Feeling better/Business as usual.

Hahahahaha. The boys who live here have flooded my inbox with videos of themselves singing. I am so lucky. Or cursed.

Let me wade through the submissions and see who gets to stay.

(I'm KIDDING! PJ can't even sing Happy Birthday properly. And he already left and then came back so no one's going to go through THAT again, thanks.)

They have requested something of me though. That I stop dancing around the kitchen punching the air and bleating along with the stereo to I Want it All while I bake for them. Apparently I am 'embarrassing'.

Well now.

Shit.

Busted.

The benchmark for showmen the world over.

Someone asked in an email what the criteria was for joining my 'hippie commune' as they so sweetly called it.

Easy. You have to sing this song. A cappella. Without your voice breaking at the 2:32 mark, after the bridge, naturally.

Send video submissions to my email. We're always looking for new victims entertainment.

(Snort.)

Open ticket.

I'm sorry, Bridget. I really think you're spreading yourself too thin. I worry about you. I fear for your heart and your continued improvement when you degenerate into trying to please all of them.

All of us, don't you mean?

No, the houseful you have. I am a separate entity.

It's the same thing, Cale.

I didn't invite you here to argue, I invited you down for a bite to eat and a drink. What would you like?

Scotch, bourbon. Whatever you're drinking is fine.

Bulliet.

Oh, how fitting. Pour me a big one, would you, please?

Done.

I turn and look at the water as he heads inside. A cigar rests in the tray on the table. All it needs is a brief hint of oil paint and I will be in 1995 again. Memories are a time machine and we are just too chicken to get in so we watch them like a movie through the windows of our minds. Because you can't go back. Time machines aren't real. I go back inside.

Here, baby girl, a little ice for you too.

Thank you. I take a huge gulp and stare up at him up over the rim of the glass. He's smiling at me slightly, curiosity in his features. He's so handsome my knees start to tremble lightly. I didn't ever in a million years want to acknowledge that but I may as well. Time is short and he's got a defective ticker and a death wish. Sort of an odd conundrum for Satan, but I don't see Satan around anywhere right now. Oh well, the night is young, now, isn't it?

Where is Ben tonight?

Downstairs in the studio.

Anything new?

Maybe. Yes, I think so.

Lochlan?

Why don't you find him and ask?

I see. How long can you stay?

I'd like to stay for as long as it takes me to drink this without rushing and then I'm going up to the house to go to bed. I'm still not a hundred percent but worlds better through the weekend. We settled in at the kitchen island despite his protests and chat about the children for a while. I include discussions on Ruth because it's a habit and because I'm not dividing my life or their lives down the middle just because Caleb and Lochlan stand on opposite sides of the yard most days and scowl each other down.

Eventually he sees that I am three-quarters finished and brings the subject back around to shared interests. He remarks that he's almost glad the offer on the property up North fell through. Whistler casts a magical spell around those who visit, imploring us to stay. In reality we won't get up there any more than once every few weeks.

Instead he suggests some changes to expand the boathouse and I shut him down, pointing out the permit headaches with the dock already and the fact that I like the boathouse the way it is, and can't deal with any more change. I tread carefully, his name is on the mortgage contract and I don't own this house after all. I tread confidently because he is in my good graces and I am as generous, if not more, to try to keep us equal. It's easier.

He suggests a home in the country, then. A luxurious retreat with horses, near the lake where the children like to swim, a getaway but still within a couple hours drive. I veto that, we have plenty of room, he can go and buy whatever he likes but this house makes me happy and I don't want a second, thanks.

I am trying to figure out what Caleb is up to when he abruptly changes gear again.

A trip, then. Somewhere warm, a break from this weather.

Where? (I am humoring him and curious besides).

Maldives? Montserrat? Spain? Pick somewhere and we'll go.

Who will go?

You and I. Maybe the children if you wish.

My drink is finished. I get it. He wants to score points, hell, he just wants to score and has reached the desperation stage where he would give me the moon if only I would view it in his presence, exclusively. I call him out because I can't stand it anymore.

Why do you do this?

I'm making sure you have an escape this time. Something I didn't give you before and I should have.

An escape from what?

Men like Cole. Men like me.

I drink the last of my bourbon in one giant gulp and let it burn right down to the ends of my toes while I consider his confession.

You're right, Caleb. You should have done this years ago. Why the fuck didn't you do this years ago?

