I keep feeling like we fall apart
Better than we fall in love
I can’t seem to shake this feeling

Really I would have been content to spend all morning lying in Dalton's warm (empty) bed playing Owl Simulator and watching the rain pour down the glass. I hijacked a second phone too, just like the bed so I can listen to Shake This Feeling in one ear and The Grace in the second because I'm insane like that but it works.

Alone
Where I'm not alone

Duncan comes the doorway with a towel around his waist, freshly showered. Did you eat already or would you like something?

Kill me, please. Make it quick and painful, make it exquisite and whatever you do, donate my brain to science and tell the world I'm sorry.

Sam said it means Christ. "Oh boy, Bridget. What have you done?"

They didn't actually put me down in the grass. Jesus, people. Can you use your imaginations? I'm pretty sure they just drug my food as needed. It's far more fun to be facedown in my dinner plate anyway, isn't it? Especially if it's tacos. Ouch. That would hurt. I imagine taco cuts are like paper cuts, you get all sliced up with stingy corn cuts in your cheeks, unless they're soft tortillas in which you wind up with a big squishy cheese mess all over EVERYTHING and that would be just-

What did I come here to talk about? I forgot.

Lochlan runs his warm hand across my stomach early this morning. He hates this tattoo. (You look like the end of a pirate treasure map, for Pete's sake.) Hates it but he understands why I have it. Honestly he's glad I have it as much as he hates it. As he said on his way out the door while Mark was finishing cleaning it up, One down, one to go. 

The open vitriol surprised me so much I gasped. Mark's face came up over mine. Okay, there, sunshine?

I nodded.

Give him credit. I would have blown Caleb to kingdom come years ago.

Jesus, guys. My eyes water and Mark passes me a piece of paper towel. I ball it up and hold my fists against my forehead. Count to fifty, Bridget. Let it pass. Explore a city you don't know inside your mind. What's around the next corner? What would you put there to find?

Sam was teaching me self-control, emotional control before they took him away from me too. Not literally but figuratively. A 'break', they called it. Because I'm so intense I can break people from twenty yards away. He was breaking. I was breaking too.

Lochlan got a tattoo while Mark was here as well. Dóiteáin (pronounced doe-chane.). It means fire. (Surprise.) Across his back.

[Oh, you want a Gaelic lesson?

 Neamhchiontach is pronounced nav-shun-toch. Diabhal is said as doe-vol.]

But yeah, a week from now is the date that ten years ago I watched as the light went out of Cole's eyes and let me tell you it's the most frightening thing I think I've ever seen. Certainly the most profound in that you have no control. You can't stop it, you can't change it and I had to mark it. I had to do something about it. I had to find some way to have some power over that moment or it would continue to eat me alive. Maybe it's never going to stop. Maybe I am doomed by my ghosts and by my living alike.

Maybe the X is perfect. It does mark the spot. But I'm not going to write much about Cole today, I'll save that for next week but I'm deliriously happy with the tattoo, in spite of Sam's teasing. It's just a big fucking X. It can mean anything. It can mean everything. It can mean nothing. It's just perfect.

Something I'm not.

Chemical capture.

Today is less insane. I think they had a meeting after shooting me with a tranquilizer dart in the yard on my way back into the house and August warned them all that I need consistency, support and patience, not endless arbitrary rules, jealousy and infighting.

Actually what I need is sleep, food and booze, I told them with a laugh as I hit the grass face-first. Fuckers didn't even catch me. In my dreams it felt terrific and when I woke up I felt like me again.

I'm actually not a pot-stirrer. Habitually I don't throw dishes. I don't yell. I don't even talk back. If anything I stop talking. I stop reacting, I just plain stop. I turn into a shadow, a statue. I don't do anything. Lochlan says it's possibly more frightening, more maddening, more difficult than plate-throwing, yelling Bridget. At least then she's saying how she feels, what she needs, what she wants.

I realize that but it's too out there, too bratty, too out of control for me and I feel ashamed and immature and awful. But they're all cheering me on, for fucks sakes. Until they want to turn it off, I mean.

So I didn't get any of the beans I grew for dinner, I got medicine and a hot shower and a clean warm bed and it was lights the fuck out and I was gone and I didn't dream until early this morning and then I was up early and I was starving. Still am but coffee seems like the only thing my stomach can handle. My brain loves pills. My body? Not so much.

Onward and upward now, Princess. A voice cuts into my head in the dawning light as I sip the bitter gold. Too much sugar, not enough caffeine, as usual.

I nod. Working on it, Preacher.

Good girl. 

Oh, don't you say it too.

Ten degrees isn't t-shirt weather and I need some sleep, I think.

