Fire extinguishers + church ties.

Why didn't you go with them? I ask Duncan this morning over breakfast. He's ready for church. I'm not. I've got bedhead, I'm in pajamas still and there are toast crumbs on my cheek. Maybe I am ready. Sam and Jake both always said God doesn't care if you're presentable. He just cares if you're present. 

Duncan grins and pulls at the neck of his shirt. The action is here. This is where all the cool people are at. I mean, look at this. The epitome of cool right here. He turns and gestures at PJ, who shambles into the kitchen in pajama pants and the beard from hell. He looks like I feel. Why didn't you go to Black Rock City? Duncan asks PJ, still with that wide sweet smile.

I hate camping, PJ reminds us with no shortage of irritation. He really does. He hates anything less than total luxury. He won't even tolerate his beer warming up as he drinks it. He's amazed someone would go to all that trouble to breath dust into their lungs and live like savages for a solid week in the name of 'feeding ones soul' or doing drugs or whatever it is they get up to. I'm not sure if he's just getting old or if he's trying to disparage the image of it so I don't want to go so badly. Either way I love him to pieces for it.

Lochlan comes down and reminds me it's getting late and I should go change.

I think I'm going to go like this, I tell him as he reaches out and wipes the crumbs off my face with a smile. The smile spreads. It's contagious. I stand there grinning like a fool at him and he turns and says Thank you to PJ before turning back to smile at me some more.

For what? PJ grumbles with a mouthful of toast.

I thought she was going to be a brat about Burning Man for the whole week, he says as he stares into my eyes. You seem to have put some common sense into her. 

Funny, normally Lochlan would slay any man who attempts to inject reality into my fantasy world. He's gone out of his way to keep things magical and hates it when someone paves over his endless fields.

Wasn't me, PJ laughs and heads off to clean up. We're already late for church. God may still love you when you're messy but not when you're tardy. No sir.

Next year I think I'll charter a plane, an RV and a staff. Idgaf.

Caleb, August, Gage, Keith, New Jake and Batman have gone to Burning Man.

I stood inside the door after they left and let out a solid scream for at least a minute, maybe longer. It smacks of unfairness. It boggles my mind that no one will fulfill this bucket list of mine.

They're afraid.

Afraid that my self-reliance will be so apparently absent that even I will figure it out and get scared.

Afraid that I won't be able to rough it.

Afraid that I might be popular and make new friends and like them better.

Afraid that I'll have fun and maybe become someone different or better.

Instead I can stay home, depend heavily on the boys for damn near everything, beside the pool in the shade because a rough life isn't for me or something like that, and remain hobbled mentally and socially. While I'm doing that I'll worry a lot about New Jake's insulin pump. August and Batman tell me he'll be fine. Keith will help keep him in good condition but I have my doubts. He's impulsive and intense.

And besides. You can't go to Burning Man sober. Can you?

August says of course you can. He does it all the time. He's only going as a guide though, because there are so many virgins going this year. Can they even all get along for the entire trip? I can't wait to see pictures and hear their playa names. I can't wait to see the video of the man burn a week from now. I can't wait to go myself and experience this and I don't even know why.

I so, so want to be one of them.

I cooked and did laundry and shopping again and helped them organize their things. I hung off every moment of planning and prep and then like a good sport (good girl) I waved and smiled as they left and now I'm just...

Just argh. 

Really disappointed there was no eleventh hour change of heart. They're selling the extra tickets last minute, in Reno. Those tickets that should have been ours. I think Loch and Ben would really enjoy it with me. I still have the costume I made. They don't even need costumes. They can just wear their kilts and top hats.

And I don't understand why I can't go. I doubt I ever will.

Yup. It's Friday night and they've put on Gwen Stefani's cover of Rainbow Connection.

Times have changed.

Bulletproof for one more day.

And where are you now, now that I need you?
Tears on my pillow wherever you go
I'll cry me a river that leads to your ocean
You never see me fall apart

I open my eyes and feel around for the first hints of the day as they are revealed in the light coming over the edge of the point, flooding slowly through the windows on one side of the room, though the dark still presses furiously, hopelessly against the glass of the patio doors on the other side.

On the inside the first thing my mind does is remember. Every morning begins with a snap and a slow bloom of an ache I can't seem to soothe. I feel my way around the edge of the hole. It flexes with the days. Sometimes it's small and I can avoid it completely. Other times it grows and grows right out to the rim of my life and I get sucked into it, bones and all. Usually it spits me out for I am small and bitter, unsatisfying, incomplete. My fingers start to flutter against my lips, my eyes spill over and Lochlan instinctively pulls me in underneath his chin, my eyes drying up as gratitude replaces grief, as my brain permits me to remember everything before and after, too.

