Crucible Cove (Or, How I spent Saint Patrick's Day).

Beauty I'd always missed
With these eyes before
Just what the truth is
I can't say anymore

'Cause I love you
Yes, I love you
Oh, how I love you

I get worn down. I erode like the cliffs along the shore at high tide, wearing layers off, picked at. Anticipated. And so when he offered a late-night holiday celebratory drink (oh God. Another?), I took it because I'm tired. I'm still drunk.

Is it poison? I asked Caleb over the rim of the glass.

Only as much as that swill Padraig's been feeding you all day. You're almost pickled.

He wanted me to have a happy day.

He was positioning himself for a happy night, I think.

PJ doesn't angle like that.

Sure he does. Like I do. Like everyone does.

I really am some sort of shared prize, aren't I?

Maybe. Or maybe you're just the one girl who seems to be appealing to a large range of men with different tastes.

You're not all very different, actually.

How are we alike? What brings us to this space and time, Neamhchiontach?

Intensity.

Seriously?

Yes. And empathy. You all connect with each other and with me on a much deeper level. Those who don't live here aren't here for a reason. It's kismet, or ardor. Chemistry. Sexual tension.

Oh. I'm disappointed. I was hoping it was just me.

No. I scowl at him and we laugh.

I think as a group we are extraordinary, actually, Bridget.

You do?

Yes. For so many of us to be together like this as friends through life is a blessing.

Was it a blessing for you and Loch to be knocking each other's teeth out the other night?

He doesn't work well with boundaries.

Who does?

He needs to understand the rules.

They're difficult to follow.

They shouldn't be. He has no trouble with his end of things.

He loves me. That's all.

And you love him.

More than anything.

So then why are you here?

Good point. Actually I think I've overstayed my participation in the day. I've been up since four. 

You don't have to go, Bridget. He puts his hands on either side of my face and bends down for a slow kiss, the likes of which he rarely bothers with. It takes my breath away. It pits me against myself, battling gravity for light. It makes it hard to leave but I'm about to.

Yeah. I do. 

My very own butterfly effect.

Gamble everything for love.

The weird stasis of unfinished business and a hesitant sunrise saw me back at the airport this morning because something went completely south on Batman's efforts to escape the UK and so Lochlan has to go back, sent home some impulsively, prematurely and now with an almost doubled bonus because of the inconvenience.

Only Batman would call a ten-hour plane trip an inconvenience. I'd probably be dead on the floor, but only because I have toddler-level maturity when it comes to being trapped in a seat and forced to amuse myself for hours on end with nothing to look at but the back of another seat. It's hard to make up stories about people when the only parts of people you can see are a couple elbows across and up the aisle slightly. Fuck that. I'd rather take a boat and have an adventure! But then the trip would take weeks instead of hours and I'd like it if Lochlan wasn't gone that long, thank you.

It's difficult.

Or maybe it's just strange now when he's not with me and it's one of the reasons Batman has to pay him so much, or he would probably just quit because he likes to be here at home and pretend with me that we are norms and we're doing norm things. Like backflips in the kitchen and fire-throwing in the driveway.

Wait, what?

People don't do that?

Huh. Too bad.

But hey, if nothing else (excluding Loch's big fat bank account), Ben and Caleb get a do-over this weekend on the whole How To Convince Bridget to Fuck Up Just A Little More.

It'll probably work, because it's Saint Patrick's Day and my very own Saint Patrick not only gave me his flask again on the way home from the airport but offered to make me coffee this morning only there's no coffee in this and I could probably light it on fire and throw it without much effort seeing as talent is contagious and so is drunk.

Whatever.

Functional spirit.

I'm so tired of being here
Suppressed by all my childish fears
And if you have to leave
I wish that you would just leave
Your presence still lingers here
And it won't leave me alone

Back across the driveway around eleven, before risking falling asleep in the wrong place. Heart rate back to normal, brain hung on a hook, askew inside my skull, thrumming a worried cadence of its own. My skin still feels phantom fingerprints, lips against my throat, legs against my knees, arms around my waist. He's a living wraith representing both a ghost and a friend and he's wrong but he's right and no one seems to notice. No one even cares.

I do.

Flat on my back, eyes open wide in the dark looking for the moment when he makes that change and missing it, kicking myself. I bite my lip and breathe his name like a prayer. He doesn't answer because that's not his name but the arrangement calls for things that aren't properly labelled and we're each getting something out of this so that cancels out who's fault it might be. When in doubt I'll step in front and they can level blame straight upon my bare shoulders.

