Salt + smoke.

To free all those who trust in Him
From Satan's power and might
Oh tidings of comfort and joy
Comfort and joy
Oh tidings of comfort and joy

Every time I see him my brain goes into emotional recall. My heart lurches forward effusively, recklessly and my body hesitates, somewhere in between, torn between my heart yelling GO GO GO in one direction and my brain signalling flight the other way. I usually hesitate too long, just long enough for him to notice, the bloom of shared memories clouding his vision, his plans, everything with the dim light of darkness that we try to outrun but never seem quite able to.

A walk on the beach culminated in a formal, unfamiliar toast by the sea, by the bonfire he surprised me with, by words I haven't heard him say before, watching him struggle in a way I haven't seen before. It was sobering, a feeling the champagne couldn't smash its way through and didn't even try, flooding in to cover his words before harmlessly washing back out to sea, drawn up with the tides. Caleb took my hand, picked up the bottle with his other hand and we came back up from the beach in the dark, the bonfire drowned in its own flames and saltwater.

He didn't disappoint. We lit the big copper lantern that hangs outside the stable, just where you turn the corner in the driveway and come down the hill toward the houses. Then inside where he had a fire already going, smells of pot roast and woodsmoke mingling beautifully throughout.

You smell like salt.

Salt and smoke.

Salt and smoke. It's intoxicating.

I stiffen perceptibly. He notices but does not remark, covering easily. You sit up here and I'll get dinner together. I offered to help but he wouldn't have it and soon we were taking our plates outside to the tiny glass table underneath the patio heater.

He had a blanket draped on the back of each chair nonetheless and the Christmas lights on that trailed along the railing and then down along the fence too. Magical. Tealights in shells were scattered all over the table, all over the floor and along the railing. Dinner was indeed pot roast, potatoes and mushrooms in earthenware bowls, along with some big hunks of multigrain breads and whiskey in tumblers. Water too. Another toast and we dug in.

Jesus. You need to cook more. My mouth is full but holy cow. This is wonderful. So good.

He laughs. I'd be delighted to. A look passes between us and I realize it's getting very late to match the very dark. I'm not cold but that vague unsettled chill remains that I can't shake, that undercurrent of excitement mixed with dread. I know how late it is. I know what this night is.

You're cold. Let's head inside. Are you finished? Did you want more bread first?

No, thank you. I'm perfect. I smile but not with my eyes. I try, but not all that hard. We stand up and I try to help him with the dishes but he won't let me.

He smiles back, disappointment crashing in to fill the void where hope was, just momentarily. His eyes are hard. The wall is going up. I can almost see it from here.

Get the door for me? 

Of course. 

Once inside he leaves the tray on the counter and pours fresh drinks for us. My whole being is thrumming already from anxiety and firelight and alcohol. My blood sugar soars to the surface along with a flush that buries my summer freckles behind a pink cast.

We take our drinks in by the fire and he gets on his knees in front of me as I sit down. He has a box. It's a cube, actually. The size of his hands.

Open it.  

I stare at him.

Please, Bridget. 

I take the box but my eyes remain on him.

I think you're going to love this. 

What is it? 

Open it. 

I unwrap it and take the lid off. Inside is a glass fishing float. It's the most beautiful shade of palest teal with dozens of tiny air bubbles. It's thick. It's perfectly round and weathered just enough to be real.

Where did you get this? I breathe.

I found it on your beach. 

This is the holy grail of treasures. This is what I look for and I only ever find tiny rounded shards of sandblasted glass.

You didn't! When? 

Just before Halloween. 

So beautiful. 

Like you. Singular. Incredible. 

I shake my head. The knot of dread remains in the pit of my stomach, like it always does, even as I hold this beautiful glass ball in my hands.

Take it home and show Lochlan. 

Should I get your present? I thought we were waiting until Monday. 

We are. I wanted to give this to you alone. I'll see you tomorrow, okay? You can tell me what everyone thought of it. 

You don't want me to come back? 

