RESIST.

Well, that was a show for the ages. We saw Roger Waters last night and honestly in hindsight we should have gotten a private box for it but there weren't enough of us going. That lack of numbers oddly quelled the hype a little, and I wasn't as excited as I would have been until he walked out on stage and I was all ooooooh. This is the voice Lochlan introduced me to with such reverence way back a million years ago.

The visuals were incredible. The sound was incredible. We didn't leave with ringing ears for the first time ever but at the same time I heard every word. It was amazing, probably more exciting for those down front and on the floor but I am too small to stand on the floor for shows, I learned that lesson years ago. I like being in the rafters with the unruly crowds, though last night they were massively unruly and impolite to a likes of which I haven't seen before. In any case it didn't distract from the too-long Trump diatribes, projected visually for three songs straight, the giant floating pigs and moon-balls or us crying through virtually every song, especially the encore, which was Mother and Comfortably Numb. 

Gah. What a night.

We fought our way out of the arena, through the bar crowds for Halloween weekend and back to the point with perfect timing, as Caleb was seeing out the remainders of his own evening. Masquerade masks and champagne flutes littered the patio, and he looked very handsome in his tuxedo with his dracula cape from many Halloweens ago across his shoulders.

He was happy to see us, asked if we didn't mind if he cleaned up tomorrow, as he was very tired, and apologized for the party ending so early that we missed it entirely. I tried to give him a poker face but defaulted to surprised delight and he smiled and said he was too old for the hijinks of our past, that if I wanted to come and see him tomorrow I was welcome to. But that he needed some sleep.

I'm so conditioned to go to him I was actively disappointed. I can't explain it (well, I can, actually, but I won't). He kissed our cheeks and gave me a spooky laugh, which I love when he does, and he was gone.

Then he was back three minutes later knocking on the side door. I was still in the kitchen. He presented me with a sealed bottle of champagne and a new platter of charcuterie that hadn't been touched. Leftovers. Enjoy. Celebrate a bucket list item that I know this show was for Loch. 

Thank you. 

Don't mention it. Hey, Neamhchiontach. 

Yes, Diabhal? 

I know that you were expecting something else entirely but as I said I'm trying. 

You're doing well. 

It isn't easy. You look beautiful. 

I have spilled beer and smoke all over me. It was a rough crowd. 

I don't worry for your safety with Lochlan anymore. 

The 'anymore' part reminded me of who he is, and I said goodnight and went inside.

We didn't touch the champagne. We'll save it for New Years (it's the REALLY good stuff) but we ate the entire platter of cheese and meat because I was starving. Bad pizza slices are $7.75 at the arena and they're not worth it. So there was only one thing missing from the night and that was hearing Fearless, my favorite Pink Floyd song and a soothing lullaby for the ears in the face of endless danger. Lochlan used to play me to sleep with it and I miss that sometimes. I think I always will.

Welcome to the machine.

Tonight is going to be SO busy. I slept in until then after waking up at eight to let the dog out so I feel somewhat rested, it's just going to be a bit of a marathon. We're going to see Roger Waters downtown and then coming back to finish the night at Caleb's small Halloween soirée (sigh, not even linking to them but they never end well for me), which he commandeered the use of my studio (currently empty) along with the back patio, the driveway and his own house. Perfect spot to entertain a hundred aging lawyers and their impossibly vacuous trophy third wives, without a soul going inside my house. The doors will be locked, but surprisingly some of the boys aren't going with us to the show tonight, having seen Roger Waters previously so they'll be home to keep watch.

Lochlan is already losing his mind. I think he's probably the world's biggest Pink Floyd fan and so he is stoked to go tonight. I'm just trying to figure out what to wear, unless I just come home and do a quick change into a party dress, since no way in hell am I dressing up for a rock show. We've had this discussion before, Internet.

Very important points.

An undercurrent of mild anger runs through the point today as the entire Collective feels betrayed by a dream, as if they would or could try and somehow control my love life to their own end, as if they direct every action made here in order to serve a purpose.

I try to indicate that pots and kettles are usually black, unless they're stainless steel...or enamel and that honestly how haven't they controlled every aspect of my life from puberty onward, the strongest examples being when Lochlan broke up with me and I was virtually given to Cole, to Ben stepping in and taking over when Jacob flew. I know damn well Jacob was an outlier and they were pissed that I didn't stay within the group but all's well that ends well, I guess or something close to it.

But also! Lochlan is weirdly touched and has been losing his shit just about every time he looks at me. Because I was so relieved that it was a dream. Because I don't want to join the dead. Because I don't want to ever leave the collective again. It's easier just to listen when they tell you not to put your hand in the fire so that you don't get burned. Instead you can step right into it whole-bodied and be renewed.

