Deep, deep breaths today. That's all. I keep holding my breath until my head aches and I have to focus really hard not to do that.

Soul reversal.

Jacob was waiting for me when I came down this morning. Just wanted to see if he's in the same place. Just wanted to see if he's aged. Just wanted to know if he remembers me, or knows who I am, or misses me too or regrets any of this at all.

I am. I have. I do. You're Bridget. Of course. I can't answer that. God doesn't allow for regrets because what's done is done and I've made all of my reparations to him and I have been absolved. 

Well..that's bullshit because I haven't absolved you. 

You aren't God. 

Once, you told me I was. 

That was foolish. I've said and done many foolish things and so have you. That's why I'm just a man. We are just human, and there is only one God. 

Right. That lets you off the hook. 

What else do I have, Bridget? 

Solid gold memories. That's what you have. 

That's what you have, you mean. 

Yes. They're priceless and worthless all at once. 

That's a beautiful way to put it. 

No, it's ugly. 

Not coming from you. You can make anything beautiful. 

Flattery won't get you anywhere. 

Where could I go? 

This is true. 

Speaking of which. You should go. 

I just wanted to make sur-

There are no guarantees in life, Princess.

I know that better than anyone, Jacob.

Then go back. 

Wow, you sound like August. 

Well, good. It used to be that he sounded like me.

Deconstruct.

Caleb is there, in close, mouth just about level with my nose as he ducks his head down against mine to talk quietly.

Time this weekend?

I shrug. I'm currently not in charge of my own itinerary, figuring it would be better if I leave Lochlan or Ben to guard the door. If they think I'm up to it, then I will too. If they don't then no harm no foul, no expectations and no hurt feelings.

Ask Loch. 

I was hoping you could come to me. 

I'm sticking close for the next few weeks. 

That isn't necessary. 

It is, actually. I've navigated one successful anniversary out of a dozen. I'm trying to make that a pair. 

Then come and stand behind me. I can protect you far better than they can from your...ghosts.The way he says ghosts gives me pause, makes me crazy, forces me to doubt everything I've ever known.

Not this time. I'll find you before winter. 

I'll be right here. I'll be within reach, Neamhchiontach. 

Not this time, Diabhal. I need to try this and I need your support. 

You have it. They do not.

Never better, I say when they ask, and they haven't realized it's the truth.

It's too early for this. I can't do this for this length of time. Something's not right and they don't see it. As it gets colder and darker outside they all hold on a little tighter but that's all. Sam isn't far. Lochlan won't even move out of breathing room, Ben has been keeping to a steady nine to five for the past few days and I know it will continue for the next few weeks and Caleb has his phone ready to call in an overpaid expert at a moment's notice, failing to register Joel sitting perpetually in my great room (who invited him), sipping coffee at all hours, making notes because the one thing I can't take back in my revenge on him is years of training. Claus remains on speed dial, retired but with numbers and people and the good drugs, easy to get.

The ghosts, easy to get to, not so easy to keep.

He would have been turning forty-nine. Can you picture Jacob on the verge of fifty? Deepened lines around his eyes. Maybe wearing shoes. Probably not. Sandier, whiter hair. Probably a slight paling of his white-blue eyes, or maybe they go darker. There's no room for the color to fade from his eyes. Still not wearing shoes. There's no space to breathe in here, I need Lochlan to move so my brain can explode. I need to do it quietly. I need to figure out a way to get through this. I've had ONE good fucking year since navigating this most holy of anniversaries and I can't do it. This is the twelfth time I'm trying here. How many chances do I get?

Made of sunlight.

Ben pulled a fast one, kept us guessing, took a gamble and I fell asleep last night to the tune of his steady heartbeat, walking six paces away from the day, turning and firing from the hip at the lights and when it went dark I went with it, safely into dreamland where I dreamed that I cut my hair again and then tried to drive the Jeep but someone had put the steering wheel on backwards and it was facing away from me and it went from the occasional death-wobble to a whole new skillset as I tried to keep it on the road. When I woke up my brain was already four or five numbers into Miss Saigon, a spot Ben was able to jump into without hesitation, singing back the parts of Chris to my Kim.

It's always been a requirement that they be able to return the parts of the male counterpart in Once, Phantom of the Opera, Hair or even Rent. What's garnered an odd acceptance is not my love of musicals but the level of insanity that my brain displays at any given moment but most especially in the darker hours where no one is supposed to see. They do (they must have night vision. Goes well with my SLIder nonsense or the telepathic and telekinetic and psychotic tics too DOESN'T IT?) and yet they ignore it, or worse, feed it. Gosh, she's so thrilled to have a familiar and be able to sing the whole song without having to sing both parts, so it must be a sunny, gleeful and crisp Tuesday morning and I'm just about ready to be carted off to a farm somewhere, except the place I went to that one time (okay twice or three times shhhh) wasn't like Ben's five-star rehab and I didn't get a chef and nature walks and music nights. Oh no. There was none of that. I sat in a very ill appointed room and people came and talked at me and I slept a lot and ate shitty cafeteria food and they wouldn't even let me draw because apparently you can hurt yourself with a pencil.

