You know when you have a favorite shirt and you see a thread so you pull it and you figure it will come out and the shirt will be perfect again, and then it unravels slightly and you're disappointed?

That's what I feel like only the shirt is my skin and the thread is my nerves.

I told them I felt this way and they said nothing at all.

Arrivals.

We discovered that if you play Bruce Springsteen's The River one of you will sing along. The passenger will invariably start singing The Animals' House of the Rising Sun over the top of that and the girl in the backseat will be belting out Bon jovi's Born to Be My Baby before it's through. That song is a chameleon. It's a sham. It's a classic and yet it sounds just like everything else too.

***

The subject came up abruptly after dinner. I am two glasses of wine in when he changes the subject almost rudely.

I have a position in London. Actually, I have several if you truly want a change of scenery. 

London? 

Yes. Ireland is next door. You could live there and work remotely. 

Remotely.

Via computer. He is impatient. Almost rude again.

How long is this available for.

The offer? Say four or five years. 

Perfect. 

Would you consider? 

Of course. Just not now. Henry is too young. 

Alright. We'll revisit it in a few years. Can you see yourself living overseas? 

Yes. 

Good. It's something to consider. 

***

Still okay with our conversation? I get a text during dinner. He wants to make sure everything is okay. I didn't go home last night, I was with him, and so tempers have flared, singeing the edges of everything in sight. I head over but he's already on my patio steps when I come outside.

Looking at real estate. 

That sounds like you're okay to me.

I found some things. 

For all of us? 

No. I think if we left that would be it for the Collective. 

You said last week you wouldn't break it up for anything. 

Hey, I'll invite them but they have to be willing to come with us. 

You don't think they will be? 

It's a gamble. 

Life is, you mean.

That too. 

He kisses the top of my head. Don't worry about it today. 

Uh-huh. Now it's all I can think about. Congratulations, Batman. You got me to consider the future for the first time since 2007.

Can we not find a way to ban Mondays already?

Everything's fine. I just don't appreciate Mondays enough.

But it's Tuesday now and I have a huge cup of hot coffee and right now I'm listening to Koda sing a better version of Radioactive than Imagine Dragons puts out and I'm absently playing the piano on the desk while I try and reply to a hundred emails and write and get my budget done and read the news on the side, but mostly I don't want to see the news.

I mean, a grandad dropped his grandchild eleven stories off a cruise ship. CHRIST. Who wants to read about THAT? Why did they put that in? Is it a cautionary tale on why we don't balance babies precariously on windowsills?

Just don't tell me. Please. I'll live in the soundless dark with my music piped directly into my mind.

That's my next plan. Become a world-famous brain surgeon that discovers a way to bypass hearing in order to send music directly to my amygdala. Mine is so large. There is room for all of it, trust me.

I just need help passing high school biology first or I can't get into the sciences program at school. Just like last time I tried.

Pause and hold.

Today is a paint-headache, french fry, Fleetwood Mac kind of day, sunny with a chance of rain, boys with a chance of heartache kind of day, a good day to call it a Monday and go to bed at eight o'clock with a big glass of whiskey and Netflix kind of day.

An I'll post tomorrow kind of day.

Fire and rain.

Well, the move is a bust before I even begin to pack, as none of the boys want to leave the point, let alone the country. Sam plants a kiss on my cheek as we get out of his car. He motions for me to wait as he comes around to my side, umbrella held high. The ground isn't shaking today but it is soaked right through with more rain falling all around us. I take his arm and we head into the church. It's early. He needs to turn the heat on and do a quickie clean. He prefers to have Jesus beach in July and August, but just a single service instead of two a day and there will only be one today but it has to be in the church due to this humid wet weather. When we get inside, he shakes out the umbrella, leaving it open on the floor. We go our separate ways, him to the thermostat to crank up the heat, me to the broom closet to fetch the mop and dusters. Between the two of us we get the whole church ready inside of forty minutes and then he asks if I can set out the hymnals while he turns on lights and prepares his notes for service. He disappears down the hall to his office while I got row by row with the cart, three bibles and two hymnals per row. There are never enough so people need to share but no one minds and he's actually not one to dredge up unfamiliar songs, in fact he's the opposite, making one inevitable leap past Jacob and leading the congregation in a rare popular/secular hymn refrain, which is always fun and appreciated as we don't need the hymnals then at all. James Taylor is always a frequent choice. I'm not sure why but I appreciate the lighter fare.