Would you have taken it? Would you have accepted rescue from someone like me?

I left the question hanging in the cold night air, letters smeared in the fresh snow, words chilled to just above freezing, almost imperceptible in the dark. It seemed like the right thing to do.

He's going to kill me for telling you this but sick people get bored eventually.

When I said he had no nickname you didn't actually believe me, did you?

aluminum, tastes like fear
adrenaline, it pulls us near
I'll take you over
it tastes like fear, there
I'll take you over

will you live to eighty-three?
will you ever welcome me?
will you show me something that nobody else has seen?
smoke it, drink
here comes the flood
anything to thin the blood
these corrosives do their magic slowly and sweet
phone, eat it, drink
just another chink
cuts and dents, they catch the light
aluminum, the weakest link

I don't want to disappoint you
I'm not here to anoint you
I would lick your feet
but is that the sickest move?
I wear my own crown and sadness and sorrow
and who'd have thought tomorrow could be so strange?
my loss, and here we go again

He's scrubbing his hands. Outside at the tap, kneeling on the grass in front of a bucket. His shirt is filthy and his skin and hair is streaked and blackened. It makes his teeth look unnaturally white. Lochlan is so focused I'm hoping the sound of my stomach growling as I sit ten feet behind him in the sun interrupts his efforts so that we can go and eat now. He's used half a bar of soap already, grinding the little brush against the surface and then pressing so hard I worry but this is part of his wind-down and it takes as long as it takes, while he replays his performance and makes mental changes or notes for the next one, on the next day.

Locket.

I say it so softly I don't know if he hears. Abruptly he reaches up and turns off the water and then rinses his hands one last time and wipes them on the hem of his shirt. I frown. He goes through five triple packages of plain white t-shirts per season. So wasteful.

What did you say, peanut?

I laugh. I said Locket. Because you need a nickname.

I don't need anything. I have a name. What does that mean anyway?

You're very important to me, and you keep everything hidden on the inside, locked up tight but once you open up you share your secrets and surprises with me.

Surprises, huh?

Yes.

Locked up tight? What do you mean?

You never tell me you're afraid or mad or worried until it's over.

Yeah. You know me too well.

So I can use it?

Only you. And not in front of anyone, okay?

They wouldn't catch it, I don't think. You don't have to worry.

You're loud. They'll catch it.

Sorry.

It's okay, peanut. I like it, I always know where you are because you're noisy. As if on cue, my stomach rumbles again. Hey, want to go in town for lunch? The diner has minestrone for the special today, and all the bread you can eat.

Maybe you should phone ahead so they can start baking more.

He laughs out loud. Run and fetch the helmets, then. And no thinking up any more nicknames along the way, okay?

No deal. You do it all the time.

He smiles and turns to inspect his fingernails to see if he is decent enough for lunch. I turn and run for the camper to collect our gear.

Masquerading as a man with a reason.

Still sick. Kind of really sick but being treated and soon to be good as new. Or better than ever. Okay, at least no worse off than before.

In other news, Lochlan's compiling the Time Life Collection of Quintessential Songs From The Past That Paralyze Bridget Like Nothing You've Ever Seen, Physically, Mentally and Emotionally.

I thought the Rock Band game had that covered, since both collections open with Carry on Wayward Son.

I'll be dead by Saturday at this rate. Or frozen in place. Meh, nevermind, it all feels the same right now anyway. Back to convalescing and looking amazing while doing it.

Oh scratch that, Ben just said I look so pale I'm green. So I match my eyes at least. Here's to color-coordination in fever dreams!

In a room with the unwell feral child at noon on a cold sunny Wednesday.

So...if you could...who would you bring back first?

Freddie Mercury.

I test Caleb's patience so. Bridget-

I was just teasing. John Bonham for sure. Or Peter Steele. You know what? I'm not sure now.

Are you going to make jokes all day?

Jokes? That's the holy triad of unrequited bucket lists right there. Three bands I will never see intact, Queen, Zeppelin and Type-O Negative. You need to get with it.

I meant Cole or Jacob.

I'm only answering that if you're prepared to invoke your evil powers right this second to pull it off. If we have a deal, I'll give you a name. If you're not playing Satan than fuck you for asking. AGAIN, I might add. I don't understand why it even matters so much when they're both gone.

They aren't gone. You conjure them up in the fucking garage on every day that ends in Y. If they weren't in our faces all day every day we wouldn't wonder so much.

