Midway to Christmas.

Okay! The lights are up finally. All eight-point-three kilometres of beautiful multicolored vintage bulbs on all-weather strings that I special ordered and spent a small fortune on so we could cover the house, the garage, the stables and the boathouse too and as Dalton flicked the switch inside the front hall and it all lit up like an airport in a snowstorm I told Ben we were never ever taking them down again, that I would consent to turn them off for the month of July, maybe, if it went to a vote first but otherwise can't we just leave them up? 

Besides, it's dangerous and Daniel shouldn't be up there. He is damaged and already fell off the roof once and broke something so they keep sending him back up, as he's defective now and who wants to risk a second?

Nice, boys.

Lochlan asked if I still liked the lights and I smiled at him with an uncharacteristically self-satisfied smile, chin up high. Of course I still like them. I'll never stop. 

He grinned back and kissed my forehead. Now he's gotta go. He and the Batman and Schuyler have work and then the rest of the week beginning tomorrow is American Thanksgiving and we opted to celebrate it this year just for fun. Because we need more fun around the point and less suspicion, less pushing and shoving, less shouting and shelving and sweeping things under the rug. We need a break from each other maybe. Maybe we all need lobotomies. But that's unlikely. I've been asking for one for years and I CAN'T WAIT until the day I can come and sit here in front of this unfamiliar laptop and be already logged in and type simply:

Hello? 
Anyone out there? 
I don't know my name but I'm here anyway.

instead of the story of my life.

Still soaked in petrichor, still wavering between worlds.

Because you're both so stubborn, I brought the world home to you. He takes a sip of his drink. His eyes never leave the fire. My eyes don't leave him.

Part of me thinks this is touching, romantic even, that he would want to ensure the comfort of those he cares most about, making good on a childhood promise to conquer the world together and in the end the only thing they conquered was a few really (really) good investment strategies, an underground freakshow and me.

***

Batman hands me back a thick folder stuffed full to splitting with papers.

Bridget, I went over every line three times. I can't see a thing wrong with this. The funds are clear and without obligation. Honestly I wish I could find something wrong with it but I can't. Maybe double-check with a third party to be certain but somehow I think Lochlan has hit the lottery here.

If he pulled a gun on Loch to make him listen then he'll be worse when he decides it's time to get moving on his proposal. This just frees him up from the paperwork.

Should I have a talk with him? Batman is Caleb's conscience, if he were to have one. He keeps him in check.

No, let's wait and see.

Keep me in the loop, and don't wait until it's too late or I'll pay him a visit without your blessing. But he softens the threat with a smile and I feel tired. Tired of juggling their feelings, their suspicions. Tired of managing this. Tired of spreading my time to keep the peace. You wonder why it's easier to give in? This is why. If I just go and make the Devil happy he leaves everyone else alone.

Can't take me anywhere, can't figure out how old I am.

But I don't mind
But I'm not surprised to find that you do
I'm not surprised to find that you do
I know you do

And I feel fine
But I know the same does not apply to you
I know the same does not apply to you
So I guess that I'll curl up and die, too.

I'm awash in petrichor and misplaced good intent today and all of it's disguised, dipped in black, mimicking shadows, fading into inky darkness so that once I can't determine the outlines anymore, I forget any of it was ever there.

And that's okay, or so I'm told.

Caleb bought me an ice cream cone and didn't say a word as I managed to get a big blob of it on my robin's egg blue threadbare coat. He hates this coat. It's one of my favorite things. He went and fetched soda water and used his handkerchief to try and get it out but I said I would wash it instead and it's clean now, on the drying rack with the flannel shirt brigade.

(Nothing changes. I did the same thing to a brand new sundress in 1980. He wet his towel in the lake and tried to get the ice cream blob out then too.)

One scoop of chocolate, one of coffee. That's my order. Sugar cone as long as it isn't more than a dollar extra, because sometimes it's two-fifty and that's a hell of a markup on a single cone.

He still gets butter pecan, or plain vanilla. One scoop, in a little bowl with a throwaway spoon.

Ice cream is an event. That's a cop out. I indicate his bowl with disdain. Why bother? It's like asking for one plain chip when you could have a whole bag of salt and vinegar chips. Or ketchup ones!

Well, to me the event here isn't the ice cream, it's the company. The ice cream is just a cover for time with you. 