Unless there's something we've forgotten, our solstice celebration is complete, I think. 

Cale-

Bridget, I told you I want this new year to be different. I want everything to be different.  Now for Gods sake, get out of my sight before I change my mind.

I check the dread that turns to relief, welling up, spilling over so he can't see it, I finish my drink in one go and I pack the weight carefully back into the box for the trip across the driveway.

Goodnight, Diabhal. 

Goodnight, my Neamhchiontach. Enjoy your treasure. 

But his eyes. As blue as the glass, as sad as the sea. On impulse I run back and kiss him on the cheek.

I'm glad you like it. Now go. Please. Hurry.

The naiveté scene.

The fear is not mine
The fear is not my end
Though you attempt to keep me in it
The weight is not mine
The weight is not mine alone
Though you pretend to comprehend it

Caleb chose Yule this year to spend over the holidays. Solstice. The longest night. He's been talking of it quietly to me all week. A walk on the beach at sunset to say goodbye to the light. Lighting the copper lantern by the woods to see us through the dark. A fire already laid in the stove to light when we return. A hearty feast with beef stew, bread and wine to close out the evening. A quiet exchange of our fondest and most fervent wishes for the new year as a solemn marking of this change into the beginning of the cold season. Lighting the tree. Exchanging presents. Seeing each other through the night until the sun rises again so long from now.

It's already beginning to grow dim already as the moon chases the sun back over the horizon while the Devil chases new traditions into our lives wrapped around old ceremonies, played out simpler once, though much the same.

He pulls the stolen lighter out of his pocket as we all stand in a circle in the woods in the snow.

Where did you get that?

My uncle left it in our truck, Caleb says confidently, flicking it several times with the typical surety of a fifteen-year-old who's seen it done a few times but only ever lit matches before now.

Mom's going to kill you. Cole is sure he'll be the victorious brother, though he hangs on every word Caleb says.

So what do we do now? Lochlan has his own lighter and so he finds this amusing but he watches the flame, hypnotized as always by the way it dances.

Are we supposed to sacrifice a fair maiden? Christian asks, not totally unseriously.

All eyes turn to me.

I'm not a maiden. I'm only nine! It's really cold and my boots are leaking. My toes are about to fall off but I have to wait for them because if we're this far down the path I'm not allowed to go back to our street by myself. I have to wait for Lochlan or Caleb to bring me. Unless they sacrifice me, then I won't have to go home.

No, dirtbag, we're not sacrificing Bridget. Caleb winks at me as he gets down and starts a tiny fire on a rock that isn't snow-covered, snapping small branches off, adding them to a pile along with some homework pages he had in his back pocket. Today was the last day of school. He gets the fire going and then passes out slips of what's left of the paper. We all have to write down one thing we want to say goodbye to in 1980.

I take the proffered pen and turn to write against a rock that sits just outside the circle. It's wet so the pen doesn't work very well.

I fold it up and wait for Caleb's instructions. Each of the boys throw their slips into the fire one at a time, watching them burn before moving on to the next. Finally they get to me and I throw my slip at the fire but the fire is hot and very tall now so the paper falls short, opening as it lands a foot away from the flames.

Caleb picks it up and reads it silently before folding it back up and putting it into the fire. His eyes meet mine.

Rob asks what it says.

I'm the firekeeper so I can see them but they're supposed to be private. Caleb tells him with bravado. I don't think she'll get her wish though. He's not looking at me anymore. He's watching Lochlan, who is staring at me from our curve in the circle, probably wondering what I wished for, not realizing that it would take so many more solstices to come true but my hope for this year is that my nine-year-old's wish finally has.

What was your wish that night? I snap back to the present as Caleb comes back into the room from sorting out a couple of details with Lochlan. Namely when I'll be returned and confirming what Caleb doesn't get (Christmas eve through Boxing day) because he gets tonight and tonight is somewhat sacred to the Collective, something we've observed every year since.

That we would spend this night alone together. I think tonight we can celebrate the realization that our wishes came true at the same time. 

