Fucked.

Just when I think a dinner date is a death march or a life sentence or a big scary thing I should run from (I need large flashing cues) Caleb pulls out all the stops. The ones labelled charm, chivalry and Good Humanism and is sweet to me. Beyond sweet. Somewhat fatherly almost (SO CONFUSED).

He was good through dinner. He said he suspected I may be pharmaceutically enhanced and so he did not order wine or anything else, we had lemonade. And he asked me what I wanted so he could order for us. He asked for a short walk along the boardwalk after dinner and then he suggested an early night, that we both were tired and could use the rest and he released me into Loch's fiery gaze and protection at the stroke of nine o'clock.

Loch promptly poured us both a big scotch and we took them to the bathtub, Loch more riled than ever because when Caleb is nice and easy to deal with he is scarier than ever. But he wasn't scary, it's more as if he was disheartened that I was not looking forward to it and disappointed that I was afraid and so he made it as appealing as he could but cut it down to two hours/just a dinner in order to appease everyone involved.

Boy, that makes us wary. We trust few by default but it's easier if you don't play games in the first place, right?

This morning the money was in my account for Henry, With an equal amount for Ruth. He never fails to provide for both children when permitted to do so which is sweet and so I called him to thank him for being prompt and generous and kinder than usual last night.

I can be anything you need. 

Ha. Even you can't pull that off. 

Try me. 

Be Jake then. I hung up and wished I hadn't said that, because a) he probably could be and b) it's damned disloyal to Ben and Loch to feel this way all the time.

Pentobarbie Doll.

Good morning! Sense8 got renewed for a second season, Lochlan wasn't the least bit upset about sleeping alone (he didn't anyway) the night before last and Caleb's envelope was for tonight so...uh..I need a disguise and an alibi and possibly Nembutal.

(Oh and for those telling me Sense8 wasn't that great after seeing one or two episodes? Finish it. Profound and fun as fuck. And I'm NOT a Wachowski fan, truth be told.)

Caleb's request coincides with our monthly co-parent meeting in which we coordinate schedules, split costs, report on concerns and fill each other in on anything and everything concerning Henry. We make sure we're on the same page at all times, with regards to meals/friends/activities/rules/downtime and behavior.  We check in formally and nail it all down each month, every month. His idea was that we should have fun doing it. Get dressed up, have a fancy, multi-course dinner and spend the evening instead of sitting on hard stools at his kitchen counter going over dentist receipts and calendars under bright lights, a chore so far in this life.

It's hard to argue with that but in this house agreeing with the Devil about anything brands you a thief and a traitor and someone who should have her head examined. 

It has been. 

My head sits on a platter in the living room, if you're wondering. A living specimen being perpetually dissected, debated and debriefed. I won't need to bring it since it's usually busy or broken anyway. I was planning to float it in a barbiturate looking glass so that instead of having feels I could just have fun for once.

Of course it's wrong. Of course. But this week life I seem to be on a roll with doing things that way.

Psychic connections.

I'm watching Sense8 for the third time with Daniel, who wants to lie in bed in the air conditioned goodness of his and Schuyler's love nest and while away the hours in front of the television. Schuyler works a lot, Ben is completely disengaged and Daniel feels a little lost so I came to keep him company, trading my wet bikini for his pajamas in the safety of his walk-in closet and then snuggling down beside him in their bed where it was cool but so warm at the same time. He didn't want to show his pretty face today and so he doesn't have to. Sometimes he slips on the edge of his life too and we tie in and keep him from plummeting further. Lochlan is especially good with Daniel and maybe that explains why he's good with Ben too. But Loch is busy today so I'm it.

(Sense8 is perfectly amazing, by the way. A life-changing program. I adore it. It's on Netflix. It's worth the watch. Multiple times.)

We need food, Bridge. 

Chocolate and cuddles fix everything. I throw my arm across his chest and put my head down on his pillow.

So how do we get food if you're snuggling with me and I can't get up?

Call PJ. He brings me food in bed sometimes.

Over here?

Worth a try. 

He calls PJ. PJ answers and says fuck no, dude. 

Well, who else can we call? 

Schuyler! 

Schuy is receptive and promises to bring home takeout after work. Then he spends so long sweet-talking with Daniel while the television show waits on pause that the screen goes to sleep and then I do too. So warm. So worn out. Swaddled in almost-Ben. I can limp through the rough patch. I can make it. Just need one of Danny's mental-health days. Tomorrow will be better.

