12404.

That was my lobotomy moment. He was above me, and he had one hand around my thigh and the other was wrapped around the back of my head, pulling it up. I'm barely touching the bed and he's on his knees and oh, Jesus, I can't reconcile what he's doing and I'm still not sure why he's suddenly given up his perfect record of self-control but I like it and that's bad and he's ruining everything but also it's better and now what?

Now what?

Is the trauma past and he can let go finally? Is there a limit on how long one can be the way one is before you're reset only to have to figure life out all over again? Is this what midlife really is? My baby-faced carnival man is going to be forty-nine this summer. He looks maybe thirty-two, thirty-five tops.

Maybe he has started a countdown of his own. Maybe forming in his head right now as he winds me out and holds me down is a proposal of sorts. Maybe this time he'll get everything right.

What about me though? I don't have a reset button. I don't get to let go of anything. I can't shake the past, it follows me around like a six-foot-two Devil in a bespoke suit and it speaks to an evil I can't seem to escape.

And there's Ben. I'm not sure I want to escape from him, though he's all but shoved me so far into the corner right now I've stopped trying to fight my way back out. Yesterday I gave up. I fucking gave up on him and now is not the time for this. Now is not the time to take that leap, Lochlan, just hold the goddamn line and please don't try and stand on what's left of my heart because you'll fucking finish me off here.

Sadly Lochlan refuses to hear the words inside my skull and I'm not sure I want to say them out loud. I don't know how to tell him not to be selfish when I'm still chasing after Ben because I was pretty sure I could maybe fix someone in my lifetime. If it couldn't be me, anyway.

We just took the long way home, that's all, Bridgie. 

Intervals.

(Twenty-nine years, eleven months, and thirteen days.)

That's how long he waited before pulling the Ace down out of his sleeve, a sleight of hand trick you missed before you even realized you were concentrating so hard you weren't actually concentrating on the right things.

He's good and you don't put any faith in that. You can't be fooled. You can't be had. There are no surprises, you cry. It's all just smoke and mirrors. Anyone can do it.

A challenge, quickly dispensed with, and you'll walk away with a new appreciation for magic, because magic is real and now you know, he always says.

Except I've never seen a trick that took that long ever and I've seen them all, watching from the temporary, rickety steps with the bag of red licorice that he put into my hands to stave off the dinner-time hunger pangs. These steps are the emergency-door steps behind the Funhouse and this is where he practices his tricks in the mid-afternoon. When he grows up he's going to be a magician and I will be his assistant, because we needed a backup plan for the downtimes between school, the midway (which is so unpredictable) and the circus. I think we almost have it.

And I'm going to barf. I've eaten half the bag. It's so hot out here in the blazing sun but Lochlan likes to torture himself. He says if he can do the tricks under 'dress', he can easily do them in better circumstances.

(Later he would correct me and tell me it's duress, and it means someone doing something that might even be bad because they have been threatened by someone and will be hurt if they don't. Oh, I think I get it. Yes, I definitely get it.)

He brings me a bag of licorice from the store where he stopped and filled the bike up with gas because he's hardly been off it and it's not even his and I fret every time he guns it up the driveway, waiting to see him smoke the gate at a thousand kilometres an hour but so far so good and now it goes back to New Jake, who I think is getting anxious to ride.

Licorice still makes me want to barf after a certain amount, because I can never stop eating it. Once I ate the entire bag in one sitting and had to spend the rest of the afternoon hallucinating on the kitchen floor from the sugar sloshing through my veins.

Lochlan tells me four sticks only and sits down beside me with Jake's helmet in his lap.

How is Benji?

He's pissed and unruly and...I don't know, he's everything today, Loch. 

Want me to go talk to him? (I've been mostly keeping them apart. All of them.)

No. Not really. 

This doesn't work, Bridget. Any issues he has with me need to be fixed. I can't be responsible for how he reacts to stuff. 

I know this. But still. Why now?

You don't like it? I got the feeling you were pretty thrilled with me.

