Firsts (Don't read).

(They were concerned he might fall in love with me. While they were busy doing that, I fell in love with him. My fault, as ever.)

You're everything that's so typical
Maybe you're alone for a reason
You're the reason

Caleb wasn't as understanding as Lochlan. It's not so much that I don't want my Collective to find love on their own, without me, it's that Sam is fairweather in deed but loyal to the bone in words, it's that Matt has proven to be selfish and shortsighted. It's that Sam has already had his guts ripped out three times by this man and when he needed comfort he came to me.

All Caleb saw was that maybe I needed something that was missing and he took advantage. Locking the door, holding me against it, off the ground, by the throat, taking things I wasn't planning to give him, setting me back a thousand years in distancing myself from who we were back in the day when those things happened regularly, and there was a different power dynamic. He never fails to remind me that he is bigger, meaner, stronger and that if he squeezes hard enough he could put the lights out forever.

And I am to forget about Sam (slam, against the door).

And if I need anything I'm to go to him (Caleb). (slam again, I can see birds flying around my head).

And to stop teasing everyone when I'm otherwise committed to him (slam, and a world of blinding pain that kind of feels a little good, to be honest).

The squeeze is just hard enough to make breath the only thing I suddenly care about and everything else darkens into the background. When he is finished he just opens his hand and I drop to the ground, losing my footing, falling into a heap on the floor. He pulls me back up by my bad arm, squeezing it in the worst place and stands me up again. In my face. Rage still present and not dulled at all, typical Caleb, who can hold a grudge easily with one hand while punishing you with the other. You're supposed to let it go once you've made them suffer.

I snatch it out of his hands and tell him to leave me alone.

Waste your energies on someone who doesn't even have a stake in this and I'll leave you alone alright. I almost killed you just now. Don't think I won't. You're making us look like fools, Neamhchiontach.

Right. Neamhchiontach! Sam won't listen to reason so I resorted to visuals. So he doesn't forget what he already has here.

Stay away from them, Bridget.

You don't get to tell me-

I'll bring your husband in on it.

I'll cut my whole fucking ear off and tell them you did it. 

He comes back and puts his hand out. I flinch violently and his eyes soften as he tucks my hair behind my bad ear. Neamhchiontach, they wouldn't believe you anyway. If I wanted to hurt you, I would. If you keep up this tantrum over Sam, I will.  

You should have done it years ago. 

Would have missed too much fun.

Circles.

What did we talk about, Bridget? 

Fear of abandonment, Joel.

Cling forward.

(Hi, I need a therapist.)

(Actually, I told you I needed a lobotomy but you haven't listened.)

It's as if my brain and I have never met this morning, as it specifically chooses a teal wool, somewhat tight dress that will be warm for church that's also a little too much for church, if you get my drift. Sky-high nude patent heels and a loose chignon complete the look.

And my brain tells me, a virtual stranger, that we'll make that fucker salivate the entire time he's giving his sermon. As if Sam will be caught off-guard or even distracted by my looks when he has Matt sitting front and centre.

My soul sucks it up and reminds my brain not to be stupid, that three months into Matt's return, after almost a decade now of them running hot and cold (resulting in a tepid, untenable bath, I say) I am going to be professional and wish him the best and facilitate their relationship any way I can and not fuck it up because I'm missing Sam as a casual friend-with-benefit, or something like that.

Lochlan will agree with professional-me, but then again, they both tend to be jerks sometimes, and very disapproving when it comes to Tiny Wild Bridget, who was once told and then told again, in case she forgot, to do whatever she wanted. 

Lochlan and I are both cranky though. Losing an hour of sleep is like losing a lover (HA, drinking doubles over here), and Lochlan spent all night doing wet work, scraping my heart off the highway, off rocks and trees, off the sky, revealing the stars underneath, twinkling again. He brought the pieces home in a cart and spent the remainder of the dark hours putting them back together, welding some parts strongly while delicately stitching others, resulting in a tenuous organ that he presented to me at sunrise, with a stern reminder that I am going to continue to be happy for Sam and Matt, that I can suck it up and still get as many hugs and talks as I like, but that Sam needs this and wants this and I need to get out of the way. That any leftover energies wandering around the point looking for something to attach to can be turned inward, to us.

It was a jarring, stinging, harsh lecture that was sorely needed for perspective and my heart is grounded now, obeying a curfew and a crushing set of rules that it finds comforting and protective while my brain screams to LET HER OUT.

It's like Freaky Friday is taking place inside me, and my heart and brain have switched sides.

It's just grief, Lochlan says, but he can't take his eyes off this dress.

So wear it for him, my heart says kindly to my mind and I nod to no one in particular.

