Revolving shore.

He was here for over a month, feeling his way through the fog and rain, tripping over my moods, veering around the boys with their lack of privacy but keen spatial awareness, who come in right close when you need them and hover on the edges when you don't. Here for a month trying different things and having good talks and feeling productive only to be faced with my uncontrollable, reluctant stonewalling in the next blink of his brown eyes. But now with renewed lockdowns here and a fresh wave of the pandemic, he is headed home.

Bye, Everett. 

In any case, we had a good time, he gave me a fair amount of new perspective and he also made me somehow more keenly aware of things I had refused to acknowledge before. He and Ben had a good reunion, and Duncan too, who probably needed some time with him more than anyone, as our poet goes so easily off the rails and needs to be talked his way back. He went to the same place Ben went and loves Everett to pieces too. 

Ben has once again needlessly yet profusely apologized for throwing Everett into the Collective. He said he had a sudden inspiration and wanted to do something. 

Especially when there are ghosts in the water, ghosts on the beach, ghosts in the orchard and ghosts in the dark, Bee. His face belies his jovial tone. Hahahah it's so funny but I'm scared, is what that says. 

He is grateful his problems are black and white. He said as much, more than once. He understands so much about me but at the same time the part he doesn't truly understand frightens him. It frightens all of them, save for Caleb and Lochlan, for the most part, even though that's a lie and it frightens them too.

But they simply switch gears and operate as if I am a child and it works great, an endeavour that most of the others refuse to engage in and that's when they retreat to the sidelines. It's practiced motion to them, and it works and that's all that matters.

I told Everett not to feel sorry for me. 

Look around. What is there to feel sorry about? 

That you don't feel comfortable in your own skin. 

I never have, so it's not like I know what I'm missing. 

He grinned, tightly enough that I caught it but not enough that the expression didn't reach his eyes. I got a big long hug, then Ben got one too. Then Duncan for good measure. 

***

Ten minutes later the doorbell rings and I thought maybe Everett forgot something. I haven't had time to check his rooms yet to make sure because when I am free I will strip the bed and the bathroom of their linens and make the room up for the next guest, whenever that may be.

But I open the doors and it's Ransom. 

They're going to finally finish the pool. He has everything, sorry for the delays. It's a new architect, same company and once we sign the papers they can start/resume/DO SOMETHING. 

Where is Emmett? I consider telling him we just had an Everett leave and what is with the old fashioned names? I love it. 

He has covid. 

Really? 

He's fine. Asymptomatic but he'll be off until at least the twelfth or maybe it was the twentieth. I can't recall.

Anything we can do for him?

You can message him and ask. 

I'll do that. 

Are you doing this build now or is Caleb? 

I can. 

Alright. May I unpack this here or in the kitchen? 

Here is fine. I pull my mask out of my pocket so he can show me what he needs to. He puts his own on and comes into the foyer.

He gets out all of the plans and paperwork and his iPad that will have a finished render of what this all will look like. I sign everything and he says abruptly that he doesn't need a deposit. I confirm, as I already paid it to the company when they made the previous ugly pool enclosure. I told them to keep it as part of the new one. 

Ransom looks surprised that I know what I'm doing. He gives me credit for nothing. Yes, alright then. We'll resume this weekend since the pouring has had ample time to set.

It's Easter. Seriously? 

That way it will be finished by the ninth. I have a big project beginning after that. 

This isn't big? 

This is ridiculously huge. That's why I need it done before the next big one. 

Well, don't rush. 

The schedule is fine. It's not a rush job, Bridget. 

I'll get Caleb to weigh in for you. I may not be able to give it all of the attention it deserves this week.

Got him. He visibly relaxes. Appreciate it. We'll be here Thursday to start. I''ll let Caleb know the time. 

(Jesus fucking Christ, Ransom.) Sounds good. 

Take care, Bridget.

Bye, Ransom.

***

Duncan is incorrigible and lights up a blunt the moment the sun goes down. We are watching a movie together. Don't worry, he did great in rehab and is down to one or two smokes a week. He's never going to give them up completely but he polices himself a lot better than he used to and he is too cute to fight with about it, though Ben doesn't find that and fights with Duncan every time it comes up. 

Bye, Dunk.

He is asleep twenty-five minutes into the movie so I turn it off and go to see what Dalton is doing. Dalton is the night owl. He is reading and makes space for me to come into his bed and cuddle with him, which I do gratefully. It's cold downstairs and I'm still in my warm-day clothes. 

Or I was, anyway up until that moment. Dalton has other ideas.

Driven by love.