Why now, Lochlan?

Because I was trying so hard to make your life magical, Bridget. I wanted everything to be bright lights and magic and make believe. I wanted it to be so beautiful and Caleb and Cole took that all away and taught you that life is painful and violent and frightening. I just want to bring things back around. I won't let him win this. I just..I just want to show you that you don't need anyone else.

All for one, is it then?

I don't know, Bridget. This isn't sustainable. 

That's what Ben said this morning. 

He's right! Jesus, he's so right.

I take another stick of licorice and he pulls the bag out of my hand and stuffs it into his backpack. He picks up the deck again in the blazing sun and asks me to choose a card. Any card.

But I can't because my stomach hurts. He fishes the Queen of Hearts out of the collar of my shirt and tells me to come on, we'll go back to the camper now and he'll put the ice in front of the fan for me, and that next time to listen when he tells me how much licorice to eat.

(I'll try to carry off a little darkness on my back, til things are brighter.)

(That would be Mr. Cash, if you're inclined. And we're okay right now).

I'm lighting torches and laying them down on the patio. One after another after another. Ben sits scowling directly behind me on the steps. I have him on a proverbial leash and he must follow me around as I scowl, dragging my dark cloud along over our heads. Head to toe black for each of us and I'm not sure who is pulling off the fiercer look. I would say him. I'm too small to make anyone nervous except in this way. I'm mad. I'm really, really mad and the only way I can keep everyone at bay, away from us is with fire.

Again, how fitting.

I'm so mad I haven't actually spoken to Ben since Monday night, except to order him around. I haven't acknowledged his threats, given in to his pleas or given up on his dismissals. I wish he would stop talking some times. I wish he'd stop being silent too. I wish he'd stop being funny and sweet in between moments of failure and despair. I wish he could turn his ego off with a flick of a switch. I wish he wouldn't say one thing and do something else. I wish sometimes that I didn't love him so I could just walk away.

He's said more than once that I should. Just go already, walk out. Don't come back, cause he won't miss me. Don't look back cause he won't watch me leave. Don't cry because he's not going to shed any tears.

I put my head down in my hands and let the words bounce off my skull. I hear that's the thickest part of me, according to sources who know these things. I could still feel it though and it hurt.

I finally looked up again and I leaned back against my heels and I told him to shut up and he laughed and said I was amazing.

Yes, I am. So if you want to be with me you'd better work hard to be amazing too.

He laughed until he cried. No, literally.

Caleb picked that moment to come up the steps from the driveway and he saw the imaginary leash and the heavy black clothing and the ring of fire and our expressions, hung right out to dry and he rolled his eyes and said For fucks sake, can you two be normal for five minutes? 

Afraid to fall.

(People seem to like the sound I make, screaming the whole way down, so here. Take it and just fuck off, please.)

I tried not to seem bitter. I tried to be nice. I tried to stand behind the door and watch as they've carted him off and made excuses and put up a wall and then I tried to make do. I tried patience and understanding too. I tried on acceptance but that doesn't even fit, it's huge and I would just fall right out the bottom and then I tried the last two things on the list and I think maybe they might be presentable.

Enough so that no one stares, at least.

Bravery, of course, and fear.

Oh, Jesus, golly, that's such a big one, that fear. I don't like that one at all but sometimes it works for me in ways nothing else does. I mean it works for us, for him.

For him.

Idiot-Benjamin.

Lochlan tried to steamroll me right out of the proceedings. Sam tried to jump in with both feet, this is his specialty and since he's in house, why not? But no. Go plan your fucking wedding, already, Sam, you're hammering Matt right into the ground. And Jesus Christ, Loch, you know I love you but you know I promised to be here for Ben in ways that trump just about everything else and hell, I never said 'forsaking all others' but right now come to think of it, he does need me a little more than anyone else does. Right now.

So I'll fix him, because nothing else is working.

I already forced him to get the fuck out of bed and go for a walk and then I made him eat and then shower and shave and wish the children luck. Ruth has exams today, Henry has a street hockey tournament and fucking Christ just stay busy.

