Moving to the arctic. BRB.

They took me out for breakfast. Tons of coffee. Broccoli and bacon omelettes and fruit and talk and ridiculous plans made. Futuretalk. Presenttalk. All of it was a bait and switch as the next stop was the lumberyard once again and now the wood is in the back and we have to finish the next part but then hopefully it's done.

Which is great. It's supposed to be forty degrees today.

But no cement at least. This is all edging and rebar and then she's done. I want to talk them out of repairing the gate today and spend the afternoon swimming instead.

I would cry but I feel spoiled for doing that after that massive breakfast. Plus instead of tears I think cheese would come out of my eyes. The omelette was very large and I ate it all.

I fell asleep curled around a glass of OJ that I needed help to pour.

One of the best things about the boys is between them they have enough early tradesmen skills and fools egos to do all of the home projects themselves (anything that doesn't risk voiding our insurance, I mean). So when two huge panels of the fence came down around Easter due to freak winds, they got out there and ratcheted the whole thing back up and then promptly pretended it didn't exist for the next several months. It was kind of straight and out of the way and really who has time for that?

Yesterday when it hit thirty-two on the thermometer they decided it was time to fix it. Because, yes, let's do it on what must be the absolute hottest day of the year!

They proceeded to jack up the old concrete-placed posts and put in new ones, quickly discovering the old ones were completely rotten and that's why the fence came down in the wind at all.

Cue the master plan to replace every post on that side, turning five panels into ten. We didn't have a choice but who wants to find out the work has just doubled when you've already expended all of your energies just trying to get the last build out of your way?

Oh my fucking God.

But I carried bags of concrete down(fifty pounds! Against advice but I always have a need to be one of the boys and help as much as I can.) I mixed it until my eyes burned (forgot the ski goggles and WOW what a mistake that was.), sweat was running down the inside of my clothes, which I wondered if we would have to burn, briefly.

 I measured and nailed trim pieces and I cleaned up with energy in the dark because we ran out of daylight. We ran out of wood. We ran out of patience. We ran out of common sense, as I took a step backward in the wrong place to get myself out of the way of a massive 2x6 coming my way and almost went off the cliff. I met Lochlan's very wide eyes and resolved to never ever do this again.

We'll call someone. Fuck it. That was our last fence.

They'll tell you different but I really don't care. I will be more stubborn than they can be because that's a natural gift for this girl. If I can find the energy to demonstrate it. Maybe not today though.

It looks so nice out there now. And it's safe again. Finally.

Breakfast of axioms.

Rosemary rock salt (HEAVEN) bagels on the patio with fresh french press coffee and a good solid chairback named Dalton and I feel almost human again. Lochlan sits right next to us. I was pulled into Dalton's lap as I reached for a second bagel. He figured I would crawl back out as soon as he let go but instead I remained, getting my bagel crumbs all over him, trying to chew my food while his chin rests on the top of my head, content in the warmth while it's still hardly sixteen degrees. Don't worry, I'm sure Lochlan is watching carefully for any sign that I might want Dalton to come up with us and spend a little time. Lochlan forgets I am very direct about things. If I want to add a friend, I just do.

It's like Build-A-Bear. You walk around picking out an expression, an outfit, a talent. Then they stuff it, somewhat violently, I might add, you pay your hundred and eighty dollars and bring home a weird big bear that talks to you. Or in our case, sings. We once had PJ record all of the sound clips for the kids bears and he did death metal growls. The kids still grab the bears and play the sounds when they have a new friend over who hasn't heard it yet.

Will Dalton be the bear for tonight (oh, hush you. Yes I know what a 'bear' is. He isn't that. Maybe a cub though LOL) or maybe I won't invite anyone at all. I might not even BE home in my own bed as I do have invites on hand. One is from Schuyler who invited me to Thursday Night Bed Movies with he and Daniel and a standing takeout order of ninety dollars worth of Vietnamese food. The other is from Caleb who wants to talk money and plan my investments. Cash turns him on. Riding a stock market rally is hotter to him than riding a princess. Not even sure if I need to be there, as he can just check on his numbers and stroke himself to blissful oblivion at this point.

