1. The Hydromancer.

His skin is so tanned. He is lying in the inflatable boat, oars slack in the plastic tholepins, head thrown back, eyes closed. Dark hair almost dry again. He speaks without checking to see if I am paying attention.

You ready to come in now, bee?

I watch him. He doesn't look annoyed or bored or mad. He is patient. It's just a question.

No. Not yet, Caleb. I like being out here by myself. You can leave if you want.

What do you mean, leave?

You can go somewhere else.

Like back to the car?

If you want.

And be the one who left the nine-year-old girl alone on the raft to drown? I don't think that would be good. Some day I want to go to law school, you know.

How come no one trusts me?

You can't swim so well yet, Bridget. Maybe next year, okay?

Lochlan says I'm a good swimmer.

He's trying to encourage you. You will be good but you are small and you get tired easily and the raft is just too far from shore. When you're older it will be fine. You'll be able to dive off the yacht I buy, when the time comes.

He is seventeen and he knows everything, or so it seems. He is way more level than hot-headed Lochlan (at fifteen) or quiet, moody Cole (newly thirteen). He has a driver's license and is therefore God among the lakeside set. He is cool enough to suggest, sometimes, that we skip the lake entirely and head to the beach instead. He, Lochlan and Cole sit in the front, Bailey and I and the other girls cram into the backseat with towels and beach bags pushed down under the seats in front. I am only allowed to go because well, I will raise holy hell if someone goes to the beach without me, and also because Caleb seems to have a soft spot for me.

Nevermind the fact that I was Lochlan's living shadow from the first day we met. I was the mascot. If they took me they were all allowed to go, because how much trouble can you get into if you're busy watching over a fourth-grader?

Right. Not a hell of a lot.

Today is a lake day because he has to work soon only he is stalling. Delaying. Giving me endless minutes to lie in the sun on the weathered boards in order to bake myself dry while he lies in the reflective inflatable boat and dreams about owning a yacht someday.

Will you take me for a ride on it? Really?

You could come live on it, if you want, Bridget.

Won't your wife mind?

Maybe you'll be my wife.

That's gross. I'm nine.

Someday it will seem like we're almost the same age, Bridget. It will be weird. I think it happens around forty or something.

I can't picture being that old, Caleb.

Me neither. But it's inevitable, baby. Just like my yacht.

You think?

It's all part of the plan.

Is marrying me part of your plan? my voice comes out vaguely alarmed. Secretly, in my head I marry Lochlan. He is so cute and I drive him crazy. It's inevitable. Caleb, well, maybe he'll marry Bailey. Not that I care about any of that yet. I just want to make sure he brings me back to the shore.

Maybe, Bridget. I guess we'll have to see what life holds.

But what do you really see happening, Caleb? What's your best guess?

I'm guessing someday you will run away and join the circus. And when you come home, you'll marry a prince and live in a castle and eat nothing but cotton candy, three times a day. You'll make tiny braids in your hair but never brush it and your children will look just like you. There will be a girl and a boy and you will be very very happy and content. You will dance and listen to music all the time and everyone who lays eyes on you will smile. Just like they do now.

Wow. I hope you're right.

Me too, Bridget, for your sake. Me too.

The living dead.

I did not stay home long. Caleb invited us to spend a few days with him aboard the yacht and so here we are. The children are happily ensconced in the media room watching a film. The lights are on. It's dark out now and the wind has died down. It's very cozy and quiet on the water tonight, so I'm going to put my words away and try to sleep. I always sleep well this close to the sea.

Off the record.

He twists the cold bottom of the glass against my foot briefly as he walks out on deck. I am lounging in the chair, feet up on the rail, my nose stuck in a book when he asked if I would like a cold glass of something. I nodded, loathing the disturbance but so thirsty I could have sucked the ink off the letters on the page and I finally managed to tear myself away from the words when the ice-cold glass touched my skin.

Caleb is smiling, holding out what has to be either a gin and tonic (it's all the rage these days, that damned wonderful Bombay Sapphire), or a Mojito, but I'm not hugely fond of those the way I am of so many other drinks first, and it's ironic really since I shouldn't drink and I can't hold my liquor because I'm leaky and lightweight and frail but hey, if you build it, I'll drink it, and anesthetize my life into something a little more manageable, something I can swallow.