Fix the shelf in the bathroom, help Daniel with the painting. Fucking take this book and read it. Make your wife a cup of coffee because Lord knows she hasn't slept and make a phone call and talk to August for a little while and then I will and we'll keep the pressure off Sam and we'll keep the children in the dark and we'll fight off the Devil and the superheroes too and we'll just stay here together and get you better. 

Yeah.

We're in the double-digit hours already. 

It was a division of the night, into two distinct parts. His was all that mattered as he pulled my hands up over my head and caught them with one hand firmly wrapped around my wrists. I remain still and breathe. This is not how this one works. This one doesn't stray so far from straight-up missionary fucking and this one doesn't restrain me unless I'm determined to hurt him and this one never goes to dark places, preferring to light a match, flick a lighter or lick a torch until the dark is pushed back into the edges, retreating smoothly and without hesitation.

This one doesn't like to hurt me, not even to pretend.

And I know he won't but then his teeth catch on my bottom lip and the unholy sound that erupts from deep within his throat give me such a little thrill I mentally chastise myself for being so goddamned predictable, depraved.

Tell me what you want, he pleads. No, wait, it's not a plea, it's an order and Little Miss Depraved kicks into high gear with her endless list while Little Miss Fragile lies there and smiles.

***

Trust has become a four-letter-word, spit in any random direction hoping to land a blow, traveling on the wind. Ben sent me a series of messages from downstairs and I knew what he was up to before I saw him, finally, when I went downstairs to see him. I can tell by the subjects he brings up.

Ben, you promised us. 

He's doing what he's always done, sitting slouched way down in the armchair, all knees and elbows and cheekbones and big brown eyes and he's not wrecked but I know he wishes to be. He takes a sip and then slams the glass back down on the arm of the chair. Some of it leaps out and coats his forearm and some of the chair arm but he makes no move to wipe it off or apologize for the mess. He points in my direction with his free hand.

I promised you, he says. He's lucid. The glass is full. I look around for the rest of the bottle so I can see where he's at and he reaches over the other arm of the chair and pulls the bottle up by the neck. It's full too.

This is the first drink, Bridget. Why don't you go get someone for me, okay, Bumblebee? This is not for you to handle. 

But maybe it is. Maybe things have to be different. Maybe we can't keep going in circles. Maybe we can't keep building up the towers to knock them down. Maybe I'd like to use my instincts for once.

I walk over to him as he covers his face with his hand and I take the glass away from him. He watches as I drink it, the whole thing at once. I gulp it down until it's empty. It burns. Oh, Jesus it hurts so bad I think it might have dissolved my knees. I start choking and coughing but I still grab the bottle and I turn it upside down, pouring it all over Ben's expensive soundproof carpeting.

He watches. He doesn't even try to stop me.

It's the first drink and the last drink, Ben. I want you to keep your promises just like I keep the ones I've made to you. If you do this again, next time I'll light the carpet on fire after I soak it in fuel and I'll burn down your whole fucking life. 

I think someone already beat you to it, Bee. 

You want to know the funny thing? I know better than that. He didn't make you pour a drink. You did that all by yourself.

I posted this a little while ago:

But then Ben sent me this:

He wins.

Six Pine Trees.

The preacher uniform seems to be a white shirt, sleeves rolled up to the elbow and ancient jeans. Brown leather shoes, but at the last minute because we hate shoes, you see.

 I know this because both the preachers in my life sport the same outfit most days.

Well, they used to, I suppose.

Sam shovels cereal into his mouth at a pace that might cause me to look away if not for his own expression, which is not at all relaxed like usual. He chews noisily and swallows, takes a sip of coffee and then one of juice. Then he holds out a spoonful in offering and I take it. He shovels another into his own mouth. Now we're both staring at each other and chewing noisily.

He finishes his bite before I do and tells me he's getting more terrified and overwhelmed with each passing moment in planning this wedding and he's no longer pretending it's cold feet.