Gee, am I ever going to pay for the descriptions of him that I have let loose here over the past few days. Or maybe (of course) he will be understanding, because I am immature and impulsive and prone to letting my emotions out on the page instead of verbally and so I can make it up to him by inviting him to my room. He gets a change of scenery, a Bridget AND a Lochlan (because as I've said many times, they're all so in love with Lochlan too) and we get a good handle on his frame of mind, something I am always keenly hyper-aware of.

But right this second I don't care about any of that, because as I said: Rosemary rock salt bagel.

All or nothing, baby.

If everyone's a casualty
Then take your time there ain't no trouble
If the weather's fine and we're feeling crazy
There's always drinks and dancing in the rubble
I'm spinning and you're spinning
The world's spinning and we're laughing
And I'm charming, the devil's charming
And we're ruined but we're still building
And I'm selling and you're counting
The world's stopping but we keep going
And we're ruthless and we're cunning
And I'm heir to it all

Sometime overnight, Jacob took a big step back. Maybe to stay out of the way, as I attempt to juggle Lochlan, Ben, Sam, Caleb and whoever else I am drawn to. You don't want to get clipped by a flaming soul on his way down, do you? Especially if you're a man of God. I bet it hurts.

Before last night and for the past ten years straight without fail when I close my eyes Jacob's face is right there. Every errant lock of heavy blonde. Every wink and each tooth. Every pore. The little scar from where he fell into a crevasse climbing Denali and the part of his temple where his eyebrow refused to fill in. Every hair on his beard. Every breath he took even though he hasn't taken one in forever. I checked. I'm still holding them all. This time he was way back. Almost out of reach.

I keep my eyes closed for a long time in case he steps back in close. I'm not sure if I'll be relieved if he does or saddened.

A hand lands gently on the back of my head. Peanut. What are you doing?

Fighting a headache, I lie. I don't want to tell Lochlan this. Every day of his life is an uphill battle for my heart, swords drawn, shield up, armour weighing down his agile limbs. I feel terrible for what I have caused. I also feel like we're even now. He ruined me as a child, I've ruined him as an adult. Now we're a perfect matched pair.

God, I love him so.

If he were to go, I would go with him. And that's something I can say so easily. I've had a lot of time to think about things, hearts, people and love. I don't think my heart will ever be big enough to contain him, and I certainly will not live without him. Not even for a day.

This would make him sad. Like everything does. But he is sad in a determined way. He'll fix it. We'll get there. He isn't going to ever give up that uphill sword fight. He thinks I'm worth it. I'm not sure I agree with that.

I don't want a normie life, Peanut. He reads my thoughts like the daily paper, absorbing current events, the weather, the classified ads. What is she selling today? What's she advertising?

Need?

Confidence?

Sex appeal?

Vulnerability?

Well, it says here on the front page that she just watched the Devil take a big step backwards, hurling bills by the fistful at anyone who ventured near enough, screaming that he can handle it, that he owns it, that he wants it anyway and can afford to maintain it. Shouting his worth from the rooftop while we cover our ears and duck against the dissonance.

Fascinating story. Glad that kind of stuff doesn't happen here, he says absently, not paying close enough attention. That sort of daydreaming will get you killed, he said to me after I almost walked in front of a turning truck once when I was picking my thoughts off the clouds where they grew, so prolifically he would have to venture in periodically to thin them out, pluck ones that were weaker, trimming back the overgrown ones, encouraging others to bloom. He doesn't care about the money. He never cared if we had any money at all, swinging widely to the other end of the rainbow, the part where it begins. No pot of gold, no treasure on this end, just a girl cranking out colors and pulling down dreams, trying to paint them up pretty to someday please her ghosts and men, failing miserably at just all of it.

