Birth days.

He did it again. Right there in the middle of the day, he's watching Henry open gifts from some of the boys and he smiles as if he's about to lose his shit and he says,

I wanted him to have the same opportunities Ruth has with having a present father. 

It makes me cold all over but when I ask him what he's talking about he dismisses it as me mishearing or him not being very clear, he just wants to be a part of Henry's life since he doesn't live in the main house with his son.

But my gut. My gut tells me he means something else entirely.

A tightrope I never come down from.

Today I'm forced to coexist with Caleb. He wanted me to accompany him to find presents for Henry's birthday. Why he waits until the day before I'll never know but it's mildly irritating.

We went to the Microsoft store. I think Henry's going to be very happy. We also went to the book store which means Henry will be incredibly thrilled and has no idea how blessed he truly is because one rarely learns the lessons of character in a bubble such as this.

I do try my best though. Henry's already expressed concern that Dad will spend too much.

Let him. Less for him, more for you. 

But then everyone else will feel bad. 

No. Your father's wealth intimidates no one. 

Henry laughs in relief. Good. Well, I mean, I'm glad. 

They're tough guys, Bunny. And wealth is only a small part of the measure of success in life. 

You always say that, Mom. 

That's because it's true. 

How much is enough then?

Enough money? Well, you know you have enough when you have some for emergencies, some for fun and everything is paid up besides. Then you have enough. But always save first and keep the fun for later if you have to choose.

Dad says everyone should be more concerned with making as much as possible and then you've proved yourself better. 

Do you think that's true?

No. Not really. 

Dad can't be faulted for not knowing what it's like to be average, sweetheart. He's a self-made man, as they say. 

That's what Lochlan says about himself but he doesn't have any money at all. 

He has more character. His 'self-made' definition is more about integrity.

So you get character if you're really poor?

Mostly, yes. My turn to laugh.

So he has tons and tons?

Okay, zip it, Henny. And remember it's not the price of the gift that counts, it's the sentiment with which it is given. 

You always say that too. 

It's even more true than the other thing, that's why.

BRB.

Going to make sweet sweet love to this big bottle of pineapple coconut water. God, I love this stuff.

Thinner atmospheres.

Today I did a lot of chores while Joel followed me around expressly not helping unless you count his leading questions and quiet consideration of my answers. By the time the lunch hour rolled around he had his evaluation and I had clear drains, clean taps, folded laundry, swept floors and a newly clipped dog who is really happy to be so much lighter in this humidity.

I had my own opportunity to fire questions right back, finding out exactly what's going on between him and Sam, what he thinks of Caleb's efforts to simultaneous keep and destroy this collective and what my future holds. He's much like a scientific fortune teller and I found it amusing to watch him visibly soften a lot of things and contradict himself at will if he thought I was going to dismiss his observations or even question them. I have no interest in pitting my knowledge of who I think I am against who he thinks I am.

It was just interesting to watch him pale visibly and try not to wretch as I fished huge clumps of hair out of the upstairs drains. Such is life with these guys and their Allman Brothers hair and plentiful beards, in case you thought it was all glamorous. I'm getting better at not being grossed out by living in a house with seven oversized men (okay, six, shhhh, since Loch isn't oversized and Gage is away right now) and they do try very hard to clean up after themselves and do the grosser chores.

I suppose I could have left that paragraph out but it's relevant to demonstrate life in the every day here. That Ben isn't around enough and Loch is always mad or too logical to be fun and the kids have their friends to play with and really I'm minding that no one has time for me.

Well, some do but that's besides the point.

I begged off having Joel analyze my afternoon and instead took the dog for a long walk up around the neighborhood above us. I came home, washed the dog's face, gave him a cookie and warmed up my coffee that was ignored in the morning and I took my paints and went outside. I came back inside three seconds later because the full sun hits the front yard midafternoon and I just can't take it like I used to be able to.

I counted eight more freckles and Loch came downstairs, freshly showered, home from yet another job he will quit in a week or a month and I forgot to drink my coffee again. He thanked me for doing the drains and said he'll do the next round. I sorted another dozen envelopes full of photos from Cole and Sam asked me to proofread this week's bulletin and then it was already time to make dinner.

The day went so fast, I feel like I just connected moons with a string of utter nonsense.

Enchant me, then eat me alive.

Ben swooped in just as we were dishing up plates last evening.  Oh, there you are. Finally. He's been holed up in his studio for days.

Leave two of them out, he said and grabbed my hand, pulling me out of the kitchen and up the stairs to our room. When we get there he tells me to find a comfortable dress that won't be too warm, for being outside.

I grab a pretty eyelet sundress and matching shoes. He looks at the shoes when I come back from dressing and says Not those. Something comfortable. 

