Falitag07: Hell yeah, dude.

L (Guest): I most certainly appreciate that, lol. Honestly, such kind words fill me with joy. I hope not to disappoint in the future.

Guest: Always happy when someone pops in with such a lovely review. Many, many thanks.

getlostandruncici: I do apologize for waking you, lol. And I am so very grateful for your recognition of the little snippets. That is, by far, the most gratifying. As always, I thank you so very much for taking the time to read and review.

ponderhouse: Well, I am certainly most grateful. And, of course, for you taking the time to read and leave such a lovely comment.

Guest: YAAAAAAAASSSSSSS.

Author's Note: I don't usually revel too terribly much on the reviews, but it always warms my heart when people take the time to comment. So I thank you all. And as far as replies go, they are listed in order of reception.

In regards to this chapter, I wanted to provide some insight into the much-asked for background of Paige. Enjoy, all.

"You showed up." The simple statement haunts me. Rots me to my core. It should be taken as flattery, shouldn't it? I should feel somewhat honored that Paige would stick around on my account. But I don't. Instead, the various meanings of such a gesture float around in this confusing mix of emotions. The past couple of months play like a movie in my head. The frequent transitioning from hot to cold. Open to closed in a split-second. Every damn signal, regardless of intention, that Paige has thrown my way follows me around.

Into bed. Class. Meals. Everywhere.

They even follow me to swim practice. Throw me into a complete daze. Utterly unaware of all that surrounds. Like, here we are, doing some warm-up laps, when I look a couple of lanes down. In his swim cap and goggles, BHB is slicing his hand across his throat. Then gesticulating wildly. It takes a moment, but I also become aware of the muffled, distant sound of my name being called. "Emily" comes from BHB as well, whose hands are now cupped around his mouth.

Then it happens. Thwack. A hard smack is delivered to the back of my head.

I'm shell-shocked from a momentary stupor into what feels like a potential coma. Behind me, Paige stands along the edge, massaging her right hand. "Get your head out of your ass, Fields," she instructs. Granted, her direct order is muffled as well, due to the high-pitched ring that's settled into my ear.

After a particularly sloppy practice, BHB hangs around just outside of the locker room, wearing the smirkiest smirk that a person can. "Amazing how one shred of news can throw a person's whole game off," he says.

"Amazing how full of shit one person can be, too," I return, looking across the room at Paige. "She acts so fucking coy all of the time. It's like a superpower."

BHB proceeds to hum the familiar "Na-na-na-na-na-na-na.." I don't stick around to hear him finish with a theatrical, "Batmaaaaaaan."

Instead, I follow Paige out of the pool's back doors. She cuts across the lawn to wear we spent the other afternoon planting trees. Where I successfully earned some very painful blisters.

"If you're here to complain, I must advise against doing so," she calls out, emptying a canister of water over the mounds of dirt. Harsh vibes aren't good for the little ones."

I assume the "little ones" to be the newly-planted recipients. "Actually, I—"

An index finger is smushed against my lips. "Who also happen to be sleeping," she whispers dangerously close to my face. I nod for one reason or another, allowing Paige to take hold of my arm and lead us deeper into the surrounding foliage. When we're fully swallowed into the mass of orange, brown, and red, she inhales sharply. "Trees."

"Yes, trees," I thoughtlessly agree. "But I came out here to—"

"You did mission work in Haiti, right?" she interrupts again.

"More like Habitat for Humanity type stuff," I say. "But yeah. Anyway—"

She nods. Strolls off and waters the base of another tree. Returns. "So you're into that stuff? Care about helping the poor and all of that bullshit?"

"Yeah. All of that bullshit," I breathe, annoyed at being cut off yet again. "Though the letters of recommendation for college aren't so bad, either."

"So you only care about stuff when there's something in it for you," she says rather matter-of-factly. Not a question. An accusation.

So I return, "If that's not the pot calling the kettle a shallow bastard."

Thankfully, she grins and raises the canister of water to me in a toasting fashion. A breeze soon settles in, and I seem to have forgotten my original intentions for being out here. So I stand, looking out into the grove. Paige does the same. We just soak in the quietly still chaos. In fact, I get so transfixed at one point that I don't realize when Paige turns on a heel and marches off across the lawn.

In English class the next afternoon, my thoughts are pushed aside by the argument over interpreting a quote that Paige and another girl engage in. "Open honesty is the key to any lasting relationship," the other girl bluntly points out. "It's really no surprise that they didn't work out."

Paige begins openly laughing. I recognize it as her bullshit-calling laugh, but the others merely look on with confused expressions. "It's phenomenal just how wrong one person can be," she says.