Now you can have them professionally painted, the Devil says from right beside my ear and I shriek and wake up.

With sprinkles.

Everything is personal to the devil. Including any personal directive for me to have fun, any generosity extended, or any action Batman takes toward me whatsoever.

Caleb laughs, amused at Batman's ridiculously impulsive suggestion that we buy 50k worth of desserts and ups the ante because he can be a jerk about things like this, taking things to heart that have nothing to do with him at all, not understanding that he doesn't have to say a word. It's not a contest. It's not a competition. I won't 'love' Batman more.

He's being immature.

The Devil calls me this morning, tells me dinner is on him, chuckles again in his low, handsomely devilish way and hangs up on me when I pause, silent in my confusion. Ice cream always follows dinner so I clue in seconds later and call him back.

What are you doing? 

I told you, no one else gets to be the hero of your story. 

But you're the villain, remember?

And for that he hangs up on me again. I log into my bank accounts because curiosity kills the Bridget, always and almost pass out from what I see. I call him back. That's dinner for all of us for the rest-

Of your lives. Yes, I know. You can thank me later by staying away from Batman. 

You think you can buy my affections? Christ, Cale-

But he's hung up again. Great. I put the phone down, log out of the bank so no one else sees those numbers and head upstairs. I try to go into his wing without knocking but it's locked. I knock on the door and wait and after what feels like an eternity he opens the door.

You're being highly belligerent and unappreciative for what I thought was a significant gesture. 

Simple gestures are not supposed to come with contingencies, Diabhal. You're buying people again.

I disagree. Well, maybe not. Not persons, but EVERYONE. Because fuck it. I can throw down as easily as he can.

That's your prerogative.

You think Batman's 'ice cream' comes without strings?

It doesn't matter if it does or doesn't.

That's naive, Neamhchiontach. Every dollar from that man is a tie that binds you to him. 

You would know. Look what you're doing now.

Indeed. I'll be back later to help you decide what to do with your significant windfall. And also let this serve as a reminder. I built a double wall around my finances and you've only seen through one layer. Please don't assume Batman has more money than I do because I can assure you he does not. 

O-Okay. 

You seem surprised. 

I'm not surprised in the least.(I am! I lie! WTF!) I just don't see how his gesture provokes you so much.

Oh, I'm provoked, Neamhchiontach. Now, don't touch it today please. I will help you allocate it tomorrow. It took a lot of hoops to transfer that much so quickly and I don't think I want to be on the phone any more today.

Allocate it to what? 

Whatever investments you choose, of course. As long as they're of a decent yield. 

So it's not my money. 

It is, but I want it to work for you. This is too much to sit on. And no one ever made money by spending it on ice cream, so you know why I have more than he does.

This seems like a weird metaphor for my relationship with Batman and what you think of it. 

Of course it is. As I said, don't be so naive.  
 

That's some serious ice cream.

Here comes Monday morning. It's like staring down a freight train, like standing in a spotlight. It's full of messages that began from across the globe.

Butternauts!

Butternauts. Still marvelling at those things, on such a grand, lifesize scale. I wish all my dreams could come true life-size. I'd still like to own a goat. Apparently the horse I fostered wasn't welcome on the point because of livestock bylaws here and I know damn well the neighbors have their ears wide open and binoculars trained on me at any given moment. I've been known to be gardening and feel the hair on the back of my neck stand up, only to rise and give the middle finger to the sky. Like fuck off already, you don't need to check up on me, I'm just here trying to pull my carrots out of the ground so we can have them for dinner but I must have planted them in concrete because I have to dig all the way down with my fingers to get them out. Holy CRAP this is hard.

But it is Monday and once I harvested everything that was ready (please, someone come and eat all of these tomatoes), I sat down to look at the budget and found a bit of a windfall I didn't expect.

From Batman.