Cold and rainy today and I've had my lecture for heading out with Sam without technical permission. John had his lecture and kindly told Lochlan to go fuck himself, though he means it as a friend, because in order for this to work Lochlan needs to let go a little bit, especially and most importantly when it comes to people who know Bridget's head and how to keep it on straight better than the magic man himself. Besides, John was there. Problem solved. Bodyguard in place.

I'm not going to let anything happen to her, Brother. Never have, never will. 

Lochlan thought long and hard about continuing to push against this logic but ultimately decided John was right and he shook his hand and apologized. He came to apologize to me and I stared at him with my best steely-eyed child's disappointment, picked up my colander and went out to the garden to get beans for dinner.

He didn't come after me. Ben came out eventually because I was taking too long and said supposedly now we're surround by not only men and bears but also those coyotes now too. Many of them. And it's getting late so maybe I should come in.

They're like dogs. They sing because they're afraid of the dark. 

They sing because they're hungry, Bridget. 

The fence is live, I'm not worried. 

Loch is worried. You daydream. I've heard the stories. 

I don't do that anymore. Yeesh. Next he'll be wiping my ass for me. 

That's what I said. 

But you don't say anything to him. 

How do you know I haven't? It's taken you close to two and a half hours to pick a pound of beans. 

I'm thinking! 

About what? 

Why you only come when there's trouble.

Danger, he corrects me.

Whatever. I'm tired and soaked to the skin. I'm cold. I don't even fucking care anymore. This isn't Utopia today. Today it's prison and I got yard duty.

Let's go inside and get a fire going. You're shivering. Give me the bowl.

He reaches for it and I take whatever strength I still have and fling it about ten feet away. All of the beans spray out in an arc across rows of tomato cages and the colander comes to rest against a pumpkin plant beside the fence.

I don't want to! I tell him. Maybe it's not even his fault, maybe a lot of it is but I stand there staring at him and he stares back and finally he turns and goes to the fence, picks up the bowl and heads back toward the house without another word. I would feel bad about seeing him go alone but he's left me on my own for months now.

I pick up a bean and eat it. 

When I turn to see if he's gone he is standing at the gate waiting. He looks at his watch.

I've got all day, Brat. he calls. He's smiling.

Asshole. I call back.

A real hungry one too. Better pick up those beans. Dinner's in an hour. 

You took my bowl. 

Fill your pockets. 

I don't have any pockets. 

Fill that gaping hole in your face that all those stupid lies come out of. Like me only being here when there's trouble. Is there trouble right now? Nope. Only rain. Only beans. Seems pretty low key for a Monday actually. Could you hurry up, Bee? I'm fucking freezing. 

No! Fucking do it yourself. 

I'll pay someone to do it. 

No one TOUCHES my garden except me. 

Then get to work. He frisbees the bowl at my head and I scream and duck down into a ball, losing my balance. I sit down in the mud hard.  

ASSHOLE! 

WHAT? 

I fell! 

Then pick faster so you can go in and change. 

Help me. 

What's that?

Can you help me? Please?

Are you asking for me to help you? 

Are you fucking deaf too? 

No, I've just been waiting for this for EIGHT FUCKING YEARS, BRIDGET but you're too goddamned stubborn. Just wait right here. He takes off his hoodie and slides it around me and heads into the garden, scooping beans into the colander as he goes. He goes up three different rows and somehow comes back in seconds with the full bowl that I threw and kisses me hard, almost knocking me off my feet, shoving the bowl into my arms, smiling at me gently, waiting until I hesitantly smile back.

There's dinner. All's well that end's well. I feel like I have to get you to some sort of incredible level of rage to reset you, almost and then you're you again. Except your lips are grey and the rest of you is...very dirty. Let's get inside.  

Three steps forward, Five steps back.

Sunrise service by the sea this morning as Sam baptized a small group of new members who alternately shook with nervousness, wept with joy and smiled with an adoration only reserved for these sorts of events. I had the lucky position of playing helper in that I was right at the edge of the action taking photo and video, and holding bibles, phones, handbags, wallets, glasses, anything they didn't want to see ruined by seawater. Most wore swim trunks and dress shirts (men) or swimsuits with an old dress over top for women, and sandals so it wasn't a huge deal.

John played towel boy.

Remind me to have some small totes printed up so we can put their things into totes they can keep as a memento. Way more fun than a new bible. No one needs those.

Bridget-

It's true, they really don't, Sam. 

I'm driving his (Kia) Soul home because he hates driving in his wetsuit. Too restrictive, he says.

So change, I always tell him.

Takes too long.

For a minister you're very stubborn. 

I think it's a job requirement, he winks at me.

You know? You're right! 

Thanks for all of the help today. Only the morning people can hack this lifestyle. 

I don't mind. I love watching people's faces. 

You want to do it? 

Do what?

Be baptized? 

I was when I was eight in the United Church. 

But Jake didn't do it? 

No. 

That really surprises me, Bridge. 

He probably would have eventually. 

