My sweater saved my life yesterday and other stupid stories I'm not going to tell you.

Well, did she make you cry
Make you break down
Shatter your illusions of love?
And is it over now
Do you know how
Pick up the pieces and go home?

Loch hung over the fence just before sunset and grabbed me by the hood. He got me going in a good hard swing and then with a shout he defied gravity, bringing me back over to the safe side once again. Then I got the usual routine of being backed up against a wall with his finger in my face, his harsh words in my ears and tears swimming in my own eyes as I bit my lip and tried to be brave while he demanded that if I'm insolent enough to break the rules then I'm brave enough to stand there and absolutely not cry to his fucking face while I get in trouble for it. No? Oh well, then DON'T DO IT AGAIN, OKAY? 

And I nodded even as he tried and failed to keep his whole face from cracking into a smile because he's not all that good at being parental to me anymore even as I'm absolutely awful at following rules and really that side of the yard is one of the few places with completely unspoiled beauty and no electric fences or obstructed views and so when I need to think very hard and I'm not allowed on the beach then why, yes, I will end up perched out on the very edge of the cliff with my back right up against the fence where there's no actual room to stand. If you saw it you'd be horrified. Even the fence posts are engineered to hook back in underneath about three feet back from where the fence sits proper. It's terrifying in places.

It's also liberating because I'm the only one small enough to fit on that side and sometimes I just need to pause the whole world and hop off and you'll know it when I do because your CD will skip, your video will buffer or you'll lose your train of thought. Sorry, sometimes it can't be helped.

But really, I'm fine. I just have to figure out how to reorder my stuff every time I drive over a bump in the road and all my things fly up into the air and every time that happens there's one less space to put everything when it all comes back down and I have to rearrange it. That's how Sam described it and it's perfect.

Overwatch.

Everyone's backed way off this week, hands up, eyes toward each other waiting and watching still to see what I will do and when it's warm and sunny I've been in the garden taking my sweet time trying to teach the boys that it isn't complicated and when it's raining I sit at the window seat, nose pressed up against the glass and I wonder if Jake knows. I wonder if I should tell him, formally. I wonder if I should venture down that long corridor to the rusted room where we can talk properly. I wonder if he's still there. I know Cole is. I won't let him leave.

I wonder why they feel like they have to protect me from each other. I wonder why it rains so much here. I wonder if we're given a set amount of time carved in stone or if we just fall into slots in life that are already carved out and the rest is just bad luck.

I wonder if I'd like to go back to work pouring coffee for minimum wage. I wonder if the headaches will ever stop. They started again the minute we got here and haven't let up unless I put myself into a near-fatal drug stupor. I wonder if my time is long or short. I wonder who wins. I wonder where Ben's heart is. I wonder if I'll get tired of this and move on or implode into a billion tiny feathers and confetti like I usually do.

I wonder what people think of me. I wonder why I don't care. I wonder why stupid things like farmers markets and beach days excite other people who plan for them regularly, and crowds and lineups don't bother others but they send me into apoplexy. Money makes me crazy. I count it, hoard it with a level of compulsion reserved for the most depraved. I wonder why.

I wonder when August is going to stop watching and start asking all these questions. I wonder when mood stabilizers will turn into chemical lobotomizers and when everything else will come to light. I wonder when they'll run over my brain with the ride on mower and swear it was an accident but turn on measures of relief so sharp we can use them to cut lines that bring about a new kind of fear.

I wonder when dinner is. It's not my night to cook.

I wonder why he didn't assign a watcher. I wonder if they know how close I stood to the wall today on the wrong side, wavering against the wind, my back pressed against the rough treated boards, my sweater hooked on the edge of the knot, the sea calling my name quite clearly before I told her I had to go back inside. I don't want to go in, I just need to get close.

Flame.

When I head upstairs Loch is reading. He looks up almost with suspicion before getting up and crossing to me. He puts all the lights on and inspects me all over. Lifts up my chin, looks behind my ears, between my fingers, underneath my knees.

You okay? He says it shamefully, quietly. As if I wasn't even expected. Like I would have stayed had I know I could have or was supposed to. I nod. Yes. We did the paperwork on the house, had a Lag and now I'm home.

Did you have a fight to get out?

Not really, I lie.

The relief is instantaneous and he takes my hands, pushing them up high above my head, pulling my dress up with them, then the dress is off and thrown to the floor. My lingerie follows until there is nothing in his way and then he keeps my hands, spinning me away, facedown onto the bed, following me, letting go as he pins me with his weight, then wrapping one hand around the back of my head and wrapping the other down around the side of the bed frame for leverage.

Leverage. This is amazing. Oh my God.