I message him. What is that?

Some spending money.

Some spending money is fifty dollars or so.

Not where I come from.

I can almost see his face right now. He's always amused when I talk money with him. I live in a house with a four-car garage and many wings and I still cringe when I buy my favorite rye bread because it's almost five dollars a loaf. I walk over to his house. It's so nice out this morning. He is happy to see me. I get a warm hug. He smells like goatsmilk soap. I bet he would like a goat as well. Then we could make our own soap.

This is too much. 

What would be acceptable? 

Fifty dollars. 

But there's ten of you in the house at present. 

Right? 

So I multiplied it by a thousand because you deserve it. Because to me, five thousand is acceptable for spending money. And you're all on vacation so I want you to all to enjoy. 

Market doing that well? 

That's part of it. He laughs again. Batman holds his cards so close. I don't get to see a transparent picture of his wealth but I've caught glimpses and he has more money than Caleb and yet he spends little. Just take the money and have some fun. 

After I distribute it I think I will. Ruth will be thrilled.

Does she spend a lot? 

No, she's a mad saver. Like her father. 

Ah. Good to hear. Have some fun, please, Bridget. 

That's the third time you've said that. I don't look like I'm having fun? 

From here, it appears that everyone is having fun with you, I just want to ensure that you are as well. 

I'm fine. 

Promise?

If I need you I'll be the first to let you know. 

I don't believe that for a second. This small gesture ensures that they won't wait to let me know. 

I knew it. It's not a windfall, it's insurance. 

It's ice-cream money. That's all. 

Right.

YOU'RE KIDDING ME.

Remember my favorite pasttime?

Someone went LARGE FORMAT with it.

Life-size butternauts!

A luminous late-July gloom.

Long before sunrise Sam is up and trying to tie his tie neatly before church. He's hosting a sunrise service. Last minute as his backup is ill. Sam was on vacation but he's agreed to help since he isn't away, in hopes that the same kindness would be extended should he need a day off down the road.

Here. I climb out of bed naked and stand in front of him, easily tying the tie backwards and from a disadvantageous angle. He looks in my eyes, bless him. Not like it matters, he's seen everything.

I fell asleep last night, my head against Lochlan's chest, feeling the thud-snap of his heart against my ear, hand on his stomach. Sam wrapped around my back, one hand extended around my ribcage, hand splayed to hold me close. I woke up and we were much the same, still, only Ben was there too on the other side of Sam, his arm reaching across the top of the bed, hand on the top of Lochlan's head. Lochlan is Ben's comfort object I think, and while he didn't mind finding Sam there on my right, he wasn't going to discreetly find a different place to sleep, going to crash in Sam's bed next door or back downstairs to the couch or studio couch, for that matter. Ben will just pile in, bringing a much-needed safety and security to the night that we welcome, no matter how many are in the bed.

You coming?

If I play my cards right. I wink at him and reach up to kiss his cheek.

Sam laughs. Didn't get enough last night? 

Of you, yes. Not of them. He knows I'm only teasing him. Who can get enough of Sam? Sam is a dream when you know you're awake. He knows when to be gentle and knows when to double down without ever having to ask.

Separately or together? He is curious. Openly inquisitive. We don't play games. We'd both like to dissect love proper, rip it apart, see what's inside, put it back together. Hack it for our benefits.

I shrug and whisper. I'll let them decide. Or you can, if you come back tonight.

Another kiss, a now-straight tie and he is ready, joyfully buoyant and fresh. He looks so young sometimes I almost feel bad for him but then I remember what he's like when the sun isn't just on the verge of coming up. They all have a kind of sexual Jekyll and Hyde energy that leaves them polar opposites whether it's night or day. By all I mean everyone save for Lochlan, who holds a quiet intensity with me that never wanes no matter what.

I don't mind. 

What time? 

