Amnesiac.

PJ and I are having our existential crises in tandem. In June his job description ends, as Henry won't need to be organized and packed off to school and honestly we have a chore list that is rotational and well-entrenched at this point.

What does a nanny do exactly once the kids have graduated from high school? Ruth was phased out of his care ages ago. He's the anchor for the entire Collective though and forever will be, a natural homebody, a constant, an oddly efficient nurturer and the most organized person I've ever met who manages to do it all in a laid-back, big picture way.

Case in point. Once everyone was off and having their quiet Friday evenings, the plants were watered and all the vehicles checked to make sure they were locked, empty, dome lights are off and gates are closed he put the dog out for a moment, baked a pizza and took both to bed with him to watch Rammstein videos. I opted to join him once I finished my own chores. Besides, it was the best Friday night plans I've heard suggested in recent weeks and I figured I'd stay for an hour or two.

Besides, second dinner. I only eat the crust with PJ. He only likes the pointy part up until the final third and crust. We make a good team.

I am soon stuffed and since I stopped moving I get sleepy. The last thing I remember is the woman in the newest video picking up her radio-baby to breastfeed it and I laughed and then I woke up and it was morning. The light was coming through filtered curtains and I could hear the birds.

PJ is awake but sleepy.

Noisy little sleeper. I keep forgetting. Also you take up so much space. I forgot how much. 

You did. 

He pulls me in close. Morning breath-beard kiss. I don't mind it. Then he turns me over and puts his hand over my face, pulling my shirt up. I put my hands up to pry his hand away but he's stronger and I can't get him to budge. His face is against my head. I push against him and he responds in kind and soon I am fighting to be more quiet and fighting to not die from overstimulation as he rocks against me. He turns me back over so I can breathe and cuddles me into his arms as he resumes his efforts, letting go, forgetting his weight on me, forgetting his gentleness with me. PJ isn't a fast-food kind of guy, he's an eight-course meal kind of guy in bed. He reaches down and cups me against him hard until I cry out.

There she goes, he tells himself, a badge of honour and then he's finishing too, the most beautiful sound coming from him as he clenches my limbs hard in his hands.

I bet that's a perk most nannies don't get. 

I bet you'd be surprised at how many get that perk. 

He laughs. You know, I can make breakfast too if you want to stay for a bit. Lunch. Snacks. Tea. Dinner again. Keeps you from getting in shit with Gage. 

Oh, is that what this was? You're a decoy now to distract me from the real threat? He isn't like that. 

Neither am I, Bridge, but that's not for lack of trying. He plants a hard kiss on my lower lip and then disappears to take a shower.

I lie there thinking about this and then I fall asleep again.

Mood.

A year ago today I got my job. A shitty little barely-over minimum wage position with nasty (and a few kind) customers, a chef who yells all day long and very sore arms and legs. I have people constantly reaching out to try and touch my tattoos and I want to scream at them when they do that.

I managed to save $10667.06, all told. I have spent nothing. I don't know why that's important but it is to me. It's sitting in a low-yield account gathering a light coating of dust and I think about it when I'm ready to quit.

That's the irony. I went out into the world without the boys (who meddled furiously nonetheless) and thought I would show them. I took the humblest of jobs pouring coffee, serving pie slices, ringing up tickets and washing windows (when it's not busy), and every time I wanted to quit, they all said,

Give it a year. 

Every time they wanted me to quit I said,

I'll quit when I'm ready. 

And honestly?

I'm thinking about it.

Hangfire.

Lochlan. In my face. Holding my face. In the dark. In the night. Alone.

I taught you to be a thief and a liar and if I do say so myself, I'm rather proud of how you turned out. And it's not cheating, it's just unconventional by normie standards, like everything we do. You are an incredible wife and definitely not a hopeless case. Possible the most hopeful one, as it were, because you've been through unimaginable horror and yet you wake up every day smiling and you demand that everyone puts love and music above anyone else and I couldn't imagine my life without you. 

Never has the darkness been so light. And warm. I burst into flames. My brain burns quickly, a fuse that leads to my heart, exploding into colors and lights. A one-off. A spectacle.

*Boom*

I would be a liar if I said it didn't bother me, though. There's always the tiny seed of doubt in my mind that another Jacob will come along and you'll forget we exist.

I never did.

He swept you away on a cloud and when it rained and you came back down to the ground there wasn't much left of you, Bridget. I was so scared.

You were off having your own drama.

I tried. I was miserable. I came back. We all came back for you.

Even the devil.

Yes. How did he respond to Gage's overtures?

He walked into the kitchen, looked at me with the worst expression ever, opened his mouth to say something, changed his mind and left. 

