He wasn't the only person asking that this be addressed.

Another breakfast with Joel, at a new place this time. In the wee early-morning hours before I started work so I had time to make butternauts up and down my plate, an army called to order, marching to the beats of my drummer. My drummer was Cole. He's gone now, he's in hell where he belongs. Someday Caleb's going to join him there. I won't be going there though, my crimes are so small you can hold them in one hand, and are thoroughly forgivable if you only knew me.

All of me, I mean.

Joel wants to. I see him angling from a thousand yards, talking up a storm from way back there, making sure everything is 'on the table' and that we're being 'completely honest with each other' as he attempts to rearrange my brain a little more permanently than Sam can. Joel is both a blessing and a curse as he has so much skill as a psychoanalyst but so little skill as a professional. I could have enjoyed the sexual tension with him for the rest of my life but he fucked up so hard. I wasn't in a place to choose him when I came home from the hospital way back when so he chose for me and that was a really dumb idea that ended his career and most of the trust he had built over the course of it.

But he became (or remains?) a friend and he still has years and years of education and training over the rest, and so sometimes I trust him, and sometimes (like today) I see his curiosity and I burn it to the ground.

He wants to know where Dalton stands. Dalton, my under-the-radar flyer, my Casey Affleck lookalike, my sweet sweet hippie friend. Teflon Jesus. TJ. Duncan's brother and the heartbreaker of the west coast all the way from Brevig to Baja.

I don't think you want to hear about him. 

You alluded to something in your writings but never quantified it. 

Right. 

Why is that? 

Privacy? I don't know. I got busy. Not every encounter I have gets catalogued. 

Some do. Repeatedly.

I lean forward. And a lot never get mentioned at all. 

So what happened with Dalton? 

Joel's curiosity is a hole he's about to fall into. I have a gift for making people feel welcomed, feel loved but at the same time I can make you feel so uncomfortable you'll spontaneously self-immolate.

I took a breath and told him in great detail. Detail so complicated and elaborate Joel put his cup down and never picked it up again. I told him about how Lochlan, Dalton and I were sprawled out on the sectional in the theatre room watching something and at some point I drifted off to sleep (as I do) and I woke up to Dalton sliding my pajama pants down off my hips, putting his head down against my thighs, pinning me there happily, sleepily until sleep became the last thing on my mind. He wound me out so hard I couldn't breathe and then (and only then) did he look at Lochlan for permission. Then he took us both by the hand down the hall to his room. We stayed the night, in which he continued whatever mission he had to make sure that I wasn't left wanting for anything,  fulfilled ten times over and very graphically now relayed to Joel who is sinking into his collar, wishing he hadn't asked, titillating curiosity having now given way to graphic shock.

I kept talking. The servers stopped coming over. I had to go and find someone so we could pay the bill. And then finally we're in Joel's car.

Anything else you want to know? 

Joel just shook his head numbly. Pretty sure there's nothing left to say even if he hadn't asked. What's your end game now?

Same as always. Soothing the savage beast that lives inside my skull with almost zero healthy skill in knowing exactly how to do it. 

Is it working? He breathes.

Of course not. 

But you stop sometimes.

Love is distracting-

Ah, good-

So is war, Joel. We pulls up beside my restaurant and I get out. Thanks for breakfast. 

When we last saw our hero-

Caleb knocked softly on the side door around nine. I would have missed it save for the fact that I was there making tea with honey for Ben. I only had the stove light and the fairy lights on, the house is locked up for the night otherwise, everyone having scattered to the wind. Lochlan is downstairs talking with Ben while they wait for me.

(Dalton and Duncan so graciously made dinner last evening while I burned off the end of my buzz. Once I had a full meal in me I felt like myself again. They barbecued the chicken breasts and laid them over fettuccine with spinach, garlic and tomatoes. It was amazing.)

Bridget.

My name is used. It's a peace offering. It takes me by surprise and keeps me there. Cale. I mirror his formality. It must be for an important reason.

Is Lochlan nearby?

Of course. 

I didn't mean it the way you think. I meant I'd like to speak with him. 

Go find him. He's down with Ben. 

You sure?

Yes. I nod to the kettle I'm waiting on.

Caleb heads downstairs. I relock the side door in case he stays but before I finish organizing a tray they all come upstairs.

Caleb crosses to me, planting a hard kiss on my forehead. Sweet dreams, Neamhchiontach. He lets himself out and for a third time tonight, I lock the door. I look at Lochlan but he is poker-faced. Ben fetches the tray, gives me a kiss on the cheek in thanks and promises he'll be up with us before pumpkin-hour.

We head upstairs a little while later and I wait until the door is closed behind us.

What did he want?

