Fine during daylight.

It's a shitty spring day here in Manhattan and I'm being as difficult as humanly possible. First I asked for a cronut for breakfast and someone actually brought me one. Then I asked for some Xanax and they brought that too (a. full. bottle.) but I didn't take it, I'm going to save it and use to poison the Devil tonight during dinner.

And then I won't have to listen to his endless instructions on how I should act while we're here.

Stop rolling your eyes, Bridget. 

Get your feet off the chair. 

Sign here. And here. And here. Initial here.

Wait here.

Come with me.

On your knees.

Stop crying.

And then I get some more champagne and maybe a trip to FAO to soothe my frazzled nerves because twelve. Because I didn't want to fly, not into a major city known for acts of terrorism waged within its limits while there are whole planeloads of people missing in the world, not without at least even Ben to be a buffer between us but it's only two nights (of crying) and then we get to fly back home to safety and I can put away the drugs and the poor little gutter rat turned rich princess act he loves so much and go back to who I am in real life because this ain't it and whoever thought it was a good idea to trot me around the country using what was supposed to become my money to fund ventures that I don't even understand is cracked.

He tells me the return is worth it, not to worry, he's good at this. He tells me he sacrificed being good at anything mostly in his personal life for success in his finances and I believe him, truly I do. I countered that I sacrificed everything for love and he laughed in my face.

You're a witch, he says.

If that were true you'd already be dead. I tell him and drink myself blind before lunch.

But hey, we're making money and Jesus Christ is he ever happy about that.

There are no good guys here.

(A gift from 1995.)

He sat there in his top hat, vest, ripped jeans and smudged black eyeliner, cigarette dangling from between his fingers, warm stolen beer in a bottle in his other hand, trying to talk sense into me.

I'm standing against the canvas because who is going to listen to an angry freak magician in eyeliner? He looks evil. He looks mean. And I think he's lost his mind.

It's a lot of money, Bridget.

I walk to him slowly, take his cigarette, put it between my lips and walk back over to my side of the alleyway. I lean against the wall, closing my eyes, sucking smoke back into my lungs. It gives me a headache but so does everything these days.

Fine. I drop the cigarette on the ground and cross my arms, pulling my shoulders up close to my ears. He jumps up and crosses to me, putting his arms around me, telling me I am doing the right thing. That we can do this. We've practiced. Everything will be alright.

This isn't the right thing. This is some weird underground thing and we have no business being mixed up with these people. Plus this isn't a show routine, it's an x-rated routine. Adults-only. This is a line I didn't think I'd be shoved across.

The door opens and he lets go, turning around. The manager steps down into the crowded alley and gestures to Lochlan. Your fire breather. Loch tips his hat and nods at a rather tall, sinister-looking man with a cane. But the man with the cane isn't looking at Loch, he's looking at me. I stare back with open hostility but say nothing.

He points the cane at me. What about her?

She's not exactly part of his formal routine-

Her, I want her. 

Loch, tell them to fuck right off. I push out from the wall and stand tall, all five feet of me. I am shaking.

The manager shoots me a dirty look but the man with the cane breaks into tinny, stilted laughter. He sounds like dry leaves scratching a windowpane, like death.

I don't mean it in that way, dear girl. I want the two of you to perform for my guests and you will be renumerated quite handsomely. If my guests are pleased I will offer a standing date with you for the same money. 

No, more. If they like us they'll want to see us again so our rate will increase fifteen percent. Also we get paid the day before. 

Ten and I don't pay freaks in advance. Why would you show up?

Code. I'm not a thief. 

Yes, you are, dear girl. A thief of hearts. Are you together?

No, I say and Lochlan says yes at the same time. I roll my eyes.

Ah. A lover's quarrel. Perhaps you can use that as material for your routine. Three hours, beginning at nine sharp. No drugs. No weapons. Half payment when you arrive, the other half when you leave. Do we have an agreement?

I look at Loch and he nods. We'll be there. 

The men turn and go back inside and I walk across the lane and shove Loch into the wall. What the fuck are you doing? We're going to get killed. 

He smiles that smile that makes it hard for me to breathe, dimples on high, eyes rimmed in black and I know he's picturing the nights he stripped me from my clothes and practiced a slow burn.

