Battle cries.

Maybe redemption has stories to tell
Maybe forgiveness is right where you fell
Where can you run to escape from yourself?
Where you gonna go?
Where you gonna go?
Salvation is here

I dare you to move
I dare you to move
I dare you to lift yourself up off the floor
I dare you to move
I dare you to move
Like today never happened
Today never happened
Today never happened
Today never happened before

I've scared myself to pieces. I made a little leap. Not a big deal to most, huge to me. Everything's huge when you walk as me, five feet of blustery willfulness in a sea of people who tower over me, looking right over my head, able to see what's coming, able to see what's next. Able to keep their eyes on the horizon all the while my focus remains shirt buttons and metal logos on t-shirts. That's my view when I need a soul with kind eyes and open arms and so with sight gone (and hearing long before it, even) I'm left with touch.

The songs touch me. So do the boys and so I've gathered both in my arms and I'm trying to hold on as hard as I can but fear is bigger than everyone and it can definitely see me from here.

Sam said not to try to smother, to let it breathe, to let it fill me and learn to live with it and then I will be able to see a way a through it but that's easier said, like all things, than done.

The new routine is that Dare you to Move is followed by Wonderful Feeling, because it's like me, a clear, straight journey from desperate + hopeful to joyful + hopeful and that's a good place to step off from, right?

Overland.

Church was lit. Sam's back in full force. Matt was a blip on his radar, one that eventually moved away before dropping off the screen completely and we didn't realize we've been holding our collective (Collective? Ha) breath since Christmas, exhaling in such a huge rush it almost blew me off the point. 

I forget what the sermon was. I fell asleep sitting up and was finally scooped in close to Lochlan, his warm suited arm keeping me awake with random squeezing. We came home and the shit hit the fan and now it's suddenly nine at night and I haven't eaten or gotten anything at all accomplished and I'm fine with that. 

Tomorrow will be much of the same. But it's a good kind of shit, in a capable sort of fan and I'll tell you more tomorrow!

Or Wednesday. Tuesday? I dunno. We'll see. 

King tides + misguides.

The tension in the room reached a fever pitch as we turned and walked ten paces away from each other and then whirled around and fired. Everything we had.

August is off-limits. The list includes Ben and Sam too. They've had too much loss already to have to put up with you. They're absolutely protected by me and by everyone else here and you will never close a door in one of their faces again. You will never deny them comfort if they ask for it, whether it be on my behalf or your own.

I spit the words out rapid-fire. Automatic.

And then I got shot right through the heart.

I've had too much loss already too, Bridget. My brother died a violent, miserable death following his violent, miserable life and no one is allowed to supersede my presence. Not last night, not ever. Not when it comes to you.

My brain pokes me in the back, whispering in my ear. Well, he is on the list.

(Shush, you.)

He continues. When I woke up you were gone. I needed you and you were somewhere else-

You HAD me-

Not your full attention. Not all of you. 

This is juvenile and-

No, you know what's juvenile? Him using Jacob's death to elicit sympathy from and therefore time with you-

How is that different from me? 

You make an effort to deal with your grief-

Oh my God. Hardly. But my rules remain or this all falls apart. 

Let it. Then maybe he can move on. 

What about me? 

I'll continue to look after you. Maybe this whole Collective was a bad idea but it exists because of your rule in the first place. 

No, it was the only way you could think of to stay close to me. 

The end will always justify the means, Neamhchiontach. 

See, I don't think so.

Chasing after ghosts.

I was running on empty
I was feeling so low
When you made me a promise
To never let me go
I was falling to pieces
When you carried me home
When you told me you loved me
And my prodigal soul

The knock came softly. I barely heard it for the rain and the cracking fire. It came again and then I knew I had heard something. I go to the door and crack it slightly.

It's August.

Did you listen?

Yeah.

And?

He would have loved it, August.

Yeah.

I feel warmth against my back suddenly, breath against the top of my head. Caleb is behind me. What do you need, August?

Nothing you can provide, man. I miss my best friend.

He isn't here.

I'm aware.

Goodnight August. Caleb reaches over me and closes the door in August's face. The look on it as the door closed broke my heart. I am led back to bed, crushed under Caleb's weight as he uses our wakefulness in the dark for another round of trying to win me back the hard way, fighting through all of history, Stockholm and post-traumatic Bridget syndromes to arrive at this pre-dawn assault on my convictions about who I love, and in what order.

He finally lets go and falls asleep and I lie there. I can't sleep. August's pain of missing Jake is the bond that keeps us close and I know damn well if I feel like that, especially in the night, there isn't a single person who would turn me down or turn me out.

And it's a luxury I absolutely refuse to deny him.

I get up quietly, extricating myself from Caleb's arms, and Lochlan's grip on my hand, and I dress quickly, leaving the room silent like a mouse. I dart across the driveway in bare feet in the freezing rain, almost wiping out on the steps and knock on August's door. I wait, shivering but he never comes. I let myself in and walk into his loft and he's on his knees, head down in prayer, rocking back and forth, probably set back a million years like I was when I listened to the new record and knew Jake would have loved it so beyond anything else he had heard and I dropped to the floor, threw my arms around him and tried to keep him from shaking.

