Disclaimer: I do not own Pretty Little Liars or any of the show's characters.
Author's Note: The replies will be included at the chapter's end, should any spoilers present themselves. But I must sincerely apologize for the wait. Delving into this story over the holidays isn't something that I'd imagined to be so difficult. I know, I threw the shit at the fan, and waited for-fucking-ever to explain which way it went. Again, my bad.
Instead of including an individual "thank you" in each reply, I'll go ahead and say that each and every one of your kind words warms my heart. I am always most grateful for those who pop in to say anything, small or large.
I appreciate all patience, and hope that this chapter didn't disappoint. (And if did, sorry.)
Pushing.
It's the only sensation that my body registers at the present moment.
Pushing against a cold, metal door whose lock has finally clicked open after many hours' passing.
Pushing my legs as far and fast as they can possibly through the slowly filling hallway.
Pushing various individual specs of a much larger mass to the side as they threaten to block my path.
Laying eyes on Paige, who stands surrounded by a handful of adults, fervently explaining herself, and pushing both of my open palms into either of her shoulders with as much force as physically possible.
Now, I'm pushing back against the knot that forms in my throat. An upheaval in my chest that will either leave me lying on the ground, shivering, or will force the very fear from my lips.
"How dare you?"
Her attention shifts to the newest interrogation. Me. But instead of immediately throwing up a guard, she relaxes at my snarl, head tilting sideways in the slightest way. "Emily," she coos through clenched-shut eyes.
"How dare you leave me in there, promising to come back, and not showing your face again?" I choke out a second time.
"Emily." Paige is now pleading for reasons unknown. Maybe it's to stifle the oncoming breakdown, considering all those who surround. There's a softness in her nature, though. A wordless apology.
But I'm too far gone. Too far succumbing to the fear that's taken on new life after having been buried for so long. "I was worried sick," I admit almost breathlessly. "You could've—" Swallow. "You tried to—" Gulp. "You didn't even—" Choke.
Only when Paige nods and mutters, "I know," is it that I break in two.
Rather than collapsing to the ground, I aimlessly stumble forward, thankful for the arms that take hold of my trembling frame. "Stupid, stupid, stupid," I repeatedly whisper through sobs that rack my body. Paige doesn't respond, but patiently waits as I soak her shirt with my tears for the second time in twenty-four hours.
The news comes to me just as quickly. The reason I've found Paige alone. The reason for BHB's absence. Those pops weren't mere figments of my imagination, and represented a reality that still seems to farfetched to hold truth. But our trio is now one less, holed up in a nearby hospital room, lying unresponsive.
Hours pass in this hallway. With me, standing completely still in Paige's grasp, waiting as heads are counted. As parents are called. As those with tenure are released into family's custody, while recent admittees are transported to a location halfway across the state.
Various officers approach Paige for questioning. She doesn't once loosen her hold on me, but stands firm as she answers with short, one-word replies. Evidently, the gunman, now in custody, had psychological issues of his own. According to a short, scruffy man, the intent was not for harm to be done. Then again, intention and action are two concepts that I've learned to hold in polar opposite lights.
Just ask BHB, who isn't around to gather his own belongings.
Instead, Paige and I are asked by Dr. Evans to tend to the chore. We do, regretfully so. And it becomes increasingly ironic, the way a person's life can be fit into a single box. "Funny," Paige points out in a tone of anything but amusement. "We spend our lives trying to break free from the box, only to have our shit thrown right back in once things go awry."
I don't say anything, but allow her the brief moment of malice. She's been relatively emotionless up until this point, and I've been far too busy trying to rationalize the past twelve hours to soothe her aching spirit. Something that is only put in the limelight as I round up the book of psychological disorders BHB referred to me days ago.
A quick skim of the index heeds way to a highlighted portion. I reference the indicated page, finding a single scrap of folded paper tucked in the open crevice. You can't fix her, Emily, it reads. You can only love her and pray that she figures the rest out.
"I'm trying," I mutter under my breath, returning the paper to its original place. As Paige huffs and trounces about the room. "I'm doing my very fucking best."
My parents meet us at the hospital, hugging both Paige's and my necks. "You're more than welcome to come home with us," my mother offers. It's something I've given no thought to, even as Paige's parents have yet to make an appearance.
