Put her in a box (broke up with my boyfriend).

Choose your words
Choose them wise
For they will lead to your demise
Take my life
Take my faith
To stop the tears that run down your face

If there was any doubt about who runs the world here, I can put that to rest today, having campaigned for (and won) Gage's return.

Gage who has a very stable, quiet life here on Point Perdition and made a terrible mistake, but a mistake nonetheless. He was sober, he was vindicated by the security camera happily charging away on the kitchen counter (aimed squarely at the table where he clearly asks me several questions), he wasn't setting out to take anything, to exact payback or to quell some uncontrollable urge and he has no history of violence in his life. Even as kids when he and Schuyler fought, Schuyler would swing for the rafters and Gage would block but never return the favor. Ever. This much we knew before. This was one of the reasons he was an easy fit, always. He's passive.

(He's not fucking crazy like the rest of us.)

He gets no fault for being awkward either. His apology, made to the entire point two days ago sans children, and the fact that he is blood, coupled with his incredible and swift horror at what happened when I turned around all gave me enough data points to present a convincing argument to not banish him.

And it worked. We're going to stay together as a family because we are a family, and if there was any doubt that he is part of the Collective it's been answered now. Answered by the concerted pool of tears that began as a pond and grew to an ocean until we were all treading water, loathe to let each other go.

But of course I'll be avoiding him for the time being. I am angry and surprised, still. Shock takes a while to wear off. I am disappointed he didn't try to make it about us, leaving it about him, and I'm horribly stunned at the thought that I was fine with it, because I thought it was Caleb being angry and I know that's the worst part of all. Caleb's bottomless, misdirected and unpredictable rage, his treatment of me, both physically and emotionally becoming accepted practice in our relationship, in our lives, while Lochlan has fought it every step of the way, hating our relationship but leaving it in deference to my naive, selfish wishes and blinded wiles.

I should listen to him but as an adult I always feel like I should use my newfound power to defy him constantly, because I can.

Lochlan is crushed but he forgave Gage. He did not, however, forgive Caleb. I doubt he ever will.

Oh my GOD.

I'm FINE.

STOP IT

Pots, kettles.

You know Ben used to have this under control. I was always standing within reach of him and no one got near me without his approval or supervision. He had it nailed down and then he got busy and he got tired and Lochlan's always been protective but maybe not as concerned as long as we're both home or around or whatever and between Caleb giving me medicine to help me sleep and Gage's error I think if you need me I'll be behind Ben somewhere, hiding for the rest of my days.

I'm not entertaining any yelling or threats or attempts to educate me on what happened. I know what happened. I was there. So fuck off with your emails, thanks.

He tried calling me. Seventeen times or so in the past couple of days. He sent a very long apology over text and then a completely different one to my private email. He finally called Schuyler and asked if we could do a facetime, with Schuyler present and Schuy refused. Schuy is barely speaking to him. Caleb is threatening all sorts of things. He thinks Gage lied and never said a word, just snuck up on me but Gage wouldn't do that. I think Caleb is also super angry because I automatically thought it was him. The worst part for him is that he rarely turns me away for it any more. He wants to see my face.

I sat in the empty spare room this morning for a bit. Gage was quiet, under the radar. Respectful. Helpful. A night owl though, for certain. We rarely saw him before early afternoon and during the night things like dishes would spontaneously move from the sink or the counter into the dishwasher seemingly as if by magic and I think Schuyler loved having family here, as Ben certainly does. I'm worried that he'll disappear or worse. I would have given him anything he asked for in a heartbeat so I know in my heart he was flirting and took it way too far but I hope he knows I don't blame him.  For god's sake we discussed it once. This is the house of free-wheeling mixed signals and open bleeding hearts. It's easy to screw up here but it's also the most forgiving place you'll ever find.

You know, if they ever let him come back.

Nietzsche's true man.

I was so thirsty I couldn't stand it anymore. My throat is raw and aching. Advil didn't cut the pain, and water did nothing. By two in the morning I was frantic and resigned at the same time so I ducked out from underneath Lochlan's arm, pushed away the extra elbow and knee Ben had thrown towards us as he sleeps soundly on his back on my other side, pull on Ben's long t-shirt, discarded on the couch an hour previous (it's still warm) and head downstairs in search of my beloved witching-hour orange juice.