I can't wait to light you on fire for an audience. 

And we could go back to the way it was
And sacrifice the way it could be
We could fall apart or we could fall in love again

He didn't say a word. We made love, we slept. We got ready for our day this morning together and then he took Ben up to an appointment and said he'd bring me back a treat. He brought me back a slurpee (cherry cream!) and I thanked him profusely. Then I took a nice long pull off the straw and went to my knees with the worst mindfuck of a brain freeze I've ever had.

And Lochlan laughed. He laughed until he had tears in his eyes and then he said to me,

It fucking serves you right.

Favors.

Four in the morning and I'm sitting on the Devil's lap, feeding him birthday cake as he sits with his back against the headboard. I'm still making a valiant effort not to get it on myself or his sheets even though it's too late. He doesn't care. His hands slide up my thighs and he laughs as I jam a piece between his teeth with my fingers. I break off another but he shakes his head and tells me he isn't hungry for cake anymore so I shrug and eat it instead. I love cake.

He bends his head forward and kisses my chest, putting his hands up to cup my shoulders and pull me down against him but I fight to remain upright. I'm not finished the cake yet.

Yes, you are finished it. He laughs. He is delighted, wide awake. I knew you would come. 

I haven't come yet though. I shock him and he laughs.

Why are you here, Babydoll? I haven't had luck like this in years. 

I don't want to talk anymore. I get up off him and he follows me, pulling me back, turning me to face him, putting his arms around me, kissing all the little places that make me die a thousand deaths of thrill each time. I taught him all these things while he was busy pretending he knew it all, losing nuance for force and tenderness for strength.

He's much better now but I still fight him off.

I have to go. That's enough cake for one night. 

I want an established night to look forward to. Monthly. weekly, whatever it takes. Something no one can argue with. 

Then you would otherwise not ask me?

No, I would ask you more. All it takes is a taste and I'm left wanting more all the time. 

That's how I feel about cake.

So marry me and I'll give you cake every single day. Call this the end of a grand experiment and be where you belong. With me.

I belong with Lochlan. 

Then why are you here? 

I shrug. I'm a masochist. I look up into his face and he's not smiling anymore.

It's the mixed messages from him, isn't it? Lochlan brings you up weird and then abruptly demands that you conform, and be normal. 

No, you messed me up good and now I can't be normal. 

I never trotted you out as a freak, Bridget. I never encouraged you to stand under the hot lights and let people gape at you for whatever tricks you could do for them. 

Semantics, Diabhal. 

I wanted you to be a freak but only here, and only for me. He bends his head down and kisses me again, icing and all. His stubble hurts like hell against my skin and I can feel myself curling up on the inside like a fortune teller miracle fish party favor. All red plastic and cheap wax envelope and bullshit magic meant to entertain for seconds rather than a lifetime. A prize in a Christmas cracker. A blink and you'll miss me. A snapshot with a flash, blown out, killing all the details in favor of begging to capture a moment that's already passed.

I let him lead me back to the cake-covered sheets and I let him pretend whatever he wants until sunrise while I lie in a sugar coma haze, naming the movements as they happen, telling my own fortune, which isn't a fortune at all.

Passionate.
In love.
Jealousy.
Indifference.
Fickle.
False.
Dead.

I'm never going back, the past is in the past.

(You're only going to understand the last conversation here if you've seen Frozen.)

Hey. Don't worry so much about the amount of punch-throwing the boys do, they've been doing it since they were born. I first witnessed a bad umpire call when I was nine that left both of them duking it out in the gravel by the concession stand long after the game was over.

They were on the same team.

They proceeded to throw punches over every little thing throughout the next three and a half decades, right up through and into yesterday. It's a thing. I have visions of them in a nursing home in old age, tripping each other's walkers over and laughing hysterically when I'm long gone.

Ben thought it was hysterical but he finds everything ridiculous in his sobriety.

Ignore him, Bridget. He loves you. He wants what's best for you. 

That is bullshit and you know it, Benjamin. 

Then ignore it, he can't have you? 

That's better. 

Lochlan took it differently. He lay in bed half the morning singing Let It Go.

Conceal, don't feel-

Hey, Locket.