"You've obviously never been in love," the girl quickly retorts.

"And you're obviously a pretentious cunt who couldn't recognize a metaphor if it punched you square in that hillbilly mouth," Paige returns.

Ding ding. Round one. Fight.

The teacher claps her hands. "Okay, girls," she says through an awkward, forced smile. "Let's hear each other out, and then everyone can decide for themselves which viewpoint is most accurate." She waves a hand at Paige.

Coughing and sitting upright, my roommate folds her hands atop the desk. "What homeboy is trying to say is that trust cannot be trusted. That trust is a total bitch. That trust will wipe your bank account clean and move across the country, taking your three children with it," she singsongs. "Because when another person knows your deepest fears and darkest secrets, they have the power to destroy you. Willingly giving someone that power means either a) your dumb ass doesn't mind being hurt, or b) you're naive enough to believe that they won't hurt your dumb ass."

Nobody says anything. The teacher, after forcing yet another smile, asks all of us to raise our hands in accordance with whose interpretation we believe to be correct. Almost everyone raises their hand when the girl's name is called out. I'm the only person who sides with Paige.

We break for lunch, where I see to it that Paige doesn't come within arm's reach of our classmate. BHB is at our usual table, already digging into one of at least seven tacos on his tray. Paige quickly reaches over, stealing two. "Can you believe her?" she begins, taking a bite. "'Open honesty is the key to any lasting relationship.' Spare me, dude."

"She does have a point," I bravely chime in. "You both do."

Paige crosses her eyes, points a thumb at me, and looks to BHB. He laughs. "Speaking of points," he says, reaching down and opening a binder. A neat stack of stapled papers is brought forth. "One opinionated essay on the necessity of comic books in the modern teacher's lesson plan. Beautifully-written, if I may add."

She flips through it, nodding as if impressed with each typed page. There are at least ten. "A gift for all of your hard work," Paige says, returning one of the stolen tacos to his tray.

"Hold the phone," I quickly interject. "Bobby, you can't just write the essay for her. How else is she supposed to learn?"

Paige's hand then plasters itself to my cheek, pushing my entire face away and toward the ceiling. "Is it just me, or does Fields need to get her priorities sorted? Learning?" she asks. "Like, has she seen that outfit? Denim is so not the new black." I hear BHB chuckle again, but it stops short with the sounds of heels clicking against tile.

"I hope I'm not interrupting," Dr. Evans says, to which Paige releases my now sore jaw.

"Not hardly," the girl returns. "We were just discussing the importance of our modern-day education system."

The doctor grunts and nods before stating, "Paige, if you don't mind, I'd like to have a word."

"I'm listening," she mumbles, biting into the taco once more.

I'm not sure why, but the hefty sigh Dr. Evans releases is rather bothersome. Especially when she accompanies it with a temple rub. "We've just received word from the Rosewood Nursing Home saying that your grandmother has been in something of an accident," she begins. Almost instantly, Paige stands, dropping everything that she once held. I tense up, not because a piece of tomato ricochets off of the tray and lands on my lap, but due to the seriousness that my roommate takes on. The crease in her brow. The equal worry that spreads across her face. The anguish that is barely suppressed as Dr. Evans continues with, "It was nothing major. She took a fall and walked away with a broken hip."

"Okay," Paige answers, taking controlled breaths. I know how pivotal it is that she remain in control. Held together. Cool. "But Fie—"

"We already know," the doctor interjects. "The shuttle has been arranged to take Emily and yourself to the home this afternoon. That is, if she so pleases to tag along." I hesitate but eventually nod, purely on the basis of Paige's pleading eyes. "And ladies, if we can agree to hold off on the public wrestling matches, I'd be most appreciative."

When both of them walk away, I look back to BHB who nods in understanding. "Go ahead," he says. "I'll take care of the mess." I smile in thanks when he catches my attention once more. "No interrogations, either. Not now." I smile again. "And Emily, take care of her, will you?"

"I'll do my best," I breathe, just hoping that BHB will quit talking. This time, he smiles.

The hour-long ride can't end quickly enough. The entire trip, Paige bounces nervously in the seat next to me. She takes hold of my knee with a crushing grip, cussing the driver to drive faster all the while. We eventually make it, and she darts off of the bus as quickly as I can stand.

But she doesn't immediately go inside. Instead, Paige darts across the street, earning a handful of blaring car horns, and rushes inside a gas station. Moments later, she returns with a plastic sack full of foreign objects.

