Bridget irreverent.

Sam is in fine form this morning as he's dropped into Holy Week, the week when he gets to deliver sermons six times and everyone shows up to hear them. Easter and Christmas, but the resurrection holds far more weight than the birth.

I wish we could bring back anyone we wanted during resurrection. 

Hush, you.

I've offended him. I meant Christ, sure, but also Jacob and maybe anyone else that we miss. 

Cole?

No. 

Please pass these out for me, Bridget?

Why do I work here for free again? I shoulder my bag and take my place at the top of the path leading down to the beach. It's fucking freezing but every single person that passes me gets my winning morning-person smile and a palm leaf for their 'Jerusalem walk' down to the beach, into certain death. Except Sam's not going to kill anyone today. He's going to educate, pontificate to them, telling them that Jesus arrived knowing exactly what would happen to him, but he faced his destiny and he went down swinging. I already heard the sermon five times in the past month as Sam worked to make it relatable and not as heavy, though with the reverence required. Sam has a perfect balance between making sure the heathens like us get the gist, learn the history while the ancient..ier (hey, new word!) members of the congregation don't frown at his 'modern' spin.

He does it well, and with the same boyish, handsome charm that Jacob used to do it with. Man, I hope Jacob walks out of his tomb next Sunday. That would be the best rebirth EVER. But I don't say it out loud and when there's a lull in people to hand leaves to I fold mine deftly into the shape of a cross and then start doing a few more. Sam doesn't do that but I learned it in Sunday School when I was little and never forgot and people love it. Give me a party, I'll give you a party trick. Which is great because while I have tons of charm, I never waste it strangers.

Soon people are asking if they can have a cross leaf. I've won the day. Good luck, Sam.

My payment for having to talk to every. single. person (triple the usual turnout) was to drive home alone and not be taken out for lunch. Sam's too busy. Lochlan never got up. Don't know where Caleb is. PJ says Easter services are too crowded and he'll be back when summer vacations begin and the church is really empty and so I made myself a cheese bagel and watched Ugly Delicious on Netflix.

But now Lochlan's up and the day will be a one-eighty. I might be too worn out to enjoy it. Easter is heavy, indeed.

The Princess Eats Her Own Legs.

Standing in front of Tony Scherman's Poseidon this morning and I'm stricken by the highway of people who rush past, behind me, all around me, going places while I remain fixed to this one place. His eyes. They glow with a sadness that connects me to him, a sadness that I can identify with and this may forever be my favorite painting of all time now, for the expression, the lighting of the eyes, the roughness and scratches juxtaposed against the smooth wax of what is a new medium for me to explore. Encaustic painting.

And I can't seem to move, even though we gotta go, with lunchtime reservations half a city away and still the few with me today are scattered to all the levels of the gallery. They will find me and they'll have to pull me away from Poseidon's gaze.

And I didn't even come for this. I didn't expect to meet him today. I came for the Bombhead exhibit. I came for Murakami. I came for my membership card, which wasn't ready yet. I come here a lot. It's like a train station or an airport. There's a bustling hustle about it, endless lines that move lighting-quick, a sense of being alone in each room while you're surrounded by people, a rude slice of culture in which the beauty of the works presented contrasts exceptionally with the self-absorption of those in the crowd. I want to say I hate it but secretly I love it. I love the smells, the feelings, the stark realization when you see something new and fall in love. Like I did with Poseidon today. Brown eyes with more soul than one would even see in person. A darkness I understand perfectly.

And just like that I am collected and we're off. No time for Bombhead, maybe another day. Enough time to marvel that the same man painted Gero Tan and Picture of a Turtle.

I remain surprised at that. But moved by this.

I will just google it from here in the dark.

For those rooting for him, Caleb didn't get the job. He did that thing where he took over and we didn't go to Starbucks, we went to some place that I was terribly underdressed for and he did all the ordering and then started laying on the scariness and was completely himself instead of the goofy, playful millionaire showing up at the kitchen door that he had started out as. So all of the tension crept back in around us like shadows and I didn't eat much of what he ordered and honestly for coffee listed for fourteen dollars on the menu it can't be better than anything we can make at home and really can we leave now? I want to get caught up on the chores I started this morning and left to wait.

You're being petty, Neamhchiontach. This coffee is imported.

Coffee isn't fourteen dollars. 

This kind is. 

You're like those people that get waylaid by a designer label. It may not be superior just because it costs more. 

Sometimes you get exactly what you pay for. He's not talking about coffee anymore and I slip into my armor and unsheath every weapon I've got.

But he is unmoved. You can put your brass knuckles away, Bridget. As hard as you try to hold on to your trailer park beginnings just remember who brought you to this point. 