"Certainly has a nice ring to it, that word," she says fondly, smiling all the while. "And while I appreciate the gesture, I'm going to stay here for the next little bit."
Dad instantly gathers my bags. He then pauses, as if giving me leeway, but I stand in place. Mom's eyes beg me to proceed. "I'm staying, too," I say, which doesn't elicit much of a response on Paige's part, but the tension in her body relaxes against mine.
My mother huffs, but hugs my neck a final time. "You're a better person than I could've ever wished you to be," she whispers.
And then I become vaguely aware of Paige, who squeezes my arm before mentioning, "She certainly is something special."
Terribly difficult to feel special when surrounded by such humdrum, I'm realizing. Because as Paige and I nestle into two of the hospital room's chairs, gazing apprehensively at our handicapped counterpart, shameful is the only characteristic I can befriend. Guilty that I ever felt so selfish as to deny BHB a friendly face in trying times.
I mean, if hindsight is supposed to be twenty-twenty, then why can't I make sense of our most recent past?
More easily identified is Paige's struggle to grip our situation, for she's reverted back into meandering about, keeping mostly to herself. Only when BHB's little brother, Little Bobby, comes around will she speak. Those conversations are small talk, at best.
But in the third night of our stay, with sleeplessness in her eyes, Paige plays a game of checkers with the boy. She sits nearest the bed, maneuvering pieces on BHB's behalf. LB is winning by a landslide.
"For a smart guy, you're something of a dipshit," she says to a still resting BHB, whose breaths are aided by an intricate setup of machinery.
Their mother clears her throat, to which Paige winks slyly at the boy.
I struggle to gain the smallest ounce of sleep, and opt for watching the games that unfold. Each time, the younger boy trumps my roommate's efforts. Who's the dipshit now? I think as she loses for the fifth time this hour.
LB is eventually summoned to bed by his mother, but takes a moment to wave his hand, inviting me to take his place at the checker board's opposite end. Considering that tonight will undoubtedly be another restless one, I accept his offer, confident that beating Paige will provide the slightest ego boost that'll send me back into high spirits.
All arrogance is further deflated over the course of two minutes, where I deliriously operate red pieces, only to have all efforts thwarted by her ruthless slew of black. "Game, bitch," she announces at last.
Give this girl another award for keeping a straight face while intentionally allowing defeat, and proceeding to keep a straight face while suffering the taunts of an eight-year-old.
"I must ask you a serious question," I then say as she triumphantly revels in her accomplishment. Paige groans, which is sign enough that I persist. "How is it that you're so gentle around little and old people, but a royal ass to everyone in between?"
"Doesn't sound like much of a question, Fields," she grunts. "More of an excuse to insult me, if anything." I laugh, to which she asks, "Better yet, why do you give the in-betweenies the time of day?"
I move a newly settled piece. "You're here for Bob."
"He was an exception to the rule. An in-betweenie with a weenie, which shouldn't count for much," she says, skillfully hopping over three of my circles. "Big head; bigger heart. That kind of bullshit." Her voice trails as she finishes with, "But he was good people. You both were."
I'm a bit taken aback by the nature of how she speaks. In the past tense, as if both of us have since ceased to exist. It hurts, but I don't say. Instead, I opt to ask, "And now?"
Paige takes a deep, struggled breath. "He's in a coma," she says, removing the last of my pieces before looking up. "And you're here, despite everything else."
Another week passes without no verification of how much longer our stay will be. White coats and nurses enter, run handfuls of tests, and leave. They can never provide solid answers for the questions we ask.
Paige takes walks to pass the time. I always offer to tag along, and she just as quickly denies accompaniment. Thus ensues further minutes spent alone. I try holding conversation with BHB's mother, but our attentions often shift to the elephant in the room. The one with gauze draped over half of his body. Paige would be able to break the ice, should she ever decide to stick around.
I'm not entirely sure where to direct my anguish, these days. After all, Spencer once informed me that single energies possess as much a stronghold over situations as chance. That our thoughts often dictate outcomes. It feels like too much of a betrayal to allow my train of thought to wander back to Paige each and every time I try paying BHB proper mind. But if it serves as any consolation, if one shred of joy returned to my being, he'd undoubtedly be its first target.
She eventually returns, the stench of smoke following.
"It's okay to be upset," I offer. "It's okay to cry."
Paige merely shakes her head, propping her chin up on two folded hands.