Don't let them know-

Oh my God, please stop singing. 

Well, now they know....let it go, let it go. 

I think I'm going to cry. 

Why? What's wrong?

I have one apathetic wagon-riding husband, one Disney princess and one demon to contend with. I wish the earth would swallow me whole. 

But what will we do when you're gone?

GET ALONG, Loch!

Ha, now there's a movie no one's ever going to make. 

Too fantasy-based?

You betcha.

Death threats, broken glasses and an unsalvageable Valentino dress. Here's a birthday that will go down in history.

Looking out for love
In the night so still
Oh I'll build you a kingdom
In that house on the hill

I took my turn when it came, standing, holding a glass of champagne, flushed almost as red as my dress by then from two full glasses, as I watched the Devil sit and smile at me virtually all evening, except when he would turn his attention to the speeches made by each of us, as is birthday tradition.

I told him I was proud of him for slowing down, for knowing when to focus on his health and put his somewhat thoroughly redundant business efforts aside. I brought up his generosity with myself, both children, and with Loch. With Daniel. With Duncan. With all of us. I said I hoped he would find happiness and health and a long life ahead in which to do all the things he hasn't done yet. Someone called out for him to list something he hasn't done yet and he answered without skipping a beat.

Get married, he said as he stared at me and I wrapped it up and sat back down so hard I feared I bruised something.

Oh, but then Loch stood up, ignoring his champagne and his four-times-empty whiskey glass (not to mention the fact that it wasn't even his turn). PJ asked the servers to cut him off half an hour ago. Maybe we were too late. He clears his throat and addresses the birthday boy.

There once was a man from the East
at a fifty-first birthday feast
He tried taking my wife,
So I took his life
And that! Was the end! of the beast!

And then he flipped the fucking table like it was nothing.

And Valentino and I took a shower in champagne and broken glass.

But it's okay, no one cared about that. I think they forget precisely how acrobatic he is, as he went right over the sideways table and tackled Caleb off his chair.

And then it was over, because you have to be pretty fast to get a punch in with this crew sitting between the two of them. Mostly I sat there in disbelief and gratitude because we didn't bring the children. Ruth gets bored. Henry didn't want to go but wants cake later. Thank God they didn't see this. Would he have done it if they had been here?

Another restaurant off our list as we are asked to gather our things. Right away. Caleb leaves his card for a damages tally. I consider making a glass angel in all of the shattered flutes on the floor but we have to leave.

Outside the restaurant Caleb takes my hand and pulls me behind him and then drags me down the sidewalk toward Lochlan. PJ tries to hold him back, Christian is trying to extricate me. Too close. Schuyler steps between them. Christ almighty.

Caleb points over Schuyler's shoulder, right in Loch's face.

I try to be generous with you. I put up with no small amount of abuse and after everything I have done for you and to make it up to Bridget I think you should either learn to control yourself or I'll start excluding you from everything, including my home. You'll learn these lessons one way or another, Lochlan. Bridget will be coming home with me. You don't even deserve her. What in the fuck have you done in the past decade anyway? What do you do to make her life better, you fucking useless piece of-

You keep talking and I'll never speak to you again, I say to Caleb as I wrench my hand out of his and fight my way out of Christian's grasp too and shove my way past Schuyler, crashing against Lochlan in my ruined dress. The look on his face is frightening. Everything he fears most is playing out and I don't even think he has registered that I'm right there until I touch his face.

Let's go home.

Bridget, we aren't finished here. (Caleb keeps it going, just because he can.)

I DON'T FUCKING CARE, CALEB. You did this. You baited him. Who else do you want to marry?

Most people let it roll off. He's uncontrollable.

No, your brother was uncontrollable. Lochlan is just frustrated, he has a short fuse.

Ah, another fire metaphor.

See you tomorrow. We'll reschedule dessert.

I ignore the shocked and disappointed look on Caleb's face as it dawns on him that his night is over as Loch pulls me to the truck. He lifts me up into the passenger seat and then goes around and gets in. He's slamming the doors so hard I think the whole thing will break but then once we're in he just sits there and stares at the wheel.

And then he starts to laugh. He drags his hands down his cheeks and collects himself and then he winks at me. That was exhausting.

