Yesni83: Well, I most certainly appreciate that.

Plamin24: Haha, well I'm most grateful for that. Truly, your words are heartwarming and mean the world.

ponderhouse: And you're officially my favorite person, without a doubt. Lol.

dotylink64: I certainly appreciate your gracious attitude, lol. And as always, I thank you for taking the time to read and comment.

Author's Note: As always, I'm greatly appreciative of everyone that reads and those of you who leave your input. Here's an update that we didn't wait forever and a day for. Lol.

Disclaimer: I do not own Pretty Little Liars or any of the show's characters.

It's taken three days of consistent arguing, but we've finally reached a compromise. I'll accept any offer that Stanford makes, but only if Paige retracts hers. That is, volunteering her spot for mine. I'm not totally convinced that she's entirely on board with the idea quite yet, but she seems to be warming up to it. And that's only because I've agreed to study night and day for this damned test.

Today, while I'm mulling over a hand-crafted practice exam of Paige's creation, she's steadily reading off definitions from a dictionary. "Got to catch the old noggin off guard," she recently explained. "The way I see it, if we throw enough information your way, you're bound to soak up at least two percent of it."

So that's where we are. BHB, grateful that he no longer has to strip for my benefit, has volunteered his services as well. But even now, as I protest his writing the major essay for me, Paige continuously cuts me off with the eeriest enhh sound. "All part of the master plan," she coos. "Let the universe work this one out."

"Christ," I nag out of equal frustration for all factors involved. "This 'master plan' that you keep speaking of, just how intricate could it be that we must resort to cheating?"

Paige chuckles to herself and cocks an eyebrow at BHB, who sits on the floor. The dictionary slams shut. "It involves swords, twelve grilled cheese sandwiches, and at least one of us being naked," she deadpans. "Any volunteers?"

"Sorry I even asked," I groan.

"I'm not," BHB quickly chimes in, reaching up to high-five Paige.

The next couple of hours pass as such. Me complaining, Paige scolding, and BHB aiding her in making lewd remarks. Paige must sense my anguish, for she softens in her approach. And then, after enough time has passed, she says, "Side bar, Bob." He peers through his glasses, confused, until my roommate begins dragging him by the arm towards our door.

When it's shut, I massage my brow. There's some serious tension building up, and I've been so focused that I can't even possibly begin to distinguish as to where the pain begins or ends. Paige, on the other hand, is affected in no such way. Instead, she plops down on the bed next to me, removing the piece of paper from my view. "So I've been thinking," she says, folding the sheet in half. "My uncle is getting married for the umpteenth time, and the wedding is tomorrow. And since you've been working so diligently, I figure that if you're down, I might be able to swing us a ride."

I laugh. I lean back and howl, just as I did when Paige mentioned that we have sex for the first time. "Holy shit," I hum out in disbelief, now furiously working two fingers at both temples. "Here I am, in desperate need of being hit by a train, and you're asking me on a date."

"No such thing," she quickly dismisses. "This is merely a means of upholding my reputation as slayer of all things with vaginas. You'd be a prop, at best."

I roll my eyes. "Charming."

"I'll invite Bob, too," she continues. "If that's what most strikes your fancy."

"And if not going is what most strikes my fancy?"

"Then I'll still invite Bob," she says confidently. "His lady parts are just as convincing as yours."

We both laugh, even as I reach out and nudge her arm. The knot that is coiled in my head makes no movement towards unwinding, but a night out does sound appealing. Especially considering that we've been at this routine for what feels like ages, and I've yet to score any better than fifty percent on one of the practice tests. So I say, "What the hell? Could be fun."

Well, fun is only possible if Dr. Evans signs off on said fun. And the next morning, as I listen to a rather heated conversation between her and my roommate press on, fun seems as though fun doesn't want anything to do with one Emily Fields or Paige Mccullers.

"Pretty please?" Paige eventually asks, which means that Dr. Evans and her lack of fun are about to win out.

"No."

"I'll do your taxes," she offers.

"No."

"Wash your car?"

"No."

"Fine, you've broken me," Paige says, tossing both hands into the air. "One lap dance. But absolutely no touching."