Like this ice, when it melts into tiny shards of amazing cool against my tongue.

Caleb is enjoying a rare day off and he's invited me to spend it with him. He's relaxed for the moment, something out of a magazine ad today. Worn khaki cargo shorts and a plain white, v-necked t-shirt. Unshaven, blue eyes full of mischief. Days like this I want to hate him, but I couldn't if I tried. These are the days he truly enjoys what he has worked for and accomplished and if only I would concede defeat and choose him, he says his life would be complete. The bucket list is ninety-nine items crossed off and one far beyond his control.

Or not, if he plays his cards right. What's the difference? I am numb enough to play along and we're both old enough to pretend and smart enough to understand the risks and benefits involved and really, it's not so much of a stretch to imagine life like this on a day like today, the sun beaming down upon the water, quiet activity as the crew scrub the boat bow to stern.

I shift slightly in the chair and my shirt rakes up to reveal a neat baby-pink bow on my bikini bottoms. He stares, unabashedly and I pull the hem of my shirt down again. He looks away and reaches with both hands over his head, grabbing his shirt and pulls it over his head and down his arms with one motion. I watch, admiring the natural tan, and the cut of his chest, the way his tattoos flow with his body. He's a beautiful man, with only one flaw and it certainly isn't physical, not by any means at all. He has those effortless good looks, whereas Cole had a darker, intense sexuality that he could turn off and on at will, he would gift you with it but rarely. Caleb doesn't need a switch, he is stuck at on.

His dark brown hair mixed with my flaxen blonde is what brought about Henry's ash blonde color. His medium blue eyes mixed with my green brought about Henry's hazel blue-gold irises. His incredible rage mixed with my submissiveness brought about a child who doesn't know which end is up in his emotional map, with no compass, who has had to be taught how to act and react and how to control his feelings, lest they ruin his life forever.

Isn't that how this works?

We are getting business out of the way first today and Caleb passes me an envelope stuffed with results of his most-recent health checkup. He flies to a private clinic in the US for his stress tests and such, a top-notch facility where money can buy almost anything except dishonesty. Here we discover right away how he is doing, and how his heart is holding up, in spite of the disease that threatens to rip one more knight from my round table.

I frown, trying to recall the different medical terminology and he smiles gently and explains, line by line, crowding in beside me on the lounge chair until we are pressed together tightly between the arms of the chair. He smells like aftershave and Maker's Mark. He smells really good.

It is a positive report. Everything is positive and he is healthy. His heart is working. That's all I need to see, that he isn't going to just drop. At least not from this.

He shifts on the chair slightly and puts his arm around me, his chin resting on the top of my head. It's so warm and breezy out. I want to fall asleep, I am so relaxed. He has bigger plans.

My proposal now?

What? I break out of my reverie.

Did you have a chance to review my proposal? The new deal I made for you?

I bite my lip and shake my head. I didn't open it.

How come? He shifts again and I am in his arms, pressed against his chest, my face somewhere below his and he pulls back to look at me.

I push off and stand up, pulling myself across the deck along the railing, hypnotized by the sea. It's the same song and dance. I don't know what you want me to say.

I want you to read it and then give me feedback, princess. Am I getting close? What would you include? What would you take away? What do I need to do differently?

You want me to give you a map to show you the way to my heart, at the expense of my marriage and my other relationships?

Well...yes. He laughs, sheepishly. I want you to tell me what you want and that's what I will do.

I daydream, instantly. Beyond his means, far beyond his capabilities. I smile and he catches on.

Not something I can't pull off, Bridget. I want to know how to win your favor. Permanently.

I roll my eyes and finish my drink. I stop talking. Talking never served any purpose anyway. I sit down beside him on the chair and tilt my drink up to drain the last drops of gin. He laughs.

I get it, no more words.

I shake my head and smile. No more words, Caleb.

Only one thing left, then. He pulls me down against his skin. He is warm from the sun and I relax my muscles and let go, closing my eyes as his arms close around my thin frame. He squeezes me and exhales.

We are interrupted by one of the crew, who is clearly new and was told to clean this deck, not seeming to understand that if the owner is using it, all bets are off. But Caleb doesn't engage him, instead apologizing and pulling me to my feet. He leads me inside, and then heads back out for the glasses and we bump down the hallway, giggling like little children, overheated and without a care in the world. I don't know what he puts in my drink but I feel like I've had three or four instead of one, and the edges of the day are fuzzy and out of focus, veering wildly. I see his grin before me and I follow it until we reach the master suite, my tiny fingers threaded through his.