Jacob. But he died doing it. Oh. Caleb's face suddenly loses that hard edge. Oh, I'm so done. I won on the pity card and I don't want to. I want to win because I'm stronger than anybody else in my little, insular world.

He gets up and picks up his coat. It worked, maybe? Maybe I did win with my words, even though he rarely listens. Maybe my brass knuckles scared him off. Maybe my armor did. Maybe it's legendary while his remains epic. Maybe it's heroic and his is stock. I don't know. I just know that a fourteen dollar cup of coffee isn't worth fourteen dollars and I know that I don't need a liaison to explain life to me anymore.

Boss lady.

A knock on the side door startles me. Better not be Ransom. Better still be a side door there when I get to the bottom of the stairs. I never know what to expect. I'm still threatening to move out until the renos are finished.

I open the door and Caleb is standing there holding a folder and smiling. He sticks his hand out and says Good afternoon.

I take his hand and pump it twice. What the fuck are we doing? Good afternoon.

My name is Caleb C____, I'm here to apply for the liaison position.

The wh- Oh, ahahahahahaha. Nice. Come in.

I'm serious.

There's no actual positi-

We could learn together because honestly I'm only really clear on medium brew and Americanos.

What are those again?

Espresso mixed with hot water.

Jesus, WHY?

Indeed. Let's do it. We'll be experts by Christmas.

Or we could remain here in denial where it's nice and eventually someone will take pity on us and make some coffee or an espresso or one of those...things. My brain is full.

Sleep on it but I think one of those Crystal Balls would be good.

You want an ice-cold diluted un-coffee full of sweet grossness on a rainy day?

No, I want a coffee date with my favorite person.

Oh, when you put it like that, let me get my bag.

My treat.

Thank you. Be right back.

If I'm paying why do you need your bag?

Clothing for girls doesn't have pockets.

Really?

Really.

Wow. That's as big a mystery as the Starbucks menu.

I KNOW RIGHT?

Fuck crystal ball, they have SMOKED BUTTERSCOTCH something-or-other, I don't know. (Now hiring for a Starbucks Liaison. Interested?)

Should we go get some of those Crystal Ball frappuccinos tomorrow?

Tell me again what a frappuccino is first and then I'll answer that. 

From Starbucks. 

Yes, but what's IN it? 

Whipped cream and sprinkles. 

No the drink part, not the decorations.

Uh..

Wow. And you call me sheltered. I'll look it up. 

You are sheltered. You don't even know what a frappuccino is. Or anything from Starbucks. In this day and age that's weapons-grade sheltered. 

I know things too, you know. But important things, not a drink menu.

Tell me one thing that you know that's important that I don't know. 

Charlie Sexton in on Instagram now! 

Who is that? 

Exactly my point.

(One of my first crushes as a teenage girl. Beats So Lonely was my rebel ANTHEM. If you want to follow him, his account is @sextonplace. And if you think combing through his followers will lead you to my account, I don't have one. I just go to Instagram online and type in names in the search bar lot. It's like a soothing thing. Or maybe a boredom thing. Don't ask. Apparently I should have been using my time more wisely and studying menus! Argh!)

(Once more with feeling, Bee: A Frappuccino is a coffee or cream base, blended with ice and other ingredients and topped with whipped cream. This is not a yucky latte, which is a big old glass of milk with a shot of espresso in it. Grossssssssss. I will try to remember.)

Equal lengths dark and light.

It went down like a really great gameplay by the world's best coach (not Travis Green, clearly), as I was distracted on my way back to Batman's by Lochlan, who had something to show me (the ocean, Peanut, look how beautiful! When do you want to set up the new camper? We can have a cookout, maybe a sleepout too if you like) and Jay was intercepted, paperwork in hand by Schuyler, who 'has a guy' to do taxes which turned out to be Caleb, and by default someone at an unnamed standard tax preparation front, since Jay means absolutely nothing to Caleb on a personal level and has virtually uncomplicated taxes so he was sent off to the shopping centre and reminded to keep up on the very basics of being an adult or there will be consequences.

When pressed, however, Caleb refused to tell me what the actual consequences are, and for the briefest second my curiosity ate my common sense, swallowing it whole while I considered telling Jay not to file his taxes so we could find out.

But I would never do that and so I'll have to guess at what would happen around here should we all fail to be adults.

On second thought, I'm sure I already know.

