The construct is flawed. Sam has already supervised the demolition and the site has been remediated, earmarked for something different?

What, exactly?

New memories. For example, Bridge, what were you doing five years ago this week?

Turning my attention to training camp for preseason hockey. Driving Ruth to work all the damn time. I spent my evenings in the car, I think. 

You remember it all. 

Of course. I have a gold-plated short term memory. 

But if you rebuild that will disappear and you'll remain rooted in ancient history. 

Because we've all moved on?

Exactly. Joel fails to catch my irony and I have to bite my tongue not to cast him out.

In the interest of full disclosure I spend most of my spare time rebuilding. But it's hard work. We're talking one cinder block a week. The concrete guys never showed up for the pour so we're taking it old school now-

Ever think your brain is preventing that progress because deep down you want to put it on the very back burner and turn it to low. 

How many analogies are you going to throw at me this visit?

All of them, if it helps. 

Maybe it does. 

Ah. The princess throws a bone to the poor hungry mind tamer.

I can feed you but you're no longer allowed to tame my mind. 

I can still help when times are quiet. As a friend, not as a professional. 

Or just be an actual friend and stop trying to stir the pot, destroy my progress or be a reminder of him. 

Is that what I am?

Not in the way that you want to be. August gets that designation forever. 

I know. 

Thank you for the honey delivery. 

I knew you'd appreciate it, Bridge. 

I do, and it's not even a euphemism. 

I know. That's sugar, right?

Build it up in a technicolor dream.

In the end after an impromptu vote the households declined my new mega holiday and so we decorated for Halloween only, which is nice because it's also Schuyler and Daniel's wedding anniversary and it's a very special time of year for them.

I will bite my tears back and be happy for them. Which isn't hard to do at all, it just went from one of my favorite times of year my whole life to one that brings up memories of the hardest times and it's not something I can forget or get past. My grief doesn't go away or lessen or fade. It blocks the damned door and I have to climb over it just to get out of my mental cage in the morning.

I'm high-functioning.

I'm actually sure that's not it. After waiting a few years to see the new John Wick movie I promptly fell hard asleep last night during the biggest gun battle and missed the ending, waking up in time for the credits.

For fucks sakes.

Lochlan thought it was hilarious. I even pregamed with a second cup of coffee at lunchtime and then a giant glass of Dr. Pepper with dinner which did nothing.

PJ suggested I watch movies standing up from now on.

It's not even a comfort thing. I do the same thing at the shitty movie theatre with it's hard upright seats, someone kicking my seat repeatedly until they get my murderous suggestion that they stop. It's like movies are my kryptonite. They signal a slow down. A kick back and relax. That's not an easy thing for me to do. As I say if I stop moving I'll fall asleep.

Yes there are narcolepsy drugs that will help the falling asleep. Stimulants. You know, those things that cause anxiety. So yeah, no thank you. And headaches. Double-no-thank-you. I will fall asleep here and there and someone will cover for me, tell me the ending, or rescue my coffee from my hands.

I don't know why I went on that tangent. Anyway, Schuyler's coming home tonight and he's going to be happy and surprised that his house is already completely decorated for their Halloversary. They're a beautiful, loving couple and I'm proud of what they've evolved into. They are what most couples aspire to be, or should if they don't already.

On that note, it's a cozy rainy day (aren't they all, suddenly. Welcome fall in the PNW. If I had known it would be this abrupt I would have asked someone to mow the grass just before it started because now we can't and it's long) and I've deployed one of Lochlan's older too-tight-for-his-arms (ha this is not a problem if you ask me) flannel shirts to warm my bones while I enjoy a coffee and headphones and tunes before the whole house wakes up. Started the laundry (it's Dalton's day but I'll help) and am waiting on the dog. I think he's passed out on Ruth's bed. She ends up with all the pets these days.

I'll get a little while longer in before the house erupts into a typical morning. 

Raising my vibrations.