Lochlan shrugs. He said he didn't plan to openly defy my wishes today, that he made an executive decision as you looked like you had a tough day. He reminded me to spoil you a bit. Make sure you don't get run down. 

That's weirdly paren-

Parental? I know. That's all I worry about with you sometimes and he thinks I need reminders?

He's trying to keep you on the same page. 

Jesus, Bridge. He isn't even reading the same book. His is horror. Ours is an epic love story. 

Can't believe that just flew out of your mouth like that. Unscripted. I wasn't even sitting down. 

He smiles and says nothing.

It was horror though. We've since had an exorcism. 

Who was cast out?

Cole. 

He nods. I'm trying to give you this but it's hard.

Going to go to work hungover tomorrow or whatever.

You've been trying my patience,
trying hard to make sense of
things we've gone and messed up,
things we've gone and made so wrong.

But maybe we can mend it,
Baby, this tremendous love.

I was met in the driveway at my car by Caleb today, who said Lochlan was due back shortly and that he was to furnish me with peanut butter cookies and cranberry juice. But that he didn't have organic cranberry juice so apparently Lochlan told him to cut it half and half with water to curb the sugar.

Caleb waited until Lochlan left and laughed as he mixed a pitcher of vodka cranberry instead, because if you can't raise them right, you can at least get them somewhat drunk before dinner.

So that's where we are now. I was going to make stuffed chicken. I brought home a lemon blueberry custard pie for dessert. I had all kinds of plans but I can't feel my legs but that's actually a blessing since the last time I could feel them they hurt. so. much.

I have to go. It's my night to cook. 

PJ can do it. 

He's been doing it. Thanks for the drinks.

A beep from the driveway signals Lochlan's return as he locks his truck.

Told you.

I'm thoroughly disappointed. 

I blush. Maybe you can come up later.

Clear it with your dad. 

WOW. 

How many husbands dictate what their wife eats?

Wait. How many husbands have I had? Three? Wait. Four. God. No more vodka.

PEANUT!

That's my cue. I stumble as I step out the door and swing off the knob and hey, there's Lochlan, up the steps, glaring at Caleb.

What'd you have, Bridge?

Vodka butter cookies and peanut punch. I mean-

Christ. Good job, Pedo. 

Anytime, Pyro. See you tonight, Neamhchiontach. 

Tonight? Lochlan looks so disappointed.

It was a maybe, baby. I smile up at him. At least we're all disappointed so we all know how each other really feels.

Christ, thanks for getting her trashed. 

Anytime. Caleb returns my wave as I'm led away. Bye, Beautiful. 

That's right. I am. I twist around to look at Lochlan face-on. I'm really hungry too. Someone needs to stuff the chicken. 

Is that a euphemism?

No, silly. It's a recipe!

I wrote this for you.

That’s what it feels like when you touch me. Like millions of tiny universes being born and then dying in the space between your finger and my skin. Sometimes I forget.”
                                     ~Iain Thomas

Fun fact: I don't like to be touched when I'm eating.

I found this out as Lochlan brought up breakfast in bed so early I was sure I must be eating it in my sleep.

He did this to make the day good. I hate Mondays. They seem to run long.

It takes me longer to eat, even though on the Midway we learned to wolf food down. There was never time for a leisurely meal. On the circus there was never a meal for our leisure time so there you have it. Lean and mean is an apt description here but as I was embarking on the second half of my bagel he was getting affectionate, trying to rub my legs, shoulders, trying to start something he would definitely finish and I couldn't do it.

Get away! I cried and he laughed.

What's wrong?

I can't eat if you're touching me. 

He laughed. Well, there's a first. 

I'm pretty sure you'll never see a porn movie where someone leans over and picks up a fork while they're being fucked and has a little snack. 

But rule 34!

What is that again?

If it exists, there is porn of it. 

Right, but this one thing doesn't exist. 

What about whipped cream and chocolate syrup?

That's not food. I'm talking toast or cereal or....a roast beef dinner. 

We could be famous again, Bridge.

Not gonna happen.

Helplessly hoping.

Wordlessly watching he waits by the window and wonders
At the empty place inside
Heartlessly helping himself to her bad dreams he worries
Did he hear a goodbye?
Or even hello?

They are one person
They are two alone
They are three together
They are for each other

Stand by the stairway you'll see something certain to tell you
Confusion has its cost
Love isn't lying it's loose in a lady who lingers
Saying she is lost
And choking on hello

Lochlan is transparent, direct. Hopeful and commanding all at once. Leave Batman alone and I'll bring back your memory thief. 

I don't want him to take anymore. I don't want him to give me mixed messages.

What do you want of him, then?

His friendship. His steadfast spirituality and righteousness on behalf of the rest of us who fumble around for it. His affection. Sometimes he's the best substitute when you're not here.