A look of horror spreads across the doctor's face as she says, "Paige." I can't help but grin at how uncomfortable Paige can make others. It's like a superpower. One minute, she's hinting at defeat. The next, you feel like throwing up because you've fallen into her trap.

Paige knows this. She basks in it. She is a Venus Fly Trap, bringing her jaws together for the kill. "Listen, Doc," she coos, placing a hand on the older woman's forearm. Such a sly tactic. A finger points at me. "Look into those eyes for a second. Just look into them. Those are the eyes of a girl who was forced to watch her future go down the drain not even seventy-two hours ago. This could be the last chance she has at salvaging any emotional sanctity, and you're going to deny that?"

Dr. Evans's expression falters for a fraction of a second, and I'm convinced that Paige might have actually eked this one out. And then my royal dumbassery is proven when the expression flips into a scowl. "That's exactly what I'm doing," the woman says through pursed lips.

I try to not seem deflated. Paige has no such concerns. For she mutters "Unbelievable," before taking hold of my arm and leading me into the hallway.

"Umm," I murmur, trying to keep pace. "Where are we going?"

"To change," she mumbles through gritted teeth.

"Why?"

Paige stops mid-stride, nostrils flaring as she looks to me. "Because you look homeless, Emily," she says. "And no date of mine is going to show up to a wedding looking like a friggin' bum."

Jeans and a t-shirt are not proper indication of homelessness, I try explaining. Paige hasn't been listening for the past fifteen minutes, I'm well aware, and yet I still drone on. Even as she digs through some of the attic's older boxes, tossing random pieces of clothing my way.

When all is said and done, we're both dressed in the most ridiculous getups I've ever laid eyes on. "We're going to get caught," I frantically insist as Paige leads me from the attic and outside. I'm still complaining as we near an unfamiliar street side. "We're going to get busted, and we're going to be busted while looking like two extras in a John Wayne parody porn."

My roommate snickers for the first time in the past two hours. "Dad's side of the family has a fascination with the Old West," she explains, retying one of the knots on her mid-section piece. "It was only fitting that the wedding be a themed one. And yes, I'm well aware that they're total fucking losers."

"You hear that, Shelly?" a voice loudly asks. I look over to see a beat-up car full of teenagers, some of them looking eerily similar to Paige. "Suppose our loser car isn't good enough to tote these two around, huh?"

Paige must recognize the driver, for she darts around the vehicle, leans in through the window, and wraps both arms around his neck. She does the same for two of the other windows, both of which possess another girl and boy that look very much like the driver. I tentatively approach, hugging no one. Their expressions are warm, though. And when Paige opens one of the rear doors, three smiles greet me.

Triplets. The oldest brother, by a whopping one minute and forty-five seconds, is John. The other two, Beau and Shelly, are both freshmen at an Ohio state university. They're a lively bunch, similar to Paige in personality, and seemingly close-knit. And as we speed down a Pennsylvania back road at what feels like Mach One, I listen on as my roommate receives the brunt of their childhood stories.

"We all knew that she enjoyed playing field hockey a little too much," John laughs, "which makes it all the more surprising that she's gotten so dolled up for the wedding."

Due to the beer cooler that takes up the back middle seat, I'm currently sitting on Paige's lap, hunkered over as we barrel forward. I do, however, take a moment to fully soak in her attire per the most recent comment. A leather piece that covers just enough of her stomach. Denim vest. Hat. Braided hair. And then a belt buckle that really catches my eye. She grins when I thumb at it, momentarily peering over the gold-plated woman. "Festive," I say.

Beau, who remains relatively silent except for when laughing at John's jokes, digs into the cooler, producing a red and white can. He doles one out to both of his siblings, eventually extending two cans our way. "Is my mother planning on showing?" Paige asks. Everyone falls quiet as the second triplet nods. Paige then huffs, grabs the can, and cracks it open. She looks to me and says, "Don't give me a hard time. Not today. Just try to enjoy yourself."

So I snatch the drink from her, take two large swallows, and smile.