And on the upside, Schuyler released Lochlan from the latest round of endless work (HAD HIM HERE ALL DAY) and maybe they're better at Bridget-management, honestly, those who can be parental and micromanage and order and direct. Maybe patient isn't the way to go around here. Honestly whenever they instructed me to do something, I did it because they were older and smarter and responsible for me. So things like Get your jacket, Eat your vegetables, Go home now before it gets dark and Don't let go of my hand are second nature to them and never questioned by me as I was raised by these surrogate-parent wolves.

It works. I listen. They order and then teach. They usurp each other and also police one another.

But they always do their taxes.

(Because I make them.)

Turkeys.

Batman's there looking beautiful in brown shoes, grey pants and a medium brown shirt. He looks rich, is what he looks. You don't need to see labels to know everything is expensive, you can just tell by the glow of the leather, the drape of the cloth, the stitching on the button holes. He wears an Apple watch but no other jewelry but he's neither had a haircut nor shaved in a week or two which gives him a slightly old-fashioned look. His eyes are so patient. He's always had all the time in the world for me and is one of the few people who doesn't try to micromanage my movements or order me around. He doesn't strongarm my life and instead offers and waits. Some things I take, most things I leave.

This morning he offered coffee and croissants. I know where he gets his croissants from. They are delivered to the house on Mondays and Thursdays and they're worth the cost so I accepted.

In the kitchen?

Yes, of course. I hear laughter in his voice. I'll be waiting. 

Give me ten minutes. I hang up and scramble to get ready. Rose gold hoops. Skinny jeans. T-shirt that says IRISH across the front, emblazoned in green on white. I throw on Ruth's Adidas superstars and I look and feel about fifteen years old, tops save for the dark circles under my eyes and the tattoos.

At the last minute I grab my sweater and pull it around me for warmth.

When I arrive the coffee is just ready and Batman looks like he's about to run out the door anyway. He only works from home in between projects and never seems to actually relax.

You look..uh, he catches himself, young today. Like this, I mean. 

I don't have to work today. 

Actually I need you to. 

With no notice?

This is your notice. Could you help Jacob with his taxes this afternoon? He's missed the deadline to have them sent to the accountant. 

The accountant doesn't have a deadline for this. 

For our terms, he does. Please be a help and do this for me. It is within the scope of your work here. 

Right. Batman hasn't actually called me to work for months. I though I was home free.

I like your shoes. 

Thank you. They're Fluevog. 

I noticed. Look, I'm not really prepared for staying to do tax work today-

I can send him over whenever. He needs a keeper, Bridget. He has this household in perfect order while his own is a mess. 

What do you mean? 

You'll see. 

A kind smile all but dismisses me so I take the last sip of my coffee, eat the last bite of my croissant and reach across the counter to pick up the box of croissants that is still half full.

You don't need these. They're so bad for you. He grins as I wink at him, nodding his permission for me to steal his expensive pastries. The very least he can do if he's going to foist Jay on me this afternoon is to load me up with butter and fat first.

But seriously. I'm okay.

My car came out of storage today. To celebrate I came out to go for the first drive of the season, and glitter blew out the vents and...got in my eyes. The boys didn't know that I use cosmetic and sometimes even food-grade glitter to protect people from exactly that but there you have it. No permanent damage, life goes on, I won't accept any apologies for something they didn't know about in the first place and also I don't have to make dinner now.

It was fucking funny though. 

Yesssssss! Maple Leafs shut out the Habs 4-0! Keep it going boys! Yea!

Monsters have feelings too. I keep forgetting this part.

Caleb's having an ego day, a day where he licks his perceived fatal wounds at the decided lack of mention of him in the last post, good or bad.

It wasn't a 'Bridget's Deepest and Darkest Secrets' list, it was just a stupid flighty collection of random things about me. People like that, or so I thought and now I wake up to find that everyone is disappointed and bored. Remind me not to waste my time again. 

The only person truly happy with that list today is PJ, I think. 

Yeah, probably. I laugh.

What's amusing? 

You are. What did you want me to say about you? 

Oh, I don't know, Bridget. Maybe something about my skill or my steadfastness or my consistency in your life. Maybe something about how hard I worked to see that you and by default all of our friends have everything they'll ever need. Instead I get to read an exhaustive list of things everyone already knows.

Do your own writing then. Grandstand. Or better yet, take the advice I give to everyone who complains about my content: DON'T READ. 

Or you could make another list of all the things you love about each one of us. 

I don't see that happening. Besides, if someone has a particular feature or trait I adore I tell them to their face. I'm not shy about crowing my appreciation for my friends. 

You've never said things to me. 

You're different. My voice drops to a bare whisper. You're my monster. 

His whole face softens with grief as he nods. This is what we have to fix. I don't care what else happens. I'm not going to spend my entire life in that role for you.