If it comes to that.

Sometimes I feel like this is the only thing that keeps me alive. Sometimes I think this is the only way they remember who we've lost. Sometimes I think this is the only way out of this mess. Sometimes I think this is wrong but if I think too hard my brain throbs because it isn't properly set in it's place and sometimes I forget things, left on the bed or the table and they make their way back to me a few days later in the laundry or the sideboard or sometimes on the piano. But this isn't a game between us, it's a vow to not let him go if we can help it but it goes against absolutely everything August says out loud to the others.

Forgive me, he says in the dark, every single time for years now and I still never know if he's talking to me, God, Jake or himself. I'm afraid to ask.

Hyperpathetically speaking.

That cold wet grass served as a good cushion when Loch and Caleb took each other to the ground last night in the dark, in their endless multi-decade struggle to be whatever it is they think is best/first/most important/right/just/perfect.

PJ stood, dry and warm, just inside the double patio doors with a beer and watched. I asked if he was going to go outside and break them up and he said Naw, Bridge. Let them go at it.

So I stood tucked just underneath his arm, my forehead pressed to the glass, watching them slug it out and fall only to use one another as a crutch to get back up only to hit the ground again. PJ will step in if it looks like someone's getting really hurt. It doesn't matter who.

Loch finally stands up and backs off, putting the back of his hand up to wipe the blood from his nose, tucking his shirt in. Caleb gets to his feet and stands with his hands on his knees, staring at Loch while the blood from a cut on his cheek and one on his lip mingle into a thin rivulet down into his collar. He says something I can't hear and Lochlan laughs, nodding at Caleb as he stretches and then turns to make his way back up the steps to the house. I watch Caleb leave via the side gate.

What did he say to you?

Lochlan laughs again. He said 'Same time tomorrow?' but the mirth never reaches his eyes.

This is how I know we're getting old, when they don't even finish a fight due to ridiculousness, disinterest or other plans and that even the act itself is a source of (heavily guarded) amusement for both of them. Who knows? Maybe tomorrow we'll get somewhere.

Or they'll ruin two more shirts (and another Adirondack chair).

Cartoon-level villainous, this.

(Bonus round for you today because I need to put it somewhere that isn't in my head, alone to wreak havoc.)

The quick meeting was outside, by request, but also by request within the confines of the immediate backyard/patio so that PJ could keep an eye on me. Lochlan's already gone back to work (still mightily hungover, if you can believe it), Duncan and Ben are at a meeting of their own and Sam has been sleeping all day. Monday is his Saturday this month. Dalton is away in Europe (LUCKY) and August is running errands, I think. So that covers the house. The kids are at friends' houses. They are always here with a dozen kids or always somewhere else with the same crowd. It's great.

Caleb is standing in the yard under a huge black umbrella. I join him but remain just out reach of the shelter of his offering and therefore out of his reach as well, watching his face change from delight that I'm there to dismay at the condition in which I present myself. That is, bare feet on the cold wet grass which simply can't absorb any more rain and so it's soaking up the legs of my ripped, faded jeans like liquid through straws. My grey Leafs t-shirt is already soaked, outlining the navy blue camisole underneath it. Wet hair. Wet bracelets. Goosebumps. I am accessorized by my reaction to the weather but I love the feeling of cold wet grass under my feet almost (okay, not even close) as much as the feeling of damp sand.

And I still hate shoes. The Louboutins were gifts. I don't give a shit about them. I only wear them when he asks nicely and even then I scowl the whole time. Red soles for a soul's ransom, I guess, only if I pay the price I'm still never getting my soul back from this man.

Lochlan had a good trip, I'm imagining? I saw the presents on the table. 

I nod. He did. 

He should be less cocky and more grateful. 

Maybe you can fuck him into submission too. 

I never thought of tha-

DON'T YOU TOUCH HIM! 

Oh, well. There's a nerve. 

I'm just stressed. 

Why is that and what can I do to help?

It's because you're pressuring me. Stop.

I can't. I'm growing tired of waiting and lonely from being alone. 

Then I guess you'll have to find something or someone new to do. 

Right. That's where picking on Lochlan comes in. 

I swear to God, Cale-

And what does God promise you?

That if you touch Lochlan I will kill you. You've already hurt him far beyond what a normal human can withstand. 

Thank your God he's not normal, then, Bridget.

I do that every day. 

Lit from without, lit from within.

That's how Lochlan described himself once when I caught up with him at the lake. I was eleven, and we hadn't yet gone our adventure that year. We were busy swimming with everyone and watching Caleb roll over from teenage to adulthood, like a life odometer. Like a boss.