Everything drastically slows down once we enter the building. Paige, who was anxious a mere two minutes before, has shifted her demeanor. I accredit this to the multitude of elderly people that swarm her just as soon as our feet touch the foyer's carpet. I stand to the side, so as not to be trampled in the stampede. Paige handles it coolly, though, doling out bite-size candy bars to those who approach. And when every wrinkly pair of hands holds an individual chocolate, she peers into the bag and announces, "WHO'S TAKEN THEIR INSULIN?" The hands that shoot up are met with a second helping.

The dust settles, and a waving hand ushers me farther into the building. We navigate hallways, pass doors, and come upon an open room. Inside, Gram lies in bed, a white bandage draped over the left side of her body.

Her face brightens upon our entrance, and no words are exchanged until Paige fishes into the plastic sack a last time, producing a magazine. If Gram's face was bright from seconds ago, then it's a fucking fireworks show now. She opens the cover, which just so happens to have a muscular, posing man on its front. I assume it to be one of those bodybuilding magazines.

"This doesn't appeal to you?" the older woman asks, sparing all meaningless conversation and showing one of the flimsy pages to Paige. The girl's features squish together, her lip pokes out, and she shakes her head. "Crazy, crazy child."

We exchange small talk for the next little while. Paige questioning how the accident occurred, Gram delivering a tough-nosed answer about the man not keeping her down. At some point, while not involved, I wander across the hall. There's another open door, so I peek inside, discretely watching on as an older gentleman wrestles with his candy wrapper.

I come to his aide, tearing the plastic open with my teeth. He proceeds to gently tug at my front two, urging that I enjoy them while they're not detachable.

It isn't another moment before raised voices come from outside. "Isn't this quite the surprise?" a raspy voice asks.

"And not the pleasant kind," Paige snaps.

I dare to poke my head out. Nick, Paige, and a woman in a business suit are gathered in the hallway. Their voices are now hushed, but the tones speak loudest of all. I foolishly approach, halfway expecting an introduction. No such thing occurs. Instead, the breathtakingly gorgeous woman's eyes cut at me, back to Paige, and again to me before spitting, "Excuse me, but would you mind giving us a minute?"

Paige's face insists that I do so.

"Seems that they're back at it," Gram admonishes when I take a seat at her bedside. She lifts the magazine from before, showing me an oiled-up man who flexes in a provocative stance. "You either? Nothing?" I shake my head and quietly chuckle. A minute passes before she asks, "So you go to Paige's school?"

"Something like that," I carefully answer.

"And you'll be attending Stanford as well?"

"Unlikely," I quickly say, peering through the large window behind. Their words are muffled, but the McCullers clan carries on with equal angry verve. Paige waves the slip that I recognize as her college application in front of the woman's face. She skims over it, shrugs, and hands it to Nick. His reaction is the same. "Are they always this…pleasant?"

Gram scoffs and tosses her magazine to the bed's end. "Honey, I've been on this earth for quite some time, and this is probably the most humane interaction those three have shared."

"Stepmother?" I ask in regards to the woman.

"Would make better sense, wouldn't it? But sadly, no," she solemnly says. "Do me a favor. If you ever see me treat my little Nicky that way, feel free to start swinging."

I smile, nod, and am about to question the nature of their relationship further when Paige reappears in the room. "I believe it's time that we leave," she says, hugging her grandmother. The woman checks her arm like the last time we visited and whispers something into her ear. With a grim smile, Paige leans over and places a gentle kiss to Gram's forehead.

It's begun raining outside, and I quicken my pace towards the bus. Paige, on the other hand, detours farther into the parking lot, slowing as she nears a newer-looking sports car. Suddenly and without warning, she takes a deep breath before kicking the door as hard as she possibly can. "Mother." Kick. "Of." Kick. "The." Kick. "Fucking." Kick. "Year." A voice calls out from afar, but the words have no effect, for she quickly flips their deliverer off before kicking a last time. When all is said and done, a car alarm blares into the building storm and a fresh dent is left.

With the eye of a deranged animal, Paige darts around within the vehicle's vicinity. Scanning the ground. Looking for something, it appears. "Where's a battle ax when you need one?" she asks no one in particular.

"A battle ax?" I return, words muffled as the pelts of rain hasten.

She groans. "An ax suitable for battle, Fields. Pay attention." Foolishly, I begin believing this to be the end of her tirade. Her efforts thwarted. Her emotions possibly calming. Wrong. Because Paige surveys the area and shrugs before practically whispering, "Fuck it."

Now, in modern teenager-speak, the statement could be translated as one of indifference. One of leaving things be. But in the expansive language of Paige McCullers, "fuck it" is best defined as such:

Fuck it: [fuhk it]: (verb): the act of climbing onto the hood of a car and stomping one's mother's front windshield in with their foot.

