Captive audience.

(To set the scene, I'm using Ben as a pillow today while I nurse my bad arm by the fireplace in the great room today. He has his laptop and we are watching Things. I'm not going anywhere. My arm is very sore. I don't think it should hurt like this when weight is put on it but then again, I heard what it looked like that one time. But this isn't about my arm. I'm about to have an opinion, here. Look out.)

I'm at the point where I've absorbed enough direction and have enough confidence to watch a brand-new music video of an acoustic rendition of a song and give it my own running commentary.

(Slow it down, just a little. You can't breathe while you sing this. Black anad white would be better. Add some noise. Some film grain maybe. Some local cameras. Stop with the wide shots already. The composition could be tightened on this by a monke-Hey! This goes right into Memphis May Fire (God they're young).  Stop. With. The. Wide. Shots. End it with the song, we don't need a cheesy afterstory. Do more of THIS. PLEASE.)

Ben is very patient while I rattle off all of the things I would change. Sometimes he takes full advantage, as I am a ruinous, rabid music lover as well as the subject of more than a dozen semi-infamous music videos so my suggestions (or rather, my opinions) come from a place of love.

Well, what do you think?

I think you're jaded. Maybe they calculated this for humility. 

Yeah. I doubt that.

A subtle image change for them. Like 'hey, it turns out we're not perfect'. 

Okay, in that context it works great. Sort of like these bands that are like 'hey, we know a guy with a drone'. 

Worked for your last music video shoot, Bridge. 

It sure did.

So...don't quit your day job? And he laughs, because they would love it if I did.

A little laugh, a little scream.

Today I got home, kicked off my shoes, dropped my purse by the door, my nametag (still says BABY) on the table in the center of the foyer and walked straight through the house, out the back patio doors, across the back lawn on the lovely new flagstone path and climbed straight into the hot tub. The pool is empty now (sadly) but the hot tub will stay since we can cover it and empty and fill it with ease. Caleb laughed, as he was the one who followed me out, watching as I climbed in dress and all.

I sat there refusing to speak, as I reached that point in my week where I feel too beaten down by life to respond without committing murder and I leaned my head back and closed my eyes.

That bad?

No, just tired. Where's Loch?

Helping August, I think. 

With?

A wifi issue, I believe, unless that was a ruse.

I go to get out of the tub, suddenly panicked and Caleb shakes his head. I sent Ben with him. Everything's fine. 

Okay. I settle back warily. I'm still leery of Lochlan going off on August if he even breathes the wrong way. Not that he will, but that he might.

Besides, he knows you're going to be busy. I don't think he'll make any extra work. 

Busy with what?

You're going to have to help Andrew pick out his dress. 

I don't know why it was funny but it was and I laughed and then I let my head go below the surface in defeat of the day and Caleb got scared and pulled me right out of the hot tub by one arm.

The bad arm.

The sound I make. Holy. It scares even me. 

"As he read I fell in love the way you fall asleep: slowly, and then all at once." -John Green

Okay it's official now that they've told extended family far away, so now I can talk about it all I want.

Christian proposed and Andrew said YES. What started as a hey what the hell early-spring fling in the ebbing winter of 2017 grew into a strong and quiet love that doesn't show any signs of doing anything but steadily deepening, between two young men who spent twenty years getting along great to two fully-grown men who've spent the last two years getting along even better. Then late on Thanksgiving night they went for a walk around the water together and as the story goes, Christian turned to Andrew and asked him if he was happy.

Andrew smiled at him hugely and said he was, and suddenly worried that maybe Christian wasn't happy. He didn't have to worry long, as Christian reassured him that he was the happiest he'd ever been, and that happiness was because of Andrew.

Then Christian got down on one knee and brought a small box out of his pocket that contained a silver ring that used to belong to his grandfather. He had the inside engraved with their initials and a teeny tiny hollow heart and Andrew is now wearing that ring and it will become his wedding ring this spring.

And I am so happy for them I could burst.