Until one of you throws a punch, you mean. (My wish? That Locklen and Calib stop fiteing. Ha. The spelling skills of a grade five student who daydreamed instead of working in her practice book.)


Right. Until then.

Named for the most beautiful time of year in Newfoundland and rightfully so.

I couldn't handle today so I tried to soothe myself. I had a broiling hot bubble bath this morning, a leisurely breakfast of coffee and fruit with cheese, I read three pages of my latest book (Hoffman's Rules of Magic) and messaged Lochlan a hundred and fifty times but he'll be out until past lunchtime and can't come home earlier because there's an emergency at the job he doesn't have, concerning the work he doesn't need to do. I glared at Schuyler when he breezed through, and I turned down Daniel's offer to take me to get my nails done. I'd rip them off. I'd bite them anyway. I can't self-soothe, I don't know what I was thinking.

I got halfway to the boathouse and abruptly changed directions, cutting off the bottom of the driveway and heading straight across, to the garage. I went up the outside steps and knocked gently.

August opened the door after a minute, wearing yesterday's sweater and pajama pants. He was still sleeping. He looked as if he was forcing alertness and held the door wide so I could come in.

Coffee?

Let me make it, I tell him as he does a quick circuit cleaning up dishes and books from the living room.

Go ahead.

Don't clean up on my account, I tell him as I stare down the Breville. Hmm. I don't even know where to begin here.

I'll do it, Bridge. Have a seat.

Why are we formal?

Today or in general? You and I or people nowadays?

You and I today.

The weirdness that usually follows the confirmation that someone has moved up in the hierarchy, I guess. They become a pariah and we become the losers.

And where do you think you are in this?

He laughs. I'm supposed to keep the questions coming.  Not you.

Does Sam bother you?

Of course not. But he refuses to acknowledge his roles. He chooses at will and when in one mode he'll deny the other even exists. That's dangerous.

Or is it naive?

Probably that, yes.

You can talk to him.

No, if I do he'll assume I feel threatened by him.

Oh. I'll talk to him then.

He'll discount your observations as defensive or unqualified. August makes an apologetic face and then collects the two mugs to bring over. That was fast. I take a sip.  Oh. I might not ever leave. But then that would cause more problems.

Milk?

No, it's perfect. Thank you.

He settles in next to me, throwing one arm around me, holding his cup with the other. I get a kiss on top of my skull and that's the signal he gives for me to unleash the beast that is my mind all over the floor so he can pick up pieces and small glittery bits, turning them over in his hands, holding them up to the light, bringing some into focus while pushing others away. It's a puzzle and he can do it in his sleep. Better than Jake, better than Lochlan. Better than Sam. Better than Claus and Joel combined.

And certainly better than Bridget.

After I finish I settle in, letting out a long breath and he starts. Rearranging things out loud, thoughts, memories finding new places to rest, shining new lights on old things, finding a way to soothe me that I can't replicate without him. His accented voice turns into a constant lull, like a hum and my eyes get heavy, chin reaching my chest, finally at peace with everything. For the moment. For now.

He stops talking and gently takes my cup, bringing me back to wakefulness.

Better?

Almost.

You should go home. Loch's truck just pulled in.

He's home?!

Yeah. Go see him and get a nap or something. You're both exhausted lately. Then send him over for coffee later.

August?

Yes?

Thanks for being here. For the record you still rank over Sam. Maybe over me too. Talk about haunted. My self-disparagement is costly and always shows so dreadfully in my eyes as I speak of it.

We can all be even, August says. Ever the diplomat. Ever the constant. Ever the rock from the rock and we love him for it.

As soon as they find out you don't need them they want you more.

So you were just fucking with him. 

It's a firing squad, and this time I'm in front. Apparently my awful brand of sarcasm is indistinguishable from my wide-eyed truth, which is weird because I couldn't lie if I was at gunpoint, which I'm not, technically (well, today, anyway) but still they leapt to Batman's defence and I was soundly lectured for my flippancy.