And then after the sermon, during his wrap-up notes and reminders and schedule for everything from the further cancellation of Children's Church and Walk In The Would programs, and considering putting sermons online (oh dear. We aren't techy. A podcast maybe?) so people can worship in the safety of their homes if need be right through Easter, Sam announced that he and Matt, after reuniting several months back, would be getting remarried this summer and to join him today in celebrating love in the modern age, a difficult yet rewarding journey that has been a rollercoaster-test of his faith and that he is very happy and wishes to share that happiness with everyone in his congregation. That they have worked together to forge a new future after several false starts, and he wanted them to hear it from him, instead of a mill churning out endless rumors, as our congregation has been known to do in the past.

Everyone clapped and cheered and I burst into tears. Lochlan looks at me and said, See? You're happy for them. You're crying. 

(Right. Because he didn't even tell us first.)

Fealty to, and from, a fool.

And you promise me
That you believe
In time I will defeat this
Cause somewhere in me
There is strength

And today I will trust you with the confidence
Of a man who's never known defeat
And I'll try my best to just forget
That that man isn't me

Sam left my heart burnt-out on the side of the road, abandoned in a remote part of the mountains so it will be days or even weeks before it's found, rubber all over the road from where he swerved, driving it without a license, without insurance, without permission.

No, I didn't.

Sure you did. I'm biting back tears. I refuse to let him see that I'm crushed and not angry.

I'm trying to fall in love. Like you did. And Matt's a stranger to the rest of you and since Lochlan's still on the fence about that and about me in general I knew it would be okay if I pulled back for a bit.

The smoke is pouring out from under the hood now. The doors are all open, flames lick the windows from the inside out. She's going to blow, better get back-

Right. Got it. I am clipped, biting my tongue so hard I'll be able to use it for an excuse if I can't dam this impending flood-

That's not to say that I don't miss you, Bridge. I'm just trying to make this work.

This is fine. (Taylor Swift quotes can stand in for me losing my shit.)

We can talk. It doesn't sound fine. I think you need-

I know what I need, Sam.

Everyone wants what you give them on a permanent scale. Give me my chance.

I am. I did. Matt has nothing to do with me. I feel used. He comes along and you don't love me anymore.

Oh, baby, no. I love you. Look, you still hold precedence over him. Burning building, you know. He smiles kindly, that's how I know they lie.

My heart blows up then, a homemade bomb, sending stitches exploding outward, blood soaking the trees, turning the dirt road black underneath his feet, my furloughed, original memory thief, no longer trusted with my thoughts, my body or my faith.

And it hurts.

It hurts a lot.

Fucking up birthdays, part two.

The small Jeep is much like driving a roller coaster, as I've said, with it's incredible level of death-wobble that is perfectly normal and readily fixed by simply relaxing a bit. I'm so used to luxury trucks and super-tight sports cars that I forget these things. 

I took Caleb out in it last night and we drove up the highway in the dark and the rain, windows down, blasting The Gorillaz' Clint Eastwood on the stereo because I keep forgetting to bring my own music out and there's no blueteeth in sight with this thing. The song was announced on the radio, and after listening for a few minutes I found it somewhat hilarious.

Now picture it on the beach, I told him when he finally unwound enough to smile, instead of hanging onto the bar strap for dear life while staring at me as if I were a stranger.

I mean, I am sometimes. Right?

He nodded, picturing me as a stranger, picturing us in the Jeep on the beach maybe, as I had asked him too and now I think he gets it. Or at least I hope he does. Either way it's fun. Either way it makes me feel like me and not some sugar baby rolled in edible glitter.

He asked repeatedly if he could buy me a new phone, new Jeep, new life, whathaveyou, refusing to acknowledge the answer that I'm good, thank you. Money can't fix twelve hours of your life setting up a busy personal phone for use, unless you pay someone to do it for you. Money can't make you feel like you're driving in the dunes, alive for the first time in years, it seems.

Sure it can, he interjects.

Money can't stop the rain. 

Oh, but that's where you're wrong. 

It can't make your birthdays what you want them to be, I say ever so gently, fearing a rage that could just eat the stereo, rip the top off the Jeep and throw me off the side of the cliff into the water.

Sorry, what was that? God, this thing is loud, Caleb says, sitting back and shaking his head.

 I think he likes it.

I think he'll come around.

Ten hours later and I'm...not done yet and I hate everyone.

Shit's about to get real. After five faulty devices in a row I (meaning Lochlan) has had enough and I have to reset my phone as new. I'm a huge fan of just restoring from a backup oh...forever.

I'm also a SLIder (or a witch? An indigo child? A...WEIRDO?) so huh. Phones, watches, streetlights, car fobs, televisions, they don't work around me. Not the way they should, anyway.

I guess Loch will get his (not at all redundant) confirmation of that soon.