All of his weight comes down against my hips and all I can do is hold on to my pillow, twisting it up in my hands far up above my head. I can't breathe, I can't move. I cry out and he lets go of the bed, sliding his hand underneath my hips, pulling them up hard against him. Bridge, he cries out against my ear, turning me over so fiercely that I twist my skin hard against him, almost screaming as we fit back together face to face, fumbling to climb back inside each other where we belong. He pulls my arms up around his neck, tightening his hold around my back, jamming his chin hard against my head, rocking tightly against me. It's seven hundred degrees in the room and about a thousand between us and the sparks start to dance out from the darkest corners as we work hard to make it a full-fledged fire. Suddenly he pulls me up into his lap and the flames bloom all around us as he presses his lips against my neck, slowing down, breathing hard, fingers digging in against my hips. Pulling me in hard and then pushing me away again, smiling at my tiny cries as I rest my head against his shoulder finally, sweat dripping from my nose, stinging my eyes, leaving my fingers unable to hold onto his shoulders. So I let go and fall to the sheets and he lies down beside me and exhales slowly.

I'm sorry, Bridge. 

Glad we waited until after that to make up, I admit and he laughed and blushed. I didn't think we could get any more red but we can.

Pure prophet.

I've convinced him to move the gates again to exclude the white marble monstrosity up the hill and sell it while the market is on a white hot streak. This neighborhood is solid gold. The house has been stripped of as much marble as I could take from it and redone beautifully and we weren't going to sell it but we don't need it either and really it's a lot of money needlessly tied up when it doesn't have to be and so if he sold this one and kept the one in Tahoe then he would be sitting pretty indeed. I came to him with the offers and he was very surprised and pleased and we chose one and it's all done and what easy money sometimes.

You're very good at this. I wish you would be my partner formally. In ventures, I mean. I know what he means.

I don't like the business.

I know, Neamhchiontach. And maybe that's why you're so good at it. You don't use your heart at all. Just your head. I would have sat on that house but you like to play it safe and you've done very well and you will be rewarded. 

I don't need to be. 

If it's all the same to you, I'd appreciate a chance to continue to spoil my favorite sometime-partner when my business flourishes because of her decisions on my behalf. 

Suit yourself. I have to go. 

Can you have a nightcap first?

Sure. What do you have?

We can finish the Lagavulin. 

There's half a bottle left! 

Right. He grins. We'll go over the rest of this paperwork. Let Pyro know you'll be home inside of an hour.

***

It's the opposite of artifice. The habitual routine of taking our places on the couch to go over paperwork because his desk and my little spot in his office always seemed so formal, foreboding even. I fit perfectly there, tucked under his arm while his fingers errantly trace my tattoos as I read over the lists. This contentment seems so bittersweet now without a future.

He kisses the top of my head as I turn a page and I don't know what is habit and what's hopeful. I love you, he whispers and I nod. Love you too, I whisper back automatically, so careful not to weigh it down, watching as it floats up over our heads. Habit over meaning, courtesy over declaration. His heart is probably as cold as stone now, the space in the center where the injuries are filling up with ice, thawing and freezing, expanding and contracting, filling up until eventually the weaker piece will break right off, the remaining piece withering and dying.

He holds his breath until I turn another page to confirm that it's habit and then he pretends it is even as he hoped otherwise and he tries to just enjoy the moments. It's as if we've started over but really we are winding down and I'm trying to throw an old dog a bone here, letting him down as gently as I can. Loch wanted to shoot him in the head, I'd rather put him to sleep. It's more humane. And I always said in the end that it wasn't me who was the monster, even as everyone said I was. It wasn't me. I became the product of my environment, that's all. It couldn't be helped.

As I read he refills my glass. I don't know if he think I'm not paying attention or if he's making a statement. I put the papers down and wait for clarification.

You agreed to help me finish this. 

I can't crawl back across the driveway. 

So stay. 

I can't stay. 

You could stay. 

I'm not staying. 

We are nose to nose and oh my God, I want to stay.

I gotta go, Diabhal. 

Wish you wouldn't, Babydoll. 

Lagavulin's empty. I knock the bottle over and it spills across the table. A travesty. A waste. He quickly gets up and goes to get a towel.

An escape.

Goodnight, Bridget. The disappointment in his voice is so thick I feel it close around me as I shut the door. I feel like I have narrowly escaped a whole different kind of quicksand. I feel sick from the whiskey and the heat and the big money and the expectation that he is alone because of me and in spite of me and I feel the dark closing in tight like a vise.

FWP.

YEP. FORTY-FIVE FUCKING MINUTES, ITUNES.

Trying to wrestle with making a ringtone only to find out you've moved and buried where the AAC version thingie is so I tried to find a version online only to find only MP3 versions that I couldn't seem to convert and Lochlan is SO goddamn cruel when it comes to tech to the point where even Duncan gave HIM a shove and told him to give it a rest already. It wasn't even seven a.m. yet.