There isn't any left in the kitchen so I venture into the butler's pantry. It's down the hall just before you reach the bathroom and then head down the steps to the side door. The row of windows in the hall is uncovered. Rain drives in sheets down the glass. It's so loud.

I check the other fridge and am rewarded with a new jug. I pour myself a glass and put the jug back and then take a long drink in the dark. My throat instantly feels soothed and the sugar flooding into my blood feels right. I decide to take my glass upstairs with me and pick it up to turn when I am pressed into the counter, arms sliding around my shoulders, taking the glass, putting it down so I don't drop it.

A kiss lands against the back of my neck and I smell clean soap as his hand clamps over my mouth (and nose) resulting in a struggle that I lose, as I am lifted up and bent forward, facedown against the counter, my head on the cool granite. My t-shirt is lifted up and then he is inside me, piercing me and I can't breathe and I keep fighting until I am unable to move at all. Everything hurts.

His elbow hits the glass and it falls over, spilling the juice out in a wide circle as it rolls across the counter to the edge and smashes on the floor. No one's going to hear it. We're in a whole separate wing. He bears down harder still and I feel tears leaking from the corners of my eyes down over his hand. I am sad that he just takes what he needs. I would have gone to him had I known. I don't know why he has to follow me into the dark and then leave me behind in it all the time. I don't know why his default state is monster. I don't know why it works so much better between us when it hurts-

I don't know why he won't let me breathe. He hikes me up higher, harder against the counter and as he comes I whimper involuntarily and he slows, pulling away, sliding me back down painfully, turning me around. I fight him. I close my eyes. I don't want to look at him. Don't want to know this is what he still is. I'm so tired of his evil-

Bridget. Are you okay? I said if you walked into the pantry like that, just wearing a shirt that I would follow you. I just came down for a snack and then I saw you and started talking to you-I thought you were vexing me when you didn't resp...Oh my God. Oh my God.

I didn't hear a word. Didn't hear a thing. The rain was drowning out every warning sign and I didn't even know Gage was there.

***

Gage is gone already. He didn't say goodbye. As far as I can see he didn't take any of his things either, though for all I know most of this belongs to the others, like the acoustic guitar and at least two of these flannels folded neatly on the back of the chair. Schuyler tells me they'll get the rest of his things together and simply refuses to answer when I ask where Gage went, telling me only that he doesn't live here anymore. He rolls up his shirt-sleeves as he stands in the guest room, sets a grim expression and tries to be patient with me.

Right, he was only back in the main house due to the quarantine-

He doesn't live on the point, anymore, Bridget.

This isn't his fault-

Silence isn't consent. Jesus Christ, Bridget-

It wasn't malicious, Sky. Tell him I'm sorry-

That doesn't matter. My stupid half brother propositioned a deaf women in the dark when she was alone and didn't hear him and then took advantage. HE fucked up. Not you. He'd be lucky if he didn't get jail time but we'll see how generous the rest of them are about this.

They would go to jail first. I remind him. I was twelve years old. 

You were eleven, and that still doesn't mean he can stay here, does it?

The ninety-day Jesus diet.

That's what I called it as Sam met me at the door this morning, looking for some of that bad coffee I described so mouthwateringly yesterday and seeing if I wanted to tag along with him to church.

Me, wearing Lochlan's Journey t-shirt, one thigh-high sock with Chococat on it, no less, bedhead even Jesus might be ashamed of this morning and bite marks Sam simply can't see, mostly because they're on the insides of my legs but also because they are light.

Baby-heathen.

Baby-preacher. Don't want your Jesus-germs.

I can pray for your soul?

Double-down on that, would you? Where's Matt?

In the car.

Have fun.

Love you. He kisses my horrible morning-breath mouth. And for the record, Jesus is the perfect diet. He fills you up and keeps you content for a lifetime and then some.

Then I'm on the Lochlan diet. He does all that and more.

Idols, Bridget.

You know how I roll, Sam.

He smiles softly and the rain starts to drum on his head as I close the door in his face. Sorry, Jesus. I'm going back to bed.

In the palm of your hand.

