Piefaces, poker hands.

Happy birthday, Diabhal. I hold up a plate with apple pie and one candle stuck through the centre, lit with a match. I don't sing. He takes the plate and exchanges it for a whiskey, the thick glass so heavy it actually needs both my hands to hold it. I nod and take a sip. He takes a bite of the pie.

Your cook is a master. 

Anyone can bake a pie. 

You don't have time, anymore, so I must give my overwhelming enthusiasm to someone else. 

True. It isn't cake though. 

Sometimes a change is good. He holds out a forkful but I shake my head. I don't eat pie. I continue to sip the whiskey and wait for him to talk.

I'm concerned you're going to give me up for Lent. I know the trip wasn't what you expected and I need to make that up to you. 

Actually, you don't. You've done enough. 

I don't leave loose ends. 

Sure you do. 

I was hoping for a little high-speed romance, some good bonfires in the snow, some aurora and a change between us. I missed the mark. 

You took someone with a bad cold, who shouldn't have even been cleared to fly, to Alaska. 

It's different. 

Boy, is it ever, I laugh in spite of myself.

So let me fix this. 

Lochlan isn't going to be receptive to another trip. 

So we take him with us. 

I really need to stay home. 

So we have a mini-vacation at home. With lots of pie. Damn this is good. 

I'll talk to him. 

I will. It'll make more sense. I have some ideas. 

I sip my whiskey again. It's making my gin hangover lose a grip on my brain. Like what?

Better surprises. And he kisses my cheek with his crumby lips. You'll see.

Thank God I'm still drunk or I'd really feel this.

I am home from the war. Home from trying to keep the peace because today is his fifty-sixth birthday and he wanted to spend it in the past. Home from trying to wage a battle as a worthy adversary when I am nothing of the kind. Home to Lochlan's arms which tremble with regret and home to stay, because I shouldn't have left in the first place. Home to sleep off what is going to be a two-day gin hangover.

Home with my monster. Who ages but never changes, who likes a different vantage point from which to conduct his same-old same old, who doesn't ever seem to understand that his charm (and his threats) have changed me, permanently, and not for the better.

Though I tried to keep things smooth, to make sure he enjoyed his trip with little pushback I failed to impress him with my lack of enthusiasm or maybe he just keeps forgetting who I am, that I'm not going to magically become a yes-girl when he flashes his infinite credit cards and his cufflinks. That he can call a plane on demand no longer makes me wish for a sugar daddy to cover my bills and fix my life. The only time I truly liked him over our blink-and-you'll-miss-it getaway was when he sat back by the campfire, looked up into a cloud-filled, aurora-free night and said Maybe they didn't get my memo and then laughed disparagingly  as we failed to catch the whole point of the trip, which were the Northern Lights.

The only Northern Lights to be had the whole trip were my labradorite earrings, often called as such due to their quiet flash.

It was then that I looked at him in the firelight, at his unshaven, relaxed face, at his capable hands holding a mug full of hot whiskey and cream and I thought to myself,

God, I wish I was home.

And then he asked What are you thinking, Neamhchiontach? and I told him because I have a really hard time lying. It didn't go very well. Not very well at all and he certainly made no effort to extend the trip, to stretch it out through today or to segue into another trip or anything at all.

The five years of good birthdays was nice but I guess that's over now. And it's my fault because I told the truth, because no one asked if I wanted to take a trip. No one asked if now was a good time or even if I ever had Alaska on my bucket list (I do not). It's my fault because I am ungrateful for all that he has done for (to) me and because I don't listen (I did) and it's my fault his birthday is ruined because I can't let the past go, even as he's the one trying to remake it, trying to reorder history, trying to soften the blows of the bad guy so I forget everything he did. The past is an albatross, it's a carving in stone. It can't be outrun because it knows where we're going.

It followed me here. It follows me everywhere. How is this my fault?

He comes to find me not that long after we get home.

Neamhchiontach. We really need to talk. 

We do, just not right now. 

ALASKA.

In March.

No more bad birthdays (a promise we've kept for five years now).

Tiny (and so beautiful) labradorite earrings in a beautiful little box that he holds patiently for me. Caleb has the patience Cole never could grasp but they share a temper and I'm always loathe to wake it up this early in the morning.

Instead I say nothing and wait for him.

These are for you. 

I nod.

What's wrong?

On birthday weekends you get presents, you don't give them. 