Church turns out to be somewhat quiet and ill-attended anyway. For a rainforest people here seem awfully afraid of rain. None of the boys come later on, and so I stay behind to help Sam wrap things up, collecting forgotten umbrellas and sweaters for the lost and found box, loading bibles and hymnals back onto the rolling library cart and wheeling it back into the storage room. Sometimes the church is used by the community for outreach and for meetings and bibles disappear if left out so Sam put up a sign on the hallway door that says if you need or want a bible please check in at the office and if people do he has wonderful ones that are brand new sealed in beautiful cloth wraps that he inscribes with your name or the name of the recipient.

It's kind of nice to see in a dying industry. Not Christianity, but in people willing to devote their lives to spreading the word.

I wouldn't be able to do it. I have an abundance of questions and a deficit of patience. I'm also a card-carrying heathen so it would be hypocritical for me to ask people to accept the lord and live a Godly existence when I....don't?

Maybe I try to. In some parts of my life. Just not all.

When we get home PJ and Lochlan have been driven by guilt to set out a hot lunch of grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup for us, complete with homemade crackers and chocolate milk.

I'm warm again. I went to change into warmer clothes and Lochlan follows me upstairs.

Did Sam talk you out of the move? 

No? Was he supposed to? 

When you get a bug in your brain, I never know where you're going to go with it. 

Oh, I know we're not moving. 

We can, it would just take a lot of planning. And if some of them don't want to go-

I'd rather we stay here and stay together. 

He visibly relaxes. Me too. 

I'm not going to disband the Collective. Not in a million years.

Looking at real estate now.

Ack.

I was so happy to leave hurricanes, hills and wind in the Maritimes, and then we had to deal with tornadoes, floods and extreme cold in the Prairies and then we come here to the 'Hawaii of Canada' and there are earthquakes. All the time. And did I mention we're surrounded by volcanos? Oh and can't forget every time one or the other makes a peep we get tsunami warnings too.

Usually I pretend none of the threats exist but that's been a little tough the past few days as the earth moves mightily all around us. I remember the only time I truly was concerned about Tornadoes was one evening when the sky turned black. I actually put all of our shoes by the basement door, our bug-out bags beside them. It never materialized and truth be told I was resigned to seeing the house flattened and it didn't scare me all that much. Maybe I haven't seen as many tornado disaster movies. Two. Wizard of Oz and Twister. Maybe they don't bug me because I have a truck now. Because I would just pack us all up and leave. Same with hurricanes. They'll blow the windows out and the roof off and then you just replace all of it.

Floods freaked me out a little more. We had six inches of water in the basement once in the castle but it was a tree root thing and a nice plumber came and drilled the whole thing out. Never had another problem after that but watched the water approach all around our neighbourhood every damn spring. I hated water by the time we left, granted, I hated everything by the time we left.

But earthquakes. I don't know. The movies are so devastating. All of it ends in piles of rubble and &people trapped and things caving in and collapsing and I was all but hyperventilating last night when we went to bed, wondering if the point would collapse and crush us, wondering if the yard and house would just cleave off into the sea. Wondering how many people we can safely get out of here on the various small watercraft down below on the docks (five Sea-doos, 3 kayaks, 7 SUP boards and various oversize ridiculous floaties like golden swans and tropical islands.). Plotting to find a perfect place and buy an emergency, just-in-case yacht. Looking for some sort of out so I don't have to deal with it. We're prepared. We have water, generators, weapons, headlamps, and food and medical supplies, warm clothes, camping gear and a whole fleet of trucks.

But we're still sitting fucking ducks.

Where can we live that has zero threats? No natural disasters, no terrorism, nothing to fear?

Scotland, says Loch. But it's highly boring. 

There are no issues, though? 

Well, we have lake monsters, endless rain and Outlander tourists, but otherwise it's perfectly safe. 

This what happens when you ask France for help.

July 4th turned out to be a fun day. Rain threatened the whole time but never made good. We grilled hotdogs and hamburgers by the pool, washing them down with strawberry shortcake and wine and then when it finally got dark we lit sparklers on the patio and drew designs on the night, hearts and letters and happy faces too, toasting a country that made damn near a quarter of my boys only to spit them right out onto my doorstep where they quickly diluted their blood with maple syrup to fit in (it worked) and left their stars and stripes behind forever.

But we still try to mark Independence Day, though probably a little more quietly than most. Even Caleb joined in, arriving with a few bottles of what he thought would be a nice wine for the occasion. His bottles each cost more than the insurance on my Jeep, which is a lot. And he said he didn't go out yesterday which was extra-neat as I mentally tried to figure out where he keeps his magical millionaire wine cellar, because his suite of rooms doesn't have that feature and he has storage space but I never imagined he'd eschew an actual wardrobe with space for high-end clothes for a few cases of wine but the surprise is all mine, and the wine was very good indeed.