The moment I've been vying for comes late one Thursday afternoon, a week and a half since we first stepped foot into this ocean of white sterilization.
Paige, who's recently begun holding one-sided conversations with BHB, is entranced in her most recent dissection of a program that blares on the overhead television. "Fucking tool, that guy," she mutters in reference to one of the show's actors.
"What's a tool?" LB asks from the comfort of his cot.
"Seriously," she continues, ignoring the littlest one, "do they expect us to believe that his hair's real?"
"What's a tool?"
"Dick move, really, thinking you can get away with those kinds of lies."
"What's a—"
"Something we don't say," I eventually interject, silencing both Paige and LB. They both stare, dumbfounded, as I cut the television off.
Paige laughs before nudging BHB. Enough time then passes to see that we're all becoming far too disgruntled, being cramped in this small space. My roommate continues in trading off-handed remarks with my mentor, while our newer companion silently watches from his corner. "Why do you do that?" he eventually asks.
"Do what?" Paige returns, seemingly annoyed.
"Talk to my brother like he's not there," LB casually says, undeterred by her foul mood. "You look at him, but you're not talking to him."
A flicker of acknowledgement spreads across her features. She almost seems offended, but a deep-seeded sense of resentment replaces the aura. Her eyes are bloodshot with a serious lack of proper rest, and I'm suddenly tense, afraid that she might lash out at the boy.
Instead, Paige narrows in on BHB, fixating her gaze in a sarcastically over-the-top way. "Your brother says that I'm not speaking to you, Roberto," she begins, "and that makes him kind of an asshole."
"Paige," I sternly plead, attempting to silence whatever hurtful comment she's prepared.
"But who's the real asshole, here?" she continues, now ignoring me. "You, that's who. And what for, really? After all, I was trying to help you. But no, you had to open that stupid mouth of yours. That big head believed that you could save the day, and look at where that's gotten you." Her voice trembles, and I try reaching out, but she quickly brushes me away. "You're an idiot, Bob. And now you're here, and you won't wake up, and everyone needs you to, okay? So just open those stupid eyes for us, will you?"
Nothing happens, of course. Nothing happens but a large amount of nothing. The nothingness is then shadowed over by the dramatically angry exit Paige makes, only to be quickly followed by the sound of crashing metal. I peek into the hallway, first catching a glimpse of scattered medical tools, and then of Paige.
She's doubled over, forearms clutching at her stomach as her knees hit the tile floor. I then watch the scene's end unravel. Violently, breathlessly, she gasps for air. Like one of those silent cries, where the person's mouth is open but their desperation cannot be vocalized. A volcanic eruption of steam and nothing more.
I'm utterly lost. Never before has Aria, Hanna, or Spencer broken down so rapidly. I almost wish they had. At least I'd know what to expect.
But as Paige settles onto the ground, back to the wall and knees drawn into her chest—as I had been in our room—something tells me that no amount of experience could prepare me for this. Just like no amount of time spent in the pool can calm the jitters of an athlete's first race, no amount of arguments or internet research could prepare me for Paige's wide-eyed look of hopelessness. Or the way she grinds both palms into her eyes while simultaneously shaking her head.
She was perfectly fine twenty seconds ago. Rude and bitchy, but fine.
To join her on the ground would feel phony. Cliché. To remain entirely uninvolved would be too detached. Too easily dismissive of where we've come from and where we are.
We.
Paige and I.
Why does it always come down to the two of us?
Right now is not the time for scrutiny or internal analysis, I know. It's Paige's moment, regardless of how desolate it may seem. It's a time for resolution. Which is probably the very thinking that leads me one, two steps out of the doorway and in front of Paige. Rationale that frees the next statement from my lips. "It's going to be all right."
Her ears perk up at the assurance. A look of disgust fills every void that isn't littered with tears. "Are you kidding me?" she snarls, struggling to stand up off of the slippery floor. Paige and I are eventually at eye level, and where brown once covered her pupils, contempt lurks about.
I was, in fact, not making a joke. But the smile that creeps across her face says otherwise. The menacing chuckle that evolves from bitten-back curses clearly notes that Emily Fields is the funniest person on this planet.
Paige folds her arms. Her mouth opens in that subtle yet sarcastic way. "How is any of this all right, Emily?" she asks, angling toward the Plexiglas window that separates us from BHB's room. Her balled fist lashes out, underside meeting the surface with a loud dohmp. "How is that all right?"
