I hate airports, volume #4657362748595021615354219.

I never told you then that I'd be easy to love
Supposedly I'm a man but I felt like a cub
I wondered if the planes flying farther away
Not ever knowing I would never come back the same
As my lungs gave way, I swear I felt something burst
It's been 13 days and now I'm dying of thirst
For the birds who prey I pray that someone else will get here first
I am not alone, I'll be alright
Just take these bones and bring them back to life

Ben called early this morning and asked if I would send PJ or Chris to pick them up for ten.

No problem, I told him smoothly.

What are you up to today? Can I book dinner, just me and you or is it taken?

Oh, I'm so busy today with errands and Christmas shopping. I'll let you know about dinner. I played it cool. Gotta practice on someone.

In reality I was standing on the stupid grey carpet by the arrivals hall at nine-forty-five with tears threatening to fuck my composure over completely.

The tears won. I saw him coming down the hall and his whole face lit up when I yelled his name. Sorry to all the other people waiting. People look so annoyed before lunchtime. I feel bad for them. But not too bad. Because Ben. He walked really fast and then I was off the ground in his arms and the tears anointed him as mine.

Busy bee, huh?

Busy being with you.

That so?

It is.

You are the best thing about my life, you know that?

Might go both ways.

Might?

You've been gone four days. You'll have to refresh my memory.

I can do that.

Since we got home I've been in a haze of plane fuel and overwhelm, in his arms as he did indeed remind me all the things I know about him, all the things I love, and everything I missed so much while everything else threatened to distract me away from someone who does nothing but give while everyone else takes.

It has rained for 55 out of the past 59 days so you may as well just give in, already.

(I like to make Sundays not about me.)

I am the ship that will carry you to safety.

I am the ship dashed upon the rocks.

I am the anchor left behind, heaving against the rock shelf, unable to be broken out.

I am the sea that drowns you.

I am the surf that will wash you in with the tides.

I am the grains of sand, that can be molded, swept and tossed into the wind, or hardened into glass by lightning. I will sift through your fingers, falling back to the earth.

I am the rocks upon which the waves break.

I am the tall grasses waving in the wind, my shallow roots unable to hold fast.

I am the shore.

I am your peaceful place.

I am your secret hideaway.

But I am not your respite, nor your despair.

Each sentence carried a short story and each one tied in with the next. Each one was at once profound and destructive. Each one hit home with a resounding *thwock*. Each one hurt like a son of a bitch and each one was perfectly placed, perfectly told.

Each one, relayed by Sam from his place at the edge of the sea, and then from within as he waded in up to his knees for effect, in the pouring rain, the pages of Jacob's bible becoming wavy and crinkled, his hair curling from the humidity, and the water absorbing up his pantlegs until he was mostly soaked to the waist and still not truly noticing how effective his sermon was.

Until he was finished, holding the first candle of advent aloft as it sputtered in the rain, wading in from the surf, pulling himself along with his hand out for his congregation, using their momentum to bring himself to shore.

Maybe weights have been lifted. Maybe we had a really good talk last night. Maybe he just figured he's got to go one step further to keep interest in church at this time of year, when things get crushingly formulaic for him with advent beginning and he just said fuck it and did something else. He can do that, if he wants. It's a very easy church to helm.

And he's good at it.

I went Christmas shopping with Batman today. We didn't buy a thing, we didn't talk much at all and we hardly ate, short of grabbing a coffee and a pastry, eating as we walked, which was awkward to hold everything for me. I need to ditch the purse and find clothes with more pockets because this is dumb. 

What's dumb? 

Dragging around all this...stuff. I point out. I show him the bag. 

What's in it? 

My wallet, phone, headphones, hearing aids and seven lipsticks. 

Only seven? 

It's my thing. I like lipstick. 

And bobby pins. 

Oh, yeah. There's ten or twenty at the bottom. How did you know? 

I remember them. I thought you had morphed into a porcupine the first time I touched your hair. 

I did, actually. No pins that day. I shrug and then laugh, giving myself away. 

He grins. So pare down. 

I suppose I could leave my wallet home. 

Bridget-

I'm kidding! 

No more sugar for you. It makes you silly. 

I shoot a look at him sideways to see if that's a euphemism. It isn't. He means actual sugar. 

I think it's the coffee, not the sugar, I tell him as I dispose of the wrappers and napkins and then the cup too. 

He stops and waits. I don't know what for so I wander a little ways and then walk back to him. 

Are you coming?

I was waiting for you to stop and reapply your lipstick. 

I'm not wearing any. 

Why on earth do you need seven with you then? We reach the car and he opens my door for me. Chivalry burns so brightly with this one.

Just in case of emergencies. 

What constitutes a lipstick emergency, Bridget?

Well, if I don't have a pen then I'm fully prepared to take a lot of notes on the backs of cocktail napkins. 