I'm not most people. 

I nod again.

It's actually going to be a very long weekend if I have to force your words out of you. 

Sorry. Just trying to read the moment. 

And?

They say it's a bestseller but I'm still on the fence. 

And he laughs a great big laugh out loud. It's easy to love you, he says.

And I nod again. Of course. Very easy. Too easy, and that's what makes this next part so hard.

I was thinking that I need a little getaway. 

Is that right?

With you. 

I need to be here, Caleb. 

Two nights only, for my birthday. It's already cleared with Lochlan and everyone else who matters, and we leave at two sharp so please pack early so we're not behind. I sent the itinerary to your email. 

Where? 

It's a surprise, and you're going to love it.

New life who dis?

Well maybe I’m a part of something that’s bigger than me
Like I’m a page in a book in a library
And inside my heart there’s a dying part that’s always searching
‘Cause I know that there’s a place where I belong

All that I know
All that I see
All that I feel
Inside of me
All that I’ve done
All that I’ve tried
There must be more
To this wonderful
Terrible
Beautiful life

If I sing off-key with a magnificent sore throat and deaf ears besides, they can't possibly remain mad at me.

They're not. I charmed them back to life and with each new cleansing breath they watched me smile just for them and forget every dark and terrible thing that I do.

Who is this?

Colony House.

Seems vintage. But rest your throat, baby. 

I'm good. A little better every day. 

Not if you don't stay quiet. You'll rebound and you'll be flat on the floor by supper. 

Make me some tea and I won't. 

Done. He goes off to the kitchen to put the kettle on the woodstove and find some acceptable tea bags (people from the UK are HELLA picky on their tea, let me tell you)

Wait. He called me Baby. That's not a Lochlan thing. He's got a hundred thousand nicknames for me. None of them are Baby.

Neutral (chaotic).

Adapt or die.

(I'm trying! I'm doing my best. That's the biggest copout line in the known universe. Doing your best means almost-failing. It means forgive me, I can't keep up.)

Adaptation isn't one of my strong suits. Charm is. Helplessness is. Quietude. It is. It is what it is and I take the blame and light it on fire because it already burns, so why not?

Who is he. It was a statement from Lochlan, of all people. Who is this 'Jake' guy you're hanging out with. What does Cole think of him? Who the hell is a minister in this day and age? Why doesn't he already have a life? What is he to you, again? And on and on, sizing him up, feeling me out, waiting to see if Cole would accept him into our incestual fold or cast him out like all of the others before him. If you're not OG you're nobody, their rule used to be and Jacob taught them that that wasn't reasonable.

Because people adapt.

(People except for Bridget. She's still eight years old, tripping down the moonlight path after the boys, hollering at them to wait up.)

And now it's the same argument, different Jake.

We should have left him in Toronto. 

Who let him come back?

I'm not going to try to pin her like that. She's not a prisoner. For fucks sake. Caleb can be the bad guy there. I'm not. 

No one talks directly to New Jake about because I won't let them. He is protected airspace. He is an outlier. He is everything the old Jake used to be except I'm not in love with him the same way. New Jake is handsome and dangerously charming and exceeding good at getting into trouble with me. He gives no fucks but he gives them good.

But I don't want him to eat my soul. I don't want him to never leave. I don't want him to blend in with the group and I don't spend every breath thinking about him.

It isn't the same.

And it's a sad Wednesday when that becomes his only saving grace but here we are. Because I was hungry for something I didn't love and I never ever get this right.

Loch makes the rules and then changes the fine print.

Back inside, Bee. Ben is amused. I insisted, via hand signals and a pipsqueak of a voice that it was fine for me to go outside. That cold fresh air is a panacea of sorts in many countries, that no one gets to tell me what to do, as I am an adult (kind of).

I'm taking some air, I said haughtily and marched outside onto the patio.

Where exactly are you taking it? Ben said, half-amused, half-annoyed.

I'll let you know when I decide, I told him but he ran out of patience within minutes, ordering me back into the house, away from the minus double-digits, the frigid cold wind that hurts everything and makes my eyes water, that reminds me of home so much everything hurts on the inside too, even though none of those parts are cold.

He holds the door and I walk under his arm reluctantly. He shuts the doors behind me, locking them, frowning at my back. I can feel it but I don't turn. It's better to just sense the disapproval rather than to turn around and confirm its' existence solidly. Better to float along in denial than account for my own defiant behavior.