Oh. 

Did you honestly think differently?

I give him my patented nine-year-old's shrug. Well...I mean...it's ice cream...

Neamhchiontach, I need you to convince him that I'm doing this in earnest. 

Eating ice cream?

Bridget-

I'm kidding! I'm also not going to pick sides in something that's between you and Loch. 

You're the only one he listens to. You rule his heart. Have a go at his mind. 

No. 

I beg your pardon? 

I said no. You can't convince someone to trust you. They have to believe in you. The problem is your words and your actions never match. 

When did you grow up, Neamhchiontach?

When you two were busy fighting. Guess you missed it.

(Last time I'm talking about it so stop emailing me about Sam.)

Early Jesus Beach this morning in the rain. It was perfect. Ice-cold, profound and the last service before Advent begins. My skin hissed in the rain from God's disapproval, though his son forgives me for whatever crimes I committed this week alone. Confession is a mental conversation you can't hide from it in this religion. I don't know if that's good or bad, and so I hold my head higher and wait for Sam's assurance that I will still have grace, even with wet eyelashes and the smell of salt stinging my nose.

Sam preaches directly to me today. I do not know if it's for my benefit or for his. I never know if his words are for me, about me or because of me but he moves to a whole other plane of existence once he has a crowd so it becomes an unanswerable question.

It reminds me of someone so dearly my nose stops stinging and my eyes pick up the torch and run with it. It's a sensual relay with no clear finish line and Sam is one of the last holdouts in whatever race right through redemption and back to sin takes place. I am auditioning for the Devil every moment of every day and I stand here trying to be so good all the while watching Sam's mouth as he speaks.

But it's just a crush.

I clutch Lochlan's hand, who doesn't seem to mind one bit anymore as long as it isn't Caleb. I don't know when that shift began. Sam was off limits to all and suddenly he's only off limits to one but I can't pull the trigger on that because I need Sam and I need him clear-headed and not addled by thoughts of what we did (that we haven't done). I need him to talk me down when I throw plates or eat ashes or go to the Devil anyway. I need a voice of dissent when I fight with Lochlan, to remind me that I'm awful, impossible and difficult so that I am aware of what I am. But in Sam's gentle way, that reminds me I'm still deeply loved.

Besides, I'm a little perpetually worn out and my schedule is full. August seems random and rare but he really isn't any more, just to enjoy life while its mine to enjoy. Loch told me not to apologize for it so I said I wouldn't and he laughed. He followed in Ben's footsteps to a point here, allowing things that should never see the light of day in a generous attempt to engineer my peace of mind and it works and it's not backfiring in that I don't want to be with Caleb constantly or even much past collecting him for a group dinner or seeing if he needs anything before I make the long arduous drive to run errands. (We try to stack as much as we can, it's a long drive to actual civilization.).

When we get home from JB I change into warm leggings and a big skull sweater and my docs and head across the driveway anyway. Caleb opted to sleep in and didn't show for church and I like to check on him. When I let myself in to the boathouse he is sitting reading the paper on his iPad, a cup of coffee in his hand and an empty plate beside it. He's in flannel pajama bottoms, bare feet and a dark blue t-shirt.

Just the girl I wanted to see.

Is that a fact?

It is, indeed. I wanted to know if you were free this afternoon for an ice cream drive.

(He knows. He KNOWS how to get me.)

I'll double-check with Loch but I am free as far as I know, until five anyway.

Wonderful. I'll collect you after lunch. Dress warm. And with that I am dismissed as he goes back to reading. He looks up once more as it dawns on me and smiles gently and I take the cue and make my exit.

Wish list.

(The dance at this stage with Loch is a constant river of aegis, stability and preservation.)

Perfect-sized, overly-warm, determined to take the night just for himself, he put his arms around me and pulled me beneath him, keeping me held close, kissing just underneath my ear before returning to my mouth.

I don't care. I don't care about anything but you. The whole world can cave in and I don't care as long as you're here with me. 

He's said that before. At seventeen. At twenty. At thirty-one. At forty-six. At fifty. And still. I kiss him back and his stubble tickles against my lip. He pulls my hips up against him and we're instantly in rhythm, immediately going through a long-choreographed but always new and desperate dance and he finally can't breathe either and tucks his head down against mine, driving hard, breathing steady, biting his own lip because I feel so good, or so he whispers.

