly as pretty as they tell me I am.

When Caleb leaves he presses a wad of bills into my fist, when Cole isn't paying attention. He's done this every time. When Cole leaves for the gallery early tomorrow I'll count the bills and then stop at the bank on my way to meet him at his show. It's always the same amount. Technically I make more than Cole ever will but I've never spent a dime of that money. It just goes into an account and it sits and it makes all kinds of interest and I just got a call from my former accountant letting me know that I could roll it into some seriously high-yield products and live off the return but I told him I wasn't interested in living and hung up the phone while I downed the last of a glass of merlot and wondered if it was time I tell the boys precisely how much money their boss has given me over the years for services rendered because I've always chosen to keep a conservative number on hand in fear of all hell breaking loose once more but fuck it, it's a quiet night, and those are the best nights for telling the truth, aren't they?

I drop my empty wine glass on the carpet beside my high-heeled shoes and go to find the boys. I'm tired of secrets. I'm done with protecting people who don't deserve it and I'm done protecting people who are dead.

Sharing the parts that aren't rated NC17. Snort.

Last evening I watched a dog owner share an ice cream with her giant Saint Bernard. Ben and I were sitting in a Dairy Queen, sharing a peanut buster parfait.

Last night in my dreams Jeffrey Dean Morgan saved me from the Resident Evil dogs by shooting them as they leapt toward us, taking the kill shot that others were trained for but he took because I was in danger.

No more peanut buster parfaits for Bridget (but more for Benjamin because sugar after six p.m. gives him all KINDS of energy).

Fame (What you like is in the limo).

I had a photo shoot this morning, the one I was supposed to do yesterday and flaked out on, and then after lunch I took Ruth and Henry to buy shoes, because we walk a lot and they wore out the ones we bought at the beginning of the school year, or so I thought until we got there.

Everything I asked for was too small and that was the problem. The clerk suggested bigger sizes. Ruth's feet are the same size as mine now! And Henry's feet are bigger than mine now. Which means that not only is it nurture over nature, but I am completely doomed.

Totally and utterly doomed for all eternity, left to fester on German metalcore album covers, looking ten feet tall instead of five in the pouring rain in my tattoos-that-aren't-mine because they covered mine up and drew new ones over that, and a dress made of dead roses. Which is totally me, don't you think?

Don't worry, I'm really hoping the list of Ben's friends in bands who are too cheap to pay for a real model gracious enough to ask me to model for their album artwork is dwindling now. Doesn't anyone ever retire anymore?

Darker curls.

I could slide down, my shirt soaked to my skin, back pressed against the rough weathered grey boards that separate safety from danger. But Danger is my middle name. If I sit down they can't see me, only if I sit down my legs will be dangling free over the cliff, nothing between my striped tights and the white water below, crashing against the rocks at the bottom of the hill that holds my house tightly hugged against the tree line further up, past the yard that exists only due to a sympathetic gravity and time.

Time.

Ha, I laugh to myself and smile in the rain, drops hitting my teeth and splashing against my skin. Time is a prank that pulls us along, getting our hopes up, making us crazy, no happy medium between rushing and waiting.

I hear my name. They're calling me. They know exactly where I am and they're rushing to get here, sure that I would be bright enough to respond and to follow their instructions because I always follow instructions.

Except for when I don't and sometimes there are too many words, too much time and only these two tiny hands and I can't hold all of it and sometimes I let it fall, spilling over my shoes, onto the floor, burying my little heart like an avalanche no one saw coming and then I wait. I trigger rescue and I wait. My absence is the key, if I'm not clinging to the front of your shirt or tucking myself under one of your arms, if you're not warm and I'm talking your ear off and checking your pockets and playing with your hair and setting your watch to a different time zone then something is very wrong indeed.

I settle for a crouch, hunched over, sitting on my heels, shoes sinking into the mud, knees under my chin, clutching the copper box against my heart as if maybe it could be healed or I could take back my promises to let him go from his purgatory in my mind. Another mistake. So many mistakes. Run me through the rest intact. That's all I want. That's all I ask.

The gate flies wide open and bangs against the fence. The wind picks up. I'm so afraid that maybe God's just going to slide his invisible hand down my back and give me one simple push and I will either catch up with Jacob after all or cement my place beside the unintentional, unwelcome protector.

Cole. I wrote about him yesterday. Or has everyone forgotten him already?

For warning (safe/not safe).

Slip to the void
To the dark
To the fall
Crawl to the life you should have known
You should never come this way
To test the hands of fate
You don't belong here

Peel back the skin
Close your eyes
Hell is born
To the abyss, but be warned
You fear what you've become
My God what have you done?
You don't belong here

But it's all in the way
You touch and you obey
Denial

His hand came up against my cheek, hesitant, tracing it to my collarbone, pressing me into his chest. Undaunted, he lifted me up and stepped to the wall, my protest left ignored as he fought with his belt, one hand unable to deal with it sufficiently. He lowered me to the floor and I tried to get away from him. A smile plays against the corners of his mouth. For my efforts I am thrown to the bed and his belt hits the floor almost at the same moment. I turn over, trying to crawl away but he grabs my thigh, pulling me back down under him, fingers forcing their way inside, the blissful agony making me cry out involuntarily because I never expect him to be like this and then he is and I remember. He pulls my hip, twisting me onto my back, the searing pain of his other hand rendering me to a silence that sends you somewhere above yourself to observe from a distance.

