Glitter in a rain puddle (acting normal when she's nervous).

And in between the moon and you
The angels get a better view
Of the crumbling difference between wrong and right.
I walk in the air, between the rain,
Through myself and back again

He pushes his thumb against the cross in the hollow of my throat, whispering a prayer followed by an oath. Darkness in the darkness. Save our souls, indeed. My soul is contagious, poisonous, and his is too naive to notice.

Bridget-

Don't talk. I slide his jacket off his shoulders, fighting with his tie next. He takes over, pulling it off easily, unbuttoning his shirt before beginning to work on sliding my sweater from my shoulders, followed by my dress. I'm down to my slip and it's cold. It's so cold and yet my skin is flushed warm, pink and electric, static when he touches it directly.

He bends his head down for a brief kiss and halfway into it, I check out. It's so sudden, I catch my breath and he does too.

I shake my head, just enough and he lets out a deep breath that he's been holding. Instead he turns, picks up his shirt and wraps me in it. Maybe we should talk.

The tears drown me so fast I never even see it coming and I can't get the words to float.

Did something happen you haven't told me?

I shake my head, fighting for air. It was a sudden crushing fear and I hate this. I hate this feeling. I hate myself. I can't even breathe and he wants to minister me, naked and raw. God bless Sam, he's so goddamned adaptable it hurts. He never stops working, even when he should be doing everything BUT working. If only Jake had-

(No.)

(Don't.)

This is it, isn't it?

What is? I'm not going anywhere. I'm here anytime you need-

No, I mean my life. This is it. Trying to find what's going to make it hurt the least, trying to figure it out.

Yes.

What? I look up at him with my tear-stained red face, quivering lip, runny nose, wild bedhead. So beautiful indeed. Wanted. Why on earth is it me?

This is it. This is your life. You're one of God's children and we get one chance to live a life, one time around to figure it out and make it hurt as little as possible so that we can thrive.

This isn't what I wanted, Sam. This isn't the way it was supposed to be.

I know, honey. But this is the way it is and we're going to help bring you through it.

Like this?

Whatever way it works. And what will work right now is for you to go home. 

I am home, Sam-

Lochlan is home now, Bridget. You tell me this all the time and then you run from him like you're on fire. 

I choke on a laugh. I usually am-

Go to him, Bridget. I'll find you in the morning and we can talk. It's a better plan than this one, for both of us.

I know. 

Goodnight, beautiful. 

Don't say that. It's a lie. 

Monsters (Bridget) and men.

This day is punctured full of holes, letting the rain and humidity pour in, wilting PJ's attempts at jokes about how I not once but twice in a single week failed to time my visit to New York with the opening of the whole park, jokes meant to mask his fear, the fear I see in all of their eyes as they wonder if I'm seriously considering Caleb's offer.

As if I ever do (looks around).

I mean, I did and look where we are now? What's to say I can't further extend him right up until the day he dies?

What if Lochlan dies first?

What if I do?

I don't have a crystal ball and I didn't like the readings I got from the fortune teller. She scared me worse than Caleb ever could and still I play games (she said I would) with the devil because that's what passes the time for us. I throw him a bone because he's a dog with a singular master. I entertain his offers because maybe one of them will sound good enough to get the wheels rolling again and just maybe someday Lochlan and Caleb will be best friends again, like they should have been, were meant to be, all along.

I ask Lochlan if it's a possibility while we sit wrapped in a blanket together on the porch, sharing a cup of tea. I've decided I think I already hate tea and crave a cup of coffee like nobody's business. I have no willpower at all.

It isn't, he replies. He doesn't even hesitate. Our moral paths differ wildly. I have them, he doesn't. 

People don't change? 

Monsters aren't people. I can get along with him for your sake, for everyone's sakes but no. It's not going to be the three musketeers living out our days-

Like we are right now. He lives one room over. 

Jesus Christ. You're right? 

So does that mean you might consider this? 

No, I think we have to find a way to move him out. 

Lochlan! 

Well, Batman has a big empty house. He can live there. Away from me. 