When Schuyler came home I was still out. They took their food to the dining room and ate, leaving me to sleep. They finally flagged Loch down and pointed out I wasn't going to be woken up if it wasn't an emergency and then they came to bed eventually and left me there still to sleep, the monkey in the middle. I woke up at seven-forty-five this morning and Daniel was up, in clothes with wet hair and Schuyler had gone again.

You missed some incredibly curry, little miss. And goddamn. I always forget how cuddly you are in your sleep. It's like spending the night with a magnetic octopus on speed.

Well, there's a description. 

I won't even tell you what Schuy said.

(When I fall asleep at night I make up micro-stories in my head to keep it busy. This is one of my favorites.)

Love showed up just as my eyes were getting heavy. It was long after dark and I had little strength to show for myself. An ambush, if you will. At such a young age, one wouldn't think it would be possible but it chose me and I wasn't about to hide behind anyone.

A fight, it cried. To the death! On the count of three!

Three. I postured and angled and pretended to be a worthy adversary but truthfully I let it win. The terms of the fight, the prize, as it were was that it would control me for the rest of my life.

And it has.

I apologize for nothing. I played the game and I played it to lose. I have lost. The wounds it left will never heal. I am riddled with holes and will wear them proudly.

Was it worth it? You bet. If I had it to do over again I wouldn't change a thing.

Redefining happiness.

Love of two is one
Here but now they're gone
Came the last night of sadness
And it was clear she couldn't go on

When I came down this morning in my pajamas I found August and Lochlan sorting out (Don't Fear) The Reaper. Trading lines because it's very hard to sing it alone. They pick a song a week and perform the shit out of it to the point where everyone begins to complain but I love it so much. Any relief from Wednesday's turn toward a new song will be swiftly dashed by Saturday morning when the repetitiveness begins to wear on everyone.

Does Lochlan care? Fuck no. He's the Pied Piper and we're the townsfolk and I don't think that's ever going to change. The only difference is he doesn't pass the hat here, he trades in absolutes only. Shelter, food, affection, acceptance, patience and redemption.

What else is there?

Oh, there are other things, I think to myself as I look at my phone. A new message from Caleb and the only thing on the preview window is a picture of an envelope. He's joined the twenty-first century at last or maybe he was just too frustrated to waste time finding a real envelope to use because he doesn't have an assistant anymore to replenish his supply.

August forth.

It feels like fall today. I am underslept, overmedicated and uncharacteristically clingy-feeling, as if I want to hide away, stop the world, gather arms close around me while I close my eyes and sleep for a whole day, maybe two until I can answer that stupid question without inexplicably tearing up.

How are you, Bridget?

It seems like such an innocuous thing but to me it's always a homing beacon or an invitation to say way more than fine in return. License to be honest. To be raw. A fork in the road that says Deal with how you feel right now and if you're successful we'll give you the map to the next part. That's how August plots out his counseling, you see. Each thing you deal with is a point on a map and the map is your life and he wants you to heal all along the way. More than once I have thrown a whole stack of papers up into the air and walked out, insisting that I am lost, that I'll never find my way back, and that he'll be waiting by the side of the road for a while still, I'm probably in a different but parallel universe. Go on ahead. Leave me here. I understand. 

But August asks me to shelve the drama I am concocting and to embrace the glorious east-coast-imposter wind as it ruffles through our hair, the sunlight as it dapples the leaves and and the cooler temperatures which promise level-headedness and easier sleep tonight. Things to look forward to, Bridget, he implores me and I know damn well he's right but I threaten the two days of sleep anyway as an unattainable reward. As a plan that I'll never fulfill because interruption is king. Distraction is the rule and Bob's your uncle. 

Wait, that isn't my phrase, it was August's, as he imitated Gage, who always says he can eat the whole _______ (whatever I put out for dinner) and Bob's your uncle. 

But what does that even mean? I ask, curious because I love words and I'm just beginning to figure a few of them out. 

He can't explain and he finds that funny and we all laugh because it's so absurd and yet I still feel like the sadness is right there on the other side of a door in my brain and if it gets windy enough the door will fly open by itself and I'll have to deal with what's on the other side so if it's all the same to you I'm just going to stay right here for a little while, spot marked on the map and when it's safe I'll move forward. 

Or not. 

(The sign had said 'For tune tell er' and I begged him for the answer. Which tune? Tell her what? Please explain, Lochie!)

Sometimes I think I just need to be reset. Not a single issue with my kidneys since I came back from the east coast or maybe the giant harsh antibiotics I finished in June did the trick. The younger Russian doctor is pleased and doesn't even bother mentioning his father's friends who do plastic surgery. Instead he takes my blood pressure, an action that makes it go up just by virtue of me looking at the cuff.

