"The hardest thing in life to learn is which Bridget to cross and which to burn." ~David Russell (with apologies).

If I die before I wake
Light a fuse, bake a cake

These days when I smile it hurts like an old familiar pain that I hardly notice anymore. Tolerable. I notice when the sky gets very dark and then it opens up like curtains and in sprays a million buckets of rain. I notice that I'm getting wet, that my hair is curling up into waves like the sea but I don't think I worry about it too much. I'll dry and if not then I'll grow mushrooms like on the grass, like on the tree stumps out in the secret garden, left to become tiny tables for pots full of flowers and strawberries.

When I write longhand now it's not as often that my brain switches gears, writing partial Jacob-memories before I drag the pen in a swish haphazardly down the page, ripping a jagged line that tears the paper up behind it like a shredded zipper. I sometimes call his number and now it tells me I dialed wrong, that I should check the number and try again. Where did his voice mail message go? The very short one that said, Call ye back when I can, 'tanks, in the quiet Newfoundland preacherman voice that he used in his office when someone was in distress. I believe I heard that voice more than anyone. I have voice memos that I saved from things so I can still listen to him but I only do that in the walk-in closet with the door locked and my headphones on so no one hears and thinks I'm slipping.

I'm not slipping. This is how things will always be.

I'm cold. I should run and slide into some jeans (new, straight-leg, way too long but nice) and a big sweater (Cole's grey one. Not giving it up ever even though it still reeks of paint thinner and gives me a headache and itchy hives because it wasn't made with soft wool) and maybe socks too. Ones with skulls that come up over my knees. Then I'll be super-warm but instead I'll probably just wait and have a hot shower before bed because that feels good too.

When I make coffee in the afternoon a dozen voices remind me that it's a bad idea. I do it around twice a week to be rebellious. When I pick up a pencil to start a drawing I immediately want to rip all the pages out of my sketchbook and start fresh.

Sometimes my music switches me back to another time and place. Sometimes I wake up with ideas about allegiance and loyalty and love that differ wildly from the day before. Some days I don't recognize myself in the mirror and some days I can rescue a downhill slide with any manner of stupid inconsequential actions and the moment I figure out the process for that instead of it occurring only by happenstance, well then I'll have conquered the world.

Stuff.

Sort of wonder why no one said a word
Don't you like it on the sly?
Don't you like it till it hurts?
Have I been on your mind?
What's a voice without a song?
Something in your head you've been fighting all along

Ben did not leap out of bed at six this morning and run off to attend meetings. Instead he remained under the covers tracing my eyelashes and lips and then Lochlan's for good measure until Lochlan got supremely irritated and got up and went to start coffee and let the dog out. Ben laughed and I opted to stay right where I was.

I hear there's a little bumblebee who said she misses me.

That's the biggest understatement of the decade.

Thought you had your hands full anyway.

No, if you're back but you're not engaged then it's eleventy million times harder.

Really?

Truth.

I'm sorry. I'm just trying to figure out how to coexist peaceful with all of these assholes.

Your brothers.

My brothers, yes ma'am. And also the assholes.

Who's an asshole right now?

Besides you, you mean?

Ouch. That hurt very far down, deep in my soul.

That sounds dirty. I should check that out.

I KNEW you were in there somewhere! Welcome home Tucker!

Fading best.

Let it go
I believe you're the fire that can burn me clean
I believe you're the fire that can burn me clean
I believe you're the fire that can burn me clean

Oh goodness, nothing better than waking up to a new Switchfoot EP. I think I died over Ba55. It's a very neat little song. I always like their outlier tunes best anyhow. It's catchy. So catchy I'm a little worried it will become the next big brainwave in Bridget's head, stuck fast for months.

Worse things could happen. One whole summer I had Jacob's cover of High Holy Day's Proud in my head and it almost killed me.

And Ben is uh..absent to all of it anyway. Did I mention he laughed when I told him Lochlan was going to set down a whole new list of rules for him? He said dryly that Lochlan drinks too much and that I wasn't supposed to take any of what he says seriously until he gets some help too.

(Because suddenly everyone has a problem, you see.)

Lochlan is stone cold sober two days since and not budging an inch. I almost had to rip his face right off when he tried to intercept a hug Daniel was planning for me. I thought he was going to try and pick a fight with Daniel and that is absolutely off limits.