My arms are locked around his neck and I can arch my back by pushing my shoulders down. It makes him groan and go harder still and then with a wicked smile he pulls way up and turns me over, putting me down on my stomach, kissing my cheek as he puts his forehead against my temple. He slides his hand under my hips, pulling me up off the bed, making me cry out. Instantly he backs way off and I shake my head not to, so he resumes cautiously, rolling to his side, bringing me with him. He leans up on his elbow over me, one hand on my forehead, the other holding me against him and he drives steadily onward through the dark into the morning.

I sleep from four to six, facing him, pressed against him, his arms tight around me. A suffocating level of closeness I have grown to crave once again, missing it from forever ago and I'm not alone in that, judging by how deeply asleep he is without ever loosening his hold.

At six we are awake again to watch the sunrise. By eight we had made more love, enough to last the rest of our lives, so he promised me (but that won't stop us) and by eight-thirty he had resolved to ignore everything that serves as a distraction. The Devil. The bank account. The preacher. The benevolent friends. The weather. The past. And the future, too.

At nine he asked me what I wanted.

You, I tell him. I didn't hesitate. I don't want anything else. 

Then tell that to the Devil and see what he says. 

Nevermind anything else, the point is that it's Friday. And that's a blessing without a disguise today.

We've got Switchfoot/Relient K tickets!!

*SQUEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE*

I can't believe I'm going to see Deathbed performed live. Never thought THAT would happen.

***

I had a lovely nap in Sam's room, uninterrupted and just the perfect temperature, since Lochlan has a habit at night of flinging all of his covers off and onto me. I don't need them. I broil.

Then I helped with dinner, went over schedules and homework with the kids and then got five different lectures from seven different people on being cheeky. I say five from seven because it got repetitive, and because I know all the words already to these songs. I know right from wrong. I was taught by the master illusionist and so all of this depends on the day, the light, the means and whether or not it justifies the ends. So I totally get it and I don't understand at all but at the end of the day I made a sick joke with perfect timing and I wish I hadn't said it. Been thinking it for years. Never going to do it again. I wonder when it'll happen next.

We clear as mud? Okay good.

***

Caleb sent another request for my Christmas list.

I don't have one. I can't give something I don't have. 

Then please jot down a list of things you would like and I can finish my shopping. Make them count. 

(Caleb doesn't shop, for the record. I used to shop for him, otherwise he gives cash and gift cards. So he needn't buy a damn thing, technically.)

I don't need anything. 

Bridget-

What? 

If you could have anything right now what would you do?

I answered this yesterday and got in trouble! 

I cover my face laughing. He rubs a hand over his face wearily. I can see why Lochlan calls you impossible. I don't know where he gets the energy to keep up with your games. 

Excuse me? I don't play games. 

Your verbal games, Neamhchiontach. 

He taught them to me! And then he gets all out of sorts when I invoke them. 

Please make me a list. Nothing ordinary please. The others can get those things. Keep it dreamy. 

Diabhal-

Just try. I don't get to spoil you often, anymore.

It's not your job to spoil me at all. 

Right. Because I don't consider it a job, I consider it a welcome obligation, a penance that will someday be my absolution. 

Oh, if you're ticking off the years in hopes of breaking even, stop it right now. That isn't what Christmas is about. 

And what is it about?

Spirit. Family. 

He sets his mouth in an angry line. Right. Make the list. Stay away from Sam. I'll check in with you tomorrow.

BRIDGET! 

What?!

Prodigal daughter.

I am squinty and achey today with a whopping hell of a hangover. PJ made me another goddamned drink for breakfast saying it would help but I just teetered away from the table wondering what it would feel like to be sober again someday, if it ever happens again. At this rate it will be sometime in the new year.

2017, I'm coming for you.

At least, I think I am.

I walked right into Sam, and in spite of the fresh booze infusion he put his arms around me and I pointed out we were ten days into the tenth year without Jake and this is a milestone of a different sort. This one really screams MOVE ALONG NOW or stop being paralyzed by his memories, stop playing house (or at least bed) with his best friend and pull your bootstraps up already, Pigalet.