If you can't handle me at my worst...

..then you probably don't live in my house.

(or as Sam told me later this afternoon, I seem to go from ridiculously silly to devastatingly profound in the blink of an eye and it's one of his Very Favorite Things about me.)

I got all worked up about my speech for Thanksgiving dinner last night and then after I had two glasses of wine and a huge piece of apple pie with ice cream Sam gave our closing grace, which takes awhile because...of Sam. He likes to preach a little extra when given the chance, as most of the boys are total heathens, wayward souls who don't go to church enough and need to be saved. So I leaned my head against Ben's shoulder and rudely fell fast asleep, sitting up like a horse, no less, and missed my turn, which came around and was sweetly ignored by all, and no one protested, as apparently they had a little Bridget-free family meeting and Sam read the pertinent parts out to them from yesterday's post and they had already decided to let me off the hook.

Sam insists I will go to heaven, that God doesn't want me to mourn anymore and that my reward will be the end of this pain I'm in. While he was talking the tears started rolling down my face, a race to the bottom like no other and he shook his head. Apparently most people are rapturous when he talks like this but for me it just confirms my misery as if once it's validated it is real and then I'm really in trouble.

No, no, no, Bridget. Don't cry. These are beautiful times. Your words, God's plan. the love and patience of this entire extended family that holds us in the palm of their hands-

I wish they-

What do you wish, tell me. 

I wish they could understand how much I love them all. 

See? That's what I said, flighty to devastating in the blink of an eye. That's what makes you worthy, Bridget, and that's what makes this whole argument pointless.
 

Revenants and rogues.

Deep breath. Step outside in the rain. Pull my coat a little tighter around my bones as I wait for Lochlan to pull the truck up to the front walkway. One month remains and Jacob would have been forty-eight had he not chosen to fly instead. It's been eleven years, almost, since that time and it's only barely dulled, still agony, still aching in my soul, and I'd happily give it back to the Devil if it meant it wouldn't hurt this much.

But today is our Thanksgiving. We're going to church, we're going to cook turkey and stuffing later for dinner and we're going to go around the table and list what we are thankful for out loud, taking the time to give those items their due, gravely as such, solemnly.

I am thankful for so many things, I think as Lochlan comes around to open my door for me, waiting until I am in safely in and belted, coat gathered up under my legs so it doesn't get caught, before closing the door and coming back around the front of the truck to get in his side.

I'm thankful for my stubbornness in getting and keeping my job (even though I hate the job), the almost five thousand dollars I've earned in the six months time I've been a waitress, and for the boys' reluctance to insist that I quit, even as I come home in pain and in tears, more often than not.

I'm thankful to Jacob. He taught me how to let go, how to hold on. How to deal with the loss of Cole. How to love outside of the Collective and how to pray. How to open my heart to Lochlan again after so long. His absence renewed something bigger than myself, bigger than my heart. His death brought us all back together in a way I thought I'd never see again in my lifetime but the space he occupied will forever remain empty in remembrance of who he was to me.

That's not beautiful or eloquent. I don't know how I will word it at dinner tonight or how I can even make Lochlan see that he isn't up against an adversary he can't fight, he's here because of that adversary and I wouldn't change anything that's happened since Jacob left because it's been all better than good. I just wish I didn't have to trade one for another, I wish I didn't have to choose, didn't have to miss, didn't have to love from down here knowing that I'll probably not end up in heaven, in spite of Sam's insistence, told to me directly in the sermon today as I sat, damp and miserable, my rain-soaked coat wrapped tightly around my broken heart, ineffective safety mechanism as it was underneath Lochlan's arm around my neck, tighter as the words hit their targets, loosened when the words stopped altogether.

It was a hell of a morning and will probably be a hell of a night. Wish me some luck, I'm trying to turn it around a little here. 

Save me from myself.

He burned it all. Down through the layers, through potential. Through the present and into the future and then he made his way across the scorched and blackened earth and he came for the past. He came to burn down the past without him and renew the past with him, searing it into my brain, into my flesh, into my very soul even as he was singed in the process, scalded and smoked, a victim of his own efforts to fix this.

