For the birds.

What are you waiting for, Peanut? Lochlan slides another cup of coffee in front of me. It's Friday, I'm allowed to have a second cup, plus I have a shitty sudden headache coming on from either the air pressure or the time of the month that it is or maybe just the stress of being me, as he calls it.

Indeed, and he did call it and I just want to feel good.

PJ thinks he saw a cedar waxwing so I'm waiting for it.

Well, either he did or he didn't, there's no thinking about it.

That's what I said! Truth be told, I think I conjure things. Upon moving to the West coast, I wanted nothing more than to see a Stellar's Jay, the dark cousin of our East coast Blue Jay. Now I have one that comes to visit, bullying the chickadees away from the feeder, hanging out until I go out and say hello.

I'm pretty sure it's Cole, but let's see if he appears in tiny yellow and peach waxwing formation and then I'll know for sure. The birds are pretty amazing here. I guess they don't like the snow either.

ਯਿਸੂ, ਪਹੀਏ ਨੂੰ ਲੈ

It's raining and I've been forbidden to leave this bed and so you get to bear witness to my rumbling belly, burgeoning headache because I've gone past coffee o'clock, and a whole host of hits by Parmish Verma, who I discovered last night while watching the trailer for his upcoming movie Jinde Mariye. Dude's amazing (acting AND singing) and so this Christmas I'm just going to blindside everyone with his particularly fun and catchy brand of Punjabi pop, because that's what I do.

Lochlan wants one more hour, which I don't blame him for, and this is so nostalgic, reminding me of the good old days when he childproofed the camper so I couldn't leave without waking him up completely. This way he can keep an eye on me, but also sleep as apparently I have gone out of my way to find danger or trouble, or even more exciting, both at the same time and that isn't going to happen today.

Pretty sure he's planned a trail of cotton candy for later, and at the end is a giant girl-sized beehive. I'll pluck the last piece of floss off the floor and he'll pull the stick away from where it was propping up the hive and I'll be trapped inside, right where he wants me. Then he can, as he told me last night, relax for five minutes for fucks sakes, Peanut. 

Geez. Okay. Just do it then. I have no place to be until eleven and then Bridget's Taxi Service begins, ferrying kids to jobs and then home again, picking up August from the airport at the end of everything else and yes, I refuse to farm it out because I need to do this or I swear the agoraphobia will just take right over and I'll never leave the point again. I'm fine to leave the house, it's just the driveway I don't want to venture far from. Because highway driving in the dark, in the pouring rain can kiss my little ass.

The good thing is that we're basically ready for Christmas and so I don't have to venture out other than for rides and maybe a few odds and ends that I will pick up Monday morning at the grocery store and then I'm not going near a shopping centre for the next three months because it's getting so crazy out there and I don't have any patience left. I'm hoping that the more I listen to Parmish the more I will adopt his devil may care attitude. Or at the very least maybe I can grow a beard like his.

It's magnificent.

Walls painted in gold.

It's a marked contrast to the casual summer-heat unrefined wild of Lochlan, everything unexpected and magic hour all the time to the punctual formality and predictable neatness of Caleb, ironed down and dark. Perfect.

And then in the middle there's Batman, still off-limits, still playing emotional hooky, still mysterious but somehow just playful and engaged enough and just enough of a safe haven to see me unwilling to choose sides when life is a dodecagon anyway, and I don't have to so long as I defer to the hierarchy they made and gosh, I'll never not be twelve and having the list drilled into my head of who I go to first and then who next if they're not there and never go to x when y is around because x would be jumping a very cemented seniority that began for them in grade school but never seemed important at all until I showed up.

But Batman wasn't even in my life until my early twenties and so he isn't really a part of the list or the hierarchy and there is no rhyme or reason to this poem but maybe that's why I like it. And maybe his refusal to put away his checkbook in spite of me asking him for clear direction on what sugar he wanted makes this less daunting than keeping up with Caleb, overall. Caleb has a passionate, crushing, needy and dangerous way about him that keeps me more scared than excited. He's that bad boy you know damn well will mortally wound you but you can't stay away.