Why did you do it? On his birthday, of all nights. What purpose does it serve? And why did you ruin my dress?

The purpose was obvious. and fuck the dress. You don't fucking need that dress. You don't need anything from him. Had I not done it you probably would have gone home with him tonight.

You don't know th-

Yes I do. And I told you it's not going to happen anymore. But it's easier to fucking stick it to him if he thinks it's your decision not to go, don't you think? Probably hurts twice as much! Maybe five times more.

So that was a routine.

Yes. A means to an end.

You're not drunk at all, are you?

Actually no. Everytime I came back with a drink it was tea. Jesus, Peanut. You're missing all your cues. Getting rusty. Maybe we should go back out for a few months, find a show before you lose all of your skills.

Maybe we should. He might kill you otherwise.

Nah. He's an old man. And I have fire on my side. He'll burn before he can touch me.

Better hope you're not rusty then.

That, Bridgie, is why I practice every. single. day.

51 candles.

More of this, please (linked for those who read on mobile).

No time to write today. In the celebrated red Valentino dress and I can't actually breathe. Heading out to dinner en masse. Then home where I will change really fast to serve birthday cake to the Devil because I wouldn't dare do it in this.

Thou art dust.

Sam asks me what I'm giving up for Lent this year like he always asks even though Easter is a sort of minefield for Unitarian ministers and everyone else alike. Last time I checked I walked a rather casual lapsed-Baptist line through town but if you ask some people I'm a heathen, a Satanist, an outlier.

It makes me laugh because I'm nothing but I answer the same way I answer him every year.

I'll give up the Devil. 

And then he'll ignore that and get right to the point because Sam wants pancakes for dinner Tuesday night and all important events are merely gateways to food in the end, aren't they?

This week will be very busy school and work and foodwise and Caleb's birthday tomorrow and I fucking HATE pancakes with the heat of a thousand suns because my mother never made breakfast for dinner and so my pancake education came from diners and McDonalds alike, where the pancakes are so sweet they float though they look like they should be salty and greasy and taste better than they actually do.

We're having pancakes, no worries. And Wednesday morning you can give me the copper box so I can grind ashes into my forehead and masquerade as a mortal like the rest of you.

Tell me what's wrong, Bridget. 

I want to sleep. 

Are you going to tell me what's really wrong then?

I smile tightly. I'm okay. I just need PJ to hurry up and get his stuff off the counter so I can bake. 

Want me to move it?

No, he can damn well come and do it himself. I've asked twice already. 

I'll ask him again. It'll be gone in two minutes, okay?

Less than a minute later PJ clears the counters and then Sam wipes them down for me and I sit at the island and try and hyperventilate in silence. I fail and Sam drops the towel and comes to rub my back. Inhale deeper, Bridget. All the way down. What happened?

I just tried to think past the end of the daylight. That's all, I swear. 

Overwhelmed?

Yeah. 

Want me to get Loch?

Yeah. 

Loch comes in from outside, hands covered in grease, boots full of snow and slush, hair full of rain, flat curls pressed to his neck and he sees my face and grabs me in a hug.

Hey now. The future isn't scary, Peanut. It's fireworks later on. It's a trip around the wheel in the morning before breakfast. Orange juice and sausages and fried eggs. We'll get slushies when it gets too hot to move and then when it cools down we can have a walk on the beach. You can tell me about your progress in the book and then I'll tell you a story about when you read to me when I'm old and my eyes get bad but for today...for today it's only a worry about hunger pangs and sunburns and nothing else. Nothing at all. Sunshine. Stars to count. A funnel cake if you're up for it and maybe some singing later by the fire. What color flames would you like tonight?

Blue. I'd like blue. 

Blue flames, some marshmallows to roast. Nothing past the early part of the week. One minute after another. 

Slushies.

Slushies, baby. 

My book. 

I can't wait to hear about it. 

They're all dying, Lochlan. 

Not today they aren't. Everyone here will be here tomorrow too. I finally have the nerve to look at his expression and it's grim because I scare him. He's holding it together by a thread.

So I cut it.

Sunrise guys.

Duncan finally called me.