It can't be fixed but he pushes it back, bringing the flames and the light to the dark, his side of a losing war fought with heart, with earnest, with the blazing glow of a love that won't quit.

This was his battle speech, told to me in fragments and with lengthy delays, over his shoulder as he waged that fight against the dark. Against the past. Against Jake. 

Jacob is the black hole that has ruined everything. I would have done okay after Caleb. After Cole. After all of that already until Jacob happened. Lochlan doesn't see it that way. He thinks eventually if you burn enough of Jake away, the remnants of everything and everyone will eventually stop coming back.

It's the complete opposite of what Sam is doing (as the memory thief he's trying to bring closure to my time with Jacob, locking all of the memories away as they are finished and solved, turning hurtful moments into teaching ones, negatives into positives, and using the power of Bridget's Oversized, Expansive Imagination to finish off the ones that remain incomplete).

(Lochlan burned those down too but we're not going to talk about that today).

It's the complete opposite of what August is doing too (as the surrogate-Jacob he's telling me I need to move on before and distract myself from memories of his best friend before shape-shifting INTO his best friend for a little affection without strings (as if there aren't strings!). And it helps. And we're not blaming him, it's my fault even though if the truth is to be believed I'm not in a position to control much of anything. Too fragile. Too splintered. Too Fucked Up with a capital F U.).

(Lochlan hates it. Oh, how he hates it and yet he bites his tongue until he tastes ash and regret. And still he says nothing.)

He pulls me into the flames with him, baptized by fire. I'll win, Lochlan says, the firelight flickering in his green eyes, which look almost black in the dark.

I know you will, I tell him. Because ten-year-old Bridget believes him. Believes what he says and believes in his capabilities without question and without doubt, one hundred percent forever infinity.

Whoops.

My poor PJ is absolutely aghast that the previous post was not about Behemoth's new album I Loved You At Your Darkest, which also came out today. I figured he was doing enough squealing about it to cover all of us and didn't mention it. My bad. It won't happen again, sir.

*flashes horns*

My jumpsuit is on steady.

East is up, I'm fearless when I hear this on the low
East is up, I'm careless when I wear my rebel clothes

So much excitement last evening and this morning as the whirlwind that is Ruth spooled right up with the release of Trench, the new Twenty One Pilots album. Ruth is a hardcore early-adopter of this band. I didn't love them until I heard Trees. Then I was ruined. But I love the new album for certain, just not as much as Ruth. Ruth is losing her shit. It's so amazing. She cried, she danced, she squealed and it's good to know that our enthusiastic love of music is genetic. She is now plotting to get tickets to the show in Vancouver this coming spring, having seen them four years ago at a tiny venue here when she was barely fifteen. She cried then, she's still crying over them. She's exactly like I was with Bon Jovi from the age of fifteen through my early twenties. And I still squeal when Living on a Prayer or Runaway comes on the radio, honestly. She just has the luxury of a deeper, more profound, faith-based subject matter (oh, in spades) for these songs.

Sam is also squealing. He's a huge fan now. It's all Trees fault. That song is incredible lyrically and kind of sets us all on our asses.

But yeah, this is fun to watch.

***

Lochlan continues to categorically deny that he and Caleb were spooning, leaving no room for me in my own bed, which means Detective Bridget is now on the case, and she's going to get to the bottom of this.

She went to Caleb, boldly confronting him last evening as he came in from a brief run. He is somewhat breathless and handsome, finding it amusing that she is demanding answers and readily admits his guilt with a grin.

I figured if you went looking for comfort in the arms of someone you shouldn't be with, I could too, especially seeing as how Lochlan must have felt so alone when you failed to reappear. 

First the kiss, then the spoon! What's next? Stay tuned to find out.

Jesus. I don't think we want to find out. It's a slippery slope and soon they'll just be sleeping with each other and they won't need me at all.