It's never going to get better than this, is it? 

I think this is pretty damned good, Bridget. I no longer want to murder him at every waking moment but I'm not going to fight him for you into my old age. You're mine. He won't be a part of our future so stop trying to talk me into it. 

Red eyes, best sides.

Home again, still in the air, trying to come down from this but my sweater is hooked on a star and I'm swinging through the night like the best damn trapeze artist you ever saw (if you saw me, and I wasn't that good, truth be told, but then again, Lochlan couldn't tell the truth so he always settled for telling me what was obvious, that maybe I wasn't the best, but I was something, and people noticed that something).

Caleb tried to rescue me from the night (boy did he) and had no luck. Ben reached up and unhooked my sweater at last and I fell down through the clouds, down through the dark, back into the light. Lochlan slept like a stone.

But we are back.

Back to reality where I never like to spend all that much time in case it sticks. You know, like dirt. Or fly paper. Or the awful feeling you have all morning after a bad nightmare.

I accepted Caleb's invitation for a swim this morning, to (symbolically, yes I had a shower) wash off the night, wash off the big city, the sand, the inevitable grit and glamour of the midway, thinking it was harmless, kind, even.

Once in the deep end he swam over and put his arms around me, holding me close. I missed you. 

I put my arms around his shoulders. My eyes burn from the reintroduction to chlorine after being dry from the flight. I close them and put my head down against his shoulder. He locks his arms and leans back, floating semi-vertically. I could fall asleep like this but then I would drown and I wouldn't get to finish my story and I need to see how it ends.

No you won't. He reads my mind, as he is wont to do. I won't let you. 

You should. 

I am also curious.

Give me your theories. 

This is like giving your hand away in poker. Absolutely not, Bridget. 

Why not? Embarrassed? 

No. You can go first if it's such a normal, everyday conversation to have. 

Fine. 

Fine. 

Fine. 

I'm waiting. 

You all eventually drift away and Lochlan and I remain. We live in a drafty cottage by the sea and pick wildflowers and go for long walks on the beach for the remainder of our days. Oh, and we eat pizza like three times a week when we walk into the village for a slice. But it's far better pizza than the kind we get now. Okay, your turn.

What if it isn't like that at all? 

What do you mean? 

What if it isn't Lochlan? 

I can't picture anyone else.

The look on his face said he wanted to drown me but he faked a swift recovery. Maybe it will be me. Only the cottage won't be drafty, it will be custom-built for us and we can still go for long walks and eat pizza. You don't ask for much but I will give you whatever you do ask for when the time comes, or before it. 

I resume resting my cheek against his wet shoulder as we drift aimlessly in the deep end.

I promise you that, Bridget. Cross my heart. 

The three of us? 

If that's what you want, yes. 

Not dead.

Just back in New York. Because some of (okay, precious little) the park is open now, so why the heck not? I almost cried at the thought of a second cross-country return flight inside of a single week but Lochlan said we have a couple of free days so let's go get that ride on a wheel.

And on a precious few other attractions too.

Sometimes I forget I'm not twelve anymore. But I sure feel like it in certain instances. Up in the air fighting gravity is one of those most hallowed places. Lochlan beside me is another. I am topped up on sugar and sun with clouds, mercifully and we're heading home tonight on a red-eyed flight. I hope I can sleep through the whole thing due to mad exhaustion here but at the same time I'm incredibly glad we came back on the right side of the holiday.

New(f).

I fell asleep with the Devil and woke up needing angels this morning, but instead I put on my thick dress and sturdy shoes and went and made time-and-a-half for seven hours at work, where it was raining steadily and everyone was in a mood, including me. 

I came home this afternoon, parked the car and went straight up the steps at the side of the garage and knocked on the door. An old familiar voice said to come in and so I did, and yet only part way, hanging back by the second french door that separates the hall from the kitchen. I press the side of my face against the cool door and wait for him to say something nice. Or anything, frankly. I haven't seen him in days. 

Still in your work clothes? What's up? 

I just want to say...hi. 

Hi. 