Shhhh, he sleep-talks. He can't surface, he's still at the Midway, standing and watching as I go in circles into the night sky, coming down in front of him, huge smile across my face, music blasting in my ears. I used to be her. I used to live for the lights, for the moment and now I live for the past, for what came before, a fleeting, intense magic of a different sort altogether, a bright flash of light in that dark, a preemptive rescue from a storm I wouldn't see coming for years.

I sigh outwardly. The effort of just standing up, of getting dressed, of smiling. Of being human. It takes a lot and some days I have more energy than others. Some days I can't even handle the early light. Some days I'm so grateful I lived long enough to experience the things that came after. Exquisite pain. Unbridled joy. Love let loose. A circle right back around to the beginning. Another chance, that gift few people ever get and I got it in spades. A house chockful of love, brimming with the kind of sweetness, affection and support most people could only dream of.

Ben is there now too, up because of the fluttering, no doubt. Light-sleeping. On guard, half-aware, half-awake, all ready. He moves in close, pressing into my back, making me into a breakfast sandwich in between them, closing that circle, shutting down any gaps where the light might escape, shining straight through instead of holding. Exhale once more. I feel safe. The ache gets a little smaller, the gratitude grows a little bigger.

There's a little energy now and enough light. It's safe to begin the day.

Late.

Being big and tough is exhausting. I don't know how the boys do it. I gave up my efforts well into the evening and barricaded myself in the library with Ben's headphones and a plan to fall asleep on the fluffy white rug.

Only I felt a hand on my shoulder just as I was drifting off. I opened my eyes and there are big brown eyes staring back at me. It's gotten very dark and he's turned on a small light on the table across the room.

Bee. Come upstairs.

I'm good. I hug myself smaller and close my eyes again. He takes off the headphones and sees what's playing. Nothing. I didn't even think to turn on music, I just needed to block out the world.

Come on. I'll take you up.

I need a pantry.

You need to not get caught up in their power struggle. Take what you need and leave them to their bullshit. Don't take it on.

It's hard not to.

I know but their emotions and their actions aren't your fault or your doing. Remember what you've learned.

I learned over the years that if Ben drinks for whatever reasons, I'm not to blame. Even if I fucked up and pushed him or fought with him or ignored him. It's supposed to not be my fault. I never ever believed that for a second. Not any more than I believe that right now it totally isn't my fault that Lochlan and Caleb have spent their entire adolescent and adult lives fighting over me.

 I can't cause, control or cure it.

Except that I know I did, I can and I should.

This is hard.

Ben kisses my forehead and lifts me into his arms. I hold on for dear life. There's a reassurance tinged with regret in our embrace as he tries to believe that he's relevant and required. He is but maybe he has an easier time believing in things he finds at the bottom of a bottle or in a jar of pills. Demons grow quiet under those perfect circumstances. I don't have the self-disregard to go there. He tells me that's a gift. I tell him it's a curse, as I am an anxious, fearful idiot now and I'm supposed to know better. I'm supposed to be good at life. I'm old enough to understand these things and I'm old enough to control my own destiny.

This is far too heavy for a Wednesday night, Bumblebee. Let's go to sleep and tomorrow we can grab Sam and talk some more. He's good at this. Sam's a jack of all trades. He's a patient prince and he's somehow just about off limits suddenly. Again.

Lochlan would prefer I talk to just about anyone but Sam.

Loch's a carny. He's got no training. I'll deal with him.

Who else do you know that can juggle fire that well? It's only partially a euphemism. But my eyes are heavy and my words slur against the proper pronounciations. I give up and fall asleep against Ben's shoulder, his reassurance blanketing me in total warmth. I worry for nothing and soon I don't worry at all.

Woke up at four. This is how the day's going to go.

My wrists are two different sizes. I think maybe I was supposed to be a twin. I must be the stronger of the two. I bet I absorbed my weaker sibling in the womb before she even registered on the map. I bet I ate her with gusto and spit out her bones and proclaimed that I would win everything and never have to compete with her for anything.

It would explain an awful lot.

It would explain everything.

The appearance of conflict

He said I'm fabulously rich, come on just let's go
She kind of bit her lip, jeez, I don't know
But I can guarantee, there'll be no knock on the door
I'm total pro, that's what I'm here for

I come from downtown, born ready for you
Armed with will and determination, and grace, too

I have to admit I burst into tears when I watched the recap of The Tragically Hip's Kingston concert and saw Gord Downie break down at the end of Grace, Too.

That's the song I like most by the band. I wasn't much of a fan, per se and it was only today that I realized 38 Years Old is by them and not by Tracy Chapman. The things you learn. Holy.

A couple of the boys are psycho-fans and cried all weekend and have been playing the Hip's music nonstop ever since while I go around and pat their shoulders at regular intervals. This is mostly happening in both other houses so I don't have to be bombarded.