What is it, then?

Maybe it's a sign.

If I told you it's normal and then it's a relief once the ceremony is over would that make a difference?

What if it doesn't?

They have annulments for that but I don't think you're going to find a greater man than Matt.

What if I don't really want a man?

T-Rexs' arms are far too short for this to work. And alpacas are so filthy, Sam. 

Bridget-

If you fuck up the best thing that's happened to you in a long time, Sam, I'll never speak to you again. 

His eyebrows go up and he says, The most fascinating thing about what you just said isn't that you can make idle threats so easily but that the thought of you carrying this out would be a literal death sentence and I would cease to breathe, never being the same again.

You're one of the few finding a life in this mess of what Jacob and Cole left behind, Sam. 

I made a mess, too, Bridge, the first time around. And Matt is too good of a man to risk ruining. 

So don't ruin him. Make him happy. 

I see the light leak back into his eyes, which crinkle up quite beautifully as my words soak into his brain. We've had this conversation before, Bridget. 

I know we have. You have to go or else you'll miss your own service.

Coming today? 

No, you can give me a synopsis later. 

I can give you one now. Leave it all in His hands, and let Him carry the weight sometimes. 

I tried but I couldn't find Him.

Then you didn't look hard enough. 

 Great. I can be the little deaf and blind heathen. Now go take your own advice.

You're something alright. I will see you this afternoon, unless I don't.

Bye. Did I mention I love having you here? 

Did I tell you I will never be anywhere else again?

No! You didn't, but you totally should because I would like to hear that. 

Then I will tell you later, because I'm going to be late if I tell you now.

Sam gathers up his messenger bag and his blazer and phone and kisses my head before rushing out of the kitchen. Church starts in eight minutes. It takes twelve to get there.

Caleb looks up from the newspaper. He is sitting at the table waiting for the children to take them out to brunch. He folds the paper closed with a practiced snap and smiles thinly. I see that the legacy Jacob left for Samuel is in the way he speaks to you. 

What do you mean?

With each passing day, he talks more and more like Winnie the Pooh. I'm surprised you didn't notice this before.

We settled on cheese and bread and whiskey for breakfast and pretended to paint the sunrise as it appeared on the horizon but really we were liars and fakers and thieves, until that whiskey dissolved the lies and uncovered the truth, set against a cool morning tide, wind roaring in our faces as we split the last piece of smoked gouda.

Lochlan ate the heel of the loaf of bread too, even though I wanted it. He took my glass away after two drinks and told me I still need my bangs cut and I dissolved into barely-inebriated frustration.

What's wrong? He asked and I lied some more to see if I can craft a poker face out of fake smiles and thin skin.

I'm cold.

He pulled his sweater over his head and stuck me right through it. It smells like turpentine, kerosene and Old Spice. It smells like Cole but then my brain reminds me that Cole smelled like Loch, save for the kerosene.

His eyes smile at me and it's hard to be mad. Really hard, as it always is when he switches those gears from parent to first love.

Simple tasseography.

He's sipping on a coffee on the patio, just out of the sun, where the shade begins from the overhang. The backyard is a blown-out, nuclearly-bright point that crumbles to dust in dry weather and sharpens in the rain. The orchard has no shade either. The boathouse is in a lovely stand of hemlocks and cedars and there's virtual wooden darkness out front except for very early in the morning but that backyard, man, it's just overly warm now.

I suppose that's why he's not wearing a shirt. He's warm. Lochlan does not sweat, he just turns red-hot from the inside. He glows like an iron in a fire. I only wish for that strange talent as I scrap my bangs off my forehead from where they are plastered and vow to burn these flannel pajamas just as soon as it's cool enough for actual fire.

I only put them on when I got up because they were hung on the hook on the back of the bedroom door and I had to wear something presentable. I'm sure I wouldn't get objections if I didn't put them on but that's neither here nor there, now, is it?