Hi. 

He stares at me for a while. 

We talked about this. I let out a breath in a huge rush and he laughs again. You're terrible. 

I'm not the only one. 

I'm attempting to salvage a good friendship instead of taking advantage. 

That isn't what you're doing here. 

Oh? What am I doing, then? 

Trying to not feel used. 

Who's using me? 

Me, probably. But I love you. 

Come here. I throw myself into his lap, shoes and all. I smell like coffee and strawberries. This is horrible. I love you too. And I don't feel used. I just want us to be healthy and we aren't. 

Who cares? 

Lochlan, for one. Any sane person, for two. Jake, for three. 

He doesn't get a vote. 

By proxy, he does. That's why you're here. 

Is it?

He tucks my head down against his chest, stroking my hair, humming softly. I fall asleep and when I wake up it's dark out and he isn't there but I'm still in the chair, a blanket wrapped around me. I slide off the chair and crash in the bed and cry myself to sleep because I hate myself and then I wake up because who can sleep through that bullshit. I leave the blanket and walk home. I don't know where he went but then I see his hair through the half-cracked door of the library and I don't even check and see who he's talking to since I know it's Lochlan and I walk upstairs and crash into my own bed. Someone changed the sheets. It feels like bliss.

Proof.

And when the surface of the water closes over your head God is there to lift you up-

Eyes closed, head down in the first bench I vehemently shake my head.

He's there. I promise you. 

I shake it again.

The proof is sitting in front of me. Sam's voice gets louder and I sneak a look and sure enough, yes, he's standing right in front of us.

Your doubt is obvious and yet he remains. Proof of his love for you, that you won't be abandoned. 

It was part of a series I have heard a few times before, Sam's recycled Two at the table, Two on the walk sermons, that he adapted from an earlier sermon by Jake that he wrote years and years ago.

It was bullshit then, it's bullshit now.

And they both know it. But I don't make any further outward attempts to debate with Sam. I can yell at Jake but it just goes into the wind now and I just want to get home, maybe make a cup of tea and avoid the internet where no one will shut the fuck up about Game of Thrones and I have fatigue from that already.

I do. Sorry. It's just a television show. I'm all caught up and I had to laugh at the worst, most pivotal and destructive scene in the previous episode because it was something I would do. Seriously. Burn it all down to punish one person because sometimes you're driven that way. Sometimes your emotions make the decisions and you're just along for the ride. My life is a scorched earth campaign and yet even in a fire-ravaged, blackened existence, eventually life grows back, beginning with a few bits of green poking through the ruin and before you know it everything looks the same as before.

Sam pulls me in close. Why you gotta ride my ass in public? He laughs softly, putting on a hard New York accent. It's an inside joke and I return the next line as always to make him feel better and show him I'm not angry with him, nor he with me.

Someone has to, cause clearly you ain't gettin' any. 

He laughs and kisses my cheek and lets me go to shake Lochlan's hand. Lochlan who is dishevelled and tired and doesn't want to be here but brought me because I did.

And we are home now. Sam will be home soon and then I will reheat some pancakes for him too. And bacon if Ben left any. Then I'm going to sit outside and draw by the pool maybe, or just sleep in the shade. I'm not feeling well again suddenly. I don't know why. I think anxiety manifests itself inside me as a low-grade endless flu and I hate it.

I get a text.

Okay, new plan is to head upstairs at one and crawl in with Caleb, who didn't go to church but has offered nap space (He's there. I promise you.). I love it when he smells like sleep and clean sheets and soap. See you tomorrow.

Try.

It's morning. I already had a slow dance by the fireplace in our room, barefoot and in my nightgown, Lochlan in pajama pants and nothing else. It's warm enough that the windows were open and Blue Rodeo blares from his phone, propped on the mantle as we make a slow circle in each others' arms.

He absolutely hates it when I travel without him now. Won't have it any longer, refuses to consider such a plain and vivid logic in that sometimes it will happen, will no longer let go, as it were and I couldn't be happier. This is my place. He is my person, and as hard as they try to blur history, to sand it down and hope it blows away on the wind, I figure it's what led me back around to him.