The minute my head hits the pillow I want to sleep. Clearly his afternoon holds other plans. I am spun out, held tightly and turned until clothing becomes bare flesh. He is holding me down, fingers tightly wrapped around my neck, forcing my wrist back down when I bring up my hand to block him, and putting his head down to whisper in my ear, words of comfort. Reassurance. Promises made where promises have absolutely no business at all.

He kisses down my face, along my jawline, to my neck, shoulders and back and then he pulls me into his arms and rocks against me, hard. Deliberately rough. Desperate. Determined. And I let go. I don't fight him. I let him take what he wants and I give him what he needs and I don't fight anymore. I don't feel what he wants me to feel and I don't think about Cole. It's a first.

Later when the afternoon sun hits the floor he seems to be almost dozing. Eyes closed. Head jutting out over the top of my skull again, arms still locked around me. I could drift off. The stateroom is cozy and secure. Abruptly he gets up and pulls on his shorts and leaves the room. I turn over lazily and stretch, pulling the sheet up to my chin, frowning at the time on the screen of my phone.

He returns with a tray that contains toast, orange juice and the proposal.

I take a piece of toast and a sip of juice and then he takes it all back out of my hands and replaces it with the envelope.

I don't want to look at this now.

Well then, when?

Is it time-sensitive?

If it wasn't, could I still say yes?

No.

Then no. I guess not. Hell, thirty years, Bridget, what's another decade or two? He gets up again and walks out.

I find him back on deck. The crew have been released for the day and the boat is ours, save for the captain, who isn't Caleb because Caleb doesn't have any interest in navigating water, just time.

I glance a kiss off the "B" in his tattoo.

What's the rush, Cale?

I've grown old waiting for you. It's starting to kill me. Slowly.

Oh, come on.

You get whatever you want. It's an argument he dares to start and I put my finger up in front of his face. One. Shhhhh. Hush. Quiet. Don't. Whatever that finger means, it works.

My eyes spill over. The valve is turned and the tears begin to slide down my cheeks.

I don't get what I want. He isn't alive anymore.

Who? It's a challenge. Someone's in the mood to fight.

Jacob.

I see the rage and jealousy wash over his face and I am suddenly wishing for it to strike me with full force. Throw me over. Hold me under until I drown. Either way, I win.

He never had the time invested in you that we do, princess. I don't understand.

It wasn't a game to him. There were no winners or losers. He just wanted me for me.

Caleb just stares at me. He is watching me wait for him to respond. I focus on his jaw flexing. In, out. In, out. His eyes flash from angry to frustrated to worried to confused to gracious and back to angry. But still I wait.

I don't have a map or a key or a solution or an instruction manual for-

I know this. I KNOW! He yells.

Then whatever your proposal includes isn't important, is it?

I still want you to read it, Bridge. You might be surprised.

***

I did not get a chance to read it.

Upon returning home, Lochlan took it from my bag, read it through and then took it out to the fire bowl on the patio and tore it to ribbons, stirring it into the flames until it was nothing more than melted letters on charred scraps of paper. I asked Lochlan what it said and he swore at me and he forbade me to ever go near Caleb again. Ever. That he's finally gone too far.

I had to promise Lochlan until we were both shaking. In return I exacted promises that he would protect me from this. From Caleb and his plans and his needs and his desires. We know these promises won't hold past sunrise but we still crossed our hearts anyway, hoping to die, pretty sure at this point that all of this is going to ultimately kill us anyway.

The final days of eleven.

Today we drove and drove and drove and memorized street names and turned and turned until we reached a point where the pavement was far behind us and we bumped through potholes and under dense forest canopy and then we drove and drove and drove some more, until we came out into the sun. I put the car in park, and the children took off, running through the trees and straight down the dock and off the end, into the lake. Into a sea of lilies and endless blue mountain water, smiling ear to ear.

Henry has been brave for years, jumping off everything and anything. Snow-forts, bunkbeds, diving platforms, you name it, he'll jump first and decide it was a good idea (or not) later. Ruth, well, let's just say today was a first.