Fuck that. Imma wallow instead. In the mud. Like a piglet. Jake would be so proud. I've done so much with my life. I conquered a whole house full, a whole army full of men who all wondered if they would be the one at some point or another and in the end I made sure a lot of them knew precisely how much trouble I would be. I remained mired in a disaster from a long time ago and I'm still the cause of every bit of strife in my world. I'm still attempting to take on fully half of a bottle of alcohol to save Lochlan/prevent a worser disaster only to end up a disaster in my own right and I still couldn't fight off the Devil with a wooden spoon.

I just need to get rid of this headache. Sam tells me to go crash in his room where it's quiet and since he's going to be back in less than a couple hours he'll bring us some fancy coffee and that, coupled with the nap, will help.

But I am drunk and inappropriate and totally fucking shameless so I crack a joke about something else helping more, since I'll be already drunk and in his bed and he blushes like he's never blushed before and gives me a quick kiss on the forehead before he's gone.

He didn't say no, though, so there's that.

Never going to dry out. Never going to change.

I got it. Lochlan gets to his feet unsteadily from where he sat in the dark thinking, in the garage. A bottle of Glenfiddich keeping him warm in the damp. Rain beats steadily against the windows high up in the door and both ghosts watch him silently from their corners.

Got what? Caleb says from the door, light spilling into the room suddenly from the lamps in the driveway.

A trade for you. I have a trade for you. I'll keep the money if you give me something in return. 

Interesting logic. 

You know what I mean! He's wasted on indecision and pressure. I'm just wasted because I'm small and I've been sitting on the cold floor for three hours sharing the bottle with him while he sorted this out.

What do you want, Lochlan? 

Lochlan staggers forward and stands up very straight. Bridget's soul, he says with a deep bow that almost sends him face-first into the cement. He corrects himself and I am stunned into paralysis.

So you will keep the money if I give you her soul. What do I get out of this arrangement? Caleb is still smiling but I'm too plastered to feel the dread that I should with a look like that.

Whatever the fuck you want, Lochlan says and tilts the bottle vertically into his mouth. It's empty and he lets it slam into the floor, shattering into a million sharp tiny stars.

Caleb smiles generously. If we shake on it, it's a done deal. He holds out his hand but Lochlan walks right past him, out the door, weaving in a slalom course, uninterested in making anything permanent today. It's an idea, one he will most likely regret and thus they aren't technically allowed to agree to anything unless sober. Consent and all that. New rules I wish we had had in the eighties when everything went wrong.

Trying to trick him isn't nice, I scowl at Caleb, trying to be tough because now we're alone and I can't fend for myself like this.

Better run along and put your boy to bed. The point's a dangerous place when you're halfwitted. I'll see you to the door.

Nice, Diabhal.

Indeed, Neamhchiontach. 

Solid scold.

Lochlan got right down in my face, one hand wrapped around my upper arm, the other cupping my chin as he rubbed his thumb across my bottom lip, trying to wipe away the kiss he saw. Caleb doesn't care who sees him touch me.

My knees caved in from the gesture and he held me up.

Too close, Peanut.

(He said the same thing after I stepped into the circle he had drawn in the sand while practicing and a torch knicked my ponytail, singeing the end black. He cut my hair with his pocket knife so no one would ever be the wiser and told me, Too close, Peanut. That's why I draw the line.)

I know. That's why you draw the line.

You're not the one who crossed it. He was. His fingers flex against my skin, tightening without conscious effort and it feels bruisy and tight. He loosens his hold when he sees my face.

Lochlan is newly minted today. The freshest millionaire on the point, because the Devil put his money where his mouth is. And I'm not sure where the money keeps coming from when he said he gave me everything but it just kept coming after he admitted he didn't but he let me play with one tiny fraction of what he actually has and more just keeps rolling in.

We didn't agree to a thing and he went and did it anyway.

But you're not supposed to talk about that and so let's just say conflict is at the forefront today because money makes you feel different, once it's yours. Especially when you never had any before (like we didn't) and then suddenly you do (like we do now). It makes you dream up a list of things you suddenly need. It reminds you of things you want. There's a weird kind of pressure to make it work all the while you expect the weight to lift and it doesn't. It singes the ends of your hair with its expectations and it always feels too close. Too close and you need to leave the line, because you won't trust anyone anymore, least of all yourself.