He walked into my house unannounced. That means I'm allowed to mess with him-

Is it fair?

Life isn't fair! His jealousy was sending him on a bender, I had to shut him down-

By making it worse?

Better than trying to plead my way out of a moment that was none of his business and-

Yeah, about that-

JESUS CHRIST. I say goodbye to everyone the same exact way and suddenly it's an issue. 

With Sam it's-

The same exact way. Think about it. I'll wait.

Bridget-

I'm not going to defend my actions to the lot of you. I stare them down, a steely ten-year-old's gaze withering them as they stand against the flood of memories that come rushing back, threatening to knock them down and pull them out to sea.

He's just lonely, Bridge. They soften it, remembering, shouldering their weapons. I can breathe again. I'm not going to die today. Not for this, anyway.

I can't help him. I'm not allowed to help him. You all worry about Sam, Jesus. Sam is the least of all the elephants in this room. He's not even an elephant. He's...He's...I don't know but it's not an issue. 

Sam salutes me lazily. Gee. Thanks?

You know what I mean! 

Don't fuck with men's hearts, Bridget. Nothing good can come of it. 

Fuck with mine and this is exactly what you get. You ask for things and then get angry when I give them to you. You tell me not to touch them and then tell me it's fine. I don't know which end is up. 

I told you, you decide what you want to do. 

And then you all judge it. 

No, we...

'We judge you'. Just say it. I'm here right now living it. 

Not going to go into Christmas fighting with you. 

And I'm not going to be his panacea. If he's lonely he can come here and spend Christmas with us. That's his call. Otherwise don't make me feel guilty. He was fine to shove me back to Cole when he was the only one who knew for so long. We have a long history that has nothing to do with any of you so maybe just leave it lie. Okay?

Sorry, Bridge.

Yeah, sorry, Bridge. A chorus of quiet affirmative absolution rises and I walk out into the sunrise. Alive for another day. The balance here is tenuous and poorly weighted. If you ever thought my emotions ruled this point and all who live here then you failed to consider the virtual tide of their emotions, their immediate instinct to protect each other in addition to me. Adding that to our combined and separate pasts, it makes for some long days, some hurt feelings and one hell of an incredible peace when it all levels out again.

I head across the lawn as the sun comes up purpley-pink behind the woods. It's freezing and rain threatens the dawn but I don't have my coat. I follow Batman's lead, barging into his house via the french doors off his kitchen, where he sits with a cup of coffee and his iPad, quietly reading while Jay makes some toast for himself.

I'm sorry, I blurt out, not even waiting for privacy.

No, I'm sorry. I have no right to claim ownership over you without doing the heavy lifting. 

That was my thinking. 

I could change that if you-

I shake my head almost imperceptibly and his face hardens. We have a distance between us that no amount of touching while ever bridge. I sharpen the only arrow I have left, found in the grass on the way over here. I hold it tightly in my fist as I drive it straight through bone, plunging it into Batman's cold heart. Sam's got it covered.

When your 'good' shoes are wet from the rain so you marry someone in your Chuck Taylors.

Not me. I didn't get married. I'm already married. This was Sam, who headed out to perform a quickie Monday home wedding to kick off someone's Christmas holidays and he did it in his brown pants, a belt buckle with a skull on it (who lent him that?), his darker brown corduroy jacket and bright red Converse All-Stars. Lows at least. So that you can see his sky-blue socks.

I straighten his collar as he kisses me goodbye.

Good luck, I tell him.

Love you. See you after dinner. Ish. 

I nod and he's gone. He gets weirdly nervous before weddings so he practically ran out of the house. Good thing.

Did I miss something? I turn and Batman is standing in the patio door. He's holding a book that belongs to Gage and my scarf that I left in his kitchen. Also, presents. He's holding a stack of flat presents.

Sam was leaving? Did you need him for something? He has a wedding at two. Just text him though and he can reply when he gets there-

The kiss. 

What kiss?

And he said he loves you. What is going on?