It's Friday the thirteenth. It's a full moon and a storm on the way. It's the first full day listening to Starset's Divisions and I love it. Everyone was right. The bridge in Telekinetic is so heavy it brought me to my knees and I'm okay with that. The whole album is incredible. I love it. Well worth the wait.

I let Daniel tint my eyelashes and paint my nails dark blue while I played the album for him. He loves it. He loves everything, very easy to please, easy to adjust, way more laid back than Ben sometimes but also wound to a tight spring most of the time so this is a fun departure. Schuyler's gone away for a few days and so we invited him over to stay until Schuy comes back. Daniel's a massive cuddler and he wastes away before our eyes if left to his own devices when alone. That's not happening on my watch. Not in a million years.

Bridge. Do you want to help me decorate for Halloween?

You mean you....put the creepy things away when Halloween is over?

Well, yeah, Christmas needs space. 

We all need space. 

Not outer space, Bridget. Room to decorate for every holiday. 

Right. I just leave my stuff out all the time. 

I know. He pats the black bear skull on the shelf. But think if you start getting into the spirit of the holiday on an immediate level maybe things would be easier.

I don't think things can be easier but thank you. 

Bridget.

I know you mean well. 

I'll always mean the best for you, Bridget. 

Then we should put up all the holiday decorations for every holiday at once and have a Mega Holiday Seasonal Extravaganza. 

Oh my gosh! I'll go get the bins!

That's how Daniel became my favorite. I'm a fair weather favorite-namer but not anymore. Not at this sacred time of year, Mabhallothanksremembramas.

Dreamstate/The Audubon Society of Point Perdition.

What is that bird? Caleb comes to stand behind me at the patio doors. The boys have hung some very popular bird feeders in the backyard and we now have endless entertainment. I could stand here all day and watch. I've named some of them. They are 'my' birds and I eagerly await their antics.

(Joel calls it 'healthy', as if nature and I don't get along much. I mean, we do but it's only because nature comes looking for me most of the time. My own little black cloud.

I swim almost every day. 

That is good too.

Then stop picking on me.

He disappeared from the room and I haven't seen him since.)

It's a junco. 

He's beautiful. 

Agreed. I look up and turn around and am faced with the underside of Caleb's chin. He looks down abruptly and grins.

Bridget's birds. 

I should name more of them. 

What ones have you named so far? 

I turn around and scan the feeders with my eyes. None of them are here right now. 

I can wait. I'd like to meet them. 

If I go outside they fly away though. 

You have to be more quiet. 

I thought I was. 

Can you hear his song? 

No. 

You're really noisy just in general. Maybe you should wear your hearing aids again. 

The ones that have been in a drawer for the summer?

Summer's over, Neamhchiontach. Time to leave the inside of your head.

Distraction is to the mind what _______ is to the heart. Fill in the fucking blank for me because I can't figure it out and I've been trying for decades.

Third cup of coffee today. Nicer cup than what I usually use. My current favorite is a big orange round BB8 cup from Star Wars. It holds a metric shit ton of coffee and it stays warm and it isn't top heavy or weirdly delicate. This cup at Batman's is one of his custom-commissioned designer teal and charcoal-grey west coast hand-fired stoneware cups built to specifically fit a man's hands.

His entire set of dishes cost something like 4k. I remember. Jasper showed me the invoice in the middle of an argument once and I never forget. Who the hell spends many thousands of dollars on dishes. Especially since it's merely a full set for only ten people. Not even twelve. Just ten.

(Any more than ten at the table and no one can carry on a conversation, he theorized.)

(That was another argument, but I digress.)

Not only do I love a circus of a dinner but I love cups that are pretty and work well. His are far nicer than mine and I might steal this one when he turns his back. It's what I do. I actually never brought back one of his little dessert dishes. He brought me a piece of cake and said I could return the plate in the morning. I did not and he hasn't asked for. I guess he's only set up for a party of nine now.

Or two, as it were.