Maybe it marks the very first time I have elevated the living above the dead. Maybe it marks a change. One that lets them breathe easy. One that just lets me breathe.

Someone to watch over me/All the best drugs.

Warm hands touch my skin, fingers running up my arm to my shoulder, under my chin, over my lips. A thumb against my bottom lip pulls me out of my dream but I don't open my eyes. I feel breath against my forehead and a quiet voice, deeper than the rest whispers against my temple.

I'm here, Princess. 

My dreams are trying to pull me down as I launch up toward the light at a thousand miles a second, bursting into the sunrise with a gasp for air.

He's here. 

He's HERE. Shaggy hair, beard and twinkly eyes threatening to spill their tears. Just like I remember him. Just like I wanted him. Back to me.

You aren't real. 

He leans forward and kisses me. Does that feel real to you? Jesus, Bridge. I missed you so much. He is almost sobbing. He's real. Oh my God. Oh. My God. Oh my. God.

Then why did you go? 

They forced me to. 

Who? Who forced you to? I want to sit up but I feel like jello all over. Unlucid, unstructured. Liquid. Fear shoots through me like bolts of lightning, for now everything has to change again. That's the deal.

He settles back up and tells me that my whole beloved army forced him out, made him leave, told him he wasn't good for me, that if he wanted to help me he needed to go. To make something up and make it good, make it about him and that they'd look after the rest. He told me that money, a lot of money appeared in his bank account and that the deal was for ten years, that if he broke the agreement or tried to contact me that they would kill me. That his life would truly be over, that looking in from the outside was better than nothing at all, didn't he agree? That he was warned this would happen if he got too close.

Boy, did he ever get close.

So he did what they asked for my safety. That he's only touched enough of the money to live on, that he looked in from the outside for the entire time, if I felt him.

That he's back now, ten years plus a day later. That they can't touch us anymore. It's done.

I've been alone so long I don't know how to do this but we'll figure it out. He pulls me up into his arms. He's still as big as I remember and I still fit so perfectly in his arms that my heart explodes, taking so much collateral damage with it that I'm a girl in tiny pieces now and the house is blown to smithereens.

I'm sorry. I believed them when they said they'd hurt you. 

They did, Jake. In doing this, they did. Oh my God where have you been? 

But he talks a mile a minute, answering questions, asking a thousand more, about the children, about me, about life, about Sam, who didn't know or so he's fairly certain. I step outside of myself and watch him while he talks. This isn't Jacob. My Jacob wouldn't have gone. He would have killed every man in the room to keep this perfect dream. He would have fought harder, dug in, held on.

He would have held on. Only one man has held on hard enough so that I don't fall and it isn't this man.

I reach out and put my hand right through Jacob's handsome face. He isn't real so I can't say for sure what he would have done because it's over.

He isn't real.

He isn't real and I'm somehow relieved. I don't want to leave Lochlan. Not now that I just got him back. That was a dream. All of it. Reality burns down my days, sends my nights up in flames and sets fire to the past. Reality holds a torch, just for us.

It's a nightmare, Peanut. It's just the pills. You're safe. Just a dream. You didn't have to claw my face off though. That hurt like fuck.

Ten years ago today was the last time I saw him alive.

Copper moon.

If I could throw this lifeless lifeline to the wind
Leave this heart of clay
See you walk, walk away
Into the night and through the rain
Into the half-light and through the flame

If I could through myself
Set your spirit free, I'd lead your heart away
See you break, break away
Into the light and to the day

Last night Lochlan pulled a page out of history and reset my world in the best way. He booked the patio for us and us alone, dragged out the heaters, got the outdoor sound system back out (we put it away last weekend for the winter) and ordered a pizza.

We had a pizza picnic in the backyard, in the dark, just us and the stars and the shivery night. We drank cheap white wine in juice glasses and used paper towels as plates and then when we were through he asked me if I wanted to dance.

I'm still chewing so I just widened my eyes. I'm not sure if he's going to start setting things on fire (honestly, I never am when it comes to that) or if this is a simple waltz around the patio stones.

It's the latter. The former will come later.

I'd love to say we danced cheek to cheek for the remainder of the night but my head tops about an inch past his shoulder so I settled for resting my face against his shirt and he tucked his head down against mine. I don't know what songs he played. Didn't listen, didn't care. All that mattered in that evening was that we were back to ourselves, back to focusing on each other, back to right. Back to us, which is where I belong and what he wants so badly it's easy to fight too hard and wind up on the outside looking in.

And I don't want to look in any more. I want to be there. With him.

Then he called a family meeting, because he figured between the waltz and the wine I would fall asleep only I didn't. I was so alert when I moved you could hear an audible twang.