What's wrong with you? I asked Loch as he struggled to navigate the path to the tire swing.

I am, how do they say it? Lit from within! He announced with the typical bravado of a sixteen year old boy.

Did you drink the gas from your torches? Are you poisoned?

No, it means drunk, Bridgie. It means I've caught fire on the inside with the help of a little juice and I'm burning up. 

Juice?

Not that kind of juice, sweetheart.

***

Sunday afternoon was much fun after I greeted Lochlan with my violin roundabout noonish, playing an agonizingly slow, frightfully loud rendition of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star but he grinned with his eyes closed and bore it, saying he slept more Saturday night than ever in his life. I wasn't sure if I get credit for that or if he was just happy to be home so I ruined the good humor of the day and asked what the fuck he meant when he told me I should have gotten it over with. He wins so he concedes first place? Wants to share his trophy out of goodwill? No longer cares? Come on, what gives?

I didn't say that. 

Yeah, you did. You said I should have done it while you were away and Ben was around, in case. It's the stupidest thing I ever heard. 

Most stupid. 

Yes, that too! 

No, I mean-nevermind. What I said was I thought you had gone and done it while I was away, and that Ben was there to protect you. That's why I came home lit from within to get through having to hear about it. The emotion was relief that you didn't, not regret that you didn't. Jesus, Peanut. What kind of monster do you take me for? You need to put your ears in. 

No, then the violin is too loud. 

But if you don't, you're going to get your feelings hurt and it will be your own fault. 

I'll think about it. 

And Caleb can wait for you for the rest of his life and then some. It's called Hell on Earth. He brought it, now he can live it. 

Oh you came back in fine form.

Actually no. I came back in shameful condition. I won't do that again. 

But it was a good trip? 

Very productive. Got my bonus. And wait until you meet Alfred. 

What?! Alfred isn't his real name, is it? 

No, but neither is Batman's, so we may as well keep with the theme. 

Monsters come in many forms.

Lochlan did make it home yesterday, alone and drunk from the plane because Batman had to stay behind and finish up and Loch was ready to leave. He drank the whole flight away to combat boredom, exhaustion and fear.

I get that. I drank on the ride to the airport.

(No, I actually did. PJ had a flask. No one tell him it's empty now, shhhhh.)

He's home now and that's all that matters, and not the fact that Caleb is now tapping his watch, reminding me I've crossed over into borrowed time and there will be interest to pay. And not the fact that Loch actually told me last night that I should have gotten it over with while he was too far away and too busy to worry about it and while Ben could bounce Cale if he crossed the line.

Wait. What??

Broke my brain, that did and so this morning I skipped church and went with Schuyler and Daniel to see 10 Cloverfield Lane. 

It was great. Really fun with perfect sound design and a breath-holding plot, the kind I like best, rooting for the heroine to see if she's tough enough to make it out alive.

(Or taking notes in case it comes to that.)

AIIIIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

LOCHLAN COMES HOME TODAY.

ALSO WE GOT TICKETS TO SEE PAUL MCCARTNEY.

Why am I yelling?

I'M SO EXCITED!!!

Keeping the peace (away from you).

(STOP FUCKING ANALYZING ME.)

I'm not one to waste my time
Searching for some silver lining
But somewhere out there past the storm
Lies the shelter
Of your heart

(I love it when a former grunge/heavy hitter quietly matures into someone who has to be one of the most prolific and under-acknowledged singer/songwriters of my time. I say this because this morning I tripped over my ears and fell in love with Chris Cornell's new album, Higher Truth. Especially Before We Disappear, but really the entire album is perfect. I've had it on repeat all day.)

Caleb, to his credit concerning yesterday simply pointed out it's been barely three months, thanks, but who's counting? 

He's a wee bit ragey that I failed to take a direct invitation and Ben and I continue to enjoy our mini-honeymoon together with fun pastimes like enabling, sabotage and demolition. Ben actually does this regularly and often and usually we ignore it because Ben is impulsive and thoughtless and a little bit removed from reality at the best of times. All things I can't actually fault him for. Whatever he didn't arrive with was taught to him by the rest of us and sometimes the idyll of a Utopia such as this is clouded by the feelings that sometimes get in the way. Sometimes we get jealous. Sometimes we get wild. I didn't say we were perfect but I'm also not going to make excuses for myself even as I make them for Ben. Ben's only endgame is sudden perfect happiness. Why do you think he's had issues with substances? He'll never understand that happiness isn't real or that if you always do what you want the rest of the world becomes a miserable place to exist and people have rules for a reason.