Hey, we're home. Let's make some breakfast, I'm starved. 

His glaring subject change does nothing to wash away my sudden debilitating doubt. Why wouldn't you want to save your own wife? Why didn't he do that first? He baptized both children before they were a year old, by my request.

He knew it was already too late, that's why.

(Here comes my memory thief.) Bridget, don't think like that-

But it's true, isn't it, Sam?

I can't speak for Jacob. He isn't here. 

And that's the problem, isn't it?

Ow.

Oh my God. I would post but I just finished this...gigantic club sandwich with double bacon and an entire plate of french fries and I can't even breathe.

It was the best.

I think I love food more than boys. Loch said he's sure of it. He says the look on my face every night on the Midway at supper in the diner when the waitress put my plate down made him so jealous he didn't know what to do with himself.

I said if he was a real magician he would have turned himself into a freaking sandwich and solved all our problems, obviously. We tried to have a giggle but it hurt too much. Still does. I need to go lie down. He said he'll remain standing, thanks until he burns enough calories to bend again. I think we found a winner of a greasy spoon with portions so big they're clearly enough for maybe three or four people instead of one so now we know for next time and can protect ourselves, at least.

So good.

The red and the white.

Happy Canada Day! This year marks our 149th birthday. Holy!

An amazing day today. A huge nonstop all-day all-night pool party (still going, guitars are coming out now) here and it's just warm enough in the sun without being too blisteringly hot to enjoy it and still wear earrings and a sarong with my pink bikini.

Caleb, Christian and Schuyler are manning the barbecue pit, Batman, Lochlan and PJ are the bartenders (Lemonade, pop or slushies) and Henry and all of his friends are taking care of the dessert station AKA lingering close and eating all of it. I'm keeping salads, fruit and veggies refreshed as required. Christian, Duncan and August are lifeguards. Sam is keeping mixed groups of teenagers out of the sauna and in plain sight, and Ruth and her friends are lounging on the big double chairs or in the hot tub, snapchatting just about every second of the day to each other, which is weird because they're all here. Together.

John is throwing people off the cliff as requested (only if you are twenty or older, much to the kids' dismay).

Daniel is sleeping up at his house. He'll do teardown by himself tonight.

Dalton and Andrew, Gage and New Jake are playing water polo on each other's shoulders. They invited me to play but it's far too rough so Ben said no. He is standing with a can of pop watching the kids enjoy themselves and he just looks so happy with everything. He looks like a vampire too, in that he is so pale it's striking.

We have a sunscreen station where you get sprayed to bits before you can go poolside. That is immediately at dropoff in the driveway much to the delight of 90% of the parents who forgot to equip their kids before bringing them over. I have waterproof sport 110 SPF spray sunscreen by the case and zinc for noses and lips and extra sunglasses and hats too.

The kids call it running the momlet (as in gauntlet) and roll their eyes. I tell them they'll be so freaking happy not to be snapchatting each other their lobster selfies tomorrow it will be worth it.

Now when is it cool to send seventeen-year-olds home so I can go to bed?

Mood ring (or maybe it's moon ring).

Had a lovely drive this afternoon with Caleb in his freshly detailed R8. This car is sexier than he is. Wait, I am still angry with him except there's the car and I can't be angry with the car. I also can't reach the pedals without sitting on a whole pile of things so he has to drive and it's just a really sweet package deal.

Besides, he always takes me for really expensive ice cream. Millionaires don't care that you are lactose intolerant or they truly believe it has something to do with that peasant ice cream you buy by the tub at the grocery store. If only you bought the twelve-dollar glass jars of hand-mixed locally sourced gluten free vegan whatever you'd be fine. 

Well, no, but-

Trust me, I have money.

At least that's how I imagine the conversation goes in my head.

I got salted caramel paleo with man buns and weekend hiking plans or some such creative something because 'chocolate' was nowhere to be found. He got organic hipster tech startup probably drives a car2go because they didn't seem to have 'maple walnut' either. We had to pay with gold bars because it came to eleven thousand, six hundred and eighteen dollars and then to top it off he wouldn't even let me eat in the car.

I just had it detailed, Bridget. 

But it's freezing! 

It's ice cream! 

No, I mean outside. 

Would you like my jacket? 

Sure. 

He draped it around my shoulders and fastened the button in the front. He always thinks that's funny, telling me once that he couldn't get it around Sophie and close it in the front.

That's 'cause she's a man, I told him that day and he snorted coffee into his napkin in surprise.

I suddenly can't lift the ice cream cone all the way to my mouth so I lean way forward to try and bring my head to it instead (always thinking) and he swears and undoes the button again.

Must you be so silly? 

Um, yes? Must you not? 

I brought you out for ice cream, didn't I? 

And yet you stand here and eat it like you've got a fucking cone up your ass, Cale. 

