Mot-valise (hurry).

 Sam invited us to a private sunrise service this morning, here on the point, a call to all: bring your breakfast out to the gazebo and I'll blow your little ignorant minds and that he did, but not with his words, which quickly fell away in favor of silent awe at the beautiful yellow and pink sky that burned across the horizon and brought Jesus to our souls in case we forgot the way. 

I sat on one of the big floor cushions holding my hot cup of coffee, other hand balancing the plate on my lap. English muffin with raspberry jam and a few chunks of pineapple on the side. Nothing makes food taste better than watching the sun rise while eating it. Not even a sunset (somewhat sad and not hopeful, more like time's up) holds a candle to this. 

I tried to christen the space the Jesubo but they wouldn't let me. 

That's...not a portmanteau.

Laaaaaame, Bridge.

Yeah, just no. 

You didn't just-

Pfft. I go back to sipping the remainder of my coffee. Lochlan pushes against my leg with his knee and laughs easily. I wink at him and smile back and Sam wraps up his mini-service for the heathens without a single bear pun or joke or serious offside meeting about how we can actually keep the bears out (DUH just don't let me forget to bring the feeders in. The magpies were screaming. I had to feed them.)

Amen, we all repeat and begin to gather our dishes, standing up. The rain has turned from spitting to a deluge of icy needles and we run up the path and up the steps, into the house and funnel into the kitchen to clean up our dishes. PJ takes mine and winks. It's his day for kitchen duty and so I escape out the other end of the space and head back outside to watch the rain. I am lifted off my feet and turned around before I make it out the door, however and am planted back in the great room. 

Help me make a fire? 

I stare at Lochlan. One cup of coffee doesn't wrinkle my brain all that much, unfortunately. Is that a euphemism?

Lochlan bursts out laughing. I mean, it can be? But I still have to get a fire going. It's hovering around freezing. 

Oh, okay, sure.

Then we can...you know, make a fire..if you want. He stares at me. Damn. I burst into flames and suddenly it's too hot to think about. 

Jesus wouldn't approve. 

Sure he would.

Not the way we do things, Locket.

Then we should have a righteous fuck instead. 

Shhhhhh. We look around, laughing. Wait. I'm totally game. 

Then get the kindling so we can get this show on the road. We pause, staring at each other. There's an old well-used phrase. I jump up. 

On it. 

He's following me up the stairs not even a minute later. 

Pretty sure I just vaporized my skin trying to light that fire so fast. 

You'll heal in no time.

You're right.

I don't have a Tom Gordon to love. I just have everyone else.

The bear left a wide four-claw slash across the cedar fence behind the stables. Practically the only place on the point that isn't covered by the pervasive electric fence. And another slash on the inside too. He jumped on the garbage can he knocked over, splitting it wide open in his rush to get to the bird feeder filled with seed and suet that I forgot to bring in when it got dark last night.

He growls at me and I talk back. Oh, stop it. 

Another growl and then he snuffles. He's not sure whether or not he should continue to poke around or disappear back into the darkness of the woods. I walk up the driveway after it. I know where he came over.

Get along. Go on. You got what you wanted. I clap my hands and he stands on the overturned, ruined garbage can, reaching up to the top rail of the fence and climbs over. He is gone. All that remains is silence, darkness and the smell of wet fur. 

Bridget. Are there any more? Lochlan stands two feet behind me, under the glow of the side door lantern. He's holding the big tire iron and he's ready for a fight. His voice is fucking tight. He's so angry.

No. Just the one. He knew the snack was there so he came and got it. 

You don't get to do the recycling anymore. I thought the bears were finished for the year.

I left one of the bird feeders by mistake. 

I let you come out, by mistake. 

And yet you're out here too. 

You didn't come back. 

It's a timed activity? 

Only if too much time passes after you leave my sight.

So nothing has changed since I was eight? 

No. He laughs. Not really. But there are bears so it's relevant to not be outside alone after dark. 

I figured you had followed me to continue yesterday's fight.

No, just to watch for bears. As I said. It's dark.

I held my own with the bear. 

No, he saw me with the tire iron and made the smart choice. You're busy playing Stephen King novel with it. 

Maybe. 

Can't do that in real life. 

Well then thank God you saved me from my make-believe. 

That bear was real, Bridge. 

I don't think I am, anymore. 

You feel real to me. Let's go in. The whole yard smells like apex predator. 