At 5:45 this morning because time zones. He doesn't plan ahead. I thread my phone down under the covers with me and talk quietly into Lochlan's neck while Ben's arm rests uncomfortably under both our heads.

Cozy. Not sorry.

Dunk. Are you okay?

I'm fine. I'm just getting old and if I'm going to do this I had to figure out a way to do it without being fucked up all day and straight all night. You know? 

I know. 

I just want to be efficient and good and not needing a bottle on the table out here but then when I tried to just put it away I couldn't. 

You can come home. I know someone here can hook you up with something local. With Ben. 

Naw, I'm good. They're supportive. They had warned me a couple of times already. I think they're relieved. 

But you don't have to do it there. 

Do what? I'm just learning some new things. Ben makes a lot more sense to me all of the sudden, you know? 

I turn my face and look at Ben's sleeping face. I don't know but I think I understand. 

We want to be good men, Bridget.

Good Humans. 

That's right, Good Humans. What comes easy for men like Lochlan isn't easy for guys like us. 

Loch took his knocks early in life, that's all. He never had it easy.

True. But you know they say we're all more resilient when we're young. 

That's bullshit. All it does is become responsible for how you finish growing, how you are molded into the person you become. Later on it's simply bad luck or bad planning or both. It doesn't shape you in development.

Your brain is complicated.

Just like the rest of me. 

I'll think on that for a while then. 

Not so long. Will you call tomorrow?

I'd like to. 

Okay, please don't do it at quarter to six in the morning.

Jesus Christ! I'm sorry. Why did you answer it then?

Because it was you.

Feels like Saturday.

Because in my head there’s a greyhound station
Where I send my thoughts to far off destinations
So they may have a chance of finding a place
where they’re far more suited than here

Duncan didn't want to talk to me at all since we found out he sought a sponsor. I called and called, I muscled in on Skype calls where Dalton stood firm, refusing to let me in the frame, fighting me out of the room, talking over me until Loch swooped in and lifted me right off the floor to carry me out.

I yelled at the screen I love you Poet and got simple silence in return.

For fucks sakes.

This will be my fault too. Even though many times I told him to leave the collective, to go and find his way and have a life and he said he did have one, here with his family and that he was fine. Fine, he said. Stop worrying, I'm good. Unless you're offering yourself, and I would blush furiously and change the subject because damn. What a waste.

But still, my fault somehow.

***

Ben, on the other hand, is all LIKE-MINDED INDIVIDUALS, planning to turn the house into some sort of straight-edge punk band with big black sharpie X's on the backs of our hands and Loch and I are like hell, no. Celts like their whiskey so fuck off kindly, ye.

The difference is we don't need it. It's nice here and there, but definitely not missed and hardly ever necessary. That's where the line is drawn, I am told, between people who can remain obediently on the proper side of the line and those who barge right through it on their way to self-annihilation.

***

Caleb and Henry are doing better today, just when I was about to hit my limit with panic, just as I was thinking we need to go back to the doctors and tell them the treatment isn't working, Jesus, fix this, Henry's in pain and Caleb is too strong to admit he's hurting plus what a delicate dance with his already strict and barely balanced pills. Both of them just wanted Ruth and I to stay away so we didn't get sick too but so far so good.

***

So far, so good. Loch said that to me once soon after I wasn't a child anymore but I didn't understand what he meant until words became everything to me and every time I hear it or see it now it makes me smile. A literal use. So far. So Good. You were worth it. So, so worth it.

Bah. You have to hear him say it or it makes no sense. Your fucking knees would cave in, I promise.

***

Batman calls me in a rush of concern, interrupting lunch, telling me to ask Caleb what in the hell the CP is. I guess he's reading through the papers again. He doesn't trust anyone, the poor soul. I shouldn't either but so far so..uh..good?

Capital planning? I venture. Cross platform? Cash percentage?

Go ask him.

No, he's resting. It can wait until Monday.

Bridget-

He's not working right now, he's sick. Let him be. It's a weird position to be in, protector, defender but I hold it lightly anyway, turning it over, letting it catch the light and then setting it gently down on the floorboards, leaving it behind as I press the button on the phone to end the call when the confusion as to how I can stand on both sides of this line so easily when I wouldn't cross the other ones under threat of death threatens to eat me whole.