So he starts to sway. All the way toward me and I scream because I think he's collapsing and then suddenly he dips away in a circle and then he's back but his feet aren't moving and he's carrying on a perfectly normal conversation while he oscillates around crazily. People are beginning to stare at him and he waves at several and then apologizes to a few more, saying it's the damnedest thing but that he thinks I have my own gravitational field and he can't resist. They all smile sweetly but suspiciously and keep walking and I keep getting a brain freeze from taking huge bites of ice cream with a big smile on my face.

By the time we're finished our cones I am dizzy and he has slowed to a stop. We take a seat on a wall near the ice cream shop.

Better? 

Still cold, still vaguely angry and disappointed but very relieved to see that the funny guy I know so well is still in there. 

We had to grow up, Doll. Sometimes you don't have a choice. 

And just like that the wind blows cold again and the mood is changed.

Diez. Dios. Dio. Piedad.

Mark flew out for the long weekend, bringing his tattoo kit with him. I had him set up in the library after we rolled up the big fuzzy white rug. He put a big huge letter X just above my belly button. I've never had much of a want for stomach tattoos. Mostly because when I was pregnant I gained fifty pounds each time and also they hurt like the dickens (stomach tattoos AND babies, I mean). But now I have a huge hollow X filled with beautiful filigree scrollwork around the inside edges of the letter itself with a splash of teal winding through and around the whole thing and no, I'm not sharing because every time I post a tattoo photo I see it copied later and not in a flattering way.

X stands for ten. Ten years ago this July 13, Cole died of heart failure at the ripe old age of 38 39, already corrected, thanks Diabhal. It also stands for Xavier. His middle name.

The tattoo took two hours and fifteen minutes. I only needed a five minute break because I let it get the best of me but then Andrew came over and put on a movie and I was okay after that with minimal fuss and a lively debate on the terrible state of our university Spanish credits.

Mark asked what happened to my hardcore self.

She died. I told him.

Too bad, he said. She was the best. 

I'm not bad either. 

You're a weakling. She was a warrior. Maybe I should flip you over and put a W on your back. 

My back is full, I remind him.

It's okay. I'm saving the W for Loch anyway. He's the other way around. Used to be a weakling, now a warrior. It's like you guys have traded places. 

It's hard to believe you've flown all this way just to bust my balls, Mark. 

If only you had any, Bridget. 

Shots fired.

Caleb's having the stitches taken out of his face later today if all goes well. He's mightily impressed by all this. When I point out that he is lucky, that it could have been worse, he looks at me and says it still could be.

What in the hell do you mean by that? I ask him and throw my empty coffee cup at his head.

Jesus Christ, Bridget! How much damage are you two going to do to my face this week already?

Not enough, apparently because there's still stupid noises coming out of it! GOD! I turn to head back inside for a fresh cup and walk right into Ben. Ben the stranger, who has all but moved into the second tinier suite of rooms off the studio downstairs that wasn't ever supposed to be used for anything but has seemingly become his home.

Okay, Bumblebee? His arms go around me and the mixed messages leave me wishing for a rockstar translator. Or at the very least some sort of impulse generator.

Okay what?

Are you?

Am I WHAT?

Are you okay?

Define okay.

Not fatally wounded? I guess. 

Ha. Whatever. Is there coffee left? Bye. 

I head around him and hear him ask Caleb what's 'wrong' with me but I don't hear Caleb's response. I don't want to hear Caleb's response. I pour a new cup, find sugar and milk for it (curse you Sam) and head straight through the front of the house looking for that alone time that saves the boys this kind of mood from me. Mercifully no one's on the porch so I head down to the grotto where the sun is streaming in between the branches making everything magical. Maybe not quite dry yet but magical anyway. I haven't spent enough time here. Everything is covered with moss. I curl up in the chair and take a sip and scream when a voice behind me speaks.

Can't a guy get a little privacy anymore? 

It's Dalton. He's sitting on the rock wall directly behind me, coffee cup and empty plate beside him, nose in a book.

I'm sorry. I didn't see you. 

That's the point. You stopped using this place and it's too nice to let it go to waste. 

It's all yours. I'll get out of your hair. 

Not if you need an escape. 

I need a lob-

You've got to stop saying that. How about instead of running, you stand up for yourself? 

I look at the ground. I think I did and they don't like that. 

Good girl. 

Don't say that. 

Sorry. I just don't want to see you get railroaded. 

Please tell me that isn't sexual. 

What? Oh, God, no. What I mean is this is your house and I see you struggling to find a way to fit into it sometimes. Someone is always watching you and following you. 

They kind of have to. 

Why?

In case I hurt myself. 

You're not going to do that. 

What if I do?

What if you don't? 

Yeah. What if I don't?

Then you live happily ever after. 

Where is the happily part, TJ?

It's coming. Gotta be patient, Bridge. Geez.