And then we pull along a gravel drive, nearing a massive shed. People file in from all angles. Paige's expression sours at some of the passersby. John sneaks in between us, throws an arm over our shoulders, burps, and says, "Welcome to the thunder dome, bitches."

As with all other weddings, this one proceeds at a snail's pace. A snail with a broken leg's pace. Paige and I sit on the back row alongside her cousins. And it proves relatively entertaining, hanging out with this bunch, because each takes it upon themselves to caw out the most guttural bird calls in every quiet moment.

We get a couple of nasty looks, mainly from the older crowd. But the procession ends just as soon as it began—"I do"s being exchanged and the crowd cheering—and Paige leans into my ear, whispering, "All right. Get your shit together, Fields. We've got a lot of people to piss off."

I'm hesitant as she introduces me to damn near the entire McCullers clan. Aunts, uncles, cousins, grandparents, various family friends, and each group's respective dates. Many of which welcome me with open arms. Some with forced smiles. And it isn't long before the inevitable arrives, our stumbling across Nick and Donna's paths. Paige is quick to hug her father. She, however, looks with distaste at her mother, grunting, "Mother."

"Daughter dearest," the woman returns.

And then we're both saved by Beau, who noiselessly intervenes by motioning us over to a corner of the shed. John, the apparent ring leader, has careened all other cousins and their dates into this space. He then takes it upon himself to introduce me as Paige's "newest catch" to the entire group. She doesn't bother stopping him. I don't either, on account of the redness that fills my roommate's cheeks.

Red cups are passed around the circle, and with a quick smell, it's easy to deduce that they're not filled with lemonade. But none of the adults pay any mind as they pair up and dance along the wooden floor. So, with John's beckoning, we all raise our makeshift glasses. "Here's to Uncle Mike, may he forever revel in this glorious day," he announces to semi-circle. "And here's to the rest of you bastards; may we each get wedding-laid."

I almost choke when Paige nudges me. But it isn't because of the last line, for her demeanor is far too serious. Instead, I catch her gaze as it shoots across the room and settles upon another girl. Dark hair. Tall, athletic build. I'm about to question the nature of her presence when Beau leans in from somewhere behind me and mutters, "Paige's last catch."

She thumps him. Then, rather nervously, she explains, "It was a three-week deal. Her parents are friends of the family." No time passes as her eyes scan the area again, narrowing in on particular people. Paige grunts before barely mumbling, "All of my favorite people gathered in one place. Seems as though I'm going to need a few more of these."

And she does. Frequently. Over the course of the next hour or so, I aimlessly watch as Paige visits the mysterious back corner at least seven different times. Thankfully, she's yet to reach the point of sloppily stumbling around. It's more of a sway, if anything. And many of her family members have adopted the same manner. Even Nick, who visits the adult bar almost as frequently as his daughter.

Me, I'm just hanging around. Ensuring that we somehow make it back to the facility in one piece. Shelly must be doing the same, for she hesitantly approaches me, smiling. We both stand around for a moment. Look on as the party unfolds. Listen to Paige as she calls out, "WHO MUST I KILL FOR A FUCKING COCONUT CUPCAKE?" Thankfully, someone's there to act as damage control.

"How's she holding up?" Shelly eventually asks when the music breaks.

"Well, it would seem as though your brother's currently the only thing holding her up," I point out. Which is true, considering that both of the other triplets have a firm grip on Paige's legs as they hoist her into the air. Her hands are connected to either side of a rustic gray barrel; a black nozzle to her mouth.

The lone cousin nods in understanding, chuckling to herself. "If it's any consolation, they've always been that way. If there was trouble to be found, those three sure as hell found it." I laugh at how entirely true the statement sounds. "But hey," Shelly continues, "I'd like to thank you for whatever it is that you've done. Paige hasn't been this…Paigey in a long time."

"Oh, so there's a version of her that isn't a hot mess?" I tease.

"Afraid so," she halfheartedly jokes. "But I don't suppose that any of it matters right now."

I nod. Watch as Paige is lowered and one of her nameless cousins is hoisted upside down into the air. She winks at me from across the way.