But now every time I go past his door I'm going to wonder if he steps to the shelf, pulls a book out only to have the entire floor open up, a staircase to a whole hidden underground lair, fully stocked with wine, cars and jets.

This would not surprise me in the least, frankly. I tell him this, drunk on his wine, drunk on sparks and contentment and he laughs gently and tells me it could be done.

Not here. 

Anything can be done for the right price. 

Oh fuck. Is this going to be one of those half-threats, half-promises that you'll somehow buy out Lochlan's share and have me all to yourself?

No. He is so amused his whole face flushes as he laughs. I meant we can extend the basement by digging an addition into the foundation. It can be done, and then we would have further rooms for a wine cellar or storage, or what have you. 

So stung it's downright embarrassing. I am rarely embarrassed easily but also far more drunk than I thought. I look away so he can't see my own flush of pink.

Caleb leans against me, pulling me in close. I could buy you if I wanted to, but this is all far more entertaining. He kisses the side of my head before letting go and taking my glass to refill.

Secretly I decide I'm celebrating independence from my former family today, that of Cole, and of Caleb too. Except the battle isn't finished yet, and I don't know who's won.

Agendas and empty stomaches (and earthquakes OH MY).

Who said I don't want you? He bends his head down for a kiss, an amused smile playing across his lips and -just barely- across his eyes. I arch my back to meet him. He has my arms pinned up high above my head, pressed into the pillows that have been tossed to the very top. His weight isn't hard to bear, it's a comfort. It's a prelude. It's an intro I hope never ends.

You did, yesterday when you called me a pain in the a- but his lips are back and he eats the word right out of my mouth and then whatever else I was going to say. I've forgotten by now. It wasn't important.

Dinner was a glass of wine on the balcony. A barometre and an omission. An admission and a plea. A reminder. A moment. My stomach growls and he laughs and says hush, you. We'll deal with you later. I laugh as I'm turned over, briefly weightless and breathing deeply for a moment before it's all taken away again by the return of his body pressed against mine. He pulls my face up and kisses me once more before letting go. Before systematically and sinfully removing everything I had on, even the extras because it was cold when the sun went down.

Finally, he breathes and we're moving together. Everything aches in the best way possible and I give in, arching my chin up to press my head against his chest, fighting his hold on my hands, trying to wrap my hands around the back of his head and pull him back down with me to stay. He pins me more firmly and laughs. Stay put, Peanut. Then before I can protest I am on my back again, his arms around me, in close, breathing the same air, basking in the same heat, keeping time with the same heartbeat until those beats slow down and the sun comes back up, a whole new day in which to fuck everything up.

So do we mark thirteen years old from fragmented, iron rule into total hedonism or what?

We do.

How should we?

First by acknowledging that I want you indeed. 

You sure? I hold my breath.

More than anything. It's us against the world. Same as ever, Bridgie. Lochlan laces his fingers into mine, pulling my hand up to his face, kissing the back of it.

Second?

Second by keeping boundaries. 

I nod. I'm still holding my breath here.

Actual boundaries, Fidget. Not just lip service to them. 

I nod again.

What?

This doesn't sound like total hedonism to me. I laugh and he looks amazed.

Jesus, you're right. 

You guys were always too serious. 

There was so much at stake. 

If it's us against the world and everything is okay then don't worry so much about the rules. Boundaries. Whatever. I sign the word to him as I say it, just for effect and he laughs.

Nice.

I'm telling you what you thought was a harmless catchy tune was someone pouring their damn heart out. Time and time again.

A little voice inside my head said
Don't look back, you can never look back
I thought I knew what love was
What did I know?
Those days are gone forever
I should just let 'em go

When I was young, Don Henley was one of the most sophisticated, perpetually-jilted men in existence. When I was thirteen Boys of Summer appeared on the radio. A nod to fairweather romances, seasonal change and growth, Don sang it like it was.

I loved that song. Still do. Even the covers of it. The Ataris did a great one sixteen years ago, when Henry was in diapers and maybe Ruth was barely out of them. It's a vibe, that song. It's a song that takes on a completely different meaning from a happy go lucky summer song when you're young to a lament for times gone by. For longing. For Don Henley's weathered broken heart and for mine too.

This morning the lines I've copied above serve as a warning to heed the past but focus on the future. Thank you, Don, you always have my back. I'd have yours but honestly I have enough problematic men in my life at present.