It's the equivalent of if he tried to pick a physical fight with Henry, who is almost big enough to hold his own but I would be horrified nonetheless. That would never happen but it would be terrifying if it did.

So yeah, I was ragey about him, because don't. So he went away mad and that's fine. He'll come back.

Unlike You-know-who.

Ben breezes in and out of life like it's a brief stop on his itinerary in the day. He shows up, eats and disappears. I think he still knows our names but otherwise I've become a restaurant with a daily special and a fully-stocked kitchen with a reliable quality level. I've become a menu, come and choose depending on what you feel like today, have the special or maybe don't come at all. Leave a tip, along the lines of The soup was great but the waitress is always crying, maybe you should look into that or Stop waiting so hard, Bridget, you're going to hurt yourself. That ought to be worth fifteen or twenty percent, at least. Sometimes I'm tempted to put a CLOSED sign up on the door and see if he even notices.

And Daniel's holding this failing establishment together with his hugs. His hugs are bailout money, collateral to stay afloat just a little bit longer and see if business picks up.

Not a plan so much as a wish.

And your heart beats so slow
Through the rain and fallen snow
Across the fields of mourning
Lights in the distance

Don't shoot me, for I'm just the messenger here. I said it once if I said it a dozen times as Lochlan's unbalanced, impulsive plan is met with derision, disbelief.

Duncan's pretty sure he falls outside of the parameters. He's not a devil, he's certainly no angel and he's not a project currently underway. He laughs about the bullshit part, though, as if Lochlan conveniently managed to herd everyone who didn't fall into a specific label as a remainder and therefore still liable.

He says no in his cool throwaway voice and laughs out loud. He points at me and asks if I think Lochlan has any leverage here at all. I shake my head. He asks if I plan to only accept hugs and comfort from Lochlan and I open my mouth and Duncan answers for me in a thick Scottish bleat of indignation. Of course! I'm Greedy MacHoggish and I can provide everything she needs! 

I laughed and then I wanted to cry again but the time for that has passed.

You're going to have to show him your balls, Bridget. 

Well then I'm really in trouble because I don't have any. I'm a girl.

You've got the biggest balls of all of us. 

That's saying a lot of mean things all at once. 

You going to let him mow you down? 

He's trying to protect me. 

Naw, he's only trying to protect himself. 

From what?

Bridget, your fears and his aren't all that different. 

So you're on his side? You think what he's trying to do is okay?

I didn't say that, I'm just reminding you that the fear of losing someone is huge. Huge. 

Postscript.

I went outside long after dinner to collect all of the dishes from the patio. It's now pouring down rain but if I leave it for tomorrow it's always a bigger mess.

Plus...OCD, it's a doozy.

I get down to the lower level at the bottom of the steps and there's Lochlan lying on a sun chair in the deluge, drinking whiskey and water because hey, you can't stop rain after all and he looks up at me, grabs my hands and says,

I swear to God I'll never break your heart again and please know I mean to keep this promise if it's the only thing I ever do. But I'm going to lock you down now, just like my name. No more devils. No more angels. No more project guys. No more bullshit, Bridget.

Then he climbs out of the chair, kisses my forehead, takes the dishes from my hands and leaves me there in the rain, paralyzed and in tears.

Not yours to love.

(Yes, in fact I think I will make a concerted effort to talk more about what I find on the beach and what I make for dinner because this is tiring. On the other hand, once it's out of my head and on the page I feel like I can let it go and move on the next horrific indignation or whatever the fuck it is that I do all day here.)

Jesus fucking Christ, Bridget. What have you done? 

I told you what I'm doing and it's working. 

You think I can turn a blind eye to this forever? This is killing me.

Then you should pay closer attention to what I tell you and stop dismissing my ideas only because you can't get it through your thick fucking skull that I'm not a child anymore, Lochlan! 

I wish you were sometimes, then I could punish you and you wouldn't be able to go off with such stupid ideas. 

If it's so stupid then why is it working?

Because it's you, and he'll do anything for you at this point.

EXACTLY! SO LET HIM! 