I'm wired but fixed in place, lightning bolts shooting all over the place, burning my world to the ground, all the while nodding at his thoughts as he tosses them at me gently, agreeing with what he says without hearing him at all. My mind is firing from the caffeine. I have no inbetween, I'm either manic or panic and then asleep. There's no sit and talk. I don't have a sit and talk setting. I have to keep moving or I'm going to pass out, snoring on your elbow as you try to tell me your hopes and dreams. I already know what they are. They're tangled in my own.

We're not all that different, though I am exceedingly poor by default and he doesn't even think about money. Richer than Caleb, or so I think sometimes, and yet instead of throwing it at me by the fistful Batman makes controlled gestures based on merit, employment, after a fashion and the rest of the time I truly believe he just forgets he's wealthy.

The thought that someone could even do that keeps me fascinated by his mind.

I finish my coffee and realize he's staring at me.

Waiting.

Well, what do you think?

Mmmm, I nod. Play dumb. Can I change the subject?

No, he says, more kindly than I deserve. I'd like an answer so I can make some plans. 

Go ahead and make your plans. 

You're up for it? Now? 

Wait. What? (midnight green, you say?)

Where the hell are you? He looks so done with me. Gone is the formality and in it's place a lonely, irritated man who's pushing mid-fifties and hasn't figured out the meaning of life even though he already bought it and it's in his inventory. He just needs to level up.

That's a good question. 

Did he give you something?

I'm sorry?

Did Lochlan give you a sleeping pill last night? It's usually the only time you're this scattered.

(ashes on the wind, bitch.)

Yes, I think so. It didn't work but the coffee isn't helping. 

I see that. 

I should go. 

Let me know by the morning and we can iron things down.

Sure thing.

Call me tonight if you'd like a refresher on the conversation. You don't even know what you're agreeing to. He leans down and kisses my cheek, takes my coveted mug and walks me to the door. He's so disappointed the grey in the mug pattern has darkened to black.

Pay with your face.

Listening to Lochlan go ON AND ON AND ON as Apple rolls out it's yearly event for the unwashed masses, feigning mild interest as he points out the odd neat new feature, falling asleep when he starts talking about the cameras (fun fact: Cole was a photographer. Doesn't mean I know a thing. Possibly even less) until he notices and I am forced to pay attention.

It has BLAHBLAHBLAHBLAH. 

Picture that for like, two hours.

Ending with his wish to preorder, naturally. Loch is weirdly into technology for someone who grew up servicing fifty-year-old amusement park rides, and loves loves loves computery...things.

Right? He says.

Hmmm? Peak brightness isn't one of my options, I guess. I would really like my phone to be able to understand what I'm mashing in a message window without replacing all of my words with unrelated ones. I want dark mode. I want actual waterproofing to the depths. I want a fucking physical tiny keyboard-

....and midnight green. 

Wait, what did you say? 

Green. The 11 Pro comes in dark green as one of the colors. 

Sold.

subliminal souls.

Now I'm here with you, and I
Would like to think that you would stick around
You know that I'd just die to make you proud

Green cowboy boots and a red and orange flowered dress buried under Cole's chunky grey sweater this morning. It's pouring and cold, strangely enough. Like summer just rolled up and said k, bye then! and peeled off down the road, a blur within seconds to our sunbaked vision, sunburnt skin pelted with tiny bits of gravel from its wheels.

Goodbye to you too. Bring on the Halloween decorations, the endless coffee. The baked apples and casseroles. The wine. Bring on the brightly colored rotten leaves and the mood that spirals all the way to the bottom, brought on by the early and late darkness, the time of year, the cold.

I will weather this like a forgotten sailboat in a storm. I will survive because that's what I do. Stubborn to the core, ridiculously weird and wonderful with lots of creative outlets to keep me busy. Stores of affection well-secured for the coming season like Mormon grain. I could feed hundreds with what I've saved though I use enough for ten people so maybe my needs may not equal someone else's.