She's been smiling ever since. Briefly I wondered if I should put sunblock on her teeth.

There's a Doolittle in that story, too.

Lochlan is sitting out front on the bottom step in the blazing sun pounding back beer. Boots still on but untied, lethal. Jeans and t-shirt filthy, hair tangled in loose ringlets, endless red waves. He's an ocean of fire and if you asked him, depending on the day he would tell you he plays with fire. Ask him tomorrow and he'll tell you he works on the midway or the circus, depending on the year. Ask him the day before yesterday and he'll tell you he makes art but not every day and ask him next week and he'll tell you what he does is not as important as who he is.

You won't get a straight answer because there isn't one and he'll lecture you for being curious about what he considers the dumbest line of questioning in the universe, after the ones that require subterfuge, of course. Those questions have no answers and he'll just burn them down anyway. Problem solved. Harness fire, the one thing the Devil can conjure and you will begin to fight on even terms, and equal ground.

Only he won't fight with the Devil now. They've reached an impasse after thirty years. They can almost tolerate each other. They can get through a meal together. They stand in the same place, as equals in the amount of mistakes they have made, crimes they have committed, hearts they have broken and time they have spent. Their promises rest at the same numbers, their hopes for the future are mirror images of one another, so when I tell you Lochlan is no less guilty and no more innocent than Caleb, I'm not lying, I'm simply stating the facts as they are written, plain as the nose on my face.

The only reason I call Caleb Satan is because of his epic tattoo, the Gaelic word for devil, Diabhal, stretching from shoulder to shoulder across his back. He's had it for a very long time and now you can sleep at night.

(I did mention it before, years ago. Dear reader, you are skimming. Don't do that. It's not fair.)

So the redhead sits in the sun and waits for the dark and then he becomes who he wants to be, the Commander of Flames, Stirrer of Embers, Keeper of Heat and Light. The guy who will call out to you with the slightest hint of a Scottish accent and a wicked dare to come and try your luck.

He is all talk to you and all heart to me. When I take a step backward, he is there to catch me when I stumble over those dumb boots, left in the way, no matter where I am. When I need him he empties his arms from whatever he was doing and holds me. When he wants to cause problems all he has to do is flash that smile and my knees weaken and it ruins life for just about everyone else.

I can't explain it but I know what's around the corner next. A scarlet sea of risk and inherent comfort. A warmth that can't be found anywhere else and a lifetime supply of simple pleasures, like sitting in the sun, getting drunk off his face and proclaiming he would be a great busker, if only he were still young enough to take the financial hit with as much enthusiasm as he had before he knew what it was like to feel full.

He'll be forty-six in a week and a half, but you wouldn't know it if you saw him and I know it but I still can't believe we're at this unbelievable place where time can march on but we haven't moved a muscle.

He has not aged the way I have and easily passes for thirty. I'm really hoping for a Rip Van Winkle moment one of these mornings but when I point that out, Lochlan just laughs until he cries.

The world had teeth and it could bite you with them anytime it wanted.

I'm not craving gin and air anymore. I've been getting eight hours of sleep.

It's a fucking miracle. Okay, it's also gin and Robax Platinum but also possibly ten years of total exhaustion and last night it was pointed out that we are averaging eight hours a night suddenly.

Wow.

I can feel it. I remember what things are supposed to be called instead of helplessly pointing and knitting up my eyebrows and snapping my fingers, shaking my head until someone else hits on what I mean. Yeah! That. It isn't painful to pry my eyes open when the alarm rings because we are getting up at 6:30 instead of 4:30. Hell, I even have to wake the dog up now, who can usually be found spooning with Henry UNDER the covers and it's light outside. Meeting fewer bears is a plus too, I get tired of playing out Stephen King novels when I leave my house.

(Have ticked off The Stand, Dreamcatchers, Cujo, Christine, Carrie, Pet Sematary, The Shining, The Girl Who Loved Tom Gordon, The Running Man and Lisey's Story and I'm not living any more of them out loud.

(Unless it's Misery. Oh, what I could do with Misery. Caleb, are you listening?)

So yes, less bears. And also! Energy after four in the afternoon, which is good because I've been cooking dinner in two shifts again because the downside of the boys all working for Batman's holdings now mean half the boys are home at the usual time to eat with the children and the other half are home at..quarter to eight or so.