He finally showed me where they buried it this time but it was too late, I spent all my free internet time and now it's finished and my Saturday coffee is finished and my patience is finished and we don't have any hot water so the new water heater is arriving any minute now so maybe once I get a long hot shower I'll feel like giving it another go.

Too bad there was no character in the wizard of oz that needed a cure for massive pointless frustration. She would have been small and beet-pink and always in tears over fuck all. That's the worst part, it's all first world problems and I know. I know Lochlan is trying to teach me this and I know. I know. I know I know I know.

I'll be back later when I have my shit together. This is not my post, but I'm human so I'll leave it up.

?Huh?

I was watching footage from Paris online this morning and I leaned back against Dalton and before I knew it PJ yelled Narco and I jumped.

Loch responded. Polo!

Nice.

My narcolepsy is raging, untreated and almost worse than ever now in a bid to try and contain the migraine issues. The anticonvulsants that they put me on have enough side effects to make one yell HELL, NO! and stalk off in a huff and yet I've chosen to give them a chance only because they won't make me gain weight and because the promise of less pain still yearns for the light of day in there where all other hope is now lost.

But yeah, I can fall asleep mid-bite of cereal now. This is ridiculous. Add the hot skin and near-dementia-level forgetfulness with words and wow. I'm a fucking nonverbal pancake these days. But marginally cuter. Or maybe not even.

Paris is sorta-kinda underwater and they've closed the Louvre and I imagine are feeling a sort of springtime kinship with Venice these days. I freaking loved Venice but I didn't like the rats and I wouldn't want to live there because I imagine the kitschyness of it would wear off incredibly fast and the dampness of it would seep into my bones the same way the cold seemed to after eight years in the Prairies. I just couldn't walk another step, couldn't spend another day, couldn't knit another stitch of wool to put on to protect against that cold. In Venice I had nightmares of turning black with mold while I slept. It was profoundly beautiful and also tragic.

Paris is temporary. I always feel like Paris is on borrowed time. Paris is never what you think it's going to be, and then when you get there you think, oh, this is not what I expected AT ALL.

I guess it's like that in a lot of places.

I heard that in Egypt, if you look at the Sphynx and turn a hundred and eighty degrees you're facing a row of fast food restaurants.

I heard that if you see Bridget out and about in the wild of West or Downtown Vancouver she's merely a five-feet-tall former Midway rat who will ignore you completely and hang back from the hand of whomever she's with, not listening to anything that she can't hear, content to let them lead. She's not some point-controlling, man-collecting, husband-slaying demoness like you've read about.

That or she's asleep.

Yeah. She's probably asleep.

Lilac spring.

You're lost in reveries
Holding back the tears
Faint sound of the wires
The butterfly is in the fire now
Lost in a memory you're holding my hands
One heart is in the ground
The other is veiled in the silver all around

Born under a trouble sign
Will it hurt to see me find
The long lost peace of mind
Darling you had me here for a while
It breaks my heart to see you cry
In the wake of incomplete time

It's warm enough to sleep in the camper overnight again. When I open my eyes this morning it's raining and the door is open. Loch is cooking mashed potatoes and tea on the tiny burners. He's already got cheese melting on bread on plates at the table. My stomach rumbles uncomfortably and I turn over and put my head under the pillow.

There's the thunderous sound I know so well. Breakfast is almost ready. Find your clothes. 

Give me yours. 

What will I wear to eat in? 

Nothing. I smile. Just your hair and your boots. 

Ah. I see yesterday's crassness hasn't faded a bit. 

Nope. 

I'll fix that later. 

Good luck. PJ's got his hooks in good. 

He passes me a plate filled to the brim and puts a mug on the shelf by my head, turning it so the handle is easy to reach. There. Breakfast in bed for my circus peanut. 

He takes his own plate and joins me on top of the quilts, adding his mug to the shelf beside mine. His is blue, mine is green.

You slept, I think. I know I did. 

I nod. Maybe we should reconstruct the camper in our bedroom. 

That might not be a bad idea. 

Think Ben would go for it? 

If we see him, we can ask. Eat while it's hot, Bridgie.

PUSSY.

Life is short and tough and I'm going to roll it in sugar, squeeze it until syrup drips from my fingers and enjoy the fuck out of every last drop, even as it kills me.

This is the plan? Loch asks, his eyebrows raised. He has the most glorious bedhead popcan-width red curls this morning. I lay in bed this morning wrapping his hair around my wrist. Three times before he mock-squeals and I laugh. It's getting long. Hope he leaves it. But then three different boys already quoted from Brave as they saw him.