That's my new deodorant. It's for men. 

Stopped using the Bear Fight one? 

It's just been rebranded. Same scent!  

Ah! I'll have to try it. 

Sure. I'll share.

What would you have done if that bear had charged you?

Made history, I guess. 

First woman in West Van to get eaten by a bear in her own driveway?

No, first woman to make a bear cry in her own driveway and wander off to ponder his very existence in relation to being the main character of a Stephen King novel. 

I thought the main character was the girl, Trisha. 

That's where everyone is wrong. It's the bear. 

Don't know where we're going but you're coming with me.

I don't require any grand gestures. I can hold my own with Batman. 

Lochlan sips his wine beside me as we stare into the bonfire. It's freezing and raining but we're sitting in the half-moon shelter made from driftwood and the fire is spitting, sizzling and cracking while we bicker, using up all the oxygen on the beach, threatening to send it dark. 

You don't have to prove anything to me.

It wasn't for you, as I said.

You shouldn't make these huge moves, Bridge. You need to protect yourself. 

First time I've seen you advocate for keeping him.

I want you to have a happy Christmas this year. 

I have one every year-

No you don't. You put on a face. It's a show. It's exhausting for you and it's exhausting to watch. 

I stand up and the blanket falls from around our shoulders. Great. Thank you for such a romantic dinner. 

We're not finished. 

Yeah, we are. 

Where are you going? 

To bed. I need sleep. Then you won't be so hard to talk to, I think. 

Peanut, wait! Suddenly we're teenagers again and it's dark and I'm afraid of walking home alone but I refuse to give in. He is sorry he hurt my feelings and so anxious to fix it all but still wanting to be right. We choreographed a life together. He throws his hands up and walks the wrong way down the beach and I just want to go up now.

Fuck my life. I laugh suddenly. None of this was in the rehearsal.

Lochlan turns around. That's the point! It doesn't matter. None of that matters. The show goes on, no matter what. You know this. What matters is that you and I are here together, just like we dreamed. Do you remember? 

Of course I remember. Who's going to forget a hot summer night watching fireflies and fireworks from a makeshift bed of camping blankets in the bed of Lochlan's pickup truck at the end of fair season. He told me when I was finished counting the stars we'd be home for good.

You got them all? He smiles at me. Slowly. Makes me crazy. 

I think so.

Counterfeit superglue.

Every early Christmas season Batman comes out of his cave and checks his watch for the beginnings of the biggest holiday of the year. He sees the decorations and lights beginning to go up and he comes alive. We have a curious dynamic and half the time I can't read him at all. He is closed off. He's the human and I'm the vampire, blind to his thoughts, ignorant of his whims but prompt and present when summoned, as ever. 

Good evening, Bridget. A drink?

A small one. I'm not one hundred percent back from being sick. 

Are you feeling better? 

Yes. Thank you. He hands me a barest centimetre-high whiskey in a glass. Single malt. The best. My favorite, Lagavulin. I haven't even seen any in my travels this year but I try to get a bottle for the holidays. I can lick gravestones to my hearts content, filling my veins up with peat. A true tiny vampire if ever there was one.

I take a sip while he watches me. After a moment he takes the glass and puts them on the table, pulling me in close. A long hug and I feel every muscle in his body relax. Not a rare thing at all and I hold him tight. I get a lot of hugs in the winter. It's cold. 

His hand slides up around my head and I stiffen slightly, not catching it in time to slip past him. 

You're hesitant. 

I haven't been here in months. 

Long overdue, Bridget. Your birthday week was the last visit. Six months.

I should go. 

I'd like you to stay with me. Just for the night. 

What if we didn't.. I stop. I don't think this is going to go how I want it to.

What do you need? 

A friend without...benefits. 

Does it have to be me?

I can trust you. 

He finishes his drink in one gulp, discarding his glass again. Turning away suddenly. 

I don't recall asking for a broken heart for Christm- He stops talking abruptly and I close my eyes and wait, biting my lip. What's changed? 

I'm trying to figure out how to be an adult here. We've had this conversation before.

Is Caleb respo-

No. It has nothing to do with him. It's a whisper now. I just need to do this for me. 

Who does it benefit?

Me. As I said. 

A silence followed that was so long the tides went out and then came back in closer, if only just to listen.