Could I.

I would write myself right out of existence, I told them, confirming their suspicions. But that isn't what they meant and no, I never got the pencil. Now I have five mugs of them sitting on the island, a stack of sketchbooks nearby and we draw group photos or people draw beautiful things and I write words all over them, telling stories, describing beauty, letting it all out like the rain we're not going to have today, and it works a whole lot better than the soft rooms and bad food and endless, endless talking. If you're not singing, I don't want to hear it, I told them and it just made everything worse and I still don't know why.

Pearly plights.

I have a headache from hanging upside down in the dentist's chair this morning for twice as long as estimated due to the fact that drugs don't work on me. Four needles later I gave up and just started lying when they asked if I could feel the pokes and tests. Two hours after I left the chair my eye, forehead and entire right side of my face was frozen solid, thanks very much and I take it all back. They work, they just take fucking forever to do anything and by the time that happens you'll be done.

Story of my life, or one of them anyway. One of the more scientific, fascinating ones like the ones about me being so full of negative energy streetlights go out when I pass them, doors slam and people randomly leap off tall buildings to get away from me.

All of it a shame. It's not negative energy, it's just what I have and I can't contain it. Never could. People have been talking about it for years.

I'm down to one and a half amalgam fillings and hoping to soon be free of them and then I'll stop picking up radio signals, at least. Maybe my rashes will clear up. Maybe the stress will leave. Hey, pigs are flying, would you look at that.

In any case, my dentist did a lot of work and I still have a headache and half a frozen face but I'm done for the year. My teeth look very nice. That is all.

Whitecaps and sight lines, and oh, here comes October.

Skipped church this morning in favor of coffee on the cliff, out by the telescope platform in the glorious rare morning wind. The telescope has been brought inside for the season, and we're slowly winterizing. I'm so glad I don't live in the prairies right now as they seem to be running a disaster gamut of fires, floods and freezing. It's the price they pay for that endless sky, for sure and even though it's cheap to live there I know I'll never go back.

The waves are huge. The clouds roll and he remains, clutching my hand in his, against his chest, keeping me tripping over his feet and being the only thing in my current tiny universe.

Instead of winterizing the property, he's working from the inside out, tightening bonds, battening down hatches, patching any holes in our relationship, strengthening the weak spots, the openings, the ennui, making things tight and fierce and able to withstand the coming storm, procuring provisions, weapons and shelter. I'm helping as much as he can, gently letting souls down, passing him tools, being open to being closed. I know what he's doing and I think it's going to work.

I hope it's going to work.

Coastal moon.

He didn't let go while I slept, didn't let go in the shower (I had to rinse my hair with one hand) and then when I went downstairs and hugged PJ I had to do it with one arm (PJ only raised his eyebrows) and then Caleb too, the spell was finally broken.

Fucking seriously? Caleb asked, stepping back, arms up in surprise.

It's just something I feel like doing, don't mind me, Lochlan says. It's like one of those on-the-lam comedy films where people attempt to run away but they're handcuffed together and must keep each other going, keep up and hide the cuffs with a coat or whatever so no one catches on. Lochlan just has his fingers threaded tightly through mine. I held out until my hand fell asleep and then I pleaded for release and he said letting go was going to be implied but not actually. I don't know if he meant literally but not figuratively but I held to his wishes and we had an amazing day. I drove. He rode shotgun and was kind of cranky and out of sorts all day. I don't know why. Maybe he was mad because I let go.

I stopped at the mall and bought an outfit. I'm very happy I did. Things wear out, plus I wanted a tiny little leopard print bag and if you can even believe it, I found one. It holds my phone, keys, lipstick and a small card case with my ID in it. Which is all I really need anyway and sometimes I just don't want to cart around my giant Rogue bag (Coach, teal with baby-green suede and I love it soooo much but I have a tendency to put everything and then some in it when it then becomes a thirty-pound nightmare that hurts my back and needs its own seat in the truck and then what?

I think it's some sort of weird throwback to diaper bags, when I had to cart everything around, including spare outfits and extra meals, toys and whatever else I might need, although truth be told, I rarely needed anything from it and absolutely envied those moms who threw a single diaper and a bag of cheerios in their purse and off they went.

I learn slowly, if I learn at all.

So yeah it was fun to buy a little outfit (the rest of it besides the purse was plain black leggings and a plain black cardigan, very predictable, I know.) and it was fun to drive Lochlan around, even if he was cranky, and now that the day is done he's resumed holding my hand, tucked in habitually against his chest to the point where I can't do anything, and he seems so happy to hear that, it's difficult to argue my point. I get a brief slow dance through the kitchen after we finish the dishes and then a long embrace as the song ends and we wait for the next one that never arrives and at this point I'm really hoping that tomorrow brings more of the same. He's already made excuses to Sam for wanting a lack of company this evening and something tells me that's not going to change tomorrow for Jesus, either.

Weeks that begin with me running in one direction and end with me running right back.

Reassurance weighs more than oxygen some days.