I think your true goal is now to destroy all of us to punish yourself for not being good enough for Jake. That's what I think. When everyone is gone you'll be satisfied that you couldn't be any worse off or hurt any more because you think you weren't good enough for him. You're looking for rock bottom but you don't have to do that anymore!

Every time I exhale something else goes wrong. I may as well attempt to control it for my own benefit. Dilute my life and my love and then I'm safe. 

From who?

From all of you breaking my heart. Over and over again. 
 

Adaptive evolution/night vision.

Name it.

I throw out a figure, padded and tripled. He doesn't even blink so I shrug and say I'm trying to save my family too.

Done. But the caveat is you go home with the sun.

I nod. He's grown intemperate over the past little while, always wanting me to stay through until sunrise as if he is afraid of the dark.

Who isn't?

I'll double it if it makes you feel better.

Yes, please.

He twists my hair up in his hand and puts his other hand under my chin, cupping it, lifting my head up so I have to look at him. What would make it better? Name it.

I don't know, Diabhal. Just be nice.

Sometimes it can't be helped, Babydoll.

Try for me? Please?

He doesn't answer because he needs a kiss and then I am pushed to the ground. When he is happy enough I am hauled back up by my arm. He wipes off my mouth with his hand and backs me over to the bed, grabbing a velvet box from the nightstand. I am turned and pushed down face-first. I wait as he leans down and fastens something around my neck and then I am turned over again. I pull my hands up to touch it. It's a necklace with a charm. I can't tell what it is but he won't let me up to look in the mirror.

When I wake up in the morning, crawling out of his hold, the first thing I do is cringe at my reflection in the mirror. I look ruined and wild. Destroyed but not a write off. We can rebuild her, I think. I lean in and look at the pendant. It's a gingerbread man made of white gold. A visual reminder for him to listen to the safe words. A marker for the future. I leave it on the bureau in the tray beside his Breitling as I dress quickly.

He protests from his dreams. Stay.

Going.

I love you. I'll transfer the money when I get up.

Keep your money, I tell him, but he doesn't listen. By lunch time the money is there. I get an email from the bank to tell me. I go and log in and it's five times what he promised (and thirty times more than I needed) which was already far more than I have decided I am worth.

Heart murmurs.

Matt and I are the only ones brave enough to keep the owls company tonight.

What made you choose to be a part of this group?

Sam.

So then what are you running from, Matt?

Everyone's got their secrets, don't they? I suppose I want to get things right. I had a very long relationship once, Bridget. And I waited too long to make it into what it should have been. Marriage was a pipe dream in those days. Now it's an inevitability. My partner wanted it so badly and I ignored that while I finished school and started my career. I don't want to lose Sam the same way.

He's not the same man though.

No, but I am. Well, I sort of am.

But this time Sam is you and you are Sam. Does that feel strange?

I think I see what it is about you. There are no illusions.  You force us to confront the deepest levels of who we are.

I don't do anything, Matt. 

Indirectly yes. You bring out the men we are, instead of the one we think we are supposed to be, or are striving to be. 

I'm sure that's supposed to be a compliment, but-

It is! It's authentic. No one wants a fake, a sham of a life. We should all work harder to live transparently. That's one of the things that drew me here. No facades, no games. 

Oh, there are games. 

I think those are not what you say they are, not games so much as unresolved issues. Caleb, I know of. Sam struggles to understand your relationship with him. 

Sam had a front-row seat to Caleb and Jake's animosity for one another. 

Why? Did they know each other before? 

No. After Cole died I married Jacob and then Caleb came back and tried to pick up where we left off. Jacob wanted no part of that. Jake wasn't keen on a lot of the guys and our levels of contact. 

But?

But he mostly tolerated them. 

Because he loved you?

Because he tried to find the good in people. Even when there was none to be had.  That's probably what destroyed him, when he realized there wasn't any good in me. 

Is that what you think?

Matt, I try not to think too hard about the reasons. It serves no purpose now. 

Sam told me there are letters you haven't read. 

If I finish the story Jake becomes a memory. This way he stays fresh. If you don't finish the book you can leave it on your bedside table forever and it's a work in progress. That's the only thing that enables me to smile in any given day, knowing I don't have to end that story. 

Is it healthy though?

I'm not sure I care at this point. I followed everyone's orders and now I only listen to myself. It seems just as effective. 