Stop moving, he commands and I am still.

One-twenty-nine over eighty-eight. He says blankly.

Is that good or bad? 

It's okay for now. I'll check again next week. 

He takes out the ear pieces and begins to pack up his bags. Mother of miracles,  I have a prescription for a new drug for my migraines that actually works. It's an NSAID. For all the triptan-pushing doctors in my life do it's nice to let them know a huge burst of potassium flooding my system at just the right time works better than anything I've ever tried. It's called Cambia and the only way I can remember that it is to call it Coheed & Cambia, which is dumb but if it works, then who cares?

Caleb figures I get the headaches because Ben picks me up by my head. I point out that's only been the past five or six years, I've had headaches since forever.

Well, it probably doesn't help then. He glares at me. He's worried and he's jealous and really, I can't help that. I have my own problems.

***

Don't let go
Don't let go
Don't let go
Don't let go
Don't let go
Don't let go
Don't let go

I climb up the steps and into the little camper. Lochlan follows. He smells like oil and sweat from fixing the motor (again) and he's filthy but he didn't want me to go home and go to sleep without seeing the finished result.

What do you think? He shows me the tiny kitchen area, pops down the table from the wall, and then steers me across the body of the camper to the 'bedroom' which is close enough that if the table is down you can stick your hand out and touch it from a lying-down position in bed. It's cozy and claustrophic and...and....PERFECT.

The bed has a beautiful crazy quilt on it. Which I'm one-hundred percent sure he stole from his mother's linen closet and will never admit it because I've seen it on their clothesline before.

Ooooh! The quilt! 

I knew you would like that. He smiles.

It's so neat in here! I want to live here!

Well, if all goes well, we will. He smiles more shyly now, like he has a secret. His eyes are almost black in the dark and he puts his arms around me and squeezes. What else do we need? 

A plant. 

Flowers?

No, a spider-plant. 

Okay. I will leave that up to you. We can put it outside on nice days and in the window on rainy ones. That's what I think he said, anyway. I don't know because he was kissing up my shoulder to my neck to underneath my ear and my heart was beating so hard I didn't think the camper would be able to contain it much longer. I wrap my hands up in the front of his shirt and brace for the full-body tremors as he reaches the sweet spot just under my jaw that almost makes me invariably burst into flames.

Oh. Yeah. That's it. BOOM.

He stands back up straight and welds our foreheads together. Green-eyed transfer of confirmations all around. This will happen and it will happen here. Soon. As long as we can hold out but soon.

My newly eleven-year-old completely unformed brain is yelling NOW NOW NOW NOW but only on the inside of my skull.

I wonder what his sixteen-year-old brain is yelling at him?

A head-on kiss feeds the fire and I no longer care about thinking or anything else for that matter. I'm glad breathing and heartbeats are automatic or I'd be dead right now. His strong hand comes up and holds my head just under that sensitive ear and he pulls away. I am breathless and ruined and so so happy to be alive right now right here. If this is love then I'm set. I never want to feel anything else or do anything else but be right here with him.

(Gosh. I wonder what he's thinking?)

But then he tells me and I don't have to wonder anymore.

I love you, Bridgie. 

But at the age of eleven I wasn't even sophisticated enough to know how to respond to this and so I whispered Yay! right into his mouth and he laughed and kissed me again and it took me days and days to remember that you always say it back and so I ran to the camper on a Thursday, late for dinner, rain pouring down, soaking me before I made it from my driveway to his. I threw the door open and he looked up and smiled from his seat on the floor, fixing a stuck cupboard door and I crossed to him, getting water everywhere and I threw myself down in his lap and kissed him hard.

I love you too, Lochlan. 

The grin he flashed still remains the biggest one I've ever seen him make.

It's barely sunrise and my legs are already rug-burning as I am pushed to the floor and then brought up halfway up by Ben, his hands wrapped around my whole head, bringing me in close against him in a vice-like hold, keeping me there while he moved and I was held still. I dig my thumbs in against his hips and square my own hips until he throws his head back, making the most unholy groan, squeezing his hands together around my head.

 I don't fear for my life, just my skin. He takes a step back and lets go of his hold on me all at once. I rock backwards away from him, landing on my hands and knees. He rushes back into the hold, pulling me up to a standing position using my head, smoothing my hair and smiling down into my face like I was his greatest experiment and then he becomes very serious.

I'd like to kiss you but I don't think I'm going to. 

Lochlan laughs from amongst the quilts (where we thought he was still sleeping). Me neither. Possibly not for days. 

Bah.