Lochlan laughs. Jesus Christ. Let's hope this is his final form. The one with self control. 

My final form, you mean. With the same. 

His eyes flooded when I said that and I wanted to take back my entire life.

Breakfast of shame.

Snack of shame.

Beach walk of shame.

Errand-running of shame.

Early pre-gardening of shame.

Shame shame shame.

And I didn't even follow through.

Imagine if I had.

(No, don't. Please.)

(It's a part two!)This little light of mine.

I took Gage's perfection and rubbed it until it glowed, shining in the moonlight like a new coppery penny.

The candlelight makes him look gorgeous. I never noticed before. If someone keeps their cards close then you can't read them, obviously, and he's got the best poker face of all, it seems.

He takes a sip of whiskey and then holds it out. For courage. 

Why do we need courage?

Because I went from feeling like the big man to being afraid of you. 

Why would you be afraid of me? 

If I screw this up my landlady will kick me out. He laughs.

No she won't. She's kind and she understands this is hard. She's probably wondering if her tenant will still want to stay when he finds out what kind of person she is. 

I doubt it. What do you see in the mirror, Bridget?

A thief, a liar and a cheat. A hopeless case. A horrible wife. 

Your mirror must be aimed at someone else. That's not what I see. 

I take the whiskey and drink the rest. Go ahead, I know you're going to start piling on the compliments now. 

Naw. I told you this night is of no consequence. If you allow it, I hope it's wonderful and memorable. If you don't, I hope I didn't fuck up a friendship I treasure above everything. 

It's not too late, Gage.

Having second thoughts?

Second? Hell, I'm up to ninth or tenth, here. 

But you're still...here.

You're better looking than Schuyler. 

He throws his head back and roars with laughter. If nothing else comes of this night then that is enough for me. 

Is it?

Is this where I make my gentlemenly exit?

It is, I'm afraid. 

He leans down and kisses my cheek. Another time. 

Maybe. 

This feels better than being the subject of your regret. 

Don't think you aren't exactly that. 

Love you, Bridget. 

Love you too, Gage. 

Nothing ventured, nothing gained, right? 

Let's be normal and not weird, though. 

Coming from you that's a horrible suggestion. 

It seemed like such a regular Monday at first.

And just like that, I snapped my fingers in the rain and he followed me home. Up the porch steps with our shopping bags and into the front hall, up the stairs where we dumped half the bags on my bed and then went down the hall and around the corner and down another hall to deposit his bags in his room.

And then Gage shut the door and told me he'd been thinking. 

About what? I ask, thinking it's just a regular, everyday conversation. 

About you. 

What about me?

There's a club...and I might want to be a part of it. 

What club? I ask as he pulls me in close, leaning back against his desk, bringing me with him. Never been this close. Never noticed how good he smells. Kind of like Schuyler but less disapproving, less perfect. Maybe less gay. Though I don't know. I don't get into his business. He comes and goes on the wind. He hasn't gone anywhere in a quite a while now. 

The one where I get to show my appreciation for what you've done for me over the years. 

Oh. That club sends me flowers. Sometimes helps out with extra chores. You know. I reach up and smooth his hair from his forehead. Up close he has fine laugh lines around his eyes and perfect teeth framed with a perfect smile. I think you mean the other club. 

What club is that? 

The one where you say you want me and maybe it all works out. I hold my breath. 

Give me some reasons why it wouldn't work out? But he's pulled me all the way in now and is whispering this against my ear while he unbuttons my shirt. While he plays with my earrings. While he smiles that stupid Schuyler/Gage smile that has devastated several of us already in ways we didn't think were possible. I've never seen this smile from him before. 

I get attached very easily. 

That's a bad thing? Oh my God. I can't concentrate with his warm hands on me. 

Always. You become something special and then I get upset if you leave again. 

Don't get attached, Bridget. He bends his head down and kisses my bottom lip. His lips are burning hot. Kind of like my cheeks right now. 

I take a step back and meet his eyes. That's what I do. I don't think I'd go down this road if I were you. You can't just do this and bail again. You know what I'm like. You know it hurts when they leave. If it hurts when you leave then I can't do this. 

There's nothing here to commit to, Bridget. There's no room for me in your nights. No strings, no expectation. Just a one-time thing. 

I don't work that way. 

Sure you do. 

With who? 

He thinks for a minute and suggests names. I shake my head. There are always strings. Always. There's always the iceberg that is my heart. The one you think you see all of. The one you think you can hold until you go to tuck your hands underneath it to lift it up and realize it's bigger than anything you've ever seen and you can't lift it. You can't even see all of it. If I let it see you and it gets a good enough look you're doomed, pinned to me forever. There is no one-time. There is no casual. There is you, and there is me and your life is effectively ruined. There is an army now and they are stuck with me.