If you didn't come here to be nice-

Where's Lochlan? 

Downstairs helping Ben-

Oh, I see. 

What do you see, exactly? 

A year or six or ten of falling for Sam, maybe

Or not. Hard to fall when I've loved him all along. 

So what happens now?

Nothing. Jesus. Where have you been?

Under a rock, I guess. I didn't know you were a thing. 

We're not a thing. We have a thing, but we're not a thing. 

What's the difference? Is there any?

Right, yes. Come in and shut the door and I can explain it to you and then you'll get it. 

It's like we are, then?

We're NOT-

You know what I mean. 

Okay, yes it's like that but different.

How, Bridget? How is Sam different?

Well, for starters it's way more often. 

Glad I'm not a Puritan, and other Sunday reflections.

(I watch a lot of movies when I'm sick, okay?)

I haven't been going to church much and this week Sam quarantined me, saying I could miss the candle-lighting and the Christmas carols in advance of next week's Moon & Stars (outdoor) Christmas Eve service so that I don't make the rest of the congregation sick with my cold, now a roller coaster of really great days and really bad moments mixed together

So I stayed in bed and watched The Witch on Netflix and wow. What a lot of hype. I will give them a couple of points, as the sound design was epic and the tension so tight you could twang it like a fork, but the heavy-handed puritan babbling that never stopped (obviously hugely central to the plot) and the ending people describing all over the internet as a 'big payoff' were just not cool.

They could have prayed less and explained more in actual dialogue. I watched it with headphones and I didn't know why the family was banished until I read a synopsis but apparently the father explains it in his prayers. Great. I guess I need BETTER headphones. I can't see how being in a theater or having perfect hearing would have helped in this case, especially after polling my friends with perfect hearing who saw it and also had no idea what they did to be banished because they couldn't hear the details either.

Also the ending is not a big payoff. It's not a twist nor is it the least bit satisfying. I kind of honestly spent everything after the first ten minutes staring at my laptop in horror because it fires off on all cylinders, letting you know that in exchange for that quiet suspense you'll bear witness to a whole host of uncomfortable and sometimes beyond violent exchanges that will leave you wishing you never saw it. It just isn't good enough of a movie to justify the shock value and I want my ninety minutes back and the ending is a predictable cop-out of the highest degree.

At least it was free.

But then again, so is Jesus. And I promise he doesn't actually demand that level of devotion. I'm pretty sure that was the scariest part of the movie to me. Seriously.

(Presbyterians are going to email me their rage now, you watch.)

(Also: when did Netflix start cutting the credits off completely before bouncing back to the splash screen? Shame, indeed.)

The porgs! I need more of them! (No Last Jedi spoilers, I promise).

Payback was this morning, when I woke Lochlan out of a sound sleep.

Let's go see Star Wars. 

No. 

Oh, come on. If we don't someone will tell us what happens and it will be spoiled. 

Yeah. You're right. 

So off we went for a sub-eleven in the morning show. Who eats popcorn at eleven in the morning? We do, that's who. I didn't even have coffee today. I'll just have two tomorrow.

Glad we didn't wait and have the plot spoiled, now that I'm on the other side. I would have spent the whole film waiting for the spoiler-parts and instead got ambushed with how good it was, how well it fit in to the timeline and how glorious one particular shot was that took my breath away.

But now it's done and it feels like Christmas is upon us, because there's always a Star Wars movie in the holiday somewhere.

It's playing now and it's worth the trip in spades. I couldn't say that about the last four Star Wars movies so take note.

Bitchy McSnorkynose (I didn't make it up, that's what he said when he didn't know I was coming down the steps behind him since I'M UP NOW, LOCHLAN.)

Burn me alive
Set me on fire
And watch me die
Burn me alive
Watch me ressurect
Right before your eyes

Lochlan managed to sleep for twenty-odd hours and he was up at the crack of some miserable hour raring to go.

Want to go out for breakfast, Peanut?

