Cross.

On the walk today Caleb caught up with the group and tried to talk to me. I smiled and told him I'd see him later. The hopefulness that bubbled into his expression was quickly shadowed by the realization that I was blowing him off and he listened to me, falling back with Schuyler, who probably wouldn't have talked to him had he known. We weren't supposed to talk anyway. We were supposed to walk and reflect on someone that we've lost. 

Everyone went. I'm fairly certain half of the boys thought of Cole. Ben and Danny thought of their parents. The rest of us thought of Jake. I find it so incredible that the same faith that is supposed to fill us with hope seems content that it gets pushed out with despair but Sam squeezes my hand and tells me to wait. That before the weekend is over maybe a miracle will change my mind. 

I don't know if I have any faith left. I don't know if I believe in fairy tales anymore and yet I look at Lochlan, who is out of his element and vaguely uncomfortable in his good brown suit, hair tied back neatly, head cold, probably wishing for his top hat. Shoes pinching his toes, hand cramped because he won't let go of mine, and I won't let go right back. 

It was the longest service of holy week, unscheduled to be so but made difficult by the walk Sam chose, over rockier patches. He wanted it to be difficult. He wanted it to be slow. He has a lot of senior worshippers. It took almost an hour by itself so he cut his sermon short and we spread out to each find someone to help back to the parking lot from the water's edge. 

When we got home, PJ and John, Ben and I started whipping up french toast and bacon and Sam marvelled on the sweet touch of all of the boys finding someone they could help with the walk. He said if only they could help each other the way they help total strangers, their fellow humans while they spend so much time fighting amongst themselves, with the very people they live with and love, the people they proclaim to be family. The guilt that resonated through the room, around the table while he spoke is our penance today, and that maybe salvation is just around the corner. 

After lunch everyone scattered to spend time with each other and do quiet things. And I excused myself with a thousand promises that I would be back in a few minutes. That I just wanted to check in with Caleb and confirm his attendance on Sunday and maybe remind him of why he needs to stop trying to break all the rules and I needed to do that alone because he and Lochlan already had a really awful throwdown last night over this anyway. 

I knock on Caleb's front door and he opens it. He's got a fresh whiskey and is still wearing his suit jacket, though his tie is missing and his top two shirt buttons are undone. 

Drink? He doesn't look happy to see me. It's a first.

No, thank you. 

What can I do for you? 

I told you I'd speak with you later when we were at church so it's later and here I am. 

Didn't think you'd show. 

I'm the female Jesus. You waited and I appear. 

Oh, that isn't as funny as it is true, Bridget. And I didn't do anything I haven't done before. I took a chance. That's all. That's how you get ahead in life. It's called a risk index. 

I'm aware. But when it comes to human emotions and love, especially, you can't take a formula out of economics and apply it across the board. 

Why not? 

Because humans aren't investment products, they-  Oh. He's got me. But money doesn't have emotions, contrary to popular belief! 

Doesn't it? Comfort in peace of mind. Safety. Happiness. I call bullshit, Princess. 

Don't call me that. 

Don't take on Lochlan's opinions as your own. Think for yourself. 

I do! 

Then let me formalize this. 

I can't. 

Why not? 

Because that's not in my future. 

When are you going to realize that some hag in a scarf seeing something in a crystal ball isn't your future, it was your entertainment. You went on a thrill ride and it ended the minute you walked out of her trailer. 

No, it didn't. 

Touché. 

So take it back, now that you know for certain where you stand. 

I think I'll keep it for another day. Maybe a decade. Wear you down. 

Won't work for you the way it worked for Jake (I pick up the obvious dig). 

Why not? 

Because your brother gave me more than enough of an excuse to run. He made me miserable. Lochlan doesn't suffer from the same issues the rest of you seem to sport. 

Oh, doesn't he, Bridget? 

Not in the slightest. 

Then if you're so sure of him, and of yourself, take the risk. 

You need to learn to listen better. 

I do. Better than you. 

I don't say anything, leaving before I lose this war of words. 

He reads my mind. Too late for that.

Well, then the Pope clearly hasn't met CALEB.

(Condemned souls just disappear, he says now. Right. Tell that to Cole.)