It's supposed to be easy now, Bridget. It's been so long and I can't get anywhere and I know how you feel. 

Yeah, you do. Better than anyone. I nod, tears dripping off my chin, as August turns to sit with his back against the wall, pulling me into his lap to hold. It's always a song, or a photograph. Or just a feeling like something's missing. Something big. Something blonde. Something so faithful he held the rest of us up our whole lives and we're only being to realize how efficient he must have been at doing it, as we can't seem to do it for ourselves.

Helpless/help more.

(Caleb is being Caleb and yet this is my issue to fix? Thanks guys.)

John is half-amused and half deadly serious.

I can't believe how bad this is. You used to grift for a living. 

No, I charmed. I can do that. I can lie until the sun goes down. But if you ask me directly I tell the truth. 

I'm just trying to figure out how Loch did that. Force integrity all the while teaching you how to rob people blind. 

He says both were necessities, at the time. 

John nods. He can control his mirth over this but he also thinks it's time someone had a little lesson in holding a poker face.

Hey, I'm discreet. I'm private. 

Not when it comes to Caleb. 

His presence unnerves me.

And that's weird. He should be just like everyone else. 

You remember that guy who came up to Ben at the Maiden show and knew everything about him? And I played Ben off as a huge fan who styled himself to look just like Ben and I called him Brent and we all had a good laugh afterward? I can do it. Just not with Cale. 

So let's fix that. 

It's too late. I need to find a new restaurant. Or maybe I'll work at a Starbucks. 

I don't think you're qualified. 

Ha. Oh my God, I think you're right. Oh well. I'll go back to writing. 

Oh great. See you in October. I hated the way you holed up to do that. 

It's par for the course. 

Anyway, concentrate, Bridget. We have some work to do. 

I can't wait to see how. 

Well, for starters, you can act like you don't know him. Like if someone says hey, who is that? You can just smile and say you don't know, but he's nice. 

Uh..I think it's too late to reverse history. 

It never is. 

Oh. Then I want to go back further and change some other things and then this won't even be an issue. 

Paper filters.

Caleb came in today. He sat at the chrome-trimmed formica counter top, at the end, tantalizingly close to the pie rack and nursed a coffee and a plate of sauerkraut and corned beef for lunch for so long the other staff began to watch him and talk.

Finally another server asked me, after watching us talk quietly as I refilled his coffee for what seemed like the fifth time, if he was my husband. They're used to my random boys sitting in the diner for hours. But since Caleb radiates intensity they could already see it's different than most of the others.

He's my boyfriend. My first thought is to correct a stranger from a painful assumption, and not to protect my privacy.

Oh. I thought you were married. 

I am! (Oh, shit. Here we go.)

But it gets busy and I am spared any questions and eventually Caleb can't entertain himself anymore reading yesterday's newspaper and he asks me if I can leave early, get a ride home with him, and someone can come get my car later.

I have to work until three. I tell him.

Or quit and then you won't have to work at all. I've put enough in your account to see you through the spring. 

See me what through the spring? 

Don't you check your accounts? 

Yes but it's been a week or two. 

Then you should look. He finishes his coffee, tucks a hundred-dollar-bill underneath the edge of his saucer and winks at me before putting his jacket on. He doesn't carry cash often anymore so that surprises me more than the amount.

Thanks! We tip-share now, for the new year. 

What does that mean? 

We pool the tips and divide them between the wait staff and the cooks. 

How many are working today? 

Six people, including me.

He takes his wallet out again and counts off five more hundred dollar bills.

There. Now everyone's happy. 

You don't have to-

I can't spoil you directly, so I'll have to do it the hard way. Check your account. Put this somewhere out of sight. He pushes the saucer toward me.

Everyone was a little surprised at their second holiday bonus and one person remarked that they would also have a boyfriend on the side if he was that rich. It would be worth the hassle. Everyone looked at me and I shrugged.

Money doesn't buy happiness. 

I'll take it then, said the cook. If you don't need it since you're already happy. 

He grinned, content in knowing absolutely nothing about me and went back to scraping the flat top. I left my hundred there to be redispersed among everyone else. I hate it when Caleb does this. Now I probably will have to quit, when the judgement comes out of the woodwork.

And now twice in fourteen months.

Got my Breaking Benjamin tickets early early this morning before work. I almost died of fright. Chrome didn't want to play nice and so Firefox stepped in and saved the day. They're playing half an arena in Abbotsford, a place I only know as the place where everyone passes their driver's licenses and the home of Castle Fun Park and the Maan Farms haunted Halloween maze.

Asking Alexandria is opening for Breaking Benjamin. I almost expected Avenged Sevenfold AGAIN.  So now who do I contact so I will get to hear The Road and Moving On live?

I might die. This is amazing. Twice in less than two years after waiting almost twenty to see them at all?