Just the core group tonight, ensconced in the library. Two weeks and a little bit. Here comes the rough part. Back her up, let her in, keep her safe, let her go. I don't know if he was telling them, me or himself but he lost his place (fucking wine) more than once, stumbling over his own words, or his thoughts as they sprang up like obstacles on what should have been a straight and easy path. I did eventually start to fade and PJ took over from Lochlan, letting him off the hook.

We've got you, he said simply. Both of you. No worries, Brother.

God, I hate that phrase but at the same time it was the best thing I've ever heard. Though I know PJ lies. They all lie. I would too. Caleb never said a single word. He's not going to promise a fucking thing. No one is. Ben never even came upstairs which means his phone is somewhere and he never got the message.

Lochlan waited until we were alone again, safe in our room under the quilts, door locked, oblivious Benjamin sleeping, moving unconsciously closer against my back. Loch lit a single tiny flame with one finger and he held it drunkenly, waveringly between us.

Stay with me and I'll light the way, okay, Peanut? 

I nodded. Yes, Lochlan. I whisper it and he laughs.

That's good. I have to sleep now or I'm going to die. And he's out. Eyes closed, head down, arms tight around me, one hand on Ben. Customary clutch. I broil alive. It would be easy to sleep except after he said that I'm suddenly ice-cold, sober and wide awake.

Your ruthless heart.

All he wanted was a little anonymity
Not the pedestal you needed to control me
Then place the burden on coercive ambiguity
And nominate the ghost you made
To designate an enemy

Sam's disapproval is swift and cutting.

Why weren't you there? You letting him speak for everyone now? You going to get this far only to start over? 

You know what this is. 

And I don't like it. 

I can't help that, Samuel. 

You let him take over, Bridget, and no one will be able to save you. He says it so softly my heart thunks badly trying to listen even more closely than usual.

You can't save everyone, Sam. 

I wasn't talking about everyone. I'm talking about you. 

You're not perfect. 

No, I'm definitely not perfect and I know I fucked up. I was trying to keep you from falling for me. One-sided affection can be dealt with easily enough. If it's both ways it gets complicated. 

There was nothing complicated about it until you took it too far. 

So don't write about me. Don't share things that belong in the dark. 

That's not how I work. I have to put it somewhere. 

So put it on me. He pounds his chest. Put it here and I'll keep it for you. 

Oh, I tried that before Sam, and look where it got me. Tears spill over my eyelids and roll down my cheeks and he blames himself for that too.

That isn't what I meant, Beautiful. Oh, Jesus Christ Almighty. Please don't cry.

Chaos trapped and wrapped inside my skin.

You're free to give in but
Damned if you dare to
Taught to forgive as the hate lies within you
Feel trapped in your skin
You can't comprehend
He who preaches through silence
Denies us our privilege

I woke up abruptly, all bedhead and big eyes. New shorter hair still sticking up everywhere. Pixie's back. Lochlan with his long red curls sleeping deeply. It's the wine. It devastates him. Caleb is awake and sitting in the chair in his room smiling at me ever so slightly. If he looks pleased it's because he is. Amazing how cooperative people can be when they understand you can end their life with one hand. He's strong. I obey. It's pretty simple.

He requested a midnight show with fire and marshmallows. That's why my hair sticks up. I'll have to wash it twice to get rid of the sugar starch from the marshmallows. I am a campfire. I warmed up eventually and Lochlan relented and soon you couldn't distinguish flame from spark. We know our place, know our roles. It's more than bearable, he's made it downright luxurious to be kept and the only caviat is we don't talk about it, don't share it, and don't mind it.

I've been doing that so long I have it down pat. And Lochlan will do whatever is necessary to see that I am to be cared for properly because it's what I have earned so he's up there sleeping on his tightrope with no fear anymore, though it's still a tightrope. If he's here he's more at ease than if he's not with us. That's the rub. I can't let go. I'm afraid they'll pull me apart but cordially, almost politely with each other, a hesitant friendship still being mended and fractured on almost a daily basis. I'm pretty sure I breathe guilt at this point even though I never ever played them against each other and none of it is or will ever be my fault.

Doesn't make it easier though. What does? Sugar in the dark.

Did you sleep, Neamhchiontach?

I nod. I'm starving.

He nods in return. Sugar only goes so far. I'll make french toast and coffee for three. I already sent Sam a message that we won't be in church today.

I was here.

Little fish, boat's too full, down you go
Breathing in salt and fuel, tiny gulps
Statistically it's commonplace
You're not alone
So end like this instead of shot back at home

Matthew Good's new album, Something like a Storm is out. So good. And if you're wondering why I haven't posted in a week, let me explain.

I did post.

I had five days worth of entries here but they had to go because it's one of the terms of my settlement. We don't talk about it. What happens in Bridget stays in Bridget. If I break the terms of the settlement I don't lose it, but I'd probably die instead. I don't know. I don't want to find out. And Claus isn't employed by me, he's employed by Caleb. Their goal isn't to fix anything, it's just to keep me calm and happy so I don't start to fuss against the invisible chains that bind me to this point. To these men.