Is this the Paige that I've been missing out on? The one that laughs and horses around with those closest to her? Obviously so, considering that she's been cooped up in Piney Groves for…how long? More than a year? Or just a bit shy? Whatever the case, it's oddly refreshing, seeing her so lively. Even if she'll undoubtedly be a drunken mess to get home, at least I've gotten to witness the truer, freer version of my roommate.

There is, however, a downside to all of this general up-ness. An inevitable decline, I'm afraid. There always is. And since any real information that I've gathered on Paige's true nature has been from secondary sources, I venture to pry further with Shelly. "Any words of advice?" I ask. "You know, for future reference, should the other Paige show ever show back up."

"Hide anything breakable," the girl quickly laughs. And then I do, hesitantly so. "Nah, I wouldn't suppose. I guess I'd just advise you to remember that she cares, too. Even if she's not herself—which is a stretch—she'll still be appreciative. And she'll never tell you any of this."

"Seems about right," I sigh.

Shelly nods. Glances around. Grins at the sight of John head-locking Paige while she simultaneously head-locks Beau, who head-locks one of the younger cousins. A train of noogies, it would seem. But then Shelly sighs the sad kind before perking up and placing a hand on my arm. Her eyes are pleading. "But if there's one thing that I've learned about my cousin," she painfully begins, "it's that she's as loyal as a dog. It's that she's damn good at fighting for the people she cares about. So, if you ever find yourself in a pinch, keep those pretty eyes peeled, because she'll be the one standing right next to you."

My head involuntarily moves up and down, eyes wide in understanding. The girl eventually softens, McCullers' smirk rippling across her mouth as she says, "And with that being said—you break her heart, and we'll break your arms."

At this, I can do nothing but laugh.

Over the course of the evening, I find myself at various tables, chatting with all sorts of people. Many of them family. Some friends. All speaking of Paige with the same kind of timid verve that Shelly did.

I wonder if Paige knows any of this, I can't help but think. Any of the kind, heartfelt comments they make about her. Surely she does. Surely.

But there is no more time for thinking, not when Paige herself is groggily plopping down into the chair next to mine. Her eyes are kind of hazy, but nothing extreme. I giggle when she catches me staring and flashes a toothy grin.

Another country song comes on overhead. Something to the effect of being eighteen and dancing away with people's hearts. Paige gags. "This is horrendous," she says, grabbing my hand. "We must dance to it immediately."

Though I'm not much for dancing, I still follow her lead. We're one of a few couples in the floor's center. I'm apprehensive at first, but Paige confidently takes one of my hands into hers, easing me along. We start off slow, swaying about. Then she twirls me once, twice. Catches me in her arms. Repeats.

It's nothing romantic or anything, but it's slow. Slow enough for one to comprehend what's going on all around. And yet, I recognize very little. Am vaguely aware of those that surround. Instead, I try focusing on Paige. Allow her to guide our steps. Fully trust following where she may lead.

And then she catches me amid one twirl, pressing our bodies together. One hand relaxed as it cradles mine. Other fixated around my back. She smirks that devious smirk, and I can do nothing more than sheepishly do the same. "How cliché would it be for me to kiss you right about now?" she mutters as the music drones on.

"Terribly," I say.

She nods. "Total fucking loser move, yeah?"

"Totally."

But she knows what's going on, of course, and I'm vaguely aware of two fingers that gently come up to my chin. A gentle push that tilts my head upwards. My body that eagerly moves along. And just as the music ends, our lips barely touch. My mouth, like the devilish bastard that it is, presses onward in the slightest. Thankfully, Paige's mouth is as equally free-moving and meets mine halfway.

I can feel her lips smile against mine. Even as sporadic hoots and hollers fill the room, and Paige's hat moves down just enough to conceal our faces from the crowd, the smile remains. "If it means anything," she eventually mutters, parting our mouths, "you're ten times better at this than Bobby."

The evening winds down when the beer runs out. Everyone wanders around in their personal stupors, hugging and merrily patting backs. Many are extended my way. Though it's probably not the best for my still sore shoulder, I openly accept each.

Paige is congregated nearest her cousins, where Shelly playfully wrestles her oldest brother for a set of car keys. He eventually submits and hands them over, whereas the attention quickly shifts my way. John points and slurs, "I'm imagining that you've been given the rundown."