Thankfully, instincts kick in (for lack of a more appropriate pun), and I snatch her backmost belt loop. With the strength of one hundred Spartans, my middle finger ferociously tugs, sending Paige in a backward fall off of the hood. And in one fluid motion, I catch her and bear hug my way around the girl's top frame.

She struggles. I somehow ignore it entirely and drag her halfheartedly thrashing body toward the bus. The very way Dad once held Mom when a woman cut line during Black Friday shopping. "No ma'am," I continuously grunt as he also did. And once we're affront the shuttle, I release. "Isn't this—I don't know—a little irrational?"

Thunder grumbles overhead. A bolt of lightning cuts across the darkened sky. Rain falls all around. She tries pushing through, but I stand firm, blocking the girl's path. "Move, Emily," she mumbles angrily.

But I don't. "I'm afraid I can't do that."

Then, with the biggest look of disgust nailed to her face, Paige scoffs. "Oh my—" she croaks, voice catching as she bites her lip. "You're taking her side?"

"No one's taking sides here" I calmly return.

She shakes her head in disbelief. "Wow, Emily. You're a real piece of work, you know that?"

"And you're acting like a child." When Paige tries maneuvering around me a last time, I'm forced to block her path again. It's painful, though, watching someone so angry while remaining so fragile. Even more painful is not allowing her a release. Standing here, in the rain, and remaining silent while she so clearly wants me to say something. Verify what she's feeling, perhaps? Tell her that it's okay to feel this way. That it's okay to hurt. Instead, my big dumb mouth asks, "What could she have possibly said to make you upset?"

"It's what she didn't say," Paige says, mouth quivering with each syllable. "It's what she's never. Fucking. Said."

The discussion stops as quickly as it started. A security guard has since ventured out to her mother's car, examining the damage. Paige doesn't stick around, though. She's too busy scaling the bus steps two at a time, not stopping until she's parked in the back most seat. I keep to the front, turning to argue further until a soggy Converse whizzes past my ear.

Over the next hour, I frequently check the driver's rearview mirror to make sure she doesn't chunk the other. She doesn't. Instead, Paige spends sixty minutes squeezing her eyes shut as hard as she possibly can.

We make it back in one piece, and I take a moment to assure that the bus driver won't mention Paige's freak out. He agrees not to.

She's seems to have cooled off, but I also witnessed her flip the personality switch as the nursing home. Another Oscar-worthy performance. Who knows how many she has up her sleeve? Honestly, the day's been like witnessing a bad break up. The car she spent a good amount of time vandalizing subsequently belongs to the woman she was discretely sending flowers to the other week. Flowers, destruction. What else is to come? Murder?

It's a quiet night in our room, and probably so for the best. At some point in the morning, though, at roughly one, I'm awoken to the constant hum of "Fields. Fields. Fields." Frantically, my eyes pop open to the sight of a red-eyed Paige hovering at my bedside. She's shoving a pencil eraser up my nose. "Fields." Poke. "Fields." Poke. "Fiiiiieeeeeelds." I snatch the pencil away once it's successfully jabbed my brain. "Are you awake?" she asks.

"Yes, Paige. I am now awake."

Expecting something much different than what actually occurs, it catches me off guard when the left side of my blanket is lifted and the bed dips. Paige doesn't rustle after that. She merely lies, breathing quietly and looking up at the ceiling. At least, that's what I'm assuming. It is, after all, one in the morning.

"Can I ask you a question?" she mutters when I've decided to try returning to sleep. I grunt in half-lidded answer. "Did you really agree with me earlier? In class, when you raised your hand. Was that just a sympathy vote, or did you actually understand what I was saying?"

For some reason, her question comes across as something of a roundabout confession. Like the people who will ask something personal and claim it to be for a friend. Or, in Paige's case, for "science". Regardless, they secretly hope for appropriation. Verification of their point despite who the initial answer is directed towards. So I quickly consider what she said in English. About honesty and trust being fickle concepts. In hindsight, the idea makes a world of sense. With this in mind, and trying to word the response lightly, I say, "Sure thing. No sympathy. Complete understanding."

I wait for more. More never comes. Her breathing takes on a different cadence as she shifts atop the mattress. Heavy. Like the weight of the world rests on her lungs. A plane flies overhead. The noise is loud, as though inches away. For a fraction of a second, I find contentment in the idea of a crash occurring. Directly on Paige and myself. For an even smaller moment, the idea of such a tragedy happening doesn't seem so unbearable. Not if she's in the bed next to me.

"She's in pain, Emily. She's hurting." BHB's voice is boisterous. Could this possibly be how Paige feels on a daily basis? Aggravated but desperately trying to make sense of the curveballs life constantly throws our way?