I took the long way home.

He smiles, but says nothing, holding me tighter.  I don't think he understands that I mean from life, and not from New York but that's alright. We venture dangerously close to my open suitcase on the floor. I haven't unpacked yet. I didn't want to miss a moment.

I'll do it later. Maybe. Or tomorrow. Right now I need this.

The best part is Ben, sleeping soundly in bed, covers pushed down around his waist, expression so peaceful. He is out cold, relieved to be free of some entanglements that shouldn't have been this hard to end, but that's what life is, as he pointed out in the offices as we left. It's messy and it's fucked up and we should all be working harder to make each others' lives easier.

In my birthday wishes this year that seemed to be the theme. That instead of debilitating me with their motions, their moods, their words, they're going to try to work harder to help me through. Lift me up, keep me safe from their own destructive thoughts and deeds, the ones that keep us mired in present-day quicksand, on the whim of the wind.

Don't you dare, I warned with a smile. Progress is good but we're creatures of habit. I love them for trying but I also don't expect sweeping changes overnight. We are the people we are because we've been formed this way and change is a freeclimb, a drive up pikes peak with an obscured windshield, a battle I've been fighting forever, and I run ahead, looking backward to see how much I've left behind only to turn around and run into it again.

Try morphs into Bruce Springsteen's Thunder Road and Lochlan's done it again. I couldn't make progress if I tried, for he triggers that twelve year old so fucking easily it isn't even surprising any more.

Notes from the hammock, drunk.

Mark Knopfler's True Love Will Never Fade is the year-apart twin of Jon Foreman's Learning How to Die. Tell me I'm wrong.

Also, Halsey's new song Nightmare has the chorus from a Tatu song from the early nineties. Don't believe me? Go listen.

And I still can't understand what the fuck Till is saying but I can sing along with him now too. At least on Rammstein's Radio, Puppe and Halloman.

Getting there. Getting somewhere, anyway. Okay, actually getting nowhere. Scheiss drauf.

Critical darling.

Sorry, Bridge. I didn't realize. 

Ben and Schuyler had me tag along for a (brief) trip to New York. Ben is entangled in a thing he's been trying to get out of for close to a year, Schuyler's his muscle. Brain muscle, if we're being specific because Ben gets mad and flips tables and says things he can't when he gets frustrated and Schuyler understands the law and works around Ben's emotions.

I went because they promised me a couple of hours of rides at Coney if I would be their assistant, and honestly I understand the law and can read the paperwork and am able to keep Ben level with some secret code words we use.

And it's not like we were going to bring Caleb, though he offered. So we took his plane. Thanks, Diabhal.

The whole way back we dissected the new Rammstein album because my German is broken and Ben's is as fresh as the day he learnt it all. Thanks, Wacken.

I wasn't actually necessary at the meetings and apparently they had 'limited space' in their huge expanse of offices (or maybe I was distracting?) so they sent me back to the hotel where I watched strange American television for a few hours and ordered room service.

Then we went to Coney, as promised.

Except that most of it was closed.

Memorial Day weekend. That's right. Schuyler said.

I can't believe I'm standing in one of my favorite places in the world and it's the week before they flip the switch and turn it all on?

I Facetime Lochlan.

Peanut. What's up?

It opens...soon. 

No, offence, but good. It feels stupid that you're there without me. 

I've been here without you before. 

And that's stupid too (damn his revisionist history. Damn them all).

I can't change that. 

Going forward, you bet we can. 

So what do I do in the meantime? 

Fly home. 

Okay? Okay (not okay).

Wednesdays have morphed into incredibly busy days. I didn't get to see my garden, didn't get to enjoy any down time and worked all day, hustled for three hours straight when I got home to finish my chores and get dinner on the table and now I have to drive to the other side of town to pick up Ruth from her job. I could farm some of it out but then I would feel bad.

Talk tomorrow?

Sure, he says, pretending not to be disappointed. Ceart go leor, Neamhchiontach.