I look inside to BHB's little brother, eyebrows arched in curiosity but body glued in place by a scolding mother. Fear turns people into monsters, I source from a childhood conversation with my father, one that took place shortly after his first return from overseas. It makes them hostile. Angry. They do and say things that they normally wouldn't.
As my eyes then transition onto a very still, lifeless dear friend of ours; a son; a brother, it's easy to see that we're all pretty fucking terrified. Of the possibilities, mostly.
Then again, our cowardice will not eliminate those horrendous possibilities, either.
I learned that one while standing face to face with Paige, trying to convince her that staying was the best solution. "It just is," I force myself to say, disregarding all momentary personal belief. "I mean, it will be."
She isn't buying my faux-optimistic spiel. Kind of hard to blame her, really, when not even I am convinced. "Oh, because everything gets better, right?" she challenges. "Because one day, we'll all wake up and things will have magically resolved themselves? Because everything just becomes significantly less shitty?"
Again, I'm simply too dumbfounded to respond. Petrified by the brunt force of her demeanor. "Open your fucking eyes," Paige continues, slapping at the window once more. "What do you see?"
"You," I feebly insist, words sloppily spilling out like a mouthful of water. "I see you, and I see that you're clearly upset."
Paige looks as though she might have another giggling fit, but instead decides on extending both arms overhead and announcing, "Fucking Yahtzee." She then turns on a heel and damn near sprints through the corridor.
I follow, but only because it's what I've come to understand our unlikely relationship as. Two people with an invisible, knotted tie keeping them together. Tugging one side should the other go astray, or simply anchoring each other in place.
Even though, as of late, it feels as though Paige is dragging me around, if anything.
Today, it's into a thunderstorm. Similar to the one from my most recent nightmare, lightning occasionally illuminates the sky; thunder lowly grumbles in the distance. Paige aimlessly wanders into the brunt of it all, absorbing pelt after pelt of rain. Sporadic gusts of wind, too.
I stand patiently, allowing but a handful of yards to serve as adequate breathing room. She merely dances around, pacing in one direction before circling back to the other. Despite a red, dampened face, her tears are evident. They occupy more than a physical space. Instead, the singular drops represent chinks in her emotional armor.
It takes the better part of ten minutes for Paige to settle into one position, and when she finally does, I capitalize to the best of my ability. "All of this pent-up pain you're experiencing, I'm feeling it too, you know."
She looks at me as though I've miraculously sprouted a third arm. "You couldn't possibly understand," she snaps.
"Then let me," I argue, feeling the same agonizing emotion fill my chest. "Because right now, I'm trying to help before there's nothing left to help."
Her mouth opens as if to protest further, but the words are quickly swallowed with a single gulp. Paige is too busy shaking her head insistently. Defiantly, almost. As if shaking will alleviate the abruptness of it all. Make it any less real. "Don't you dare do that," she manages to spit. "Don't you dare give me a guilt trip."
Guilt?
She's crumbling before my eyes. And not in the sense of a disappearance, but more of a physical manner. Like watching a skyscraper fall just after detonation. She's collapsing into herself, and I can nothing more than stand by helplessly, witnessing the chaos sure to follow. A victim of the aftermath.
Only now do matters begin clearing up. And I can't pinpoint why, but the insistence of her tone hints toward something far greater. She sounds like someone who swears that Santa is real despite having caught their parents placing gifts underneath the tree. A weird emulsion of neediness and desperation.
She continues before I can sneak another word in. "And before you get all high and mighty on the 'let's help Paige' horse, just know that people help until they can't anymore. When that happens, they leave. They take off like I'm not good enough for a fucking explanation."
Her confession bears a hefty weight within me. It cripples me, almost, to the point where standing before her becomes the most burdensome task of all. Where it feels as though I might melt away underneath the storm. "But I'm here," I finally muster the courage to croak. The words carry far too much weight, but I persist. "What about me, Paige? How do you think I felt? Knowing that no matter what I said, no matter what I did, you still left?"
Paige's brow is knit too far inward for me to properly gauge just where she stands. But the storm is unforgiving, and it carries on, and so must I. "Because that's what you did. You came in, changed everything up, and vanished. Without so much as a fucking word."