Did you back it up?

Yes. I synced my photos and then emailed myself my notepads, period data and soundhound searches. Then I wrote everything else down.

HA.

Want to keep these?

What? No.

Kodi?

Uh.

For the tv.

Right. No.

You used to need it.

I don't know how to turn the tv on anymore.

There's a button on the fr-

The input, I mean! I can't find the input. I's fine. I can watch things on my laptop or the ipad.

True. What about-

Do they still sell flip phones?

Bridget.

Yeah, I know.

Bensday, my favorite day of the week.

Hah, come on prove me wrong
Tell me I'm not crazy
Or maybe just a little bit
Maybe just a little bit crazy
But mostly prove me wrong

Last night Ben put his t-shirt on me to keep me warm but that's always foreplay for him, me in one of his giant tees, bare legs, neck of the shirt falling off one shoulder. He pushed me gently back down and climbed over me, and just as we got rolling he grabbed the front of the shirt, twisting it up into one hand until I lifted right off the bed and then he sat back and did things the easy way, pulling me into him. When things got too crazy, he pulled me upright, ripped the shirt off me and finished me off in his lap, joining me for a little serendipitous Ben-dark, which is the only kind I like, truth be told.

That's a weird thing I realized a long time ago. I'm terribly afraid of the dark. But not with Ben. With Ben it's his default. Everything looks better. Everything makes sense. It's so normal. With everyone else, Lochlan included, I hold my breath until I can turn the lights off and still see. Lochlan had to resort to forcing me to focus on the tiny coloured lights of the fair and fireworks and flames until I could find a way not to back myself into a corner and cry until sunrise. I don't even want to say definitively that he succeeded, the jury is still out on this, depending on the day.

Ben puts his shirt back on me, snuggling me back down into his arms, whispering words I can't even make out against the top of my head. I can use his heartbeat to fall back asleep and the soreness in my legs to warrant more rest, and we are out.

 In the morning he gets up early, kisses my cheek so gently I want to cry and showers and leaves, heading to a meeting and then returning only to disappear into his actual world, as this one is a dream in name only.

At least that's how it usually goes.

This morning he went to a meeting and then brought home egg mcmuffins and hash browns and coffee, and we had breakfast in bed, me a walking t-shirt with legs, him a huge handsome fully-dressed-in-bed kind of guy. We stretched our legs out straight from sitting up against the headboard and if I point my toes my legs only go to the bottoms of his knees if you draw a line straight across the bed.

His eyebrows raise but he says nothing, enjoying sipping his coffee and giving up his favorite t-shirts.

I think I'll take the day off. 

Really?

If the rest is as good as the past few hours then I'd be a fool not to. What are your plans?

Spring cleaning, taxes, painting. 

So I should or are you too busy?

You definitely should. Everything else can wait. 

Or I can help you and we'll get it done twice as fast. 

Okay, do you want to paint pictures for the book or do taxes?

I can clean. 

Do the windows? 

On it. But he isn't. He's on me again, because like I said, he loves me in his shirts.

How is this doing windows?

Window to your soul or something, he says, pushing the hem of the shirt up to my neck, starting all over again.

Good enough for me.

Rushing to sanctify my soul.

What happened to us
I heard that it's me we should blame
What happened to us
Why didn't you stop me from turning out this way

And know that I don't hate you
And know that I don't want to fight you
And know that I'll always love you
But right now I just don't

Champagne bottle in one hand, other arm outstretched for balance, I am reliving my dreams walking the tightropes of saltwater-soaked logs on the beach while he watches from right out on the point where the tide threatens to touch his bare feet.

The bottle is heavy and I'm drunk at five am, off-balance and ready to be applauded by the sun as it crests the mountains, picking up speed on its plan to illuminate my heart.

I take another drink because fuck it, if the bottle is lighter I can stay up here longer and Jesus, I miss my life. I miss sleeping until noon, stealing food and charming the lost souls that came looking for entertainment, not even realizing that we were about to grift them for every spare dollar they could find.

I close my eyes and the room goes dark, the crowd noise fading away as I focus on Lochlan's voice.

Until he starts yelling.

I open my eyes and he's halfway down the steps, hollering about something, but probably about the fact that the sea stacked these logs on my behalf and they're not safe.

Caleb turns around and tells me to continue, that Lochlan's going to pin every last wrong of the world on him and really we can choose to cower at the sound of his anger or we can live free. He's fifty-seven today and this is our third bottle of Good Birthday Champagne because?

We can, he says and laughs, stepping backwards into the surf and soaking the legs of his jeans.

Wow, I might not be the only one drunk down here. Cool.