Oh fuck you too.

With every settled score
I thought that fighting with meant fighting for
But you turned it around
But you turned it around

So.

Last evening I went to see August, who, in a rare and wonderful turn didn't even bother with the preamble of a talk or a barometer or fuck-all, he just reached around me when I came in and locked the door.

Three hours later he wasn't even August anymore, he was Jacob and I was ruined physically and emotionally. That's when August always likes to level that fatal blow and I don't know if he's angry at me or at himself. Maybe both.

Get out, Bridge. Please. Go.

It would have been less jarring had he shoved me right out of bed, only to hit the floor and have the bed swing back and knock right into my head.

I watched his face as he struggled to find an expression. He settled on protective, closed and I got up and dressed slowly in the dark. I don't have to, I shouldn't have to apologize for my actions. He got up and opened the door for me when I left, kissing the top of my head, lingering there against my skull for an eternity, and then he watched me cross the driveway, until I opened the side door of the house and then he closed his door and I was blind in the dark.

I went upstairs. It's three in the morning, no one is awake. No lights underneath doors, no sounds, no nothing. I go up into my room and one single lantern is lit. Just enough to show me that Caleb was lying on my bed fully clothed but fast asleep, one arm flung around Lochlan, who slept hard in the center, still in his flannel shirt and jeans, like he stretched out to wait for me and couldn't do it. Rounding out the party is Ben, who is hard asleep facing them, sleeping on his side, one hand around Lochlan's head. These protective expressions have spread around the point, I guess. I stand there for what feels like forever, and then reach up and turn off the lantern, plunging the room into total darkness.

I leave and head back downstairs, quietly going outside to head back to August's loft.

He left the door unlocked so I go in and he's sitting up at the counter, a cup of tea untouched in front of him.

There's no room for me there, I gesture. I'm losing it. I feel like no one wants me suddenly, too tainted by the memory of their friend to forge any meaningful future for themselves, for me. We're all ruined by Jacob in some way. Ruined by Cole. Ruined by Caleb. Ruined by Bridget.

He gets up, goes and locks the door again and goes back to bed. I follow him, climbing in fully clothed but turning away. He wraps himself around me, so familiar suddenly that I start to sob. His arms tighten, holding fast until I stop. I don't know when I stopped crying and fell asleep but it must have been ages as I woke up so tired. Drained. Wrecked.

He didn't leave though, still there, still holding tight when I woke up as I startled up, afraid that Lochlan would wonder where I was.

August already has that covered, as they back each other up even as they leave me to twist in the wind. Every now and then someone comes along and holds me tightly so that someone else can stab me right in the heart. That's how it works here.

He knows you're here. He's pissed though. Said he stayed awake all night waiting for you and if you're not coming home you need to tell him. 

A little moment, since that's all I've got today (busy with my muffin, leave me alone).

I got my medal (a blueberry muffin with ice-cold real butter, just the way I like it, thank you PJ) for not crying at work today. I also remembered my sweater, and somehow the lunch crowd trickled in with nary an issue and I was off and flying out the door at three pm sharp to Lochlan's truck, noting that it is indeed flannel shirts, jeans, and workboot season and I'm happy because everyone looks so cozy and hugs are better in flannel than in t-shirts and I don't even care that the calendar is beginning to lift up along the top edge, sliding me down into Halloween like an errant leaf floating down from the tree branch to the grass.

I do note with annoyance upon returning home that Bo Horvat has banned the Canucks from playing video games when they're on the road. Because the boys should be out socializing or drinking or being energy vampires to each other, which shows not only ridiculous the NHL is becoming, but how ridiculous the Canucks still are, and maybe they need a slightly older captain with an idea of how some folks don't necessarily want to fraternize the whole time and maybe want to spend their downtime how they see fit. But I'm pretty sure that Patrick Laine from the Jets said it best, saying that if the Jets start playing as bad as the Canucks, maybe they'll ban games too.

Christ LOL. Best burn.