In a similar train of thought, I guess that's why Loch is wearing his navy blue board shorts and nothing else. They were probably within reach. The color just highlights his hair as the curls on top have changed to honey and strawberries and the ones underneath remain the color of the darkest orange maple leaves for now.

He looks delicious and I'm hungry because I was busy and I eat breakfast at nine but there was no bread left and I didn't feel like having Shreddies or fruit for that matter. I could have dispatched someone to fetch an egg mcmuffin but just as likely they would have told me to get it myself. That's a useful, bitter order when one is pretty much bound within these property lines as it is.

I could have called Mike to take me to the McDonalds in the city but God, what a waste of gas for one person's breakfast.

I have just decided I'll maybe gnaw on Lochlan for a while when he tells me New-Jake has lent him the Sunbeam for the weekend.

Oh, that's a great idea.

Have one better? He asks, smiling. Not like you won't be invited. 

I grin. In that case, be careful? 

Always am. 

Liar liar pants on fire. 

I don't tell anything but the truth. 

Oh my God, you even lie about lying, Locket! I poke him and grin. This give and take used to be normal. It's a nice change from our usual strung out declarations and emotional undertakings. This is levity.

It feels so good he feels guilty and ruins it instantly, lest I take the wrong things seriously. So many years and he still doesn't trust me to know how to react properly since I have grown from a little kid with a little instant-gratification brain to an adult with...okay nevermind. The point is he stops smiling and tells me he's not leaving this earth without me.

Oh. This earth grinds to a halt and almost throws me off in the process. Gravity intervenes at the last second, channeled by his eyes, which have leaked all of their mirth down over his skin and all that remains is sadness and devotion.

You just...had to do that, didn't you?

I learned from the best and now I can't help it, he says and his eyes continue to project their heat shimmer as I try and breathe through my choked-up throat.

Rock- or Metal-tarts would have been so much cooler.

Old mister fun is back
Wonder where he's been hiding at
Hanging round the edge
Walls unfortified, inside
No different, patchwork hack
Toil away on an unlaid track
Falls closing in, got nowhere to hide
This time
Finding ceilings low
I'm too big or this room's too small
Why's my ceiling another's floor

Christian is writing, writing, editing, working and I've done nothing but distract him for a good ninety minutes, chattering about damned near everything, showing him different boats and what I think are whales but are probably waves because I'm not good at this, I find the binoculars big and heavy and even propping them on the table isn't a great solution but Christian is impatient and frustrated and finally he says,

Bridget. Get a chair. You look ridiculous.

Oh, well, why didn't you say so?! I don't think like the rest of you!

I see that. Need a Pop-tart?

I stare at him. I can't think of a comeback.

***

Christian used to babysit me when I was eight. Mostly because Lochlan was above that and Christian was happy to make some money for what he considered an easy gig. Except the first time he did he put a movie that his family had rented into their VCR. He figured he could keep me busy that way.

Ah, the brilliant ideas of teenage boys. The movie was Halloween.

By the end of the movie I was behind him on the couch, covered with pillows, shaking like a leaf. He turned the television off, turned and stared at me with wide eyes before putting on his adolescent bravery and he said,

Need a Pop-tart? (As if Pop-tarts could solve everything.)

I chose strawberry and then asked if he had the second movie, so we could find out what happens next, because it didn't actually end, just hanging like that. Look who's brave now!

That's called a cliffhanger, Bridget. You want the other Pop-tart? He holds out the wrapper.

Yes. I take it but I can't finish it and he takes my offered remaining piece and stuffs the whole thing in his mouth.


***

I shake my head. It's too early for pop tarts and besides, they make me feel sick now. Probably because they are cardboard with sugar frosting and I'm getting too old to be fooled by those kinds of things.

But now Gage won't get his chin off the ground. He points at Christian and then at me.

He used to...babysit you?

Sometimes, yes. 

Isn't that weird?

Would have been weirder if it had been Lochlan, Christian laughs and takes a bite of his Pop-tart. They don't make him sick. Lucky guy.