Wednesday 20 December 2017

Named for the most beautiful time of year in Newfoundland and rightfully so.

I couldn't handle today so I tried to soothe myself. I had a broiling hot bubble bath this morning, a leisurely breakfast of coffee and fruit with cheese, I read three pages of my latest book (Hoffman's Rules of Magic) and messaged Lochlan a hundred and fifty times but he'll be out until past lunchtime and can't come home earlier because there's an emergency at the job he doesn't have, concerning the work he doesn't need to do. I glared at Schuyler when he breezed through, and I turned down Daniel's offer to take me to get my nails done. I'd rip them off. I'd bite them anyway. I can't self-soothe, I don't know what I was thinking.

I got halfway to the boathouse and abruptly changed directions, cutting off the bottom of the driveway and heading straight across, to the garage. I went up the outside steps and knocked gently.

August opened the door after a minute, wearing yesterday's sweater and pajama pants. He was still sleeping. He looked as if he was forcing alertness and held the door wide so I could come in.

Coffee?

Let me make it, I tell him as he does a quick circuit cleaning up dishes and books from the living room.

Go ahead.

Don't clean up on my account, I tell him as I stare down the Breville. Hmm. I don't even know where to begin here.

I'll do it, Bridge. Have a seat.

Why are we formal?

Today or in general? You and I or people nowadays?

You and I today.

The weirdness that usually follows the confirmation that someone has moved up in the hierarchy, I guess. They become a pariah and we become the losers.

And where do you think you are in this?

He laughs. I'm supposed to keep the questions coming.  Not you.

Does Sam bother you?

Of course not. But he refuses to acknowledge his roles. He chooses at will and when in one mode he'll deny the other even exists. That's dangerous.

Or is it naive?

Probably that, yes.

You can talk to him.

No, if I do he'll assume I feel threatened by him.

Oh. I'll talk to him then.

He'll discount your observations as defensive or unqualified. August makes an apologetic face and then collects the two mugs to bring over. That was fast. I take a sip.  Oh. I might not ever leave. But then that would cause more problems.

Milk?

No, it's perfect. Thank you.

He settles in next to me, throwing one arm around me, holding his cup with the other. I get a kiss on top of my skull and that's the signal he gives for me to unleash the beast that is my mind all over the floor so he can pick up pieces and small glittery bits, turning them over in his hands, holding them up to the light, bringing some into focus while pushing others away. It's a puzzle and he can do it in his sleep. Better than Jake, better than Lochlan. Better than Sam. Better than Claus and Joel combined.

And certainly better than Bridget.

After I finish I settle in, letting out a long breath and he starts. Rearranging things out loud, thoughts, memories finding new places to rest, shining new lights on old things, finding a way to soothe me that I can't replicate without him. His accented voice turns into a constant lull, like a hum and my eyes get heavy, chin reaching my chest, finally at peace with everything. For the moment. For now.

He stops talking and gently takes my cup, bringing me back to wakefulness.

Better?

Almost.

You should go home. Loch's truck just pulled in.

He's home?!

Yeah. Go see him and get a nap or something. You're both exhausted lately. Then send him over for coffee later.

August?

Yes?

Thanks for being here. For the record you still rank over Sam. Maybe over me too. Talk about haunted. My self-disparagement is costly and always shows so dreadfully in my eyes as I speak of it.

We can all be even, August says. Ever the diplomat. Ever the constant. Ever the rock from the rock and we love him for it.