"Broken hearts equal broken bones," I laugh.

My roommate's face reddens as she shrugs and says, "Sorry, they're a bit protective."

Which doesn't seem to hold true as we speed back towards Piney Groves. Shelly's as manic a driver as her oldest sibling. I'm not complaining, though, because frequent bumps send my body surging forward into Paige's. And every time it does, she smiles dumbly before placing a kiss on my nose.

Admittedly, I've been ignoring our more pressing issues all day. The questions that need answering. There's just something about being surrounded by friendly, joyous faces that offers excuse. Namely, Paige's. Because Shelly's earlier comment really struck a chord within me and suggested that I take a step back. I since have and would have to completely agree. Paige has been especially different over the past couple of hours. A tasteful lukewarm nature as opposed to her frequent shifting between hot and cold.

Lukewarm's nice, I think as we pull up beside the facility's back lot. I could get used to lukewarm.

And Paige is on board, too, as it would seem. For she playfully takes hold of my hand as we say our goodbyes to the other McCullers. And she keeps holding it as we maneuver the darkened side street, climbing a fence and beginning the trek across the field. We pass the dock where she once claimed to enjoy spending many an evening alone. We even pass the narrow pathway that once took us to the nearby country club. I think of the sticker bushes and how they serve as her excuse for an unnamed internal struggle. But then I think of the fingers that cautiously intertwine with mine and all worry suddenly melts away.

"I appreciate your help tonight," she eventually says, stopping nearest the building's back door. "It, uh—it was much needed. And I'm glad that you were the one with me."

I chuckle. "No need for getting soft now, McCullers."

She then nudges my arm, giggling as well. We sneak back inside and toward a staircase that leads into the attic. Changing in the dark is relatively difficult, but Paige is helpful in unclasping the more intricate fastens of my outfit. "You're a far more sober real-drunk than fake," I point out as her fingers nimbly untie the last of my knots.

"Hey, asshole," she complains, plopping her cowboy hat onto my head. "Who said anything about pretending?"

"Ooooooh," I say, nodding. "I was simply mistaken. You had been drinking, and therefore couldn't be held accountable for your actions. You know, the whole climbing on top of me ordeal."

"Exactly. I wasn't of sound mind," she quickly agrees.

"And effectively off the hook," I deadpan.

She nods. "One hundred percent."

We both giggle to ourselves and finish redressing back into plain clothes. "So," I begin, allowing the word to linger. "Considering your currently befuddled mind, it'd be a shame for the evening to move beyond this point. A crime, really."

Paige's eyes widen, her ears perking up. "Hold on a second," she begins rambling, hovering over the latch that leads us back downstairs. "I'm golden, really. Absolutely peachy. Twelve plus twelve equals twenty-four. Tomato is a fruit. The year is two thousand thirteen, and Nickelback still sucks." A finger taps at her skull. "See? As sound as ever."

It would be easier to tease her further if I wasn't already so far gone laughing. And she must realize this, for her nose crinkles up in disappointment. We're then trying to quietly wander through the hallways, but Paige keeps intentionally stopping and bumping into me. It does nothing to suppress my giggling, which, in turn, does nothing to help conceal our efforts.

But nearest our door, she stops altogether and pulls my arm, leaning me against the wall. I'm then pinned underneath her body, to which even her grin can be seen in the darkened corridor. "I'm urging that you strongly reconsider that previous offer, Ms. Fields," she coos. "Not doing so would be the real crime."

"Where was this persistence earlier?" I ask. "When everyone was referring to me as your girlfriend?"

She coughs, slightly taken aback, but quickly re-gathers and returns, "Because constantly introducing you as 'royal pain in my ass' would've taken too much time."

I faux-scoff. "Then I suppose this royal pain in your ass won't mind sleeping alone tonight."

Paige follows me into the room, muttering halfhearted remarks about joking. But I'm too resilient. Well, too resilient and too focused on something else. An odd feeling that doesn't become clear until it's too late.

For just as soon as I think, "Please, no," the light clicks on and I'm standing face to face with Dr. Evans.