Your hair. Caleb says it sweetly. I know, right? Just touching my shoulders if I pull my waves out straight. Bangs to my nose. I'm starting to feel exactly like myself at last, again, just in time for the rug to be yanked out, landing me on my ass.

Morning. I pull my coffee cup up to my lips, slurping up a sip. He hates that sound but it endears me to him nonetheless.

Sleep?

Some, yeah. He frowns at my response. He doesn't know what it means. You?

Yes, quite well now that it's cool. Listening to the rain was nice.

Ah. I wouldn't know. I can't hear it unless I stand very still right in front of the window and it's a heavy downpour. I always agree though, because it makes them feel better when they forget. It was, I lie.

Busy this morning? He acknowledges and ignores my lie.


Maybe. It depends. I do have a lunch with Christian and Andrew.

What time?

One sharp. They're making waffles from scratch. I'm less of a guest and more of a guinea pig.

Ah.

You can come with me-

No. I was hoping to maybe spend the day. Are you free after lunch?

Around three. I do have an hour of meditation planned but you can join me for that, if you like.

Meditation?

That's what I call it. I just lie in the gazebo on the floor and listen to music. It's my me time but Sam suggested I call it something more legitimate, as chanting Om and sitting crosslegged thinking about nothing is apparently more acceptable than wallowing in one's own misery, winding my feelings out on beautiful music. I think my 'meditation' is more useful long term. It's an outlet. It's a relief and a release all at once.

I know. 

You don't kn-

Oh, I know, Bridget. I knew back when I'd drive you home from the lake and you'd play the same songs over and over and over again on my tape deck, rewinding it constantly the whole way home. And I told you to leave it and you sulked and sat back with your arms crossed and your lip out for all of five seconds and then you reached out with one finger and hit that rewind button again and I never gave you a hard time about it again. Do you remember that? Because I definitely do and I've tried to entertain those needs for you ever since. 

I nod because he's right and it's raining again and I don't want to felt Cole's sweater but I don't want to leave this moment either.

So stay. Just for a bit. Perfect weather to play that soundtrack in your head. 

Wish you could h-

I can hear it. It's loud, Neamhchiontach. So loud sometimes it scares me. 

Good.

Thank you, Sam.

Post-birthday week church in the pouring rain this morning, the church warm and dim after a night filled with lightning and thunder that never stopped. Maybe Caleb was quietly celebrating Lochlan's decision to send August home, across the driveway in the deluge of sleet that blurred the edges of the night.

Lochlan did it to keep me from seeking out Jake. It's a kindness masked by authority and this morning I relay my gratefulness for him straight to God when I take my place in church. He holds out our coffees once I'm settled in, coat off, purse tucked against my ankle, and I take them while he shrugs out of his coat. I hand his back and he winks at me. It's a reassurance and I shift position to lean against him.

Sam brings his own mug of coffee over, and sits on the top step.

I don't think anyone else is coming. We'll wait fifteen minutes and then head out. 

He and Lochlan talk softly about winterizing preparations for the church and for the point, a little bit about how August is adjusting back to life post-burn and then I open my eyes and Lochlan is prodding me to get up, it's time to go.

He took my coffee when I nodded off and just held it. I take a huge gulp but it's barely warm and I make a face. He tells me that Duncan is making french toast, that we'll have some brunch and then have a nap if I like.

Nothing else to do today? 

Nothing that can't wait, he says. We should have stayed in bed.

Then Sam would have been all alone. And besides, it was the first time he's ever had the church warm in time. Someone had to be there to appreciate that.

My own private perfect dystopia.

August's hand trails across my lips and down my face as he talks. I'm trying to listen, trying to lasso my mind back from where it's going, trying to stop my eyes from turning him into Jacob, trying to stop my body from liquifying when faced with his touch, Lochlan's eyes burning a hole in my skin anyway so not sure why I try so hard but it seems like it's going to be this way. It's going to be difficult and yet he means so much to me and I try to separate August from Jake but I can't do it. Not one hundred percent. Maybe sixty on a good day, seventy-five on the very best but still a huge, mutinous part of my brain screams with laughter and runs the other way.