(Also, Caleb crossed a boundary when he got home like a goddamned finish line and I'm not speaking to him or about him today. Easter may be about fresh starts but he'll be lucky if I speak to him before Christmas.)

I'm busy trying to teach PJ Out on the Mira anyway. And I'm playing guitar along (haltingly, trust me) with singing so he can appreciate it better. It's really hard to do both and my fingers hurt. So does my heart when I sing it, really it does.

But it's Friday. It ain't raining and I already know who the rollerblading bunny is this year. So there are good things too.

There are always good things.

But hell is real.

Sorry to burst your bubbles. 

I like to think predictability is a feature, not a bug.

I called Caleb at an ungodly hour this morning to thank him and managed to dig myself a hole that I might never grow big enough to crawl out of.

Is he my present?

Who?

Emmett. We were introduced this morning. I really appreciate you shifting things around like this-

Bridget, what on earth are you talking about?

Emmett. 

Who is Emmett? Who's home with you? Put Lochlan on the phone-

He's at work. It's a pathetic admission from me, as Lochlan could charm the pants off a lightpost, telling me he'd be home more and then promptly doing what he always does, leave for work. I don't want to say there were tears and a little bit of an argument but he needs to remember you can't make promises to a child and then not-

Okay, just nevermind.

I flounced downstairs after my shower and appropriate-length sulk and PJ was standing in the foyer, arms crossed, having the best chat with a total stranger and a few of the regular people who are here working on the house every day.  The stranger smiled at me, elbowed his way through the group to greet me, shook my hand, complimented my property and then handed me a very large, very forbidden take-out coffee from Tim Hortons.

I took a chance that you might like coffee? 

Oh, shit, PJ says under his breath.

I do. Thank you! 

Emmett is taking over from Ransom now that our renovations are well underway and I want to say almost done but that would be optimistic. No one will tell me a date though. I've asked.

I take a sip of my gifted coffee and look at my watch. In about two hours the caffeine is going to hit me like a freight train and I'll have to be restrained. It's just the way things are. But in the meantime, Emmett doesn't seem to suffer from the bristling arrogance that plagued Ransom's very (creepy) being and I like him already.

He must have found it mutual, as he proceeded to give me his personal cell number and assurances that if I had any questions, concerns or problems to not hesitate to call him day or night and that he'd stay out of my way, but also work to keep us up to date as well as to be sure this project is completed on time.

Remind me of the date again?

Bridget, you should go make sure Henry's up. PJ's growl makes me choke on my next sip.

(For fuck's sake's PJ, I'm trying to flirt here.) I shoot PJ a glare but thank Emmett for the coffee again and head back upstairs only to find out Henry isn't even upstairs and is in the kitchen so I call Caleb from the back patio while Henry dawdles over his toast inside.

Emmett. Ransom's guy, I guess. He's taking over the renos. 

Oh, yes. It slipped my memory. So is he a little less unsettling for you? And no, he's not your 'present' and if you persist in being difficult I can have Ransom come back on the project. 

It's fine. I was teasing (I don't tease Caleb). I appreciate it (Boy, do I ever).

Very well then, I should be leaving here shortly so I'll see you when I land. 

The house might be a different color when you get here. Keep your eyes open. 

What? There's nothing in the plans that involve painting the exterior-

Emmett brought me a huge coffee from Tim Hortons. 

Oh, shit, Caleb says, echoing PJ.

Those moments that break our hearts.

Last night Lochlan came in around eight-thirty, dropped his laptop bag on the floor and crossed to me, pulling me out of my stupidly-comfy barely-awake snuggle all by myself in the corner of the big sectional in the great room and kissed me so hard I think my lips bruised. Then he let me go and went over around the island giving PJ a shove so hard they went into the stack of clean plates that PJ had just put down from unloading the dishwasher and broke the top five of them.

PJ used great restraint, grabbing Lochlan in a headlock, bringing him right down to knee-level and fucking up his hair, rubbing his knuckles on Lochlan's head until he was redfaced and tapping out. PJ's noogies hurt when he wants them to, but he'll deny it until the sun goes down. He looks so good-natured and is loathe to inflict injury (or see it inflicted) but he also takes shit from no one.

Anyone else want to side with the Devil? Lochlan says, straightening his shirt, raking his hair back behind his ears.

I raise my hand.

For fucks sake, Bridge.