I'm here now. 

Was the best substitute, I mean. 

I'm sorry I wasn't here, Peanut. 

I'm sorry about Batman, Locket. 

Are you? 

I don't know. He left a lot of money for me for any hardship. 

Send it back. 

No point. 

Caleb has that covered though?

You always told me if I can to double down. So I did.

And he laughs out loud. Now I'm starting to worry that you did listen to everything I say. If I told you to jump off a cliff-

I do it every time. The water's cold but I go. 

Why?

Because you say so. 

I wanted it both ways, Bridge. 

What do you mean?

I wanted you to be independent, to be able to be free of me and able to hold your own and at the same time I wanted you to need me. 

I am but at the same time, I do. I say it softly.

Sam is safe, Bridget. 

I don't think he is. 

No. You know what? I see the way you look at him. 

I don't mean to-

And it's not the same way you look at me. He leans way in for a long kiss. We know each other's faces. Hearts. Minds. He can come back. Let's have some peace here for once. 

Sunday. Of all days. 

Seems right.

***

Hey, Little Stranger. 

Hey Preacher. 

Is it safe to swoop in for a hug?

It is.

Dizzying night.

I chose a midnight walk with all of my boys on our beach, merlot in hand for those who wanted it, coffee or tea for those who didn't. It was dark and freezing and full of stars and I wouldn't have changed a thing, except for my tiredness, which took over and threatened to upend the whole evening, or maybe it was the merlot, since I'm not good at wine, am hideously allergic to the tannins in red wines and also prone to becoming quickly drunk off a typical glass, as I am maybe ninety or ninety-five pounds soaking wet, and only if I've filled up on bread first (but not dangerously enough to explode, like a bird, into a beautiful silent fluff of feathers and glitter).

So I needed a little help coming back up. The steps are treacherous and steep in bright sober sunshine, and here it was dark and drunk instead. Lochlan tucked his arm around my waist and brought me up, laughing quietly against my head as he was vaguely drunk as well. Ben and Duncan came up behind us, I'm sure ready to catch us if we stumbled or stopped. We managed fine and went straight to the camper for a mildly drunken bonfire and a little more wine before rediscovering exactly what we like about each other when he's not parenting me, and I'm not rebelling against that. Level ground, inhibitions and emotions gone in the bliss of a lit fire and a lack of tension, an intoxication brought on by the perfect combination of stars, saltwater and moonlight, brought on by the complexity of long-time love and by the proximity of everyone I care about it.

He put out the fire when my eyes got heavy and the ghosts of Bridget Past tried to crowd back in to the smoke-tinged darkness.

No, I protested. I love it. Leave it.

Time for sleep, Lochlan says, taking my hands, pulling me to my feet. He brings me inside the camper, closing and locking the door, pulling his shirt off and mine too, pushing my jeans down over my hips, dropping his own pants, arms around me, my hands on his face, kisses raining everywhere, tasting smoky skin and merlot and exhaustion. We're cooling off, goosebumps rising, limbs tucking into warmth made from within and without and we remembered who we are in that beautiful night, and who we want to be, separate and together and everything else was erased by the sunless sky.

This morning we woke up in 1986, thick as thieves, fresh as new lovers, eager to start over together as one. He made coffee for us in the campfire and then we returned to civilization to try and reintegrate into normie life.

It's tough but so are we.

This is how I thought it would play out when I was ten.

(And here we are, at long last.)

Last customer, sitting at a booth in the corner for so long, menu held up to block out the world I wondered if he was going to last past the end of my shift. A few attempts to offer coffee or the special (roast turkey on an open-faced sourdough bun, cranberry dressing and mashed on the side) were met with silence. I kept cleaning, loading dishes and redrawing the menu board. I reorganized the spoons and filled vinegar and ketchup and salt and pepper too. I poured myself a cup of coffee and leaned against the counter finally, with my back to the booths. Not my problem.

Obviously it's Lochlan.

Not sure how he didn't realize that I would see that his ring matches mine. Or recognize his clothes. Or that I would know his hands, his posture, his presence anywhere, immediately. I always feel him before I see him, but I think he thought he could blend in until the three-o'clock mark.

I think I'm ready now. He folds the menu onto the table and smiles at me.

What'll it be? 

One Bridget. To go, please. 

To go where? 

Anywhere you want to go, Little Lady.

Wash it away.

August did that thing again where he's waiting for me after I come down the driveway from work. Only this time everyone else is gone and he's in charge of food + brood or so they call it when I get home from work, ravenous and needing to unload for a few minutes before I make my way back to a reasonable state of-

As if I do.

Come on. You know me better than this.