No one told you you had to live here. I reached past him and pried the honey dipper out of his hand as he spiraled the golden liquid into his tea. I stuck it in my mouth, then pulled it out and held it up over my open mouth to let the remainder drip onto my tongue.

No one told me you were such an incredible pain in the ass when you're sick, Bridget.

I'm worse when I feel well.

Yes, yes you are.

Gee, thanks.

Don't mention it.

Smoke and mirrors.

She dreams in color
She dreams in red.

Ten minutes after eleven I make it back inside, slip off my shoes by the door and tiptoe upstairs. Cole is sitting in the hall on the top step in the dark.

We'll have to add some hot water, he says as he gets up and walks back into our room.

I follow him right into the bathroom where he has a million candles lit and a deep steaming bubblebath ready.

He turns to kiss me but stops just as I close my eyes.

What in the hell is all over you?

He walks back to the door and flicks on the light while I face the mirror.

Well, fucking SHIT.

Handprints. Carbon, charcoal-black sooty full handprints on both sides of my face, my neck and my hands. Cole starts to pull my clothes off and there are more. Everywhere, just everywhere.

The look on his face would have killed a lesser human but I have something to live for now. To get back at Cole for giving me to Caleb I upped the ante and started to see Lochlan behind Cole's back. Loch will never say a thing, he will look Cole in the eye and lie so convincingly it's easy to see how he can charm a crowd.

It's also easy to see how careless we can be when rushed, when desperate.

I look back at my own expression. Wild-eyed surprise. I look..happy. I look crazed and exhilarated and satisfied. I look amazing, like a living work of art, almost like when I become covered with paint when Cole paints a study of me or wants to use me for figure painting except this is in black and white so it's as if I have been molded and shaded by Lochlan's hand.

That's exactly how I became who I am. I was created by him and finished by Cole. Cole took a work in progress and tore me back a few layers to make changes and broke some unique features and I was never the same.

I am hoping to circumvent him now with Lochlan to finish myself. To complete Bridget and not have any more teardowns or revisions. I am defying him with every step I take, burning the memories in the flames, extinguishing my loyalty to him in a bucket of water that I ran and fetched at the tap behind the barn, crying the whole way, big hitching blubbering sobs because I thought Lochlan was going to burn.

It takes exactly five days for the marks to wear off my pale skin and another three for Cole to speak directly to me. I don't notice. I keep seeing my face in the mirror that night. Full of life. Loved. Wanted. Taken.

Vaguely singed.

Game of chance.

He's down on the back patio practicing with his torches. Eating fire. Slow burn tricks and human lighter stunts that make me smile. Showy stuff. His arm still hurts. They refused to cast it anymore. He refused to let them anymore. He said it will heal on its own, eventually.

I am inside, washing pots and pans, watching closely since he is out there alone. I turn and quickly scan the room for my phone in case he goes up in flames and I have to call emergency. My face hits Ben's chest squarely and I bounce back against the sink.

Ow. You really have to stop sneaking up behind me.

You really should wear those tiny things that help you hear me, bee.

When I wear those I can hear Mars sneaking up behind me, Benny. Possibly Jupiter too.

He laughs and spins me back around so I can keep washing dishes while he puts his chin on my head and leans forward to look out the window.

Fuck, I gotta learn to do that.

Why? I'm guessing you have enough talents.

Oh really. He leans down and plants a kiss directly behind my ear while squeezing me so tightly I hear popping noises in all sorts of different places.

Crushing me should not be one of them.

Depends on the circumstances. He wraps his hand around my throat and pulls my face to the right to kiss me. I struggle, pointing out that I would love to cuddle as soon as I'm finished the dishes and Lochlan comes back inside.

Why? Do you have plans?

I always watch him to make sure he's safe.

Too bad he couldn't do the same. It's out before he can censor himself.

Low blow, Benjamin.

True story, Wee-Bee.

We engage in a thousand-yard staring contest. I'm not going to continue to defend Lochlan, my position on that is well-documented. I'm allowed to point out Lochlan's epic failures and he's allowed to point out mine, as they pertain to each other. No one else will get that privilege. Ben changes tactics, because he doesn't think it's worth continuing either.

How about we rendezvous at eleven then? A hot bath with some rose petals, just for my beautiful bride.

I nod but my eyes flick toward the window again, checking the patio. Ben misses nothing.