Last night I took my crown, polished it all up nice so that it would sparkle in the firelight, put Wings on the stereo and did the mother of all stripteases for Lochlan, who hasn't seen those kinds of moves for twenty years and probably wouldn't appreciate it if you asked him straight up but what do you know? He joined me in the fun, bringing the bottle of wine with him.

Let Me Roll It, indeed. It was appreciated and I did that thing where I woke up sideways in bed, my hair so tangled in his fingers that I may still have to cut it. I bit into his chest in two separate places hard enough to leave little morning-teeth marks and he looks deliriously content on this rainy Saturday morning while he sips his coffee. We took Ruth to work early and got some coffee on the way home and I'm still practicing being good at this, this carrying around a  big paper cup with a plastic lid and I keep forgetting it's there.

This isn't a thing that I do, I complain when I wonder for the fifth time where I left the damn thing.

Me neither, he laughs. On the show we were used to tiny styrofoam cups full of watery coffee-type liquid and it made me have to pee all the time (still does) and it tasted so good I'll never be able to replicate it but I try, which involves not trying. Use shit ground fine coffee, not quite enough of it and a regular coffee maker and it comes pretty close and it's a big heaping serving of nostalgia in a cup is what it is. As was Let Me Roll It in the dark and we're at the point in the week where we can lean our heads together, clink those crowns lightly so that they sound like bells and smile at each other stupidly because sober is best or something like that.

Though we split the wine so not even that, honestly. 

He always likes the parts of life best that don't involve the devil. Who can blame him? I can't.

(Joel calls it 'avoidant-coping' and says it keeps me right here when I should be way up front by now.)

I'm not avoiding Caleb per se, I'm just putting in a little distance in order to foster a little understanding, as sometimes old history shades new lines and we need to not do that at every waking moment.

Bridget. My name as I come out the door and make a hard right to head downstairs. I turn and he's there, looking half like a hungry devil, one-quarter deer in the headlights and one-quarter the only teenage boy with a driver's license at the lake.

Are you feeling better? I want you to know I'm sorry for the mix-up. I had these left over from when I wasn't sleeping and when you said that you were tired I thought these would help-

I'm a little better. This fucking...trembling is taking a while.

I didn't mean to hurt you. He looks into my eyes, ducking his head sideways so that we are almost on common ground.

I know.

They don't.

They'll understand when the moment wears off. I reassure him.

I don't want you to leave me. It's so quiet I think I misheard.

What?

I know what the experts say. I know it's supposed to be damaging to be in a relationship with me but we've come so far and I feel like you've accepted me and that maybe I have helped you to overcome some of the fear.

(Some of the fear. Okay, true. Some.)

But I also know it's a big hill to climb and I'm going to be here helping. I'm not going to make things hard. I really thought I was helping you.

Okay. I'm tired. Tired of listening. Tired of standing here. Tired of fighting back. Tired of dealing with him and I want a break from his endless pressure, his neverending demands for confirmation of importance. He is me only I'm sweet about it but I need the reassurance just the same so again, he's completely off the hook and I continue to love my monster just Not Right Now and he's noticed this. He knows he's in the doghouse, he fucking KNOWS IT.)

Okay?

Yeah. I have to go pick up Henry.

I can do it.

It's fine. I don't want to be late though.

Hey.

Yes?

I love you, Bridget and you know I will do anything to make this up to you and we'll do it together.

Okay, I say it again like a robot. So pleased with himself he hardly notices the black tarnish he has levelled on my crown.

BUSTED.

Kelly Clarkson is getting divorced.

I asked August if he knew and he said he already got the Google alert.

The what?

Oh, nothing. Yes, I read it this morning.

Oh.

(For the record, Kelly, he is cute, single with absolutely ZERO baggage and is a realllllllly good catch and he's been in love with you for like fifteen years so I can vouch for his authenticity.)

(Also I can never thank August enough. She sings in my range and I've been using Because of You and Already Gone to warm up my vocal cords to sing on Ben's projects for at least a decade now.)

Sheltering in place.

It's the simplest thing. A list. Make a list of everything you love, Peanut. It's a suggestion he's been taught to make, and he knows exactly when it's going to work and when the time isn't right.