He stopped, an abrupt switch of gears once again. I was pulled down until I was pinned to him as he forced himself into me, tearing my legs apart, pain no longer necessitating closed eyes as they opened again, watery, unfocused. His hand clawed at the top of my head, pulling it up against his shoulder, bumping against my forehead over and over, his shoulders flexing in the dim light, a monster dredged through muscle and determination. His fingers were tangled in my hair, his bicep biting off my air, his hips a machine at full capacity grinding a steady onslaught against me as I shuddered, fighting to meet his strokes, pulling myself up at the hips to match him.

He tucked his head down against mine, pushing tight. Teeth cutting my ear, breath in my hair, want melting my brain. I don't fucking want it like this. I don't get anything like this. He is selfish and I push him away and he responds by turning me over and railing me from behind and I'm fighting but he has my wrists pinned in one hand, the other forcing my hips up against him. Making it hurt on purpose, the way I like it. Ramping me up until I am angry. I fight back, getting up, pushing against him and he is overjoyed, dangerous now, letting go. We are left on our knees, face to face. Out of breath and patience and time and energy too.

He moves in close to me and grabs my hair again, pulling me down and this time he is slow, agonizingly delicate in his touch and I cry out in frustration instead of surprise, taking his head in both hands, pushing him down hard. So hard. Away from me and to me. I am begging, thrashing against him but he won't bend. He's like stone. A carving. A monster. A living mausoleum holding everything in my heart and offering me exactly what I want, which is nothing and everything all at once. Then he gives in just an inch. True to form I take a mile.

Reality breaks over the horizon and the night is over. I am bruised and burning all over, grateful, conflicted, unchanged. Fragile and filthy dirty.

I don't change. I don't. I won't.

I can't.

Thanatophobia.

Tuesdays aren't supposed to be bad. They're so BENIGN and usual and pedestrian and blue. They fade to purple with the sun and then tomorrow is Wednesday, the halfway point to the weekend and thank God they aren't Mondays, after all. So when they play out all rickety-bumpy and vaguely unsettled and quick to anger and forgive you almost have to wonder if you perhaps stumbled into a Thursday or maybe it was Monday after all.

Maybe Lochlan spending the day listening to me, closing in, helping out and being sweet rubbed Benjamin the wrong way because any attempt to comfort me brings no trust on Ben's part. All hypocrite, the only one who is flawed is Bridget and Lochlan by default because when he's not your right-hand man, he's your sworn enemy and on a dark night you would kill him as soon as greet him from afar to confirm his identity.

So when Ben walked into the room with our helmets and told me to go get ready for a ride, he was fully expecting the outrage he received. You could have set your watch by it. I would have set mine but when given direct orders...

I obey.

I went and pulled on my lined jeans, a shirt, sweater, boots and then came back down for my jacket and gloves. Lochlan blocked my path.

It's dark and raining. Not a night for stupid stunts, princess. Go back upstairs.

Last night ride I had in the rain was with you and he said nothing. Please move, Loch.

Sorry princess.

So you both want me to trust you but no one trusts me and you don't trust each other.

They both nodded.

This is getting really lame, guys. I whispered it and waited. They both held their ground.

I looked at Ben and then at Lochlan and then I weighed my options and the fallout. And then I came back upstairs, took off my gear and sat down on the bed to wait. I'm still waiting. I'm pretty sure Ben is still standing in the front hall seething and wondering where in the hell my loyalties lie?

It's not my loyalties he has to worry about.

I held the letter up into the wind and lit the corner with the lighter I stole from Ben last year when he still smoked and I tried to get to catch but the wind kept putting the lighter out and my thumb was going numb and burning too and the wind kept changing and really it just wasn't happening and I finally thrust the whole thing against Lochlan's chest. He caught all of it in a jumble, leaving smudges of black soot against his green t-shirt, a questioning look on his face.

What do you want me to do with it?

Make it burn because I can't!

He laughed.

You should just use it for toilet paper and then send it back to him.

Classy.

Nothing but the finest, babe.

I shot him a look and marched back up the path. I have bigger fish to fry than dealing with my emotions about Caleb's latest summons-on-white. We need groceries. Badly. I literally cooked the last meal in the house last evening, and it's getting late.

Hurry.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
He is passing me things to put in the cart and I am taking forever, fidgeting, fussing and dropping things and telling him to slow down.

What's the matter?

My ring keeps falling off.

You know, that's probably an omen.