I exchange the pumps for my keds and he says Perfect. He's changed into a tissue-weight henley shirt and his utilikilt so I know I've hit the mark.

Back downstairs and he grabs his keys, everyone says Have fun! and we are off.

Only I don't know where.

He turns out of our neighborhood and I'm like Yay! Whistler for dinner! But he just says Nope and grins, turning abruptly, heading down a fire road then turns again and then after fifteen minutes of what seems like twisting and turning and I can no longer tell where I am he drives through a heavy stand of trees and we come out in front of a glorious lake. A mountain lake that I haven't seen on the map and I figured everything on this side was just grizzly and black bear county and I should stay the heck away. But there are no bears that I can see, only this perfectly still lake.

And on the beach I see a pretty table covered with a yellow tablecloth and fresh wildflowers in a big tin pitcher. The path there and all around the table someone has layered woven blankets.

Ben smiles at me and says he wanted to try a new restaurant, and that I can leave my shoes in the truck. We get out of the truck (so much cooler up here) and he unloads a wicker picnic basket from the bed and I ask him what the restaurant is called so I can tell all our friends and he thinks for a minute and he says Chez Ben. But it's only open one night of the year. 

I see. Well they'll be disappointed then. 

I'm not, he says.

Me neither. I tell him back.

We settle at the table and he goes about unpacking. I don't have to pinch myself because when I see the food I know it's Ben and it's real. Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and cans of iced tea.

It was the best picnic I've ever had.

We took our drinks down to sit on a log after we finished our sandwiches, sticking our bare feet in the cool water. Pond skaters were all over the place, as were mosquitoes. We got eaten alive. I offered that maybe we should head back because we both had so many bug bites and also it was dusk now and bears are more active and I hear they love peanut butter but Ben said he wanted five more minutes and then we'll go. He squeezed my hand and looked at his watch. Then he did it again.

Then again.

I'm thinking...what the heck is he waiting for?

Then he looked at it once more, pulled me in tight against him and kissed me like he meant it. Long, heavy and hot. The split-second his lips touched mine fireworks went off on the other side of the lake. Actual fireworks.

I laughed mid-kiss and got another kiss because I messed up his efforts on the first one with my laughing. Half because he isn't usually given to this level of romance and half because deeply kissing someone after you've eaten a peanut butter and jam sandwich is uncharacteristically...awkward.

When we finally stopped kissing each other the fireworks ended and he nodded quizzically and asked me if I saw anything. He got to his feet, pulling me up too and said he swore he saw fireworks during that kiss.

Me too!

This proves it, Bridge. We are meant to be.

I think kissing after PB&J proves that. You have to really love someone to make that level of sacrifice.

Yeah, I learned something else tonight too. 

What is that? 

Kilts and mosquitoes really don't mix.

Too beautiful of a day to wake up feeling like everything is too desperately worthful to lose.

Even a well lit place can hide salvation
A map to a one-man maze that never sees the sun
Where the lost are the heroes and the thieves are left to drown
But everyone knows by now fairy tales are not found

It's thirty degrees in the shade and Lochlan is throwing fire. He doesn't notice the heat. His nose and forehead are already pink along with his shoulders and the back of his neck since I put his hair in a low messy man-bun this morning and he left it like that. It has lightened to the color of polished copper. I want to keep him like this forever. If I squint he is seventeen. If I focus I still wouldn't even come close to guessing that he'll turn forty-nine later this summer. It just doesn't compute. He doesn't age. All this sun and fire and hard living (not now, I mean previous to this house) and stupid stubborn syllogism and he remains the same.

I put my own hair in the same style of loose bun and he laid down his torches and came over, putting his top hat on my head. It's far too big and sits with the brim on my shoulders. I can't see. He doesn't want me to get too much sun. I don't need to see like I don't need to hear. I'll just navigate based on touch, like always.

And if he dies, I'll go with him. I already promised myself that years ago.

Weirdly effective.

Send out the signal and I'll fly low
If it means the death of me, I won't let go
And if I'm lost in the worlds shadows
I'll use the light that comes to me
From your halo

I think Loch was waiting for everyone to relax a bit. He acted so normal (relatively speaking) all week and then this morning he threw himself at Caleb out of the blue and bit him.

He bit him.

The yell Caleb let out was unholy and the answering call even quicker as Loch roared right back with a question, asking him what it felt like. Caleb launches into a curse-filled diatribe and says it hurts a lot and was completely unprovoked.

It doesn't look as bad as Bridget's.

No, but it hurts like fuck. I should have you charged.

Let me just make sure I have this right. It's not as bad as the bite you gave Bridget but it hurts a lot and you want to call the cops. You think the bite you gave her that is worse hurts? She's half your size! You think we should call the cops? Loch throws himself into a chair. Call them. I'm not going anywhere. In fact, I think when they come we'll need to give them the full backstory here so they understand things.