Batman? Not so much. He doesn't give a shit, though he lies and tells me exactly what I want to hear. He is content maybe moreso than he lets on. He is fine. And yet here I am, and there is his checkbook. Though it's digital now. He just has to log in and press a button and all of my immediate problems are solved. He just has to extend an offer of some time and I suddenly have hundreds of minutes to spend.

For Christmas this year I got another deposit. More than he gave me for summer vacation, more than Caleb has extended in a while, enough to change my name and fake my own death save for the fact that I'm too curious for my own good. I got a lecture on market growth that I didn't even need. Batman went into full dad mode which made it even weirder. Maybe I'm always going to be twenty to him, always wide-eyed at the sight of more than a thousand dollars, always hungry and one missed cheque away from being homeless, always ready to sell the only thing I have that everyone needs but no one wants because it's the way they raised me.

Smile for them, Bridgie, and the world is yours. And so I turned back toward Batman and gave it everything I had.

I was gone before the ink was dry but it isn't smudged, and I definitely don't have to worry about being homeless now.

Blackberry smoke.

Caleb's eyes match the blankets in this halflight of a Tuesday morning. He wonders aloud if the pool has filled again, thanks to all of this rain, or when the snow will reach our part of highway 99. He worries about me driving, though I didn't see a lot of worry last evening when I left at eight to pick Henry up from his job and we arrived back at ten-forty-five to find a darkened house. Even the dog had gone to bed. Henry is learning. It took a long time to finish up. It will be better from now on, I hope, but at the same time this job is a gap-filler until the summer only, unless he loves it and chooses to stay.

It's fine, I remind him. I have a jeep, and if things get really dicey PJ can drive or we just stay home. 

He nods against my head and it hurts slightly so I slide it out from underneath his chin. My hair drags against the new beard he sports, going a few weeks at a time without shaving. This is how I get such dramatic bedhead.

You look so beautiful. I laugh and he piles it on. I love your laugh. 

Stop. Geez. 

I'm just stupidly happy you come for sleepovers now. 

I wasn't actually planning to, but when I came upstairs, in their sleep, Ben and Lochlan had taken up all of the available space and I didn't want to wake either one of them to rearrange the bed so I put on my angel pajamas and went down to Caleb's wing. He was still awake, quizzed me about Henry's shift, resolved to pick him up himself from now on and poured us each a quick, stiff nightcap. I don't think I finished mine. I had a good solid sleep spooned sweetly against Caleb's chest and woke up hearing birds. The rain makes them think it's spring. I think they're about to get a surprise.

Me too. I turn back and get a morning-breath kiss that I truly think was far worse for him than for me. But now I turn into a pumpkin. 

Already?

Yes. 

See you tonight? 

Probably not. 

Later in the week, then. 

Sure, I lie and let myself out as he goes back to sleep.

No lying this time, he calls as I'm closing the door and I remember he can read my mind.

For life.

Last night we put on all the outdoor lights, fired up the patio heaters and set up the long table for the first of many holiday dinners at home, as we call them, as no one wants to go out anymore and yet we love getting fancy and entertaining. They all wore suits and nice shirts, though no ties. I finally got a chance to wear my dress with all of the sequins, and I felt like the night sky. Caleb got his hands on some far better champagne and a crate of incredibly large Atlantic (!) lobster (sent from home, I'm not dumb) and we made cold salads and warm rolls and a big casserole of scalloped potatoes to go with.

Reminded me of home. It reminded me of the early dinners, though we could not afford to eat like this and usually potlock would end up meaning a pizza from at least four different places and someone, usually Christian would buy a chocolate cake from the grocery store, because he never forgot how much I love cake.

I love to have Sunday Night Dinner and I missed it and so we've chosen to create some new/old traditions, now that Matt is back, now that August and Caleb are on speaking terms again, now that Lochlan feels in control of his life again and maybe Ben too and now that the ghosts seem to be squeezing a little less hard. Maybe Bridget isn't throwing herself into the sea on a regular basis and we seem to be beginning a new chapter, with the kids all grown up suddenly and everyone seems so much more settled, as of late. Maybe I'm reading too much into it or perhaps hoping too hard, but this works for me.

We did put the anchors in the table, though, because honestly table-flipping seems to happen so fast around here. Luckily last night it didn't.