I split my time between the two dinner shifts and try to eat with one group one night and the other the next night. Which is why for a while it was easy to forget in the push and not eat dinner at all.

But I will do better because I was proclaimed vaguely drunk last evening and that is apparently frowned upon, on a quiet Tuesday night out of the blue and so yes, less of the gin but more of the sleep and I'm reading books again and cleaning things and the whole daily grind seems less painful and more patient so far. So far. Pfft. Just over three weeks in, and one and a half weeks left to go until school starts and then I will have more time to write which is a total lie, I'll have more time to paint, since I am suddenly completely tired of the incredible white interior where everything is white, including the floors and it's ridiculously sterile and we need color. Ben would like color, personally I still get hives when I go into the hardware store but I will persevere.

And yesterday I took some children (only two of which were mine) to Wal-Mart (I know! Fuck my life) and I didn't lose anyone, and I remembered where the car was when we left. Wonders will never cease and there might be hope for me yet, with this strange thing they call sleep.

I am plotting with Moneypenny (the GPS on my phone! She's English! It's fucking AWESOME!) to go to IKEA next. You've been warned. If I go alone we're doomed.

And I am not going to talk at all about how much I miss Ben (and Lochlan) during the day. Nope. We just won't go there. As PJ keeps telling me, it serves no purpose to jack yourself out like that, Bridget. Now find something to keep you busy and they'll be home before you know it.

Promise?

I pinky-swear.

Keep you going.

Hello,
Is there anybody in there
Just nod if you can hear me
Is there anyone at home
Come on now
I hear you're feeling down
I can ease your pain
And get you on your feet again
Relax
I'll need some information first
Just the basic facts
Can you show me where it hurts

New routine is as follows. Lochlan arrives home around eight at night and I make him some dinner and I have a big fat gin and tonic instead of a meal. Everything unclenches and I can go to sleep.

Yes, it's completely stellar. So if you're looking for updates or any sort of coherent nonsense you've come to the wrong place. We're circus folk, it's not supposed to make any sense.

There is no pain you are receding
A distant ship smoke on the horizon
You are only coming through in waves
Your lips move but I can't hear what you're saying
When I was a child
I caught a fleeting glimpse
Out of the corner of my eye
I turned to look but it was gone
I cannot put my finger on it now
The child is grown
The dream is gone
And I have become
Comfortably numb.

"Everyone is a millionaire where promises are concerned." ~Ovid.

I am not taking over your life.

He's walking in slow circles around me as I sit at his desk in the near-darkness and rock gently in the big leather chair.

I open my hands, palms up, in a gesture of total helplessness and then let them fall back into my lap. I don't think it would matter if I had any words, at this point he knows how I feel.

They're as secure as ever. Maybe moreso because I don't run my affairs as..mercurially as you all seem to. That's a direct reference to Caleb.

There is no competition here. Again, he keeps letting these statements hit their marks and I haven't argued and he has ever last concern itemized. As usual he is one step ahead, always.

There is nothing in this for me, save for your well-being.

Oh, now, NOW I'm getting really fucking sick of everyone's new favorite tag line.

BULLSHIT.

He stops and begins to laugh.

Sorry, I had to say that. I hear it so often. It drives me crazy.

It's my turn to be surprised now. Then truth, Batman (I don't call him Batman, except for your benefit, dear reader).

I want to know if you are satisfied.

Satisfied? With what?

The first month.

Yes.

Payroll alright?

Yes.

You organized the health plans?

Yes.

Life Insurance?

As we speak.

Any problems?

I will let you know.

Please do. If you have any questions I am here for you.

What's in it for you?

Recognizing talent when I see it, realizing that Caleb no longer had my interests at heart and it seemed like the best time to strike, with the dissolution of the company. Early bird gets the worm, Bridget.

You're trying too hard to convince me and you've come in heavy.

He's gotten too close to you and everyone is worried.

He is Henry's father, therefore we have a partnership in parenting. Nothing more.

Maybe I'm not as easy to fool.

Nothing more.

Bridget, you're lying to me.

It's none of your business.

I made a promise. And I made one to you as well.

I'm not taking your offer.

Ah, my offer. You are a singular wonder, Bridget. And I really wish you would tell me what keeps you tied to him.

I did. Henry. I say it softly. He shakes his head. He is frustrated and pacing faster.