Lay your heart into my perfect machine
I will use it to protect you from me
I will never let you see what's beneath
So good for you and good for me
We told ourselves we're right where we ought to be

Lochlan had enough with the bickering, yelling, the one brief struggle where Caleb decided not letting go of me when I was ready to leave his vicinity was well enough and gave a warning as only he can, with that expression that can flatten mountains with a clap that startles everything within a thousand-mile radius, birds taking flight, everything else running for cover. I'm the only soul who doesn't, holding my ground but waiting quietly for whatever's next.

He tilts his head and gives me a look like what the FUCK are you doing, and then he pulls me back inside, just as Caleb forgets he lives in this house and not the other one. It happens with a comical frequency and sometimes worries me just a little.

The rest of the day I spend within three inches of Lochlan because he's had it up to here, wherever that is, it's too high for me to see clearly and then once the dark settled he led the way back to where we're supposed to be, hands sliding up the back of my dress, lifting it over my hair, biting his lip, curled in slightly in thought, eyes reflecting light from nowhere, hands so warm I made a note to check for burns in the morning. Just one single kiss from him sends me to outer space and I know damn well the door was locked and he didn't let me breathe or sleep or come down from the dark until long after the rest of the house stirred and left for the day.

Only then did he let go and I resented it and told him so.

And he laughed cruelly. For the moment you do but that will change. 

Will it?

He nods. Every. fucking. time. 

I'm sorry. 

Don't be. I get off on it too. Then I feel ashamed and I get angry about it. 

He hasn't talked like that for years. Decades even. Not since I was very young and not understanding what he was trying to tell me. I make a note to work harder at that because it's an albatross we keep resurrecting because we don't know what else to do.

I love you, Peanut. 

I love you, Locket. 

More than him? 

No idea who he means. Not like it matters. You never have to ask that again because I love you more than everything. 

Right now you do.

Every moment, I do. 

Promise me, Bridget. His voice drops to a hoarse whisper and it breaks my heart. He rarely shows fear, rarely seems to show anything but overreaching common fucking sense and ridiculous affection and never lets me know it's getting to him, that it bothers him, that he really wants it to stop but at the same time wants it to go on forever.

I promise, Locket. I whisper it back, because it's too heavy to speak out loud. It weighs a thousand tons and it means the world.

He nods. Good. Just making sure.

Parallels to Midsommar, an elegy in the key of B.

Good morning.

(Mild spoilers ahead but not really).

Screaming at Caleb turned into an effort to salvage the day with whatever that thing is that people call 'self-care'. To me, it's akin to attempting to carry on a long, deep conversation in a language I don't know, having hurriedly looked up a few key words in a battered thesaurus I keep in my bag. I don't know what I'm doing but I guess I can try and go through the motions.

Ruth took a hold of whatever ruinous mind I had left, inviting me to watch Midsommar with her. It came out on iTunes this week and while she's seen it, loved it and has been anxiously awaiting the director's cut, she was game to watch it again, still feeling guilty for encouraging me to watch Ari Aster's last movie, Hereditary, which, while it illustrated grief and shock in a way you just never see put to film properly, I wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy and therefore did not invite Caleb to watch it with me. As it stands I was wrong, presently he can serve as my worst enemy and depending on how the rest of today goes, I may suggest he take in a double feature.

Midsommar draws many parallels to my own life. We have a commune, an adorable blonde girl in a flower crown, a bear featured early on, not to be seen again until the bitter end, some handsomeish men arguing nonstop, fighting for supremacy, understanding and common sense. There is some singing, some crying, more than a handful of vicious suicides so graphic I think I'm perhaps not as jaded as I once confidently assumed, and then a metric shit ton of human sacrifice and an exceeding weird uncomfortable sex scene with an audience.

So basically my life, in a two-hour celluloid extravaganza of colour and beauty, set in the mountains of Utah, I think. I was told, anyhow.

I'd like my flower crown now, please. That's the only thing missing. I'll be your fucking May Queen.

It was definitely almost a three-hour departure from all of this bullshit, only spanning three hours as people would walk in to see what the ungodly sounds were, and Ruthie would patiently pause the movie and explain it to them. I wanted to laugh and then I wanted to cry. Then I was sad it was over because it seemed as though the right people were truly getting their due and otherwise I'm almost relieved Aster is going to move on, apparently wanting to make a comedy so that I never have to go through one of his movies again.

I'm still thinking about it and how it made me feel. That's the best part, the measure of success to me, not in making a masterpiece but finding something to evoke a feeling so intense in your viewer that they are rocked back in their seat, changed somehow. That's the hallmark of a good job, to me, be it movie or music. It's the feeling I get when I listen to Pachebel's Chaconne in F Minor. A sort of weightless, melancholic, hypocritical joy that takes hours to reabsorb.

Maybe I can't explain it properly. Maybe I'll just pull my sleeves down over my fists and resume my argument with Caleb instead, as last night we indulged in an angry, overheated, wordless reunion of forgiveness in which we let history decide our roles and he wore the bear suit while I burned him alive in my mind.