I decide to brave the rocky terrain. "Okay, so can I ask you a question without an argument breaking out?" Initially, the room is silent. But she gradually eases into my approach, grunting in approval. I take a deep breath. "Bobby said that you're in pain. Is that true?"

There it is. Everything's on the table. The metaphorical table, of course. Our room's musty air serving as the wooden top. Paige and I gathered round, staring blankly at what lies before us. Silently acknowledging the contents' existence, but not so much as budging an inch in any particular direction. That is, until she mutters, "Yeah. Yeah, it is."

More lingering. "Is it because of your parents?" I ask. "Or Gram?"

This time, Paige's voice hitches in the most subtle way. Similar to a hiccup, but carrying the weight of bottled-up cry. Cracked. Broken in every way possible. "When you were little and went outside to play with friends, did your parents ever tell you to be home when the streetlights came on?" she eventually asks.

It's not the answer that I've been expecting, but at least it's something. And so I joke, "Those damn streetlights. I know them all too well."

"Well, as you can probably tell, I thoroughly enjoy the dark. Even as a kid, something about the serenity of it all struck me. Like whatever happened didn't matter, because when the sun rose, it would all be washed away. So I took plenty of walks as a child. First, around the neighborhood. But then I would venture farther and farther out. Think and say everything that I couldn't when the sun was up," she quietly explains. "At first, my parents hated it. They would constantly lecture me about murderers and kidnappers and what not. I couldn't help but think, 'If these people would just leave me alone…' Then it happened. I got my wish. One night, I came in around two in the morning and they didn't yell. At that point, I understood that the lights didn't matter anymore. It was great. Freedom. So I pushed that envelope, too. Stayed out later and later. Sometimes until the sun came up."

"Sounds glorious," I mutter, reminiscing in the nostalgia of my parents' strictness.

She chuckles. "It was, up until I came home one morning and the doors were locked. It was around that time that everything changed. I could feel it. We weren't the same. These people that used to worry about me getting snatched up just…didn't anymore. So the mornings droned on and the doors remained locked. I would climb through my window or sleep on the front stoop. And as the nights got colder, I'd come in earlier. They didn't so much as bat an eye. Seeing their blank faces told me that things had changed for good. That there was no going back. I had a house to come back to, but there was no home, you know? There never was." She takes a deep breath before finishing with, "I couldn't tell if they'd disappeared, or if I had."

Moments pass. "That's one hell of a burden to carry," I casually point out, still trying my damndest to properly maneuver the conversation. "Makes your stance on trust and selective dishonesty a little clearer, though."

"Just the way it is," she breathes. "People know too much, they become invested. Where there's investment, there's expectation. Where there's expectation, there's a lot of heartache."

I start laughing and carry on until my sides ache. "I'm sorry," I say in between fits, "but that sounds like something from a Nicolas Sparks novel."

Thankfully, Paige nudges me and starts laughing, too. "I guess this would be a bad time to mention that I've got one more secret." She manages to mutter a simple "I'm gay," before we both begin laughing even more hysterically at the absurdity of our situation. This carries on until tears fill our eyes. Until it hurts to breathe. Until collecting ourselves isn't so terribly difficult. Needless to say, this takes a while.

But we eventually settle down, the occasional last chuckle breaking free. Tears stream down my face. Both sides ache. My chest hurts, but in the good way. The kind of way that it's needed to hurt for quite some time. A relieving pain. Pain that hurts badly enough to remind you that it's possible to hurt in more ways than one.

At this point, there are a million things I could say. A million more that I probably should. But like at the bus, I'm frozen. And much like the emotionally handicapped asshole that Emily Fields has become, the consolation I offer is far from perfect. "So you're in pain because of the streetlights. Because your parents don't love you anymore."

"Ouch," she deadpans, chuckling again. "So close, but yet so far away." Then her voice catches like it did before, and I'm suddenly afraid that I've pushed the boundary too far. Eventually, I feel Paige's hands tuck behind her head. Coolly, she admits, "I guess it just sucks because I still come home expecting the doors to be unlocked."

I soak this in. Allow it to resonate within me. Think of my mother and father. Throw a heartfelt "thank you" to the universe for providing me with such caring people. People who see me as frequently as possible. People whose vehicles I don't feel like demolishing. People who, at a young age, taught me to extend warmth to those in need. Even the Paiges of this world. And so I say, "Just so you know, I give a damn." I then throw in an apathetic-sounding "Or whatever" for good measure.

In reply, the personality switch flips again. For Paige merely turns over, pulling the sheet with her, and mumbles, "I was afraid you might say that."