Don't even say that, Lochlan.

Well, it is.

No it isn't.

Sure it is. Your whole being is trying to unmarry you to the point of your ring forcing itself off.

No, the band is too big and my fingers are cold.

And you're losing weight again.

Good. I gained a lot last fall when we settled in.

Bridge-

Can we drop it? There, go get me some haddock, okay?

Want me to keep your ring for you until we get home?

So you can lose it and say the cosmos reclaimed it? I don't think so.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
I wrap my hoodie around myself, chilly but not cold, exactly. It's going to be ten degrees this afternoon and we have abandoned coats again in favor of sweaters or at the most, a light jacket.

What would it be?

Right now? A hot cup of butter rum coffee instead of this regular stuff and a dark chocolate bar filled with blackberry preserves.

Sweet tooth in overdrive?

PMS.

Oh, right.

You?

A chickenburger from the Chickenburger. Definitely. Fries from Queensland.

Oh, man, that would be so good right now. And a milkshake.

Yeah. Have to have all three.

Great. Now I'm starving.

Just think! Your ring will fit again.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

August walks into the front hall and sees the blackened mess of paper on the tray.

What's this?

Nothing. Just exorcising demons again.

It work?

No comment. Want to stay for lunch?

Sure, what are we having?

Nothing worth mentioning, sadly. If you could eat anything right now, what would it be?

Lochlan bursts out laughing from two rooms away and I frown.

Pervert! Shut up! Just answer the question, August.

Tell me what's for lunch and that's what I feel like having.

You're the last gentleman I know, aren't you?

Probably.

Yesterday (Lefts only).

Just a little over twenty-four hours of total silence and sheer panic and I am back safe and sound to spend the next several days within the confines of a circle of protection that bends but won't break. Flexible. Like a Bridget with a wail of dismay when she learned she had to fly down and sign a whole sheaf of papers that transferred future controls to her from Caleb because he conveniently leaves things out that are important in order to leverage them later, only Ben put his finger on my lips and reminded me of that new word we're trying out.

Trust.

And so despite the protests of everyone who lives in this house and beyond, I talked to my lawyer, I asked the others to do what I was doing and just trust Ben already and then I climbed into the big black car with both of them, where Caleb proceeded to do just about every thing he could think of to undermine Benjamin and unnerve me and I COMPLETELY IGNORED him for the entire trip, short of those incredibly uncomfortable moments when he would ask me a company-related question in front of important people and I would answer with confidence and then resume the weird jittery shaky-fear on the inside.

I brushed off the advances of yet another round of horrific entitled millionaires who regularly buy people for a living who seemed rather put off when they couldn't buy us, but we were relaxed and cohesive with our responses to it all and left intact, though not unscathed.

I'm always one hundred percent sure I will pay for betraying Caleb and I've yet to be proven wrong but like everything else I'll add it to the growing pile of single shoes, since I never cease to wait for the other ones to drop.

In other news, I think the boys have made up. Boys being Benjamin and Lochlan, who have been bickering back and forth, mostly because Lochlan was afraid and didn't want me to go and also because Benjamin suspects he is engaging in a form of subtle...er, proselytization with me. The camper sat in the driveway for weeks. WEEKS. Until Ben finally asked what Lochlan intended to do with it.

Lochlan said Go camping.

(DUH.)

Ben didn't punch then. Strangely enough. Instead he told Lochlan maybe he should go live in his Dream Camper because he takes up a lot of room in the house. (Lochlan does, actually. He spreads out everywhere. He parents everyone. His moods sometimes rule EVERYTHING.)

Maybe my analogies should be about waiting for the other fists to fly.

Then we left for California. I had no idea punches can be postponed but they can. They actually get more powerful the longer you leave them tightly coiled. Because the Barbie's Dream Camper comment begat one about Frankenbenjamin and BOOM!

Ben doesn't like that particular nickname and Lochlan really wanted to get under his skin.

I dropped my carpet bag on the floor where I stood and went upstairs. Fuck it. I'm not dealing with it. I'm not choosing sides because they keep telling me I don't have to. I'm tired, I missed my kids and Ben and Lochlan are never going to get along for more than ten days at a stretch so whatever. Work it out and I'll see you both at dinner.

They did and I did. Magical.

Til the next time, that is. Probably later today. Ben is talking about having the camper painted pink and Lochlan asked if Ben needed his bolts tightened.

Help me if you can
It's just that this, this is not the way I'm wired
So could you please,

Help me understand why
You've given in to all these
Reckless dark desires

You're lying to yourself again
Suicidal imbecile
Think about it, put it on the faultline
What'll it take to get it through to you precious
Over this. Why do you wanna throw it away like this
Such a mess. I don't want to watch you.

Disconnect and self destruct one bullet at a time
What's your rush now, everyone will have his day to die

Medicated, drama queen, picture perfect, numb belligerence
Narcissistic, drama queen, craving fame and all its decadence