Perfectly imperfect EXCEPT in the eyes of Santa Claus.

Sam isn't going public with his reunion until at least Easter. Sam has assured me if or when I need him at any given moment he will Be There. Sam is cautious but living life the way he always does and has said to Matt and anyone within earshot that he will continue to do so and he's not chasing Matt so if Matt wants to be a part of Sam's life he knows where he is.

Matt maintains that's why he came back, it's why he's here, but he can't actually go to church this morning because it coincides with his meeting this morning. He said he can find God on the beach or in the woods but he needs the structure and goes when he has to go.

I'm kind of surprised. I really thought once upon a time that he was perfect, that he had it all under control. I still find it surprising that the people who seem most together are usually just the ones who hide their self-destruction the best. Me? I've always been a written-all-over-my-face, heart-on-my-sleeve kind of girl and so if something's wrong you might even know it before I do. I wished to be something better than that but then I see how debilitating it is when people think everything is fine but it's not so maybe I know what I'm doing after all.

Matt thinks I am jealous and that's why I'm adverse to their relationship.

That isn't it, exactly though we had a good thing while it lasted but the hearts do complicate life over all and simpler is always better.

Lochlan says Matt is just lashing out and as the most obvious big-feeler his disdain for Sam's life without him in it makes me such an easy target. Matt has since been warned that if he tries that ever again he won't be allowed to stay on. That I am not up for debate, that everyone here is an adult and then he turned a screw of his own, telling Matt he has missed so much by not being here with Sam all this time. Matt, to his credit, is taking his knocks from the boys with far more grace than I expected.

I have told him we can help him with some of these feelings, that's it's normal. That he can cause pain and still be affected by it. That we'll figure it out together and move on from here. He was grateful and remains afraid that he might wind up on my bad side. I'm not sure I have one, as the soft spot for men who are hurting is so large if I press it blood pools right up until it runs over the sides, down over my toes and into the sea.

We'll figure it out.

Church was cold and somewhat quiet today. People are absent, off picking up last minute gifts and being lazy or just plain busy. Sam had a very short sermon, lit the advent candles and we sang two upbeat carols and he dismissed everyone to go and be warm with their families and be kind and work harder to keep the peace and to make sure everyone has a little peace. When he said that we all looked around at each other, meeting eyes, checking in.

Everyone can use a little reminder like that now and again.

Daily miracles and daily meetings.

Ben is tuning his guitar. I'm drinking more of the caramel coffee, though it smells good it's not what I expected in terms of flavor. Our grocery store used to sell these tall skinny bottles of English toffee, Caramel and some other flavourings I can't remember. Apparently at Starbucks you can buy coffee flavouring still but I haven't checked because it would be a special trip and probably overpriced and meh, not enough of a big deal. If you ask anyone around me I get too much sugar anyway.

He blocked Caleb's attempts to commandeer last night. I didn't even wake up, having bid my goodnights at probably ten and disappeared because the last few weekends I've been up so late and awake so early.

I had eleven hours of sleep so I'm not even interested in Caleb's sharp rebuke this morning for Ben somehow 'not respecting her wishes'. Ben just points out wearily that if I had wished to see Caleb, I would have gone to see him. That ends their conversation and I resume drinking my coffee, and Ben starts singing Lucky Man, though not the Verve version, this is Emerson, Lake and Palmer. I love it and I purposefully avoid looking in Caleb's direction for the next few minutes while his gaze bores right through  my skull.

It's fine. Really. Everything's fine. He's always the same. Give him a moment, he'll take a week. Give him a mile, he'll take you on a trip around the world.

But I have bigger fish to fry, because Matt has finally made an appearance. Up until now he's been ordering food in, slipping in and out in the off hours, and generally making himself scarce. But this morning the boys have come down, freshly showered and shaved, button down flannels and casual cords, almost a matched pair save for the fact that Sam is desperate for Matt's love and Matt is killing time or whatever it is he says he feels but then as soon as the Christmas spirit fades, his presence goes with it.

For fucks sakes. He makes me so angry, and at the same time I am somewhat impressed he's chosen this morning and is finally seeking me out.

Bridget. Can we talk outside for a moment? 