Bedtime is elevenish, maybe twelve. But we're setting up the movie screen and projector on the side of the camper at the edge of the cliff at nine or so, so you're more than welcome to come watch a movie first. 

I may do that. I hear you serve lemonade. 

And iced tea! 

I'll be there. Now, you sure you don't want to come with me? I have a few minutes before I need to leave if you want to get dressed. 

No, like I said, I have plans. And what's wrong with my outfit? I give a twirl and he laughs.

Absolutely nothing. You're made in God's own image. 

Except the tattoos. 

Those are fine, trust me.

It's where I pick up my yearly supply of cotton candy. Just kidding. It hardly lasts the week.

It's fair day. There's a tiny fair out in the valley that encompasses everything I love. There are vendors, pigs, goats, rides and food. There's music. There's Bridget, dancing in the sun. There's me, sunburned and tired, complaining about having to leave even as they're packing the place up, waiting at the gate for me to leave already so they can all go home. PJ and Ben just have to come back from their meeting and then we can go. Henry and Caleb are spending the day together and don't want to come. Ruth and her boyfriend will be there, though probably not for as long. The others will join us but only for a couple of hours. Poor Lochlan. He fostered this obsession with amusements and so he has to bear the brunt of it. Even though he says he hates it now, that it's triggering and tired, secretly he loves it. I know it. I can see it in his eyes.

It's familiar. It heals.

We're going to rewatch The Twilight saga and eat take out Indian food. Happy Friday.

I will be brave
I will not let anything take away
What's standing in front of me
Every breath
Every hour has come to this

We're awake. It's four in the morning. I woke up like this. With tremors and terrors, I mean.
I was doing so good. And then Jacob flew and it all just went to shit.

I know, Bridge. I know.

I had figured out how to navigate Cole's arrogance, his violence, Caleb's crimes, his predilections and Jacob's crushing shock at all of it. I had put the past to bed. I had learned how to live around it and without it and I thought I had it. Jacob's absence has me leaving the door open to my brain hoping he might hear me and come back and instead all it's done is let everything back out and I'm back at square one.

Looking around, I think I hate it here.

(You new here? Oh, sit down. There's so much to explain.)

Square one, I mean. Don't read so much into it. Joel explained a long time a lot of what happens when Huge Trauma piles on top of Huge Trauma, but in beautiful, poetic and fanciful dreamlike terms so that I could process it properly and understand it. The way you do.

Oh, is it just me?

Claus was far more clinical and the other six or twelve (actually fourteen if we're keeping perfect count) professionals just had sweeping condemnations of letting me exist in the real world at all. According to most of them I should be medicated until I can't feel my skin anymore and just float through my days not even looking forward to lunch, because it would be better for everyone but also most humane for me.

Humane is a word you use to describe treatment of animals and I never forgot that, honestly. Even as they couldn't believe I could hear them. Well, fuck them. Fuck them all.

We'll be okay.

Lochlan's response to all of it was to draw the army tighter. To keep the status quo. All of them do. Too hot? Let's put in a pool. Too cold? Let's put in a sauna. Too dark? Open the curtains. Too sad? Live in a hug. Too far? Move in. Not enough privacy? Make a gazebo getaway or a music studio or a den, there's enough space. Or three living rooms. Because whatever. Too stressed? Someone will hold out a finger and stop the world as we triage whatever broken heart needs to be mended. When we boil the Collective down past the polyamory and the history and the various dynamics of who loves who most and who lives where the bottom line is no matter what we've done we're a family and we back each other up, even as we lust after each other and tear each other down, leaving deep wounds and new connections in a brutal swath of damage and repair across our point.

As long as she smiles here and there. As long as she stays here. As long as this is better than anything else. She'll be fine. We'll be fine.

I don't do drugs. I do this. I lose it and then I find it again, somehow. Miraculously and with help.

I put my hand up and cup Lochlan's face. I'll make it up to you.

He turns his face, kissing the palm of my hand. You already have.