You need to think about this. 

I thought I already had, Bridge. 

Not hard enough. 

No one ever said that about me. We've been under the same roof for a decade now. It's not too late to explore each other. 

And you're one of the few who isn't wrecked. I can't take that perfection from you. 

Maybe you won't. I'm a grown man, Bridget. 

I didn't think you were a gambler. 

Well then maybe you should get to know me better.

Tradition.

The bunny came around this morning, in a tux and rollerskates.

Down the driveway, through the kitchen and out the patio, a funny dance-hop-roll across the grass and away only to return a little while later with the big basket of chocolate eggs he forgot the first time around, I guess. He took his sweet time handing them out and since we were soon going to be late for church. We finally shooed him out the front door and he tried to slide down the railing sidesaddle only to loose his balance and go ass over teakettle into the grass. Chocolate eggs flew for yards all over the place and the giant fuzzy bunny head came off.

Dalton, today. 

We all had a good laugh and finished getting ready. He remained in the tux, and when questioned by Sam at the church steps he just said he thought it was important to dress up for this day, that it's the holiest. 

Sam appreciated that, and I pressed an egg into his hands. He looked at me with wide eyes and said oh, no, not that again (as last year we had hatching eggs that begat beautiful baby chicks and it was warmmmmmmm in the church for the first and last time ever) and I kissed him on the cheek and told him it was chocolate and he actually said, and I quote, 

Hallelujah!

A world lit only by fire.

Got the new PSTHMN EP (the remixed Posthuman album by Justin Broaderick and friends, making up Harm's Way.) It's delicious. Very Godflesh without too many surprises so I love it. 

It's a beautiful day for crushing, industrial noise with a chugging undercurrent that makes you feel sick to your stomach. The sun is out, PJ is headbanging and we're almost caught up on laundry. 

It's Saturday so once that is done I am free to paint. 

Paiiiiiint. 

Lochlan is working. Ben? Working. Sam is definitely working. PJ works his ass off all the time except when he's not and everyone else seems to be sleeping in. Missing the sun. Missing this noise. Missing me being perfectly regular (we don't say 'normal' in this house; that's a dirty word). Missing coming to pick up their laundry piles before PJ wraps the clean clothes around various blunt objects and throws them overhand into their rooms at sleeping forms. It usually goes over well and is one of my favorite parts of the week, frankly, especially when the objects of choice are big heavy things like downhill ski boots and table lamps. 

My birthday is only two weeks away and I'm sure the boys will soon shrug off their laundry injuries and ask me what I want for it. 

I'm going to say more days like this. 

Schweet.

We WON!!!! Now on to Sunday's nailbiter of a game 6. If we win that? On to round two.

Now go read about Notre Dame's bees. So happy they survived by gorging on honey. Now I know why I don't burn.

The measurement of my worth, in pop music knowledge.

Because as long as I don't know, I feel as if I'm still me.

Caleb once again did that thing, though much less malevolently, these days. I think he is mellowing, albeit in that way a cup of coffee cools on the counter into a softer version of itself with no kick to finish off the taste.

It's not too late to go to Indio for the weekend. (I swear he is the biggest hipster wannabe, for a mid-fifties lawyer kind of guy. What is it about lawyers and Coachella?) Why don't you look at the lineup and let me know? We'd be there by early afternoon.

So I look. You know, for 'fun'.

He comes back around twenty minutes later. My coffee is almost cold, my mood has set me back a hundred years. Who are these people? It's as if music comes in colors, and this is definitely all milky, chipped pastels.

See anyone you'd like to hear?

I don't recognize any of it, I frown. Is this a test? Like every couple of years we confirm that 'no, Bridget still doesn't know a band. As you were, everyone. Peace reigns in the kingdom', that kind of thing?

He laughs. No. I just offered a break. A little getaway. People do that sort of thing, Bridget. 

Rich people do that sort of thing. Instagram people. 

What's the matter? 

I'm not an instagram people. 

No, you definitely are not. 

I tried to be but it isn't me. 

And you are you. 

That's right. Sorry about that. 

Wouldn't have it any other way. 

Then go get your game face on. Hockey's at four. 

Oh, that's early. 

It's the playoffs, Diabhal! 

This is why I love you, Bridget. Your passions are few but a little unique. 

A lot. 

That's what I said.

Bring chips. But not ketchup ones. Oh, and can you get the Amon Amarth tickets when they go on sale? There's a band I know.

Exactly.