Sure. If Sam comes. And Lochlan, because you need accountability. 

He nods. It's been two fucking weeks since he arrived. I can't wait to hear this.

We organize outside, while at least five more sets of eyes peer through the glass at random intervals out of sheer curiosity. Sam looks rested and happy but I see caution in his face. Lochlan looks mildly amused. He was more than a little angry at Matt's comparing their relationship to our history and has been waiting on tense limbs to address it if it comes up again. I didn't have the heart to remind him it probably won't.

Matt addresses me. Sam and I would like to formally ask you if I may move back. 

For the season? 

Forever. 

Two weeks and you're going to get remarried?  (They were married in 2013. Divorced in 2016. Wow. Has it been that long?)


Down the road, if things work out, then yes. 

Things never work out for you two, though. 

We're working to change that. 

You can't just show up on the coattails of the Christmas spirit and tell him everything's going to be okay, Matt! I am suddenly composureless and far more upset than I thought I was over his arrival. You don't understand what it's like to have someone break your heart and then come back and do it over and over again. 

I know I have a lot of work to do to earn Sam's trust, and even his full love back but every time we leave each other-

Every time you leave him, you mean. Get it right.  

Every time I leave I die a little inside and I don't want to leave anymore-

So don't. 

Let him talk, Peanut. 

He's talked himself out of a perfect love. This is on him. 

Bridget, do you believe in soulmates?

Of course. 

Then let me earn Sam's trust back. I'm asking you because Sam says he wants to try, he wants me to stay, but that I have to clear it with you since this is your house. So I'm opening myself up to you. I'm asking for forgiveness and acceptance and trust. I know I don't deserve it but I want to stay. I don't want Christmas to end and to pack up and hurt him, hurt myself, leaving and living a loveless existence. I've changed companies and work remotely now, I've changed a lot of things. I've done a lot of work and now I'd like to come home. 

Do you want him here, Sam? Forever? Do you think this is a good idea?

Hell, yes, Bridget. I do. The look on his face is confident, he doesn't look afraid, he doesn't look hesitant or hopeful. Just sure.

Do you have belongings to move in? 

Yes, a few. 

Would you like the boathouse back? Gage is fluid. He will switch back, I'll speak with him.

Maybe in the spring. For now we're not going to uproot him. 

That's very kind, though I think it would be easier if you had your privacy. We have enough hands to organize this so when you move in you only have to do it once. But Matt, one thing.

Yes, Bridget. 

Look at what you've got in front of you and be so thankful for him. 

Oh God, Bridget, I am. You have no idea. I've fucked up and I need to fix this with him. 

Yes, you do.

I want to earn his love back. 

Then do it. And let us know if you need help this time.

Little woman, big waves.

(This post is meta. This is nothing. There are too many footnotes. Sorry.)

Whoa mistletoe
(It's growing cold)
I'm seeing ghosts
(I'm drinking old)
Red water

Caleb has replaced his fur blankets* with the most beautiful finely-knit cashmere and linen bedding from Ireland. The blankets aren't scratchy and the sheets aren't rough. It's a refined, understated switch from the brutal warmth and heavy presence of the former and I don't hate it, like I thought I might, expressing dismay at the abrupt change. The boys tend to be minimalist in nature. Skew viking, skew ancient. Finely woven herringbone is such a massive, progressive departure from all of that. Refined? Who wants refined? I want wild.

Easier to take care of, he said. This is correct. I needed to borrow two extra people to change his bed because I can't lift the blankets and didn't want to drag them across the floor. Why doesn't he do it himself, you ask? We have a system. If he pulls that card for chores he also needs to grab someone to help. If bedding is a two or three person job then maybe the vikings were leaving out a lot of relevant info but they also probably didn't change their bedding on the reg, methinks.

If only I could make a blanket out of waves, I think far too often to be healthy.

Those sorts of thoughts are Alarming but Lochlan worries about all the wrong things. I'm thinking from a beauty standpoint, from a striking distance. Imagine. I can match the colors of my sea but not that visual comfort. I can pull off a lot of things, frankly and this morning I am most proud that not only did Caleb chose Ireland to do his shopping (he used to default to Egypt or Begium for bedding) but he's asked to step in a little harder to make up for Sam's absence. And he asked formally, on his fucking knees, waves threatening to crash over his head, drowning him in hell, darkness and high water for all eternity.