You're smart, Bridget. 

No, Matt. I'm tired and I'm scared and it's just better to stick close to my boys and be disfunctional. At least it's familiar. It's safe. 

Can't beat that. 

Amen.

Security objects and grown men.

I think what is so aggravating about Lochlan is that he's the embodiment of everything I don't like about myself. He's a frighteningly hard worker, if only he enjoys what he does. If he doesn't like what he's working on then he's a miserable prick about it.

He likes flighty, fanciful things but works hard to be taken seriously.

He tries on moods, opinions and personalities like other people try on clothes. He went for capable, welcoming, together and wound up wounded, fucked up and blown wide apart.

And they say Sam is my male equivalent.

I don't know. I think I see Lochlan losing his mind trying to work a corporate gig and be BENevolent (as we're calling it now) and trying to maintain his generous spirit but these torches separately and together are too big to juggle and he's dropping shit all over the place.

That's hard to watch. Lochlan never ever makes mistakes so when he does it's especially painful. He suffers so quietly I never know what to do to make it better. Mostly I know to be there in his landing place so that I am the first thing he grabs to hold on to.

Most people have a teddy bear. He has a Bridget.

I put the money back in his account too. No way is he taking over paying for this. This was a gift to him when we let him in, so to speak and he's not required to contribute financially. He wasn't impressed that I did that but he was definitely relieved. He asked where I got the money and I said Don't. As in Don't ask because you won't like the answer but it's okay because I'm here and I love you and Ben does too and maybe just take a deep breath. Okay maybe another because you're crushing me and I can't breathe.

He finally fell asleep in the sun this afternoon, still in his button-down shirt and wool pants. Four meetings today and I think he drowned himself in buzzwords and needs to sleep off the inebriation. I know he hates it. I'll wait him out and then maybe we can blow bubbles after dark, unwinding with something magical and dumb.

Like us.

What would Bridget do?

I just noticed Sam is aging. I was looking at the lines around his eyes as he sat in the chair gently tearing strips off me, constructing a straw man so we could argue pointlessly into the night.

I never said Ben couldn't have faith.

You said it was Jacob's thing. Or maybe it's my thing. But why can't it be Ben's thing too?

Because Ben is..

Scary? Shallow? You don't like being labelled, categorized or marginalized, Bridget. What makes you think Ben would feel any different about what you're trying to do to him with this subject?

It's too late for Sam's difficult questions and I am busy looking at his caramel brown hair for grey.

What are you doing?

Admiring your face. 

That's a mutual activity. Not too late for us to run away together. 

Sam, I can't make you happy. I don't like it up the bum.

Me neither. 

Ah. Pitcher?

Depends on the day, Princess.

You play all positions!

What sport is this?

Uh. Baseball. I think.

Can we change the subject, Bridget?

Yes. Where did you want to run away to, exactly?

You pick a place.

Hmmm..okay. My parents house, circa 1976. The kitchen appliances are avocado-green. I'm wearing a brown turtleneck and jeans with Scandinavian embroidered trim. I'm helping my sister bake cookies. It's already dark out. We're excited about Halloween the next week. There is snow on the ground already. I'm going to be Bugs Bunny. I had one of those epic flammable plastic masks and bag printed with a bunnyesque visage...

Sam's in stitches now and I'm not sure he's even listening. He's dissolved into hysterics.

It actually isn't funny. I could have burned. Not like everyone didn't smoke back then, on airplanes and at the bank and in movie theatres. 

Did you plan on wearing your bunny suit everywhere? 

Of COURSE. I was five. 

Bridget, I think the highlight of each of my days is when you present to me the contents of your mind. But we should get back to my lecture. 

You know, just because they sent Ben home with a temporary Jesus Freak stamp doesn't mean I have to change. I accept Ben the way he is, just like I do with everyone, even you. 

Even though I'm a pitcher?

Now is the part where I break your heart and tell you all men are technically pitchers. 

All of them?

Yeah, except Daniel. He'll always be a catcher. 

I'm sure it should bother me that you even know these things but it seems perfectly normal. 

I know everything, Sam. Quiz me. 

How long until Ben returns to the Ben you know best?

Except that. Don't ask me that. It isn't fair.