I...no. I want to sleep. I feel terrible, as I think Matt brought his cold to the point. I snorgle a response from under water and Lochlan laughs. Jesus, he's so fucking loud and chipper I may have to sleep elsewhere just so I can get some rest.

Later. Eight. Or ten.

But...eggs Benedict.

I hate you.

No you don't.

Bring them to me here.

Do I look like your servant?

You brought me breakfast in bed last time.

That was last time. I'd prefer not to be apart for a while.

What's a while?

The rest of my time off.

Why is this?

So you don't get ambushed by the others.

Ah, you talked to Matt?

In a way, yes.

Did you talk with your fists again?

No? Why would I do that?

It's how you and Caleb talk to each other.

That's different. We're heathens.

What is Matt?

Some outsider who hurt Sam.

Is this where you finally admit you love Sam?

If I do will you come to breakfast with me, Bridgie?

No.

Hey, I can carry you to the truck and you can eat in your jammies.

Jesus. Should I call you 'Daddy' while I'm at it?

Fuck. I hope when I come back at ten you're less cranky.

Promise. (he said TEN! GOODNIGHT!)

Thank fuck.

Great. Now I'm wide awake. Yes to pajamas in restaurants and yes to extra hash browns, please.

Two truths and a man.

(Inwardly I felt as panicked as he looked. Outwardly though, I was ice.)

Matt's here. He seems to be a hallmark of the seasons changing these days, as he and Sam refuse to commit but can't be apart. This is maddening and heartbreaking and yet it's exactly what happens when there are complications in a relationship.

Complications like...bees.

You've been with Sam for almost a year now. Matt lobs it gently toward the water as we walk. It's a flat sentence and so it skips once, twice...three times before sinking below the surface.

He's keeping track.

I wait for him to drown me in the surf, taking me out of whatever imaginary competition or obstacle he thinks I am but he walks on, picking carefully over the rounded wet rocks that force us to consider each step we make with an undeserved concentration.

(It's a metaphor. Roll with it.)

I don't respond. I wait. I'm a good listener when you need me to be.

What is he to you? What are you to him?

Comfort. Faith. He's a constant. He's a lighthouse.

You've got ten guys who could fulfill that role. Why'd you have to touch Sam?

It's a broken question from a broken man.

He touched me first. 

Bridget-

You weren't there for him.

I was working.

You don't put work first in this life. Maybe Sam and I have seen that and we know it. Maybe you're just learning it now.

What does the future look like, Bridge?

If only I knew.

He stares at me. Why do they all stare at me? How do I do this if you're in the way?

I'm not in the way.

Yeah, you are.

Then I'll move over.

What if I want you to leave and not just make room?

Sam made his wishes known over and over and you ignored them. The one thing I'm not going to let you do is hurt him. We just finished fixing him. 

Oh, is that what you think you've done? 

Got what I wanted. Thanks Santa! (I mean Schuyler).

Lochlan came home early this morning. I swear he would have outrun the plane had he been able, and when I made it to arrivals he was in a flat run toward me before I saw him, almost knocking me over when he reached me. His carry-on meant we didn't need to wait around and we were off. I handed him his truck keys, grateful he wasn't too tired to drive, and he offered breakfast if I hadn't had it already. I had, and he ate on the plane so we settled for drive-through coffee which I promptly forgot about and it's still out there in the truck because I don't get coffee on the go, I can barely handle it at home where I'm not moving.

He looked tired but had a productive trip and then shortly before lunch he went to see Schuyler for a rundown and Schuyler gave him the rest of the year off (!) and a health Christmas bonus too (!!), for going on such short notice and fixing everything.

Lochlan was fixated on the bonus but I was ecstatic at the thought that he now has almost three full weeks to not think about anything, not do anything and just enjoy Christmas with Ben and I, as Ben is going to work less, though still some and really besides Lochlan coming home that's the best news of today.

Well, that and I remembered what a latte was finally so I didn't order one by mistake and then go aw fuck! 

(They're half milk and I don't have milk unless it involves Lucky Charms.)