Then I support you, one hundred percent. He turns back around. His eyes are shining but his face is unreadable again. Godammit. This is an easy end. We go years between touching each other. Maybe we will again someday but instead of saying Not tonight I always try to go long with the Never agains. He probably doesn't even believe me because I've done this before. 

Your deposits will continue, Bridget. You don't need to worry abo-

I know. Thank you. I don't argue with him over that anymore. I've tried for decades. 

Can we still spend time? I'd actually love it if you come shopping with me this week to pick up the things I need. 

Yes. And I do really need you. Thank you for understanding.

He comes back to me, pulling me in, bending his head down and placing a soft kiss against my cheek. Go home to your husband. I'll be over at six for Ben (Thursdays Batman comes and assists in Ben's rehab. It turns out I can't go in the pool every day this time of year. My whole flesh suit is cracked and rashy from the chlorine mixed with the dry winter air inside the house). 

I love you. 

He tightens. I do too. I'm happy to be the good guy if you need me to be one, though it never gets me anywhere. 

His bitter laugh sends me out into the dark and his eyes track every step I take on the way back home.

Unpopular.

August and I are making popcorn and preparing to watch the whole season of Dash & Lily in a day. Because we have decided that people suck and everyone who isn't on this point can be pushed away for a while, no harm, no foul. Pretty sure I'm the one being reassured here and he is merely showing me precisely how to engage in a little downtime because just about everything is setting me off and I don't want to see the internet, I don't want to watch the news and I don't want to interact with people. 

When he found me I was under the covers, quilts up over my head, fully clothed and completely unable to be reasoned with. Which isn't an unusual thing, being me but today just feels so much more abrasive and impossible than usual but instead of being inconsolable I am angry. 

Progress, August says with a wink. 

Fuck you too, I rage. But he doesn't react with any surprise and puts his arms out for a hug instead. I hit the wall of flannel a little too gratefully, forgetting to keep up my defenses, throwing my arms around him tight and he asks if I actually got any sleep last night.

Not enough. Lochlan and I-

I get it. You guys need to sleep sometime, you know. 

Why? I laugh. We're having a lifelong honeymoon here. I rub my eyes. Tears just sneak out here and there. I'm a leaky faucet most of the time. 

That's what I want to hear. Where's Loch? 

Sleeping in the solarium. I laugh again. He can sleep during the day. I hate him for that too. 

Then let's find a movie or a show and hang out until dinner. 

Oh, sold. 

You sound grateful. 

Both Duncan and PJ turned me down for this exact thing already today. 

Their loss. 

You're RIGHT. I am AWESOME. 

August's turn to laugh. Yes you are.

Sometimes it's the big things, not the little ones.

Ben and I were out early. He woke me up slowly, sliding his big heavy ring onto my finger, pulling me in close against him under the quilts. I am still punchy, drugged and slow, yesterday was tough for me out of the blue and Ben didn't let go of me once, to the point where Lochlan had to politely request that he lay off for five minutes so he could get a hug. They had a laugh but it's beautifully obvious now that Ben isn't disappearing to work on projects or be introverted like he always was Before. Maybe he'll go back to that someday but for now he is present, barely out of reach.

He went to a meeting while I stayed to read in the truck (The Outsiders! It's the only book on my phone at present) and then we stopped at Overpriced, Horrible But Highly Convenient Grocery Store for a smallish load of groceries, as we ran out of eggs and cookies and shampoo seemingly all at once. We stopped for gas on the way home, in consideration of the coming storm today and now we're home again. All the things we bought are put away and he is putting away dishes now, while I have started the laundry already. I can hear the windchimes every time I venture near a window. The trees are beginning to bend. It's supposed to be a good one. High, damaging winds. This on the heels of last week's King Tides. 

Kind of fun, if you ask me but then again I am home, safe and sound and so is everyone else who lives here. My favourite sort of comfort, truth be told. Put on some lights, pour another cup of coffee, set the music volume on low and be together. 

We have a huge wooden sign on the tree as you drive out of the property. It's on the big cherry tree just above the stables and it says COME HOME SAFE in big green letters on an elm background. That's all that matters these days. 

On the back of that sign, as you're coming in to the driveway, it says OH GOOD. YOU'RE BACK. I painted that part one day in secret and as the boys came home over the next few days and saw it they absolutely love it, though it became a big of a joke when Duncan would walk in the door and PJ would put his coffee cup down rather dramatically and tell him, 

Oh good....you're back, in the most ominous voice. 