Eleven then, he frowns and shoves me toward the back door. He points at me. Why the hell is everyone doing that lately? Don't get too close to the fire, okay? You'll get burned. He does the Kurgan impression again, winks and turns away, walking out of the room.

I stop long enough to pull on my shoes and then I run out the back door and across the deck toward the steps. If there's a show starting I don't want to be late.

I didn't mind the wait. I was watching the sunlight kiss the waves. All the way out past the sandbars where the whitecaps threatened even the best of swimmers. I swam out there once and only once. It was exhilarating, terrifying and life-changing. I'd like to do it again only that sort of courage is hard to muster and harder to maintain.

I can feel my skin starting to burn. I frown and pull out my sunscreen. SPF 15. I don't think it's working so I slip my sundress back on over my bathing suit. I don't own any sunglasses. I pull off the ribbon from my braid and let the wind comb my hair. That will protect my shoulders, ears and neck at least.

And then I see him, hurrying down the boardwalk, arms tight with the weight of the canvas bags he is carrying. He jumps off the high end of the step and slogs through the deep sand between the dunes to where I sit waiting, my bag full of sketchbooks abandoned beside me.

He drops down and scrutinizes me.

Sorry for the delay. The lineups are incredible with the tourists here. He frowns slightly. You're burning. Let's go back.

Can we eat first and then go right home? Always hungry. My stomach growls for effect and Lochlan laughs.

Look what I found for you. He reaches into the bag and pulls out a small bottle of Orange Crush, and then a second. It's like a scavenger hunt in every little town for us now. And this, he pulls out two bags of chips and then two sandwiches. I am busy spreading out the quilt that was in the other bag and then I check to see if there is anything else to be unpacked. At the bottom of the bag I find a folded up piece of notebook paper. Not so much folded, but crumpled.

I take it out and begin to open it up when Lochlan reaches out and takes it from me. He is abrupt and rough.

That's a list I made for my birthday plans, I should keep that. No worries.

But he's lying and we both know it.

He stands up and shoves it deep into the pocket of his cargo shorts. When he sits back down everything has changed. The sun runs to hide behind the clouds. The seagulls cease their cries along the cliffs. The waves smooth themselves and lurk under the surface.

He opens my pop and hands me the bottle. Eat, Bridget. We have a busy evening ahead. I think we can manage a quick swim though. He smiles gently now.

I nod and tilt the bottle up to take a sip. He is unwrapping the sandwiches. Egg for me, Montreal smoked meat for himself. They are from the deli beside the corner store. In exchange for the free lunch Lochlan will allow the owner's children to ride the Ferris wheel all damn weekend long, whenever they please. It's a small risk with a big reward: food. Something that is always too scarce on the road. No matter what we do we're always vaguely hungry. When I see deer at the edge of clearing behind the campers I don't want to feed them, I want someone to shoot them so we can barbecue them and then sleep deeply instead of fitfully, woken by pangs of hunger.

I have become a tiny carny, savage and with bloodlust in my eyes. At least that's what Lochlan describes me as in the stories he tells me late at night while we watch the stars through the little window above our bed.

I should have asked about that piece of paper again. I know what's on it now but it would have made all the difference back then.

A year of living dangerously.

(Oh, hello, she says as she turns around to acknowledge your presence. I don't know why you jumped. After all you were the one who went looking for her. And you always find what you're looking for.)

I was going to come in here and distract you with flighty, nonsense words. I was going to show you my resolutions for the new year. I was going to share my hopes with you, and my plans to become a better, new and improved princess, starting the year off right but then two things happened.

Thing one was that Lochlan and PJ got into it. I mean, really got into it. They took us all by surprise and since the dust is still settling I can't say too much yet. This is one of the hazards of an intentional family, in reality. In fantasy, this was a terrible, horrible no-good fight.

Thing two was that I looked at the list of resolutions I have typed up and I noticed that there are only two things still on the list that I haven't already broken.

So fuck that, I guess.

And no, one of them wasn't to swear less. Jesus, people. The rest of the world can mind their mouths, I like mine the way it is, thanks. Filthy as a Sailor, twenty-four seven.

And now since we've done nothing but watch four entire seasons of The Wizards of Waverly Place in the past two days while sick with the second round of the holiday flu, I need to go. The final movie starts in an hour, and I need to see who the family wizard will be.

I know who it is in this house.

Me.

Snort.