I didn't see napkins in your purse. 

At some bar. 

'At some bar'. What bar are you going to? 

None, I don't like bars. 

So where are you going to get the napkins then? 

Oh my GOD. If I have to justify my lipstick hoarding then I'm done for the day. Take me home, please. 

Can you mark down the route on this map? Wait, I don't have a pen. 

I take out a lipstick and draw all over the map, and then the inside of the windshield and then his face, for good measure. 

We clear now?

Yes, ma'am. Is this my shade? What do you think? 

I think you're warm-toned, so no, probably not. 

Well, try one of those then. 

I don't have any of those! I'm cool. 

Yes, yes you are, he says under his breath, as he pulls out of the lot. I can't believe he left all the marks I just drew on his face but suddenly I love him for it and I realize that the 'errands' trip was more to get me away from the house for a day because I needed it and didn't realize. 

Well, the Rev's out of the bag now, so to speak.

Ben, Daniel, Gage and Schuyler have gone to Nolan's for a few days. It's hovering just below zero there with a week's worth of snow is on the way and Ben couldn't get a satisfactory answer from Nolan about whether or not he had his property winterized sufficiently already. Nolan is getting old. He forgets things. He's having a bit of trouble keeping up and I daresay we're going to double our efforts to get him to move to the city after one false start and change of heart already. His sons have their own lives and he seems to tell them even less and they have neither the time nor the cash to drop in on him and check and all of his neighbors are gone, haing sold their own properties and moved to assisted living. Nolan will never ever give up without a fight, even if he can't remember who he's fighting with. 

So we packed up a huge hamper full of notes, presents, food and goodies for him to enjoy and Ben checked it through at the airport and they're off. 

It was like a satellite army of flannel and purpose and I'm so proud. It also gives Ben time with his sponsor that he hasn't had in a while and it gives two sets of very close brothers time to hang out with each other, which doesn't happen enough, sadly. 

When we got home, Sam found me putting away wrapping paper and the extra luggage that the boys didn't need and asked if I wanted him to make some lunch for us. That we have turkey left, and ham too, that he could make a mean Monte Cristo given enough space. 

I didn't know that. 

Well, I can make a mean french toast and this is the same but it's rare for us to have both ingredients on hand and a virtually empty kitchen so we may as well do it sooner rather than later. 

I don't think he's talking about sandwiches anymore and I'm such a brat, I want to see where he's going with this or if he's just grasping at...at...I don't know what. 

So I smile really big and ask if he needs help getting it together.

No, sit up though and we'll talk while I cook. 

So I did and we did and I forgot he was being innuendo-ish or maybe I just read something into it that wasn't there (blame the boys for making me such a flaming deviant) but we had a nice afternoon and the sandwiches were amazing. I even took one out to Lochlan afterward, who was thoroughly enjoying a day outside in the sun working on replating the exterior of the camper while it wasn't raining. He was grateful, starving and completely unaware that yet another minister is making a not-so-subtle play for his girl, right under his nose. I said nothing and just went back to collect the plate later on. 

When I brought it into the kitchen I had my confirmation as Sam made an incredibly awkward, yet profoundly sweet offer to fill in for Ben if I missed Ben enough to consider doing something I might have been waverish on thus far. If I needed an extra sleeping person for the night or if I needed anything. If I wanted anything.

Oh, Sam. 

Literally the least evil of all the souls here on the point, he smiles bravely but he's trembling behind it. 

I know you are. 

Then just keep it in mind. 

Your openness is something new. 

Matthew, of all books, chapter seven. 'Take the plank out of your own eye and then you can see to remove the splinter from your brother's eye.'

Which brother? 

I don't think I have to clarify that. I just don't know what to do, so I'm starting with being honest.

Short weeks, tiny birds.

It's turky without an e. Like murky.

He's lying on his back. All teeth and whites of his eyes in the dark. Grinning like a fool. It's five a.m. and we can't sleep. Or rather, Loch couldn't so he woke me up too and now that I'm flushed and breathless he's talkative and silly.

I'm the one with the spelling skills. 

Not for this, I reckon. All these years, Bridge, and we've let it go, living with that extra e. It's time to finally set the record straight. 

I wonder what other words we've done this to. 

What, added an extra e? Hundreds of thousands of words. Like cooki, hairdryr, and Bn. 

Bn? So it's...bun? 

No, it's still pronounced Ben but there's no e in his name.

What about me? Is it actually Bridgt? 

That's a single syllable. Too abrupt and harsh. Not at all like you. He laughs and turns his head to the side to look at me. You should have an extra e to draw it out sweetly. 

Bridgeet? I sound like a bird. 

Sometimes, ye-

PEEP.

Okay, this isn't going where I thought it would AT ALL. 

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.