After much pleading he let the joke rest, because it's meant to be exclaimed in relief. Not surprise. Later on another sign was added just below the first, on the side you see as you drive in. Another piece of elm, sturdy and warm. It says simply WE MISSED YOU. 

I don't know who made it. No one will tell me but I love it even more than the original.

Such a simple, destructive thing. A stick dipped in phosphorus.

When the morning comes and takes me
I promise I have taught you everything that you need
In the night you'll dream of so many things
But find the ones that bring you life
And you'll find me
That's where you'll find me

I pick up the pieces, cold marble, soothing against my bloodied nails, fingers shaking as I choose the moves that might win (or lose) the game. I am nervous. Stakes are high and I've bitten my nails to the quick and then to the bone, horrifying those around me who watch, anxious for their turn. Willing to risk it. Taking the time to acknowledge that they know the rules. They know it's hard and that in the end winning isn't what's important at all. I'm singing Fade In/Fade Out with halting words, under my breath as he won't let me near the piano and so I am reduced to this, a game played on the floor on a worn chessboard. I am worthy of nothing and everything here. I am the game. I am the queen. I am the pawn. 

And I thought I knew how to play but I don't, sweeping the pieces from their squares in a sudden fit of frustration. They spin away, scattering across the hardwood floor like balls of errant lightning while Lochlan begs me not to sing.

Can't help it. They took the music, this is the fallout. I have to hear it or things will be worse. It's not a promise, just a warning. There's a storm and it's right on top of us and boy we really misread the forecast, missed all the signs and forgot to batten down Bridget's hatches. We got complacent. Got lazy and now I am reduced to this. 

The ghost reaches out and scoops up a handful of pieces. A rook. Both kings. Of course. 

You shouldn't play this game, Jacob says suddenly, his blue eyes burning bright, circles of ocean and smoke.

Hold your fire, Lochlan says, pushing the piano across the floor between us. Giving him time, making a barrier between Jacob and I, a stalling move he doesn't need. He can take the fire if you have it. He can grow it or extinguish it at will and no one is a match for him. No one can hold a match to him. 

Jacob looks at me and laughs. At least someone won their game. 

Did she? Ben steps forward, picking up the board, snapping it in half. It wasn't a fair pairing. The skill levels are unbalanced.

Are they though? Jacob narrows his eyes, matching Ben's tone. They always hated each other. Nothing ever changes. That's the one thing I gave her credit for that no one else did. She can hold her own, you just won't let her.

"You should explain the notebooks." "Yeah, okay."

Hot coffee and music this morning, softly through Ben's big headphones. I still have this fucking headache. It's day four and I'm so done with it. You have no idea. I can't mainline pills. I hate taking pills. I drank so much ice water yesterday. I ate all of the Indian takeout leftovers and there's still more in the fridge. I'm looking for self-care of the highest degree today. Then I'll ignore it and do the same things I always do, which is as much as I possibly can. I'm always more scared it will get worse the next day so I keep moving. All the fucking time.

I ordered my Christmas present yesterday because it was super complicated and I wanted to get it right.

I've been coveting a custom leather traveler's notebook cover/setup for a while but I just discovered the maker I like best has a wallet/book combination so I jumped at it when Lochlan offered, telling me to order what I want for Christmas. I picked my leather, my stitching, my strap colors and added pockets and loops and goodies until I think I had it all figured out. Then I watched all of the unboxing videos that I could find until I was completely sure and then I pulled the trigger. It will be here December 19 and I am excited! It's the cutest and I can't wait. The boys were supremely happy because right now I am using this super ugly planner that is a little too big and has a snowglobe front which leaks glitter everywhere. EVERYWHERE. This thing doesn't fit in any of my bags besides. Not that I dare take it off the desk because goddamned glitter.

(That isn't a complaint, if you ask me, someone who has been known to randomly 'spill' (AKA pour) glitter around just because it's fun to see.

The dog is usually covered. 

He does not mind a bit. 

The boys don't like it in their beards/wallets/trucks/dinner. 

Huh.)

That's my day. I slept in. I now am listening to Relient K. Which. DAMN.  The last third of Who to bury, us or the hatchet is so divine. Lochlan never minds if I play this on the piano, he just laughs. It's not nearly as heartbreaking as other songs, but at the same time it's bittersweet and awful but well executed. 