Nolan called me yesterday morning to check in. He had garnered some influence and found me the private plane I needed on short notice when money didn't cut it but friendship did. I could have waited six or eight hours and had one. I did not want to wait. Ten days was enough. 

Ten days is nothing, Nolan barks. That guy should have stayed away forever. 

Then why did you help me? 

Because, Bridget, I would do anything for you. This was for you. He can go fry in hell. 

It stings, though. Just enough that I pull up some armour and say my goodbyes from behind it, slightly muffled but all attempts to be polite just the same. Nolan doesn't let me off the hook but at the same time he's exceedingly gently. 

Bridget, just because you want something doesn't mean it's good for you. Don't forget that. If I didn't have faith in the boys to keep you safe I wouldn't have helped you out at all. 

Yes, you would have. 

No I wouldn't. Look what he did to Ben. What if next time it's you? You're a third of Ben's size. You wouldn't survive it. 

He would never hurt me.

He already did. That's the problem and Bridget, they're just trying to help you any way they can but you've put up a defence of a monster and that's a mental illn-

I have to go. I stare at Caleb while I talk. I love you. Thank you. I choke out the words and hang up.

 I don't know why I'm awake. I was up until four this morning breathing into a paper bag, or so it seemed perhaps I should have been at many points, not the least of which the one where Schuyler helpfully pointed out on the way to the tiny airport where Caleb's plane would be landing that didn't he have to quarantine if entering the province from another? 

A few tears and a mad scramble on our phones and finally confirmation by the airport that as long as he's entering from another province and hasn't left the country, no, he does not. 

We got out of the truck and waited by it, seeing the plan taxiing around already and then it finally stopped and it took forever before they lowered the staircase and he was walking across the tarmac, head down. Not looking at any of us. Looking fierce. Looking exhausted. He stole a glance at Lochlan and went straight to him, embracing him full on. Lochlan is rocked back two steps, bringing Caleb with him. I can't hear what they say to each other but it's a close hug. A positive one. Caleb puts his bags down and finally looks at me. I fly into his arms, off the ground, strangling him with my arms tight around his neck. He squeezes me so hard I squeak and then he puts me down but doesn't let go. 

I was willing to do whatever it takes to make you feel safe, Neamhchiontach. 

Then stay here with us. Where you belong.

It took me the better part of two hours to work through the numbers I have and the resources those numbers provide but I managed to snag a plane in order to surprise my Diabhal.

It's me.

Is everything okay, Bridget? 

Look, I know you just got there but gather your things. Your flight leaves at three.

Who did you speak with?

Nolan, of all people. He still doesn't like you, but he loves me and that's all that matters.

Bridget, we agreed on a few months to see if things got better.

I didn't agree on anything.

The chorus of madness.

I found what I was looking for. One tattered caveat that states that if I see the landslide coming from far off I can overrule everything. 

And it's here. 

When I think about changes I want in my life this is not one of them and I am not a willing participant to this extreme method of dealing with my special brand of trauma. At this point things are too far gone. It's not as simple as Everett thinks it should be (or Lochlan wants it to be). It isn't something I'm willing to entertain anymore. It's just not. 

And it's fine if it's a further symptom of all of this. It's fine if it isn't okay and I've made my peace with it and mostly they have too now. And somehow every time things try and get fixed that is the elephant in the room that everyone goes after, instead of the ghost. 

I won't let go of him either, truth be told. Not anymore, though I would like to figure out a way to keep him from just magically appearing. The worse things get in my head the more he does it and that is how I know things are bad. And I do know why they are so bad but I also think this is a special case and turning trauma into tragedy doesn't work for me.

They'll agree, for a time. I am really high-functioning, after all. Maybe a little too high and so it's alarming when it slides sideways, out of the blue. I am the impending natural disaster all the time. You think you're prepared until it happens and then you panic. 

Bless all of them. I love them so much. And I think in my case, in particular, the ways I have learned to cope with things I can't control is through love and that's the best possible outcome right now. 

We had a meeting last night. I laid all of this out to be inspected and considered. I pointed out the obvious pitfalls, traps and the fallacy of safety. I pointed out roles, rules and regrets and reminded them all of time being the one thing here that we can't control and also the only thing that proves my point. 

It's been so long. So, so long now. 

And so I am there last evening subjugating the entire army and no one could argue with me anymore. They're not going to push so hard after this week. Their attempts to find me some peace and Ben's attempts to kindheartedly repay me for something he doesn't need to backfired gently enough that we missed the sound. I have no blame for anyone. Lochlan has been trying since I was eleven to fix this and he's tried just about everything and then some more but this is a grievous, colossal, complicated part of me now that is too protracted to fix and the deal was comfort at all costs while I live out the rest of my miserable but beautiful existence at his (the Devil's) expense. It can't be fixed. It can't be helped, cured or driven out. I'm not possessed in that way, just in every other way. 