August looks older, somehow. Gone just shy of three weeks and it's like he's been away for years. We've heard so many stories from his adventures, from the burn, seen the pictures he took, looked at the small things he did bring back and evaluated his mindset on return as the boys do for each other. Is he coming back healthy? In a good headspace? Mentally fit? Capable of a return to life or desperately grieving the hedonism that sent him out looking for it in the first place?

Well, August is also around seventy-five percent of himself, as it takes a while to adjust back to normal life. He is always a night owl for months afterward, staying up too late, sleeping in too long, forgetting to have meals and do chores at usual times. He walked in the kitchen last night at midnight to borrow tea, setting off the alarm, the dog and Benjamin. It took us a long time to settle down and he stuck around which made it better.

I shake my head. Don't do this. Don't touch my mouth. Don't make me want you. I close my eyes and his fingertips touch against my eyelashes. Goosebumps rise up on my arms and I feel Lochlan's hand wrap around mine.

Neamhchiontach. 

I shake my head. Don't break this spell. I need it to be fulfilled. I need some Jake-time and then I'm okay. Need a little Preacher memory and then I can get by for just a few more days.

Goodnight, August. He says it gently and my lips are cold suddenly. August's proximity fades, his smell disappears. His hands let go. Then he charges back, a hard kiss landing on my cheek. A squeeze around the back of my head in the process.

Goodnight, Princess, he whispers against my head and then he's gone.

I am turned to face Lochlan. No apologies, no remorse. He pulls me in close. Come here, Bridget. 

All yours, I tell him, palms out.

You're disappointed. 

Yes, I answer truthfully, honestly. We don't lie to each other, we don't protect each other or soften the blow. Never have. Rip the bandaid off. Blow the lid. Make it hurt and then you'll know you're really alive.

Another time. 

I nod in response. I know. 

I love you. 

I nod again. I'm surprised. 

Why? 

I'm...unloveable. 

Not from where I'm standing. Not from their vantage points either. 

In real life I would be. 

Then let's stay here.

Fifty-four.

I don't know when that happened. The trip was long but we finally arrived at this number and it's mind-numbingly larger than I thought. It's seasoned. It's earned it's scars, pockmarked by years of being pelted with space junk, with aster-

Meteorites, I mean.

Look up there! 

An asteroid! 

That's a meteor, Peanut. 

Same thing, isn't it? 

Technically, but it's an asteroid until it reaches our atmosphere, and then it becomes a meteor. If it burns up when it gets to us it's a shooting star. If it lands it's a meteorite. 

Can we look for some? 

Meteorites? Or shooting stars? 

Both! 

Meteorites would be hard to find. 

But what if we found one? 

What would you do with it? His mouth curls up on one side. He's amused. I love it when his face does this. It makes my stomach flutter so fucking hard.

Cut it open! I am breathless and immediate with my reply.

And what would you find inside? 

OUTER SPACE. That's it. I'm determined now.

But outer space is right. there. He points for effect. Look around you. 

I sit up from where we lie on the picnic table. His legs dangling off the edge. Mine not reaching, thought they would if we were crosswise.

This is the best birthday I've ever had. 

I can't believe you're fifteen already. 

Some day you'll be fifteen too. What are you going to do when that happens? 

Get my learner's permit. And go to space. 

You can't drive there. 

I'm thinking driving a rocketship is like driving a car. 

Is it now? There's that smile again when I look at the side of his face. He's making my stomach hurt. His eyes flash in the dark and I really wish he would hold my hand.

I trace his arm in the dark. The rocketship tattoo is still vivid decades later now, ready to lift off into the sun. Into space. Our ticket home to the stars, this massive field above us while we lie in our backs in the wet grass at the far edge of the lawn, stuck way down here on earth.

Happy birthday, Locket. 

Best birthday ever, Peanut.

He says that every single year.