He plays and sings it too. It's just a question of who gets to the piano first, some days. 

He said maybe he would like a notebook like the one I ordered too. Eventually. 

I can see that. He carries a super old, buttery soft leather cover with a simple pen loop and in it is a moleskine that he writes notes in, draws in. Lochlan's an old soul, this book was his grandfather's and then his father's and he just changes out the inserts when they are full. This is how I became a writer. When I was nine I said I would like one and the next day he came over with a brand-new orange Campfire notebook and a new blue ballpoint Bic pen and told me to carry it everywhere, writing down anything I saw or everything if I wanted. There were no rules. 

So I wrote about, and drew him. 

I still have that book. I keep them all. Cole threatened to burn it. I ended up sewing it into an old jacket, into the lining and I hung the jacket in the closet and then when Cole was gone I took it out and put it back on the shelf where it belonged and it's been there ever since. There's nothing exciting about it. I spent a lot of time describing the seasons as they pass in terms of Lochlan's hair color. Even when we were fighting. I would write that he was awful but his hair was so pretty. 

I still do that. We still fight. His hair still reflects the seasons, without fail. I've learned I am awful too, sometimes.

And I'm finally getting my own fully intentional beautiful and well-deserved notebook, exactly as I want it to be. It even will have a pocket for my phone, room for some of my bespoke fountain pens and the ever-present Bic blue. 

Fool me twice.

Chipping away at finding chords to replace the strings in the soaring bridge of No Time to Die. Billie Eilish sings a great song, does she not? And as soon as I can make it all the way through the first verse without disintegrating I will too. I am permitted exactly five grumpy minutes a day to work on it before Lochlan will lift me right off the bench and make me do something else. 

We're trying to decide if I ever wrote enough information here for one certain new Lifetime movie to have lifted the plot for its 'groundbreaking' (? Oh yeah. Americans have only had gay marriage for a few years, y'all are so lagging) new Christmas movie from me. I don't think I did. It's fairly well-known that Sam and Matt fell for each other and then broke up when Matt took a job in London, furthering his career in the best way while shredding his personal life to ribbons. But then he came back! They reconciled and got remarried and now we have a hard time getting them to leave the boathouse. The movie is called The Christmas Setup and I'll be watching it to see. 

But never did I ever see two people more content to hunker down and work from home without ever once having wanderlust or cabin fever or even a need to go for a damn drive like Sam and Matt. They only leave the house for church at this point. Sam does everything else from home on zoom and doesn't even do weddings or funerals right now, those are done by one of the other ministers in his pool. 

Which makes me happy, actually. I want all of my boys to be safe here in the Perdition Bubble. 

And they are which is good. But honestly I just want to finish working out this song but Lochlan won't let me. He said it's the equivalent of seeing a huge pothole far off in the distance as you're driving and you know damn well you should avoid it but you won't so I'm taking the wheel.

Where we going? I ask, game for whatever he comes up with. 

Outside to decorate for Christmas, he says with a frown. God, he's so serious all the time. I wouldn't trade him for the world.

Wait, isn't that supposed to be fun? I tease him for his expression.

It will be! He growls and then breaks into a laugh.

Meh.

 Today it rained. Today I mistakenly dipped one of the cat's paws in Lochlan's teacup when I was handed both while he did something on the computer. I gathered up the almost empty tea cup in one hand and the cat in my arm and when I got to the top she had a wet tea-covered paw. It was funny but sad. I have a blistering headache and someone's ordered out for Indian food (Indian food for 15 people isn't nearly as daunting as you expect) for tonight so I managed to get my chores done and a little extra stuff (we let the inventory lapse on the big freezers and I will never do that AGAIN let me tell you) and now I can relax tonight and watch movies and eat my body weight in pakoras (a sport, if you will) and my beloved keema naan and then all will be right with the world. I need a really good nights sleep. Today was so early. Ruth had to be up to register for a program and Ben had to be up for an early meeting as he has suddenly decided that he doesn't like the later ones and so off we go at five each day which is too early even for me. 

And I get up around then virtually every day. 

But yeah. Stupid headache won't budge an inch. So I've had more aspirin and once I eat I can beg for a neck massage from John or Duncan or even Ben and then I will hopefully feel a lot better. Sleep should be programmable. It's 20freaking20. In the meantime I am watching the end of Unus Annus. Some of it is hilarious. Blame Ruth for this but it's addictive.