August's idea of a snack is fresh kombucha and a cold curry couscous salad. He might be trying to kill me. Over huge spoonfuls of the salad I ask him if he's ever had a pop-tart. He narrows his eyes and changes the subject. How long were you at Batman's? 

Long enough to start a war. 

Is that why you took a shift today? 

Maybe. Is that why no one is home? 

I doubt it. Caleb and Lochlan got into it pretty bad but Schuyler broke it up and then had a few terse moments with Batman. I think they sorted it all out. The only issue left is your movements. We take our eyes off you for one second, Bridget-

I was there for four hours, August. No one even missed me.

Right, well, you should have been at home. 

I know. 

And? 

What would you like me to say? Sorry? Won't happen again? Sometimes I get sucked in. 

So he's like a tidal wave?

More like an unpredictable current. Is that so bad? 

Who takes the fall for it?

We both do. Him for taking advantage of historically documented vulnerabilities and me for exploiting that history thoroughly. 

August is temporarily speechless at my self-awareness. I never said it wasn't there. I said I live around it. The twelve-year-old me is much stronger than all the rest. And it never changes.

So what happens now? 

A shoving match between Lochlan or Caleb or whoever, I get grounded, my circle gets really fucking small and Lochlan needs reassurance. 

What do you need? 

Do you have any pop-tarts? Couscous is like really old caviar. 

That's the best reason for a pop-tart that I've ever heard. Go find PJ. He's got some from grocery shopping this morning. 

It wasn't until I went across the driveway that I realized he dismissed me just like Lochlan does. Like a little kid.
 

Never the boss but somehow always in charge.

The saying goes something like 'you never know what battle someone is fighting' or something like that. It came to me as I poured endless coffee refills into the thick white china mugs diners love so much because they're cheap and virtually unbreakable. It came as I whiteknuckled my favorite coffee pot, pouring black sludge through the cracks in my facade into grateful expressions and wizened fingers wrapped around handles as if they were simply afraid I would take their cups away.

My boss finally let me go home, telling me the lunch rush was over as was the afternoon break one, and he held his hand out for the apron as I untied it from my waist and gave it back. I had been washing it at home. Apparently I wasn't told he washes everything at night and I don't have to.

When I got home PJ had blackberries and hot chocolate waiting for my snack. I ate it at the kitchen sink looking out over the ocean because I'm no longer allowed to go to the swing alone.

(I can move Jake, you know. He stays wherever I put him. I threatened Lochlan with the endless misery of the preacher he hardly tolerated forever being my own shadow, as I am Lochlan's.

I know that. But you don't need to be out there this week. Clear? 

Yes sir.  I salute him and he frowns.)

Batman summons me. There's eight or ten really intriguing messages on my phone when I finally get home, fishing it out from the bottom of my handbag. I'll start the furthest away and work my way back. That's the most logical way.

(What? No it isn't, Lochlan will say.)

You need me? 

I do. He smiles, staring at me without saying anything further.

He holds out his arms and I sink against him almost gratefully. Done for the week. My legs ache. My brain hurts. I just want to shut it off.

Have you eaten? He says into the top of my head.

I nod against his chest, my ear muffling his words. Blackberries. 

I'll fix us a drink. His grand charming trick is to fix one drink, for us to share. It's always been a cheeky gesture. A touching one, weirdly. That's how I know my list will be short today and I probably won't get time to deal with all of the messages on my phone as I'll be here for a while.

He takes a sip and holds the glass down to me. I think I know what you need. That smile. God. I hate it so much.

Hope is not in what I know.

He isn't real, Peanut! Jesus, I can see talking to yourself but if you've conjured up this two-way conversation in which the things he says surprise you then it's gone too far. He isn't real! You don't have to justify anything to him. You don't have to put him anywhere. He can stay in your memories. He put himself there. He doesn't deserve anything further. Jesus. Listen to me. I sound like you. He doesn't even have this much presence. I don't know what to do here. If no one here can help then we're going to have to go elsewhere. 

This is your doing. 

Oh, no, it isn't. 

You said make a story, Locket! And it was the only thing that MADE ME FEEL BETTER. 

You were ten fucking years old! 

And it still works!

It SHOULDN'T. Jesus. We did do this, didn't we. 

Did what?

Left you to grow up with only the coping mechanisms of a child. 

What are you, Rip Van Winkle? Did you just wake up? Jesus, Lochlan. I've been asking for help with this for a thousand years and now that I don't even want any anymore you're all swooping in to somehow try and save the day. 

Not the day, the girl. 

Same difference. 

No, it isn't. 

Well, it's too late. 

He smiles suddenly. It's never too late. Look at everything else that's happened. You and me. Back together. It's absolutely never too late, Bridget.