Lochlan takes the other end of the log, crossing to me in seconds. He takes and tosses the bottle at Caleb (not overhand but I bet he thought about it), grabbing my hand in a death grip and then his weight shifts what was a perfect good challenge and the whole thing begins to slide sideways. He pulls me with him and we're off the end and back on the rocks just as the logs collapse back into the water. Had I remained where I was I would have been crushed or drowned. Had he not added his weight to an untested wire there wouldn't have been any danger to begin with but if there's blame to place Lochlan's going to bury you in it. He has no room for semantics, he's as black and white as Jake used to be.

Wait, he's the original and maybe Jake was a lot like Lochlan and Lochlan wasn't there anymore and maybe that's how I got sucked in, like I would have gotten sucked into the sea under the logs as they shifted, throwing my whole routine. The sea lions don't mind, but they're not paying for entry either so I don't put any stock in that.

As always. Go for the marks, he said and I did and now he's mad.

Punch-sleepy, more on the bees.

Baking cakes at six in the morning is a love affair of a whole different kind, perfectly normal in my snowglobe-universe, and if you shake it today you'll see nonpareils float down through the air instead of glitter. Pearl sugars are my other favorite decorating medium when it comes to kinds of sprinkles, as edible glitter leaves a weird texture on things and you know what? I missed my calling. I should have been a cake boss.

I am a cake boss, of here anyway, but mostly when it comes to eating.

Tonight's dinner is a surprise but a solid favorite and something I can make. Tonight's dinner is a relief after the lack of contact last night left everyone breathing easier, no longer concerned that I may return in tears with my other ear bitten half-off, no longer tense and clipped with each other as olive branches are easier to eat than betrayals. They are less tough with no hard outer shell to crunch through. They digest, as it were and for the time being everyone is jovial and kind. Brotherly, even.

Which is sad to say because brothers are brothers no matter what, except for in this family, where the moniker of Brother is bestowed and kept only if you make Bridget happy. 

But I don't fault him for that. He's really doing his best.

Stay in bed, Bridget. I'll make it worth your while. He's kissing bees again. He's named them all. Beauregard, Wyatt, Luke. Butch. Butler. Will. Earl. Cowboy names.

They're all boys?

They're all worker bees, and you are their queen. 

Oh my God, that's so cheesy, Locket. 

Cheesy-bees?

Are you drunk?

No, I'm tired. Why are we up at six in the morning to bake cakes for the Devil again? Dinner's not til seven tonight. 

They need time to cool. 

HE needs time to cool. 

Hey. 

Yes?

Not today. Let's make today nice. 

I wish he'd step in a swarm of be-

Lochlan!

Fucking up birthdays, part one.

The unmistakable sound as Sam said my name, calling me back into covenant, bathing me in the light of Jesus before I even set foot in the church. When we arrived I (all but eight years old here, as ever) took off to visit with the overly-friendly chickadees that enjoy my pockets full of sunflower seeds stocked on purpose for them now on days when I go to church. For once it's not cold and pouring rain but based on the general state of spring here in the rainforest, Sam is keeping church indoors to save himself the liability of someone slipping on the rocks. Our own steps at home are dipped in green and murderous with moss. You would think it would be great since it looks so incredible but it's simply nature's deathtrap, a fight back against building inorganic shapes in an organic setting.

Caleb has graciously deferred and I let him. Now isn't a good time. We'll host a family dinner with cake and speeches but a private birthday date is off the books for the time being. He's not short on basic affection but I'm trying to hold myself together here and the boys are still skittish about his teeth and based on everything and nothing lately we're just going to maybe wait until later in the spring. He is concerned that he'll end up as Batman has, being pushed off indefinitely.

I gave up Batman the same week I gave up haircuts, and it has indeed been over a year. My hair is almost halfway down my back and I don't have the complication of yet another man to muck  up all the things that seem to be going to well right now.

I can skirt around the hole. I can pretend I don't see the ghosts. I can appreciate and be so grateful for this one fiery soul who lays it all on the line, handing me his flaming heart, expecting so little in return.

So little that I gave him everything and exposed myself to him. He kissed every last bee in turn and pulled me in against him, not letting go until the dark faded back into the light. He's bit his lip and let me fumble, let me try and make decisions and let me learn and grow and figure it out and I love him for it. It would have been easier and safer for both of us had he just been heavy-handed and succinct but that's not who he is.

And I feel like I've grown. As messy as this is, with my heart handing off small pieces to break and share, a reluctant communion, my blood pounding through the veins of everyone here on the point or so it sometimes seems, with the offers to give it all up and hope for the best or lay it all out and see if it works he is cautious but open. I've never been able to figure this part of it out but he asked once if I remember the saying if you love something set it free.

You came back, he said. We've had this conversation before, Peanut.

Because I'm yours, I remind him without reservation.

Because you're mine, he repeats with a smile.