I was so pleased that he asked like that I forgot to say no.

And now I'm fucked.

(That's literal and figurative, if you're keeping score.)

(There's a brain-emptying for your post full moon, Friday the thirteenth. Figures.)

*(The fur bedding has gone to four different wildlife rescue centres in the states. To snuggle up baby animals in need. I'm DYING here. I love that thought.)

Melting our faces off over lunch.

Today we are listening to Skepticism (omg so beautifully slow holy COW PJ), drinking flavoured coffees (found the keurig pods with the GOOD SHIT) and wrapping presents. Both the kids are at work and most of the boys are out so PJ is babysitting.

It's like old times when he would come over to the castle and make us lunch while the kids were in elementary school. He would take very good care of me but Jacob was alive back then and I thought I had it all figured out. Cole was already gone and I thought I found a replacement father and that life would be smooth sailing. I wouldn't have to be sad or afraid any more. I wouldn't have to deal with Caleb. I wouldn't have anything bad happen ever again.

Now the kids are grown, working, cooking, taking trips with their friends, driving and saving money, building credit, being awesome and PJ is ageing but in the way you would expect from a PJ. He has a few wicked streaks of white in his Mark-Morton-would-be-jealous hair and more lines around his eyes now. He quit smoking, is attempting to lose the beer pounds and wears nice button down shirts instead of endless rock tshirts (they are underneath the button downs). He wears sensible walking shoes and has been the rock of my existence, holding me up when I'm a limp noodle, keeping me going when I want to give the fuck up and ensuring my safety at all times. Sometimes I see him when he's having a good hair day and I think damn because he's adorable and handsome all at once.

He's the best best friend a girl could ever have. He's had some benefits over the years and he's lonely but not lonely at all and doesn't wish for change, oddly enough. And he's always quick to remind me that bad things happen and how you react is what matters. It's life. Put on some metal and get the fuck through it and out the other side.

He would have been the perfect husband except for all of the dealbreakers and red flags.

I know, he laughs.

Hey I held out for almost a month so fuck off.

Hope stopped the heart
Lost beaten lie
Cold walk the earth
Love faded white
Gave up the war
I've realized
All will become
All will arise

We sense each other. I'm a tingling-spidey and he's...just the Devil. I could call him something else, as he has asked me too, but it's embedded in his skin and his very being, just like my label, and we're too old to change them now. Grief and time have worn me down, I don't have enough sharp edges to hold onto something new.

I cocked my head and went to the door. Lochlan stirs but only half-wakes as I open the door in time to see Caleb reach the top step. Jeans and a long-sleeve thermal shirt that's a perfect fit. It's a kryptonite of a different sort watching a millionaire try and be 'casual'. He'll never be casual and I'll never feel comfortable in my tattooed skin around him when I probably should be in a ballgown just for tense and context.

(I get it, the song is supremely uninspired and phoned-in so hard it was like someone held up a recorder at a payphone it was playing through. While I will defend them until we're all standing in ashes, you can't deny Ben's (not my Ben) voice doing that thing, that pseudo falsetto he does, like when he sings Heaven please let me through is always fucking beautiful so sorry, not sorry for leaving it on repeat now.)

Caleb looks up and almost goes backwards down the stairs in surprise. Sorry, I-

I know. It's so late though. 

Bridget. 

He doesn't even need to ask further. I turn and hold the door. He may be the Devil but he is ruined and sometimes unable to cope. That's the theme of the Collective, how hard we need to lean on each other to help navigate the damage we have done to each other.

Ironic, but in the dark it's just devastating and now, here we are.

When I wake up it's still dark and he is sleeping peacefully. No more worry lines creasing his face, no more trembling with clenched hands. No more Mr. Evil Guy.

(That's my other fear, that we'll become a parody of ourselves with characters for nicknames, locked in a stereotypical storyline we'll never escape from but one that isn't good enough for a redemption arc or even a re-imagining.)

He is sleeping because he is locked around me and Lochlan is locked around him, a Devil sandwich, already gone bad but still something we crave when we should know better.