I had an early morning walk with Sam, our sweaters and a thermos of coffee to share. Down on the beach so he could administer private Saturday-church and after church counsel to me in his own unique way. He's very good at what he does and contrary to popular Internet lore, not interested in sabotaging or slandering Joel, nor is he trying to win points with me. He never pressures, we just wind up in the same place and then he steers me to see things I wasn't even looking at before. I don't think it's self-serving and I don't know if you can judge him based on arguments you haven't even heard but I love the fact that the Internet tries to be protective of me now.

Sam makes me cry sometimes with his words. With the fact that he had a front row seat for all of Jacob and I and yet he doesn't use it as ammunition. He worries. Maybe I don't blame him for that, maybe I do but he has his own thoughts about me and I don't agree with all of them and yet he is loyal and true and my dearest friend if you're counting the ones I can talk to without censorship. I know that sounds weird but they all have their own loyalties and preferences that get in the way of objective advice and constructive criticism, or they are fairly blinded by their own inner preoccupations with me or with each other. 

I know. Tough crowd. 

I did not say this collective living would be a walk in the park. It's a walk on the beach but a rocky, windy one. I have to take my time and hold tightly onto hands as they are offered and watch where I'm going. 

***

Internet rumors are swell, aren't they?

After leaving Sam I spent the remainder of the morning with the geniuses at Apple (swollen MBP battery and fucked up logic board that magically started functioning right there and then, dropping the price from a thousand for the repair to two hundred!) and then came home and threw myself in the pool where I floated face down until it got dark.

So I missed all the drama where you decided that since I was gone for half a day several things must be happening. For instance:

• I am pregnant.
• Ben is drunk.
• Ben has left.
• Ben is a specific Ben and you think you know which one.
• Lochlan is drunk or has left or is just an asshole, in case I didn't know.
• I am sleeping with Sam.
• I am sleeping with Duncan/Dalton/Daniel or August. Batman, John or Andrew. Gage. Keith. Matt! WTF. COREY. 
• I died and no one has my password to tell you. 

Except none of those things happened! I was just face down in the pool. Internet, you make me laugh. And you make me cry.

I'll break for you as I open up the sky.

Follow the sunlight down
Cry clear and loud
Heaven won't help us now
But it's better this way
Warm light wash me away

Piglet, I have ways of getting the information I need.

He grabs my ankles and pulls me up, holding me upside down over the bed. I squeal as the hem of my chemise falls toward the ground, over my head. I must look like a dog with a cone collar. Nice. He licks the back of my knee as I simultaneously try and hold my nightgown up around my hips with one hand and clutch at the denim of his jeans-covered leg with the other.

Jake! Put me down!

Not until you tell me. 

I can't explain it. We're kindred spirits in a way. 

You too fight constantly. You act as if each other is the worst thing you could encounter walking into a room. 

That's because he is immature. 

And you are?

Uh...less...immature. 

I see. So you and Ben just magically get along. 

Sometimes. 

I really don't understand this. 

We don't either but we have a very strong concern-bond for each other. 

How does that work?

He's been trying to get into my pants for a decade any way he can and I mostly worry that maybe he has a little escapism problem. 

Booze?

Sometimes. 

Well, I could offer to help him but I'm not getting any good information here. Can you be a little more specific?

He uses on the road. 

Toilet paper? A seeing-eye dog? What?

Drugs, Jake. Drugs, okay? 

Why is it hard for you to tell me these things?

Because I'm protective of him.

Mmm. Beauty and the Beast. 

Mostly. He's wounded. Don't push him.

I could help him. 

Ask him if he wants help. If he doesn't, drop it. 

Wow, I can't believe you enable him. 

I didn't say that. 

How about this? You have indicated that he may need a little more support. I will take that information and see that he gets it. Is that better?

Yes. But if you push him he'll shut you down so fast. 

Is this why you argue? You're trying to help him?

He needs me. He needs friends. He looks so huge but he's made of paper. Of glass. He's more fragile than...than anyone.

Than you?

No, we're the same now. 

From death?

Death. Yes. Death does this. It makes you clear and cracked and easily destroyed over dumb things like sunshine or pressure or frustration. Toilet paper even.

I could help you too. 

Then put me down!

He swings me once, sliding his arm under my back on the upswing, and gently deposits me back, albeit with my feet on my pillow and my head at the bottom of the bed.

Why do I get this feeling that Ben is far more complicated than everyone gives him credit for?

Because that's the way he wants it, but Ben is Ben. No one questions him, we just really really love him. 

Even though he's a giant toddler most of the time? 

It's part of his charm.