Do they know?

Some do?

Which ones?

I need to go. I have plans.

I stand up and pull out my phone. Batman makes a sound that could pass for a note of surprise or a forced burst of laughter and then he slams his palms down on the desk in front of me and I jump out of my skin.

Are you going to summon your driver, Bridget? You've got quite the track record of walking out on every conversation you've ever had. I gave you the time limit, you failed to produce and I'm busy trying to keep an escape route open for you and those you love. His voice breaks slightly and he clears his throat forcefully to cover. This isn't easy and it's not helping that I don't have all the facts. I'm fighting blind, princess. You asked for help and I'm trying to help you but I can't because I don't know what I'm up against. All I know is that Cole didn't want you so close to Caleb and no one else seems to either. You seem afraid, but afraid of what? I can help you but you have to tell me everything.

It's late. I'm leaving now. I'm so defeated. I turn and embrace him automatically. I smell his aftershave and realize he wears Attitude. The same one that Caleb wears during the day. I want to laugh but instead I just wrap my arms around his shoulders and squeeze and then I let go and walk out. He remains in place, holding his arms out as if to beckon my return. I can see his reflection in the mirrors as I walk toward the elevator. No driver tonight, I'm not going very far. Just four blocks down, closer to the water, to the glass apartment with the piano. Caleb has been sending me text messages all afternoon and evening. His proposal is ready and he will be waiting whenever I can slip away.

Gladiators.

Dropped by the neck, stockings torn, shoes missing. A doll, discarded in high tide. Lips set in a small blank smile, eyes seeing everything, no ears required, she never needed them anyway, heart missing and nowhere to be found. Everything is black and grey, it will be quite a while before she washes up somewhere to be found by a strange face or maybe she'll be eaten by a shark.

I listened from outside his office door as he railed on the phone and I listened to the threats he made and the things he promised and I lost my nerve. I couldn't go in. I can't confront someone so unpredictable, driven by unimaginable, deceased loyalties.

Oh, how ironic, you say.

It would be different but you don't hear that because my mouth is sewn closed and I dropped my hand from the knob and backed away slowly, quietly until I could turn and run for the elevator and be away from there, where people are busy and things get done and deals are made that multiply anything the Devil has ever done by ten and it makes me nervous, you see because I am only a doll and I don't really understand this whole concept of how they can traffic the same human multiple times and why I have become the commodity and the collateral damage all at the same time and why isn't anyone else doing anything, and oh, that's right, multiply it all by ten, everyone, keep your heads down and don't rock the boat because it's new and we wouldn't want it to flip but if your favorite, beloved doll falls into the drink, well, that's sometimes what happens when you stand too close to the edge and you look over to see where you're headed instead of watching land shrink behind you.

Tabula Rasa.

Today looks better already, the sun is out, the birds are chirping, and time marches on.

Sigh.

This must be one of those perks they talk about with regards to getting older. You know, all twelve of them, like the discount on car insurance when you absurdly point out you've been driving for Jesus Christ, twenty-four years already and your rates finally go down. Also, you can TOTALLY afford Botox now, you're just wondering if it's too soon, ironically noting that injecting botulism spores into your face would be a rash and impulsive, immature thing to do.

Give me twenty more years to mull that one over, and then I'll probably be totally up for it, when my little face has scrunched up completely into an apple doll depiction and you can no longer see my eyes, they will resemble pale green hard beads, jammed into the soft forgiving fruit, tiny wires bent into glasses pressed over the top.

I am fully prepared for those years, since as I told you, I can afford to change.

But I won't because I'm not even allowed to cut my hair without full committee approval so plastic surgery is most likely not an option for me at any point in my life and that's fine, I think I'll wind up being the poster child for being forty and feeling seventeen forever.

Okay, at least until May 2012.

Also note, I can't seem to get from one end of a post to the other without forgetting what I was talking about. Have you noticed? Yes, so have I. It's ridiculous and I can tell I need a little more sleep but why sleep when I can stand on the balcony in the dark, watching the city move beneath my feet, bright lights, big dreams and all that delicious, amazing noise?

Caleb finds my hands, resting an ice cold glass in them. I drink the burning liquid and become very small. I realize his windows are the looking glass and I run away.