Bridget has rules for a reason because Lochlan tips the other end of the scale in that he always has his eye on the prize and any deviation or momentary comfort might fuck that up and so we continue to deprive ourselves for that contented almost-happiness where all truly is right with the world, or the world as we know it, I guess.

Everyone else basically went apeshit, including John, who took great offence to any real or perceived danger, in bed or otherwise and took a piece off of Ben for that. John may be slightly shorter than Ben but he has a great way about him that makes him almost scarier and God bless him for giving Ben that extra perspective.

Ben is trying to learn but again, there's that shitty impulse control that makes him so much fun. It's not like anyone actually feels sorry for me for having to put up with him, rather they give him all the sympathy and support in the world for his weird ability to put up with me.

But the true amusement of the evening is left to Sophie, who got wind (don't know how, geez. LOL) that Caleb might be..lonely...again...and managed to get her arse on a plane this morning to invent some reason to 'stop by'.

She came down the driveway as I was standing there with John (bodyguard duty until Lochlan dismisses him and no, I don't get a say). We were eating chocolate pudding, standing on the bricks with little silver spoons and everything. She got out of her car and smiled at me really fakely and crazy/excited and headed straight for the boathouse. John looked at me, spoon in mouth and raised his eyebrows in horror. I winked as I watched her come back just as fast.

Is he in your house? 

I shake my head and remove my spoon from my face. He's not home.

I can see that. Where is he? 

John's face is killing me now and I burst out laughing. I don't know. I'm not his secretary. 

She stares at me for a moment and then remembers why she came here again* and tells me she'll find him after her meeting. She gets into her rental A4 and drives out through the gate as I finish the last of my pudding. Or, you know, you could phone him.

*(Money. The answer is always money.)

Caleb calls me a half hour later. If she comes back don't open the gate, just leave it locked and pretend no one is home. 

What if we're outside?

Then pretend harder. This is something you're good at, Bridget. Don't play dumb. 

You really don't want to see her? 

I don't have time to waste on complications. 

Maybe she's as lonely as you are, Diabhal. This seems like serendipity to me. 

Then you're as impulsive and immature as your husband if you think the only interest I have in you is physical. 

All this time and it was spiritual? You actually took my soul so that it would be saved instead of destroyed? All of this to protect me? From what? But the minute I said it I knew and whatever heartless banter we were having was over.

From all of them because they don't deserve to have what should be mine. 

First of all, I'm a who, not a what and secondly, how dare you decide what another human being deserves-

I would have said more but John took the phone from me and pressed end.

Just don't get into this with nobody here. Please, Bridget. It's Friday and it would be nice to have a quiet weekend instead of a war.

Mildly Judas.

(Stranger indeed.)

It turns out my brain is the time machine, not the dishwasher, after all. It's not a matter of coming back in the future to a world full of clean dishes, but rather a matter of visiting the past to relive a memory or take something that I might need. Sometimes, like last night. When Loch is away I dream about him. I hardly have time to miss him and he'll hardly have time to sleep. But now like clockwork comes the inevitable dream. I don't even know why I'm in this one but I'm wearing a yellow t-shirt and black shorts. Lochlan was sitting outside the camper writing out our budget on the back of a payroll envelope and listening to Circus of Heaven when he asked if I liked it.

I like the slow part of this song but the Tomato album? Not honestly.

Add an R, Peanut. 

Tomator?

Not there. 

Tomarto!

Tormato, Peanut. I can't teach you classic music if your head is in the clouds. 

Where else would it be? Also that isn't classic music. Classic is Tchaikovsky and Beethoven. 

Classic rock, I mean. 

I like Zeppelin and Floyd already. You know this.

Then you're most of the way there. I'm just helping round out your knowledge base a little.

So in the future Ben will be surprised?

Who is Ben?

Exactly. Because we don't know him yet. This is how my dreams work.

At least until I am pulled right out of them, physically lifted right out of the quilts and into Ben's arms. Still mostly asleep and unable to figure out what he wants until he cradles my head against his face, waking me up with kisses before pulling me all the way down toward his dreams. I can please him in my sleep. He pulls my hair into his fist, keeping control of my head, choking me on his body, gently forcing me past my comfort levels, bringing the night right to the brink before lifting me back up into his lap for a spell. I shiver when he does this, because he throws the covers right off. It's not long before he pulls me down onto my back beneath him, because he's already pushing the limits of his self-control and doesn't want me to get hurt.