I'm not flexible on this, the way I am on virtually everything else. 

I will not negotiate the terms of my very existence and I won't suffer any further heartbreak under rules that I made, and I now remind them that if anyone doesn't agree based on what I've laid out that they are free to go, but oh I will miss them. 

But if they can't live peacefully with these decisions then the door is there. 

I would miss them so terribly, though, and it wouldn't be fair at all and to that end they also can remain here and live in this odd comfort, this brotherhood. My army. 

And no one moved. Not a soul. I stood back and watched as the wall fell on them, blocking any escape, covering us all in the weight of the past and we grabbed for each other's hands and just held on.

Thanks for clarifying, Poet.

I've resorted to staring at my own reflection in the window. I'm having a reluctant hunger strike. Food is the last thing on my mind. Smiling is a chore. The weight of my face is too great. There is nothing to smile about. May as well take the other one too and finish me off. Take the ghosts (Jake is still here but so quiet), take the dreams. Take it all. What's the difference anymore?

Hey, Bridge. 

I don't turn. I look tired and I don't want anyone to see it.

Just to set the record straight Lochlan was the only one who voted for him to stay. 

I turn slowly. 

He said you would break. He was adamant. He was scared to death. He said you were in love and that it wouldn't be much different than any other tragedy at this point and he begged us to change our minds but we didn't We either hyped each other up or we were looking for an easy solution. 

But he took the blame. 

He's that kind of guy. He's never going to say it wasn't him, or he didn't do it. You know that. 

But he's in charge. How did this go through-

It was unanimous, Bridget. We all said yes. He doesn't have veto over that.

I thought he did. 

Well, he doesn't and he was willing to listen to us, maybe he thought he was too emotional to force the issue. Maybe too close, if there is such a thing-

There is. 

Then that would be him, right?

It would.

What did you have for lunch? 

She had an olive. That's it. I've been watching her all morning. PJ the Rat. Remind me to keep a closer eye on him. Sorry my appetite is gone. Must have left when he left. I told them it was a bad idea and now they're wondering what's wrong. 

What's wrong? I told them all what would be wrong but once again grand experiments and their inevitable, crushing conclusions must be enacted and then reenacted until every last person admits defeat or their faults or the truth, whichever impulse they hit on first out of so many. Feelings are fireworks and it's always a holiday here on Point Perdition. 

Jesus Christ, Bridgie. You need to eat. 

I'm not hungry. 

Doesn't matter. 

I'm not doing this right now. I go outside. It's six degrees in the sun, if you're lucky. If you can find it in these dark clouds. Most of them I self-generate. I'm very proud of my cloud production. They are dense, high-quality VantablackTM clouds and good luck if you're caught in my storm. 

Lochlan follows. Peanut. I just want you to stay healthy. 

Jesus, Lochlan. I'm an adult. It was one meal. I had a granola bar an hour before! Sorry. 

He relaxes. Interesting because I lied. I didn't have breakfast either. If I eat I will throw up so I'll fake it until they notice because I can't afford to lose any more weight or I'll be a ghost too. 

It's not forever. 

I don't think it'll be through the weekend, actually. 

What do you mean? 

I need him to come back. You promised and you lied too so we're even but this is where he needs to be.

Bridg-

Just call him. 

We'll have a meeting. 

Great. Another meeting. Should be productive. 

What's the matter? 

EVERYTHING.

(Welcome to our spectacle, carny rides eccentical.)*

Yes, I still go outside in the orchard with my headphones in my clown jumpsuit (no mask though, I have it but I can't breathe in a mask while dancing) and do the whole diamond clown #17 dance from this video.

Hell, yes, it's cathartic. Hell yes, I have the suit and let me tell you, it's heavy. This is a better warmup and more exercise than just about anything else in the universe. I don't want to pedal a bike to nowhere, flip tires or do reps. I want to dance. And since everyone laughs when I express interest in doing Bhangra, this is it for me. I have found my niche and it's no surprise it involves clowns, is it? I freaking love clowns. Whoop whoop.

***

The party's over now because the rain has started in earnest. I don't even want to stand outside with the dog but the woodstove is glowing red in the kitchen and the groceries are bought and put away and even the eggs are in the new egg basket in the fridge and so my chores are done and I get to draw and paint for the rest of the afternoon and drink coffee and eat fresh croissants and then snuggle in with Lochlan to hopefully finish American Gods. At least that's how I see the day in my head now that I'm too tired to think too hard. 

*(Today's title is from Tilt-A Whirl, which is an equally fun song to dance to, FYI.)