Caleb stands there for a moment holding his arm.  His face is ashen. Takes him so long to figure things out but he's bent from hell and never fully straightens so even if it doesn't turn out to be a lesson it can be payback.

He turns to leave without a word (LESSON ACCOMPLISHED) and Loch calls to his back. If I see that camera around here I'll take a bite out of it too. Don't take any more pictures of my family.

I have to hand it to Lochlan. He struck not half a day after PJ finally relaxed and we had decided that it was once again safe for them to be in the same building with each other.

I should have bitten his fucking heart right out of his chest.

Gross.

Just imagine the visual, Peanut.

Still yuck.

True. It's most likely rotten. Black.

Okay, well THAT would be cool.

I knew you'd say that.
 

Morning coffee and I was trying to make a playlist when this happened (What a fucking BUZZFEED headline.)

Scrolling by song title. Ahahaha, I give up.

And by last night he had purchased a big fancy new camera.

Ben either has far more self-restraint and a magnificent ability to calm down the entire household with his very presence or he is about a thousand times more fucked up than even I give him credit for.

I will never be sure which, at this point. When I came outside, drill in hand, ready to start converting the long galvanized tubs to be windowboxes for the stables, Ben was in the middle of telling Caleb he thinks he has an incredible eye as a photographer and maybe it runs in the family.

(Cole, not sure if you remember, was taking pictures when he wasn't painting. His photos were our bread and butter and were what brought Batman into my life, proper. Or maybe that's improper. Either way I still have around three thousand of his prints here. No, that's not a typo.)

And Caleb is agreeing with Ben. They're discussing the merits of erotic photography using unconventional subjects and provocative arrangements meant to inspire uncomfortable emotions in the beholder.

Oh, well, just great.

But then Ben abruptly points out I won't be Caleb's subject. That he needs to use models who aren't emotionally connected to make his work that much more diverse. Oh, I love him so much.

Caleb sees me through the screen and refutes.  Bridget is what sells this. Her fragility translates so well to film. She's the reason Cole made it. So I would say the opposite holds true, Benjamin.

Cole didn't make it. Cole exploded. I press my head against the screen. It pulls on the sides and I'm wondering if I force this if I'll come out in long tiny squares and reform out on the porch. Ben's head whips around in surprise and he gets up.

I can't believe you're encouraging him, Benny. 

You have to admit, Bee. It's possibly the hottest picture of you I've ever seen. It's like porn but classy. 

Oh well that just makes it all better then. Loch will be thrilled. 

That's why I said Caleb should use someone else. 

But then would it still be so hot? Or would it just be porn?

I don't know. I'll have to look at them first. 

Of course you will. 

Asterisms.

Caleb's scorched earth campaign continues and it appears I will go on until I'm staggering down the road missing limbs, fully lobotomized and amnesic, breathing borrowed air. No one understands this, no one can parse exactly at which point all attention turned to me and I became the possession, the doll they would fight over, pulling me apart in an effort to be victorious until my seams rip open, my guts spill all over the road and I am ruined, in pieces, empty and worth nothing.

I wasn't all that special at eight or nine, I didn't think. I was sort of average. I was willing and determined, I was flighty and dependent at the same time. They just had such an overwhelming need to save me, to control me, to stand in front and fight away all my demons for me and they've never let up for a single second of my life from that first night.

I want to ask how they can waste any more of their lives fighting for me, over me, on my behalf. Its been half our lives now, if we're lucky. It's been decades and nothing's changed save for the fact that the stakes are literally as high as they will ever get, as we fight through life and death and children and threats and lawsuits and custody battles and financial particulars and living arrangements and marriage arrangements and everything that goes along with everything else.

We've tried breaks. Absences. Forcible removals. Protection orders. Death. Life. Birth. We've tried making things work and we've tried adjusted collective living now too. We've tried lawlessness and we've had rules. We've had leaders and followers. We've watched the years tick past but nothing every changes except that I get older and less beautiful as each night passes into the next and still they fight on. It doesn't even matter if I'm HERE, they're still fighting over the memory of me, the idea of me, something.

I had to go around and request that each of my beloved friends delete the photo. Most tried to pretend they didn't really see it or it was no big deal. Some made really bad jokes to cover up their horror. Some gave me lectures. Some denied they ever got it until I chose to wait them out and they crumbled quickly. Some laughed and refused, saying I got what I deserved.

Some still threatened to put it up for the world to see until I pointed out that I don't care about the world at large, I care about the people who live here with me. The rest is just static, white noise, a constant roar of life passing by while we all remain locked in a ridiculous war and no one even knows why we're fighting anymore.

Sure we do, Bridget. We're fighting for you. 

Well, stop it. I never asked for this.