Take this one, for example. The one in the dark suit and shirt, with the flashing medium blues, handsomely devastated by my words yesterday (they read. Why do they read?) and suddenly keenly, painfully aware that Cole's anniversary has crept up on us, tapping us on the shoulder only to have us turn around to get punched right in the face by it. By time. By history. By Cole's massive legacy that leaves us all wondering how he went so off the rails.

I listen to them when they say that. I write it down. I absorb it and nod along, agreeing with it even as I knew Cole as something vastly different. He was always cruel and violent. Always difficult. Always setting me up and tearing me down. Always making me wonder which side of him I would see, and then surprising me by changing it up constantly. He was oddly easy to love. Easy-going. Easy on the eyes. And he made it easy to fall in love with anyone, everyone else right in front of him. Worst of all he made it easy to shove Lochlan to the side, as Lochlan has his back, brothers until death.

Then death happened, Lochlan found out that Cole was the same kind of brother Caleb had been to him and the world tilted on one axis, leaving us hanging in outer space. In the dark, cold, silent space. No radios here.

Cole's legacy isn't what he hoped.

It's okay. Is anyone's? I doubt it. The way you think you'll be remembered is never how it actually turns out. It's akin to taking a beautiful picture of the moon. You wind up with a fuzzy, unfocused recollection of such a beautiful sight. You wind up wondering if it was all that or maybe you were just bewitched. Charmed.

And Cole had exactly an eighth of the charm Caleb carries on any given day, doling it out like gifts from a benevolent God. Exactly what we want, perfect fit. Right color and everything. God help my soul, he sniffs around it like a rabid dog.

He did love you, Bridget. Don't let what happened at the end change that for you. 

I haven't. Oh, trust me. I haven't. I need that reminder like I need another hole in my head. Cole was the one who saved my life when Lochlan broke my little heart into tarnished and blackened teenage pieces. Cole painstakingly put it back together again and then broke it for kicks all over again, just to see what would happen, under his brother's guidance. He should have heeded their warnings. He should have seen it coming.

Thirteen years out from under his rule, his intense, private cruelty, his outward insanity and charisma and I am still learning not to let them hurt me so much. Don's helping, for every time I get sucked into Caleb's charm now the radio dial spins like it's possessed until it finds a station playing that song and I am reminded why I went running back to Lochlan for good, whether he wants me or not.

I love you I love you I love you.

Go for a run?

Uh. Wow. Okay. Let me go throw on my gear. 

Hurry, Ben.

It's eight kilometres of oppressive humidity, light rain and silence before I speak. Ben has no problem keeping the slow pace I run, even though I run flat out like my ass is on fire. Eleven days from now-

I know. 

He died THIRTEEN YEARS AGO, Benny. 

I remember the night well, Bridge. We were still reeling from his attack on you. And then he just checked out of life with no explanation as to what made him snap. Well, I mean Jake made him snap-

Cole and Jake were friends! 

DUDE. He spent close to a decade watching you two fall in love. It was Lochlan all over again but on crack. He went mental. I probably would have too, save for I'm super-generous and too busy for a full-time lover. 

Ben-

Only partially serious here. But Bridge, you had to know he was wrecked over you. He would rather kill you than live without you. What does that say about him?

If he hadn't tried that he would still be here. 

And you think having Caleb around is awkward.

THIRTEEN YEARS, Ben. 

I still miss my friend. Sorry. As fucked up as it all was he left a huge hole that doesn't get filled. Sam and August don't fill it. Nothing does.

I know they don't. 

So why are you marking it now?

This is the first year I can think about it objectively, without losing my shit. 

Eleven days is a long time, Bee. It could still happen. 

Oh, I have no doubts. 

Should we gather the troops? He cocks an eyebrow at me as I look up at him.

I didn't know they were scrambled this time of year. They probably shouldn't be. 

You're right. You're weirdly objective right now.

Just in case. Don't tell Lochlan I'm losing it.

 Lucky for you he's had me shadowing you since last week already. He's a boy scout when it comes to your grief. Always prepared. The troops aren't as scrambled as you think. Ever.

But he's avoiding me. 

He's giving you space to mourn. Whatever it takes. But he's there if you need him. Cole was his best friend, Bridget. This is hard for him.

Thirteen years, Ben. That's a lifetime. 

Not quite.

I stop, hands on my knees. Gasping for air. I don't think I can run back.

I know. Duncan's just up ahead there. See the truck? Lochlan sent him out shortly after we left. I can see the texts on my watch.