Calm and happy is relative. I get to a place where I'm content again and we're good. I got to a place last week where I began to flit from boy to boy, looking for something I couldn't name (Oh he has a name) and I started sliding. Quickly. Lochlan got angry, Caleb got all bent out of shape and we went to hell in a handbasket that is designed for one but held a bunch of us, surprisingly.

It's better now. Seems it goes in cycles. From calm to chaotic. Something like a storm, I guess.

A breakfast, a lecture, a rescue.

Potato, Potah-to. He calls it a 'talk'. Except all he did was talk at me for one hundred and twelve minutes while I made butternauts and refused to answer any questions I did catch for the first three-quarters of our meal. Self-preservation, as Eggs Benedict with salmon and fresh melon should be eaten in only the most positive of settings and by the end of the breakfast I was forced to take my coffee cup to the bar for refills because he kept sending the servers away.

(At least he tips well, though I could use a tip on very pale people with sensitive skin and red eyes from threatening tears. Big sunglasses look a little ridiculous indoors, on a rainy day. How are you all doing this? I'm not tough enough to not react. I'm not tough at all.)

Not like he gave me a chance to pull myself together as it was. The message was there when I woke up to meet him, dressed to go to breakfast. I did, walking to his glassed-in porch around eight, and he took my arm and marched me to his car, and then we drove in silence, he ordered curtly (knows what I like, at least) and then waited for what seemed like an eternity for the food. In reality it was around fifteen or twenty minutes but try doing that without talking.

Once the food arrived, Batman started talking. He talked while he ate and he never. let. up.

Maybe the Collective isn't working. Really is anything different? August needs to be sent home for good. So does anyone who wants a chance at a normal life. Who am I to keep everyone here at my beck and call-

Wait a minute. What? I have to interrupt. They chose this life-

I'm here, I see how their choices are-

Yes, you're here. What's your excuse? 

I'm not interested in starting a family. I was married before. I've lived. Some of them haven't. 

They're all adults. 

Oh come on, Bridget. They're hypnotized. They're brainwashed. 

I didn't do that. 

This is what I'm telling you. Yes. You did. You did that. You made them that way. 

I stop listening at that point. I haven't done anything wrong. And what he's describing is some kind of selfish criminal mastermind, out collecting souls because she didn't have one of her own. Jesus. Is that what I am? Oh Jesus. I can't swallow this bite of food. I can't hang on to my composure anymore. I can't be here. I don't want to do this.

Coffee? 

Leave us. 

The server is sent away just as I lift my cup and I turn my gaze back to Batman. Abruptly I realize he wanted a sounding board to unload all of his own jealousy, wrapped in the most ridiculous discourse of blame and tragedy and that this isn't my cross to bear and I don't need to sit through it.

I tell him I'm going to find the washroom and get some coffee, that I need a moment. I dab at the corner of my eye with a napkin so he has a little sympathy. He nods, softening somewhat, sitting up and fixing his tie.

I leave my cup on the bar, asking for a refill, telling them I'll be right back or they can take it to the table for me and I head down the hall.

Once inside I pull out my phone and wonder who the heck I can call for a drive home. Who's going to be on my side at this point?

Ben.

Except Ben's phone lives on the dresser perpetually because he forgets to take it everywhere.

Daniel it is. He says he'll leave right now, to meet him outside.

I wait as long as I can and go back out. Batman is sitting straight up. His face is ashen. My coffee is full but lukewarm and I hesitate beside the chair for several seconds before sitting down.

He holds up his hand and a server practically sprints over with a coffee pot and a new cup. The coffee is now too hot to drink, the old cup is removed carefully. This right here is a metaphor for my relationships. Ice-cold, removed or too attentive, too hot. Too immediate.

Happy mediums? Not this girl. Never ever ever.

Who's coming to get you? 

I sip my coffee. Pardon?

Which one did you contact to come and pick you up? 

Daniel. 

You can't escape this, Bridget. That's the funny part. 

No, see, the funny part is that you think this is my fault. You all came to me. I didn't ask for a thing. I still haven't asked for a thing or everything would be different. I didn't do this. You did. You all did, and blaming me is a real shit move after all this time. 

I open my purse and fish out a few bills, throw them on the table and tell him to have a good afternoon. That I hope he got everything off his chest. That maybe he should book a time with Sam or with August if he wants to really dig deep and self-improve.

Then I walk outside, head high, just as Daniel is pulling into a loading zone.

Hey. 

Hey. Didn't have time to put on a cape. Sorry.

I don't need any more heroes. Just friends. 

Then I've got you covered. He winks and waits for me to put on my seatbelt. Then we're on our way home.