At least physically.

Do you want to take this down to Caleb's? 

What?

We don't get a lot of chances now. 

Ben-

You've held out for a really long time. You did good, Bee. No one expects you to go so long. Even Loch. 

Not so long.

Almost six months.

Almost. 

No one's going to blame you if you want to. 

I shake my head and ask him if we can go back to my dream now because we were just about to meet him.

Your dreams are right here. Everything you want. 

Ben, I can't do thi-

Don't apologize. 

I'm not. I-

Say the word, Bee-

No! 

He stops and stares at me in the dark. I don't even know what the look is but the act of convincing has stopped completely. So have all the words, apparently as he resumes his efforts in silence, making sure he goes to the other side of control where he almost has some but not really, ducks his head down against the top of mine and keeps going forever. Through the rest of the night and into the windy sunrise. I hold on to him even as I try to shut out all the bad things he wants for us, how his penchant for living in the moment does nothing but ruin lives and futures and worst of all, dreams.

In my dream I go inside for lemonade and when I come out there's a strange boy sitting at the picnic table across from Loch. He is tall, dark-haired, dark-eyed and brooding. He's in all black even though it's warm and sunny and he's sitting in the shade even though the table is in full sun. He looks at me curiously but he doesn't smile.

Bridget, meet Ben. Just be careful though. He's a bit dark and really marches to his own drummer. 

I see that. Nice to meet you, Ben. 

Do you ever feel like a freak, Bridget?

All the damned time. 

How old are you anyway?

Eleven. 

Okay, yeah, no. That's too young. What the fuck are you doing?

Long story, Loch says it but he still isn't paying attention while Ben and I stare at each other with some sort of instant bond that screams equally mutual weirdness and predilections for danger together in perfect harmony.

Yeah, well, I'm not interested in getting arrested like the rest of you so I'll be back when she's like twenty-five or something. See you around. Good luck in the show. 

Come see us when we get to Atlantic City?

You're going to Atlantic City? I've been there. 

What's it like?

It's dark. Be careful, little Bumblebee. Or wait for me. 

I nod. You won't remember me by then. 

Sure I will. How could I forget? 

You forget everything. 

No, I don't. It just means I don't agree with it if you think I forgot. 

That's a weird personality ticket to have, Ben. 

No it's not. Look at all of yours. 

They're not my fault, they're Caleb's but I don't know that yet. 

Are you from the future?

Yes. 

Then you know you're going to fail. 

At what?

The thing you want most. 

I look at Lochlan but he scribbles furiously.

No, not him. 

What do I want then?

Everything.

That's a terrible thing to tell a child. That they're bound for failure.

You said you weren't a child. You can't have it both ways. 

Yes I can. That's why we're going to join the circus. 

You should stick to the freakshow. 

You think so?

Hey. Don't discourage her. She's a child. Lochlan finally looks up and is horrified by the conversation we have damned near weekly at this point.

I know you'd like to keep her that way forever but it's too late, Brother.  She's going to go somewhere that makes her end up even darker than you. It's inevitable.

Loch sits back and stares at him. She'll be with me, thanks. She always comes with to me. 

I wouldn't put my faith in things that are so small. 

This is the biggest thing in the world. 

Then maybe you should protect it better. Her, better. Because the dark is coming for her and it's coming for you and whether you like it or not it's real and it's worse than this. 

Maybe you should come back in ten or fifteen years and we'll see. 

Done deal. Take care. 

You too. 

And I woke up again, bathed in sweat with Ben still moving against me even as the new light comes in through the windows to burn his skin. Our hair plastered to our foreheads, his hands slip on my hips, grasping tightly, painfully. He says into my ear that I don't have to fight against something that's not even there. And all I want to do is cry but I know he's only advocating for me in the best way he knows how, which is not at all.

Don't give me the silent treatment. I told you I wouldn't fix you because from where I stand, there's nothing wrong with you.

There's nothing right with me either. 

Why did he teach you to talk in circles, Bridget?

Because he knew it would be the only talent I would always have at the ready. Because it's fun to walk the tightrope or do acrobatics but in an emergency you can't pull out tricks like that. You've only got your wits. And he said I'm too much of a dreamer for even that so I am to use my words. 

Is that why you don't talk when you're upset?

Yes.

Ben gets up from the picnic table in my dream and leaves, heading straight into the bathroom where I hear the shower turn on. I roll over into the damp warmth of the sheets, pulling the nearest quilt over me, a place to hide where I can close my eyes and wish for sleep without dreams, men without preoccupation and girls without memories.