PJ has stopped broadcasting his selections over the speakers here as well. It as getting out of hand again. The new rule is that music is just for you unless it's a random setlist for dinner or something that is agreed upon by everyone within earshot. That's never going to work. Voting generally results in misery. We have to draw slips out of a top hat to pick a restaurant. Imagine something as precious as music and see how easy it is to agree on what to listen to.

Yeah, good luck. Headphones for all.

The Bachelor Canada.

I was reading an article introducing the first half-dozen bachelors vying for the heart of some hopeful Vancouver hairdresser and I thought to myself,

Holy shit.

They need to do The Bachelor: Perdition Point Edition. Based in Canada with a bunch of international men vying for the broken heart of one already-married woman who would love nothing more than to set them up for life with someone sweet. I'm not sweet. I'm a mess.

Sadly, you won't find love (messy or sweet) on a reality show, as noted by the decided lack of long-term success stories.

I also refuse to give any of my boys up so if they find love, she ain't coming here to live. Two women on the point is enough (Ruth and I). One of them the guys wouldn't cross if their lives depended on it, the other one is me.

But I might watch it anyway because it's fun to watch the cast judge each other, pretend they're all about 'realness' and 'honesty' when in reality they've presenting a hyphenated facade of themselves for the rolling cameras and the subsequent material is boiled down into dramatic edits for ratings.

You won't find love on television. You will however, find it everywhere else. Just keep your eyes open and your facade tucked away somewhere safe. You won't need it after all.

They will, just to maintain their dignity of having their hearts ripped open on television.

It's so sad.

Let me go place my bets.

A light liquid courage.

It's a glorious twenty degrees today and already I've been offered and have accepted Caleb's summerweight suitjacket as we have lunch on a patio over the water. The food is perfect, the other tables far away and the weather the best of the previous six weeks.

It's downright cold and fallish yet sunny. I love it.

He is disappointed that I didn't come over last night for movies and yet elated that I agreed to lunch. If only I can treat because it's my turn. That delights him but I'm sure he would agree to anything if only to have the time.

My ego chokes on a mushroom, chasing it with sparkling water, failing and dying in front of his eyes.

You're finished, his psyche tells me.

It's been fun, I tell him as everything fades to black.

In real life Caleb frowns as I take a second piece of bread. I catch the frown just before he corrects. He would rather I sat here looking pretty instead of actually eating. He likes to keep me fragile and frail while Loch wants to see me sturdy, brown and healthy. Well-fed, he says with a laugh and I know it's post-traumatic memories stealing the moment from him.

What? I hold the bread out in surprise, mouth full, eyes challenging.

Would you like me to order more? I was going to eat that. Caleb laughs.

I pass him the remaining piece and he nods in appreciation. Okay, sharing is good. He laughs and I roll my eyes as I take another sip of Prosecco.

Stay for a walk? 

No. I have to get back. Henry needs lunch and I have some gardening to do. 

Can't someone else look after things while you're away? 

No? It's my son and my garden. I stare him down over the rim of my glass. I look after my responsibilities. 

My apologies. I only meant that the boys should afford you more breaks. Following the suggestion -or reminder- of more time for fun for you. 

They do a tremendous job of it but no one's going to make space for more time for you right now, Diabhal. There's just been too much upheaval between us this year already. First with Henry and then with Lochlan. I told you I needed time and I still do. 

Funny that's the one thing I can't currently afford you. 

Why the hell not?

Because I lose too much ground and you won't let me make it up. Because I love you too much to let go.

Take the hint. Be a friend. Be a distant friend and be glad I haven't evicted you from my house yet. 

From your house? 

Right. From MY HOUSE. 

Neamhchiontach-

If you're going to be here you're to stand where I tell you to stand. 

This is Lochlan. He's turned you against me. 

You did that all on your own! 

Reverend Run.

Sam got very busy very quickly, somehow winding up with a funeral and two weddings this weekend, plus regular services. He's pulling a hundred-hour week and I'm trying to help him as much as I can, not only by filling him up with coffee and taking care of his chores every chance I get but I also went out this morning and bought him an off-the-rack black suit in a huge hurry when a particular bride decided at the last minute that everyone at the front of the church (including Sam) had to be in black or white. 

I wasn't going to buy him a white suit. He'd look like a BeeGee. 

Though, now that I think of it, that would have been amazing. But it's too late now. He's already left, pins in place on the hem of his pantlegs because I didn't have time to sew them but I will tonight when he is home. 

At least the weddings will keep him well-fed and the stipends are several hundred bucks a pop so he comes out tired but ahead. And he only agrees to officiate the weddings of people he has met and counselled and actually likes so that's an extra bonus. 

I love weddings. Really I do. But I love Sam more because he's a good person, deep down. I'm not sure if I am. He says I am but I think he would have told me I was Cleofuckingpatra if only because I'm the only one in the house who could shorten his pants on such little notice.