I smile weakly. I love these. They remind me I am just as important as everyone else, even as I founder in the surf, treading water while everyone else swims easy laps, closing the gap between their physical form and their legacy, and I'm busy looking for an unreachable star to hitch my wagon to, to quietly ride out my life in the quiet of the dark.

You. I love you.

He smiles back. I trace his mouth in the dark. Halfway through he parts his lips, taking a breath in. It's profound and he's rocked by how incredibly deep we run. Uncharted ocean floor. Sky isn't even the limit. How we found our way back to each other I'll never know, when it seemed like fate was determined to cleave our futures in half cleanly.

I get caught up on loving this one thing, looking at his face in the dark, needing nothing else right at this moment. This moment that reminds me of when we were so much younger and we didn't know life was coming at us like a freight train and we wouldn't have time to get out of its way.

I love This Beautiful Life and Falling Slowly. I love House of Leaves. I love the color green and I love Vietnamese food. I love my children and my boys and my garden and my pencils and I love these mornings when we don't have to rush. Lilacs. Eating vegetables straight from the garden without washing them first. I love paddling on the ocean and the dog and music-

You love coffee too?

Yes. Of course.

I supposed you'd like to have one.

I would, but only if you'll have one with me.

I'll be right back.

Bi(valve).

I cut my foot this morning, waking in the wake at the edge of my life where experience threatens to flood the sea because it knows bettter, but the sea laughs and covers it anyway, choking off its air. I slipped on a rock in my tiredness and jammed my toes into a crack that was chock-ful of mussels. I flung my arms up for balance and recovered, not falling in the water, sacrificing my flesh instead, making for a deep cut underneath the edge of the three biggest toes.

I guess my sober-her-up beach walk is over.

Ben hoisted me up for a piggyback ride back up to the house, where blood dripped off the ends of my toes all the way home, a scary ride as I turned around at one point on the stairs to look behind us and there was nothing but sky. I turned my head back around and held tighter to his neck. We stopped at the patio and he went inside to get the first aid kit but then I realized it had to be washed so I followed him,  limping and went straight to the kitchen. He lifted me up onto the counter so I could stick my foot in the sink and wash it with soap and warm water. Of course it's full of dishes. He puts them all in the dishwasher and then gives the sink a quick spray and scrub with bleach and then very tenderly cleans the cut and my foot and sings a little under his breath so that I am quiet, listening.

He's good at this. Lochlan would have hollered indignantly at me the whole way home to be more careful. Lochlan hasn't had the benefits of having his moods eroded with substances like the rest of us. Especially those of us who didn't realize she was actually fucked up on Klonopin and not easy-predictable Xanax and is still fucking high as a kite. I think I'll give the rest of them to Lochlan so he too can walk in slow motion through this burning building of our lives, not worrying about a fucking thing. 

Because it's glorious.

Ben dries my foot and holds the paper towel tightly over the cut to try and stop the bleeding. I bet it's small. They bleed the most, I point out helpfully. Like paper cuts or needle punctures.

Ben shakes his head. I think I may have to get a second opinion because this is going to split right open the moment you put weight on it.

What is? What's wrong? There's Lochlan. He used to be so calm and assertive. He could quiet my nerves and he knew how to fix everything. But that was then. Maybe we should give him the klonopin for lunch.

Just a nick from the shells, I tell him.

She's fine. Ben assures him.

Lochlan leans way down and kisses the bottom of my foot. He plays off Ben. Ben sets the tone, everyone tries to play it cool around him. It works well and so I'm sticking by him.

That cut seems pretty effective. And it's raining now so maybe we should have a movie afternoon upstairs.

Only if it's naked-pizza-movies!

Lochlan looks at Ben and cracks up. I'm in if you're in.

Man, I love seeing you naked, Ben says to Lochlan before he laughs and rolls his eyes. It's been three hours since the last time.

A lifetime, Lochlan says wistfully.

Should I find something else to do? I remind them I'm there.

No you can continue your detox with us but if we get frisky just stay out of the way.

Too far, Lochlan says to Ben.

Yeah, I know. Ben laughs easily. Worth a shot. He winks at Lochlan but Lochlan misses it entirely. His concern drowns all the jokes and the impending flood moves overland.