Lent: week five.

Sam's come out of hibernation with the first day of spring. Present and combed, beard trimmed short, collar pressed, a new feature on this odd bug, noted also are the matching shoes, picking up the browns in his shirt and his hair. 

Are you objectifying me? Judging me based on appearances? 

Maybe. I wink at him but it's with effort to be jovial, generous. 

How are things? I feel as if I haven't seen you but I'm trying to step back and let the others have space to work with you. 

That makes me sound like some kind of avant-garde art installation. 

I hope you'll take it as a compliment, then. 

My eyebrows go up but I don't say anything. 

You look sad and exhausted, Bridge. 

Oh, he's just going to walk in and thrust his torch against every soft, flammable surface today. I try to put it out with tears but then he yanks it back. 

I'm fine, actually. My shaky hand gives it away as I try to wipe the lone tear that's headed for the floor suddenly. 

I didn't mean to upset you. What can I do? 

Got your crystal ball handy? 

God has great plans for you, Beautiful. 

You sound like someone I used to know. I laugh bitterly. 

Things are going to get better now. 

No, Sam. We're just going to wait. And then things will go back to the way they were. 

I hope they don't. What about you? 

I wish there was an easier way. 

***

Ben's hand comes up against the back of my neck in the dark. The wind is howling through the window, blowing the curtains wildly against the glass. Blowing the flames against the edges of the night. He pulls me up against him, his head bending down against my shoulder, a kiss I can't return as I am pushed back down flat on the quilts, turned over by the hips and then crushed underneath his weight, a casualty of Ben's hunger that now looms large but more sporadically than before. My cry is stifled by his hand over my mouth, pulling my head back up against his chest. His head is against the top of mine. I wonder if I'll die this way. I tap his forearm and he lightens his grip on me by more than half and I can breathe again. 

He picks a slow and steady rhythm, pulling me down on the upstroke and up on the down and it hurts so beautifully I hope it lasts all week. His hand slides down underneath me and soon I am in a frenzy against his hold, and then again. And then again, with fresh tears as the frustrations of the week go up in the smoke from the fire. 

He turns me back over, resuming his customary gentle-roughness, his oops-didn't-mean-to-break-that barrage on through the night, his attempts to make everything better. I hold on so tight, arms around his shoulders, my face held against his heart now, legs around his hips as he scoops me up hard against him, taking me to outer space a few more times before he comes with me to see the stars before he finally gives me a long kiss and lets go. It's cold for a mere second, enough for me to catch my breath and then Lochlan pulls me in close. Ben disappears and Lochlan's practised hands take over and by the time the sun comes up I have everything I ever wanted, including sleep, having slept jammed underneath Lochlan's chin, my lips against his Adam's apple, his arm thrown over my back, my arms tucked in between us, the customary, longtime position, consummate safety.

Jesus springtide.

The regret came with the sunset, the usual time of day when everything hurts more, stings harder, feels worse. The homesick hour. Whoever named it Golden Hour never met my mind because it's a searing ache that catches my breath in my throat and leaves me in tears if I'm not busy while it's happening. It's been that way since I was very young and Bailey was suddenly too old to be sent with me to the family farm for the summer and suddenly I was the only child there, working in the sun, standing in the living room watching the river as the sun set over the hills and wishing I was with someone who understood me. The moment I hit double digits I started spending summers with Lochlan and he turned them into a magical time of day but I still fight against that weird feeling of complete and utter abandonment. Bailey and I are not as close as I wished we had been. We're too far apart in age but at the same time she was more of a parent than our parents and I miss her every day.

I miss him too. I picked up my phone and stared at it. A single word message this morning confirming safety on the other side and I haven't responded. I am to forget. I am to try. I am to follow these new rules only I don't know who they're for. Him or me? What's the point of all this again? Oh, right. Improvement in the immediate, alarming issues and then a head-start or a fresh start or a new start or whatever the fuck this is. I don't know. I don't care. 

I pick up my phone and type a reply and then I erase it. I type another and then I erase that one too and it's like he knows I'm here. Another message pops up from him. He probably saw me typing but then nothing went through. The second message is just a heart.

Oh, he's trying. This is good. I send one back, off the hook, out of the fire and the frying pan and I turn off my screen, putting my phone in the pocket of my sweater. 

***

It's dark finally and we got through a mountain of early-spring yardwork. It's a new season. It's another fresh start and I am throwing myself into doing good. Into doing better. New music, new haircut, new jacket. New mittens. New gardening gloves and new shoes. A whole new me. New church on the podcast but piped through the big speakers while we listen and eat our breakfast in the easy silence of a rainy Sunday. New season. New hurt.