The most amazing part is it's the night before my sixth (seventh? Don't even know anymore and will have to check) Switchfoot concert. So I get to see my two favorite bands of all time in a single weekend.

If you try to pinch me this time I'm going to run away.

Just say when.

Caleb has slowly morphed the little den that begins his wing into a proper office, though slightly less sterile and uh, venture-capitalistic than before. It's more rustic, more homey, with some big easy chairs and a heavy rustic wooden desk and bookshelves. 

The lighting he redid as well and now it's so cozy it almost makes me want to do work for him, though I declined easily this morning when he asked if I would consider helping him with his year end and tax reconciliations. 

I can't. Switchfoot's new album comes out in four more sleeps and in the meantime Lochlan bought me Nothing More's Stories We Tell Ourselves so I'm a little bu-

Bridget, I adore the fact that you eat, sleep and breathe your music. You can bring your airpods with you. 

Numbers mess up the music. It only works with words. 

I'm sorry? 

I can't listen to music while working with numbers. 

I didn't know this. I've always put on music for you-

I can't hear it. 

But you can write and listen-

And sing along. While writing completely different thoughts. 

So are you saying you're throwing me over for Nothing Less?

Nothing More. And yeah. We said this last year. No more taxes. 

It's the only thing certain in life, Neamhchiontach. 

No, that's death. Remember?

Fifteen degrees in January and my life is different now but also the same.

Lochlan picked a fight. Apparently Matt did too, though from a distance instead of directly in Sam's face and so Sam and I took a day off. He let one of his other ministers lead Sunday services and I told Lochlan off so gently I'm not entirely sure he heard me but it felt good.

Sam took me out for breakfast to a place with bottomless coffee and fried potatoes and then we came home and put on our swimsuits and towels for a long hot sauna. When we couldn't stand that anymore we retired to the hot tub on the lowest setting. PJ brought out an ice pack for my head and a mimosa for me, orange juice for Sam.

I thought Sam was going to try and rearrange my brain so I started babbling but he just gazed at me wearily and told me to stop. That we didn't need to do this today. That today could just be rest. That I should close my eyes and flatline my brain, just for a little while. That everything could wait.

And so it did.

After too long in the hot tub my headache began to come back and I was just thinking about getting out when Lochlan appeared. Sam stepped out, put a towel skirt on over his swim trunks and said he would see us at supper (everyone's excited about supper. I'm making SOPP-sausages, onions, peppers and potatoes in three of the big skillets tonight. And buttered rolls besides.).

Lochlan bent down beside the edge of the hot tub and held up a towel.

Is that the towel of arbitration or the towel of forgiveness?

It's the love towel. 

Oh, yuck. Is it...clean? 

He laughs. I love you, stupid. This towel is to show you how much. 

How will a towel show me how much you love me? I am suspicious and remain where I sit.

Get out and see. 

Still with my eyes narrowed, I get out and he wraps me tightly in the towel. It's fresh from the dryer and warm. He was right. He loves me an awful lot.

Told you.

Far too much to ask for (the real devil would have already done it by now, just to enjoy the fallout, FYI).

I'll be right there
But you'll have to grab my throat and lift me in the air
If you need anyone
(If you need anyone)
I'll stop my plans
But you'll have to tie me down
And then break both my hands

Lochlan fell asleep the night that Caleb and I had our two-restaurant date and now blames himself for my fear.

As always, he blames himself where the blame surely lies more squarely on the devil, aligned perfectly along the edges so that it doesn't stick out sharply, wounding me with clean cuts that bleed a waterfall down through the house, drowning everything in crimson.

I don't let him take that blame. He can't have it. It does not belong to him. It has nothing to do with him. He makes a generous allowance for my wants and then stands back and bites his tongue as I throw myself over the edge of it, taking too much, being greedy, and as always it comes back to bite me on the shoulder in the throes of its own selfish ecstasy.

For him that fear is confirmation of my loyalty. It's his peace of mind, his own watershed of comfort in playing the hero of my story now, again, as always.

Enough, Lochlan said when Caleb remarked that he enjoyed our evening and that we should extend it through the weekend.

I thought we had fun, Caleb looks at me curiously (maybe accusingly) and waits for my confirmation, waits for my assurance that Lochlan is being possessive and overbearing.

I shake my head just slightly, as if his interpretation is just plain mad.

Alright, outside. Caleb orders, he doesn't ask.

This is new.

Fine. I bring my coffee cup. In the daylight he doesn't scare me. With my clothes on as armour he doesn't scare me. It's only when conditions are just right and the night is full of regret and poor choices and old wounds and inexplicable needs that he terrorizes (I mean terrifies me).

This is supposed to be working. 

What is?

You, me. This. Even Lochlan is on board with trying to make things better for you and trying to give you what you want. 

You won't give me what I want. 

He stares at me. He knows exactly what I mean and we're going to be at a stalemate until one of us dies, and then I'm going to be so disappointed because it will be him.

I can't do that, Neamhchiontach. 

Then we're done here. I take my cup and go back inside.