And such lovely, flowy locks...

We can't just run away from whoever we are!

Never craft where you conjure!

(Now he'll cut it for sure. Thanks, boys.)

Yes, this is the plan. To enjoy every last minute. 

The last time you said this you were halfway through a burrito in some sort of Mexican ecstasy and I had to roll you to back to the truck in a fugue state, he smiles dreamily.

Exactly. Eat the burrito! Roll back to the truck! Fuck the calories. Fuck the waiting, counting, watching, checking. 

Right. Fuck the rules!

Fuck 'em! Right in the-

Bridget! 

Fuck 'em in the Bridget? Ow!

No, I thought you were going to say something else. 

Also, stop censoring our words! 

Hell, yeah! Except...

What? 

I hate it when you say that one. 

Which one? 

The one you were about to say. 

Ass?

Oh. You were about to say 'Fuck 'em in the ass'?

Yes?

Okay nevermind then.

Butterscotch Ripple with a waffle.

I'm going to backpedal a little bit here, maybe take a little of my courage everyone is always marveling over and dilute it in a little river of gasoline. I'll swirl my finger around in it until it's good and dissolved and then I'll throw the match. When it burns a good hot sparky line down the brick I'll run back inside and slam the door.

I got my comeuppance this morning in Caleb's lawyers' office for writing about things I am not supposed to write about. They are so gentle and kind about it though. As instructed by him. 

Bridget, we've been monitoring your social media and-

I don't have any social media unless you mean doughnut recipes and Alexander McQueen accessories on Pinterest-

Your blog-

Oh, that. I suppose he wants it taken down.

He just doesn't want you writing about specifics of the case. The broadest of mentions is as far as it can go and you've now been incredibly detailed as to point out that there was a start point and a settlement reached in a judge's office. That's too far and he would like you to stop.

Why couldn't he tell me?

Your... Lochlan keeps punching him and no one listens when that happens. He thought this might be more peaceful.

But I smile inwardly. ("Your Lochlan").

Do I have to remove anything?

No. Just don't write anymore about the specifics.

Fine.

He said including this conversation.

Bullshit, no he didn't.

He did, he even said if he didn't, you'd post it verbatim.

Tell him I'm doing that and then I'll cut him some slack.

Also if Lochlan continues to strike or make contact there will be police involvement.

The hell there will.

He says he knew you would say that and his response is 'exactly'.

Tell him if the tables were turned Lochlan would be dead already.

He says to tell you he knows. He says 'Sad face', he is sorry. Can he make it up to you?

Tell him no.

He already knows that as well and thanks you for your time and understanding and says to have this twenty to get an ice cream on your way out of the building (Lawyer holds out crisp green Queen).

Awesome! How much did you bill him for this twenty?

That's confidential.

Probably three...three-fifty, right?

Have a nice day, Ms. C____. 

Tell Mr. C_____ what my name is one of these days, would you? 

I've tried. He insists we call you this to agitate you.

Is it even legal? 

The paperwork is correct so that's all that matters.

Argh.

King of hearts will break me
Makes me feel like Judas, baby
Does he ever float through your mind?
King of hearts is aching
Silent like a fucus, baby
Does he ever shoot into your mind?

Too many punches thrown, shoves against doors, walls, fences, trucks, other people and I've had it. I get it. This is serious. I'm trying to give a pass to someone but Lochlan doesn't seem to have a merciful bone in his body anymore. He's fed up. Worn out. Done. He tried to coexist for years and suddenly now that he doesn't have to for Henry's sake, he's certainly not going to do it for mine.

So I had to put the dogs on him. August and Sam. Not a nice term but so far I've held them off a bit. They've wanted to talk to him for a while. They think he bottles things up. Holds them inside. Doesn't have many proper channels for blowing off steam, and that maybe his inner sixteen-year-old still running his moral compass based on what he thinks is best using classic America fiction is maybe not going to work so well at this stage in his life.

Or maybe it works just perfectly and that's why he remains so weirdly uncomplicated and sure of himself. Maybe that's exactly what it is. I knew I should have stuck with Anne of Green Fucking Gables and Little House on the Prairie and I would have been fine all along.

Christ on a pancake.

August, however, wound up sitting on Lochlan somewhere between the studio and the fountain just to be able to finish a sentence because Lochlan wasn't even going to stop to give him the time of day. He doesn't want his brain analyzed, thank you very much. He's just fine. Maybe he's the last one who needs a tune up in the head department, don't you think? And there's August trying so hard not to laugh but at the same time yelling for help because really that's all they want to do is keep him safe. One of these days the Devil's going to stop taking these sucker punches and throw one back. So far he's been good about not doing it but everyone reaches their breaking point and that seems to be what we're all about over here.