The cold can't exonerate you. 

Not looking for absolution, here, Benny. I am stubborn and refuse to turn around.

Two days, Bee. He was sick over it. 

He was invited. 

Not the same. You don't go to that house.

The rule is hard and fast, but not as much as New Jake. He's harder and faster, and I was intercepted by him on my way to see Batman. I never did find Batman after all, but then again, I stopped looking so damned fast.

God machines.

I woke up with the worst cold, the worst round of bad dreams (I dreamed we went back to the castle in the prairies and all the pipes had burst and the cats were shut in the front porch and so happy to get out (it's unheated) and there were squatters. This stemmed from a memory yesterday that Ruth brought up during dinner about the time someone stole the concrete angel statue from our backyard there. It was a memory relating to talking about strollers being left places and being stolen, and I mentioned how hers was stolen, once and we went down a rabbit-hole discussion about leaving things unsecured and how quickly they can disappear. Like people here in the GVRD leave all of their shoes outside on the front porch and we don't because not only is the front hall large enough but things get stolen, so why bother? Ben and Henry both wear extra-wide, extra-large, extra expensive shoes and they usually have to be special-ordered so I'm not leaving them out, thanks.

I don't have to go to church today but I still have to do taxes. I don't have to walk the dog (it's Henry's turn) but I do have to make lunches. I don't have to stay up late tonight but I probably will as sometimes someone comes to bed way late and I wake up (or am woken up). I should take it easy but there are a bunch of chores. I feel so tired all the time and I can't seem to find any real energy at all. Maybe once the snow is gone. Or the clocks go ahead again. There is always much to look forward to.

Go back to sleep, Neamhchiontach. He says it softly from underneath the quilts. His hand wraps around the back of my head and pulls me in against his chest but I fight to breathe so he lets go again, no longer even half-awake, pulled back into a dream I hope was better than mine.

I think I'm going to go make some coffee, I say to no one in particular and no one answers me.

Gangs of Boundary Bay.

Right now this second in time, Dorothy's White Butterfly is my all-time favorite song forever and ever.

Right now we're trying to figure out how to eat a Toblerone bar in mixed company. I have chocolate on my teeth, the end of my nose and all over my fingers. It's in Lochlan's hair. They're just not easy to eat at all with the big spaces between the triangles and such. They melt easily. Maybe that's just Lochlan's natural heat. I don't know. I just know that August gave me a copy of an album called 28 Days in the Valley and told me I would love it and he was right.

Lochlan got a new logic board for his iMac and it costs almost as much as my jeep. Then most of the boys needed new shoes suddenly so we spent around three thousand dollars (!)(JeSUS) at the sports store and I just want to eat some more chocolate, drink some whiskey and watch a scary movie but I also really need to get going on the taxes that I do for myself, Lochlan and the children, who are learning to do their own taxes. I'll be glad when it's done, honestly but at the same time I'm not worried about it, exactly.

And not because I'm drunk and full of chocolate.

Okay, maybe just a little.

(I don't want to eat any but I love to watch it being made.)

The fever has broken and everyone has fraudulently assured me with much enthusiasm that I am not, in fact, insane.

I looked around to see if they were talking to someone else. Maybe someone's here. Maybe the ghosts are smartly keeping things north when they start sliding south. Maybe pigs do fly. Maybe Bridget knows exactly what she is and how she came to be this way.

I'm not hungry, either, and that always seems to pique more concern than anything else so to appease Lochlan I am picking at a bagel he toasted and covered with cheese for me. I can barely look at it, sadly. The orange juice is good though. It's cold. So good.

Eat, don't play. He snaps.

Yes, Dad. 

A glare ends the tease and he resumes his own breakfast. He's feeling a bit better too though maybe not so much after all. We're tired, oddly. So much time in bed and all of it restless. All of it low quality sleep. No energy to love each other or even fight off ghosts. No room for extras, no time for watching the clock.

Bridgie. Come on. 

He's actively monitoring my progress and I failed to make any. Trying, I say. Then I start coughing, which gives me a headache.

Okay, nevermind. Back to bed. 

Oh my God. I'm so sick of lying there. 

Then we'll snooze in the theatre. Chef's Table started. 

Season six? 

Yeah. 

Let's go. I bring my plate and he smiles, but just a little.