Or rather, I don't because at this point in my life I can't run, I can only execute the best plans I can come up with while flying from the trapeze, knees locked, underwear firmly jacked up beyond my middle name.

I set down the drink on the table, checking to see if he is watching and then I pull my phone out of my bag and speed dial John. John hears one sentence and hangs up and inside of fifteen minutes he is there. I meet him at sidewalk level and he jumps out, coming around to the passenger side, opening my door for me with a relieved expression. He doesn't speak, he only nods as I slip past him to curl up on the seat and rest my head, staring out the window into the dark as he closes the door firmly and disappears from my view. He gets in the driver's side and starts the car and then he just sits there. He doesn't put the car in gear or anything.

John?

Silence. He is staring straight ahead, hands gripping the wheel.

John? Talk to me. You're scaring me.

You have to stop doing this, Bridge.

Doing what? I went for a drink. Gave him my expense list for the kids. We hardly even talked tonight.

Stop excusing it.

I didn't do anything wrong.

Then have him come to the house. Or email him the papers. Whatever. You need to stay away from him. Bridget, I spent almost two years of my life, every waking moment in a room or a vehicle with him and you have to understand how driven he is.

Oh, I know. He didn't get where he is by waiting for things to come to him. That's why he's so successful. I'm prattling on when John grabs my arms and pulls me right in to his face. He looks terrified.

Say that second sentence again, Bridget. SAY IT.

I've forgotten. I go over my paragraph in my head again and there it is. He didn't get where he is by...waiting for things to come to him.

What does he want?

Power.

Wrong.

Money.

Wrong again. This isn't hard, Bridget. He relaxes his hold but my elbows are throbbing and I'm not used to this sort of outburst from a guy who usually says so precious little.

Me.

Bingo.

I am dismissive. I know that, don't worry about me, I can handle him.

Bridget, you don't understand. You are the only thing he wants. And every moment you spend with him makes him more dangerous and more committed to his cause. He's never going to stop until he has you.

I know that.

No, you don't. You have no idea how the past two years have changed him.

And then John begins to talk and the things he says make my brain shrivel up and run looking for dark shadows to hide behind and false fronts to block the words.

I come back out of the dark when he pulls away from the curb, just as he says ...thirty-two years, Bridget. That's how long he has had to be denied.

Twenty-eight. He isn't denied though.

Sure he is. He comes in fifth. Do you know what that does to him?

Fifth. Do you know how ludicrous a conversation this is? I'm not doing this. Can we just go home, please?

Fine, I was just hoping that you would take your warning from someone who has nothing in it for himself.

Everyone wants something, John. Everyone. You're no different.

Jesus, Bridget. I want to be your friend.

Now you do.

I know in the past we've all been difficult, Bridget but our end goal is the same. We want you to be happy and we want to keep you safe and Caleb isn't safe.

What's the difference.

It was a statement, not a question and John just shook his head and kept a tight grip on the wheel. Almost home. He took the exit and we wound our way down the mountain toward the sea. He didn't say any more, he just pulled up in front of the house and waited for me to reach the front door and then he drove away. When he got to the turnaround in the highway I'm sure he texted Lochlan to tell him he couldn't get through to me. Lochlan would have reassured him that they will try again.

When things look different, like today.

Only this is harder and time has a higher cost again. I am home by myself during the day now, watched over by just PJ who has a lot to do but drops it on a dime when I walk into the room, only I don't very often. I remain in my little chair typing like mad, wearing out the keyboard and futzing around with my stories and half-written novels and poetry and emails too. I try not to watch the clock and I try not to think so hard. Maybe they could inject that Botox directly into my brain and I could have a beautiful, youthful lobotomy.

Except that I would like to forget only the bad things. And that isn't possible.

***

When Caleb called this morning I started to talk the moment I pressed the answer button, not giving him a chance. Sorry, I said, I realized I was too tired to spend much time so I slipped out early and I was rude and didn't say goodbye and I should have called because I'm sure you were worried-

He laughed. I don't worry about you, I have you followed to make sure you arrive safely at home. I just wanted to know if you were going to admit you were afraid and called in your knights. Apparently not. Call me when you want to end this pretense, Bridget. I have a revised deal for you.

My brain was still racing as he hung up so I had to wait and process the words to the tune of the silence and then I realized that he wasn't playing games anymore and I dropped my phone on the floor.