PJ crosses to me and blocks Lochlan's view. For fuck's sake indeed. I side with her. PJ aims his thumb over his shoulder. You're not here enough.

I'm trying to finish this so that when things change we can stay here. 

I own the house, Loch-

I don't believe that for a second, Bridge. Not for even one little second. So if I have to have everyone calling me home because I'm trying to secure the future for my family and giving me a hard time then I'll have to bear that too. 

God. The memory thief just threw me a bone. Twelve and seventeen and Loch steals a welcome mat for our camper from a house in a nearby town.

Want to make things nice for my family, he said as he folded me into the crook of his shoulder, the smell of summer hay and dirt on him so real suddenly I shake my head.

What? He says. Oh, I guess I did that out loud. No, what?

The paperwork is ironclad- PJ's trying to reason with the unreasonable.

I'm not going to debate his tricks. I know him better than any of you. The deal is you keep her from him while I get this done. It's not so hard, is it? Jesus, Christ. Look at her. 

And just like that the argument vaporizes. John and Ben, who have come in quietly, disappear again. PJ claps a hand on Lochlan's shoulder, letting it slide off into a handshake. He nods. I know, Brother. Look at her. Look how fucking much she misses you.

PJ leaves and then it's just me and I feel like I want to take in every inch of Lochlan's face, suddenly a stranger with features I hardly remember.

Don't manipulate me, Bridge. For someone who can reach out and touch ten men at any given moment I find it hard to believe-

Believe it. And when have I EVER manipulated you?

When you let Caleb into our lives. Into our bed even. When you insist on being near him after all this time. It's so fucked. 

That's not called manipulation. 

I know. I'm sorry. I know! I just wish..you know what I wish, Peanut. 

No one else dies on my watch, Locket. Even him. 

Let's not do this tonight, okay? Let's just go to bed. Schuyler's going to approve changes so I can keep an eye on things via remote access. Would that help?

Should have said that when you walked in. Would have helped. 

What would have helped would have been you confiding in me, not in Caleb. Next time come to me, call me, whatever. You know damn well I'll drop whatever I'm doing and be there for you. But I figure you're just fine if I don't hear otherwise. You don't say a thing when I get home. 

I'm asleep!

You have no trouble talking in your sleep. 

What did I say? 

Last night you did our show wind-up in a whisper with your stuffy nose. I listened to the whole damn thing. It gave me chills. 

Why didn't you wake me up? 

That's one dream I'll never pull you out of.

Presence.

I found the Devil.

I'm flying home Wednesday morning. And I have a present for you, he tells me on the phone when I resorted to calling him. We have an unspoken rule on the point. If you need someone, go find them in person. Phones are a pain. Ben and I have bad habits of leaving our phones in the bedroom. Most of the guys don't carry them anymore because you never know when you're going to get thrown off the cliff or stuck working outside in the rain and also it's so nice to play dumb, ignore half a dozen messages so then Bridget will track you down, so happy to see you that her face lights up, making your day.

What is it?

You'll have to wait until I get home to find out. He chuckles. He's probably happy I didn't just order him to take it back. I hope you like it. 

Give me a hint? 

Forget it. How's Lochlan? 

I dunno. I haven't seen him. Schuy has a big project as usual. 

I'll speak with him.

Please don't. Besides, he has a long weekend at least. 

We'll sort them out over dinner. 

You will do nothing of the kind. Just leave it, please. He'll refocus once he's had a few days to stop and breathe. 

Bridget, I can increase his-

Please leave it alone, Diabhal. He wants to do the right thing and to him this is it. Working as much as he can keeps him from feeling weird about the Collective. Please.

I'll talk to him. 

Why can't you just leave it be?

Because of you, and because of my brother. If someone is upsetting you it doesn't get ignored. You know this. 

But yet there's a double standard for you-

Yes, for me there is but I'm trying my hardest to change that so there doesn't have to be. But things are different between us. Now, why don't you call Lochlan and invite him home for a nice dinner. I'll see you Wednesday. Maybe save me that evening for dinner out? And thank you for the Easter invitation. I'm looking forward to it. 

Okay.

Love you, Neamhchiontach. Wish you were on this trip with me. 

But then I wouldn't get presents. 

That's a good way to spin it. I like that. See you midweek.

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.)