"I didn't go anywhere," she says, shaking her head. "I've always been around."
"No, you haven't," I return, trying to maintain a pattern of steady breathing. "It killed me, seeing you so distraught. Knowing that there was nothing I could do to make it go away. And I'm sorry for being so damn afraid, but I can't do this anymore. It's constantly back and forth, back and forth with you. Hot and cold." Speaking is painful on account of a lump that forms in my throat. "I'm tired of missing you, Paige. I'm tired of being tired. But I can't quit either until you let me in. All the way, for once."
For just a fraction of a second, Paige's truest form shines through. It's a quiet light that barely escapes the cracks. A presence I've been denied up until now.
Her gaze softens from sour to remorseful. From someone on the defensive to a soldier who finally steps backward, only to recognize the perils of war. To understand that they've become a casualty as well.
I've been entirely unaware of my own tears that our drowned out by the storm. But Paige can tell. She must. And she must give a damn, too, because her eyes cower in the gentlest way. An admittance of defeat. "What do you want to know?" she practically whispers.
It takes an insurmountable amount of courage to ask, I know. And more importantly, the Paige I've come to know would never surrender so easily. Who knows, though? Maybe I've never really known the girl to begin with.
But if she's willing to try, then I must as well. For both of our sakes, because if being together has proven to be this destructive, who's to say that parting ways would be any less detrimental?
Each of these factors combine into the overarching reason that prompts my saying, "Everything."
"So it was a girl that bullied you for liking girls?" I ask under the cover of a nearby willow, an hour into the conversation.
"Made my life hell," she explains, nodding. "She was pretty ruthless."
"And that's why you…"
"Started hurting myself?" Paige fills in. "Control's a hell of a drug, Emily. Inward or outward. Once you get a taste, nothing's the same." Her voice and eyes trail before she absent-mindedly includes, "You're not the same."
I've been trying to carefully follow along. To wrap my head around Paige's past in hopes of bettering the future. Both tasks prove far more difficult than I could've ever imagined. It's downright unfathomable, what she's confessed so far. Despising herself for things well beyond her control. Channeling that hatred and aggression so far inward that it eventually broke through the surface. Those around me struggled to comprehend at first, sure, but soon became accepting of my being gay. Even my mother and father frequently came to my defense on the topic.
Paige wasn't nearly as fortunate.
And up until now, it's been a mentality she's been unable to shake. Long after separating herself from that wretched tormentor, the idea had long nested itself into her head and refused to leave. It acted as a constant fear of everything she touches crumbling down. She's been alone far longer than I. With nowhere to turn. Trying to control and dictate each and every aspect of her own life, only to break down when fate says otherwise.
The burden was enough to make her seek out help. Voluntarily admit herself into the rehabilitation program. "I knew something was terribly wrong," Paige says remorsefully. "And I just wanted those closest to me to know, too. So I went there."
"And your parents did nothing to intervene?" I ask. "Beforehand, I mean."
She inhales sharply, exhaling just long enough to gather her thoughts. "Dad was still getting used to the whole 'my daughter's into other peoples' daughters' deal. You'd think I murdered someone," she jokes. "And Donna's just a bitter old cunt. A washed-up rebel whose cause withered away about twenty years ago."
"But they still knew what was going on," I point out, still in disbelief. "They knew and they did absolute nothing."
"It's not exactly something that you bring up at dinner parties," she deadpans. "After all, you knew, and you kept quiet, too."
"No, but I—" But nothing. She's right, of course, which is why I fall silent. I knew all along. Or, at least, ever since Paige sent me on the wild goose chase to find out what was wrong. Even when she explicitly pointed me in the right direction, I acted as though everything was peachy keen. Pretended that she was nothing more than the bat shit crazy egocentric I'd originally pegged her to be. "Sorry," is all that I can foolishly offer.
We sit for a little while, quietly listening to droplets of rain that fall through the surrounding foliage. It's calm, peaceful, like Paige's favorite spot that she once introduced me to. The kind of place that you can really lose yourself in. Serenity found on our chaotic, bouncing ball of a home.
The grove-like area reminds me of Paige in an odd sort of way. Beautiful, but only to be appreciated in the midst of crisis. Soothing. Strong but fragile.
Maybe it's these minor observations that coax my arm around the small of her back. Or maybe it's the growing realization that without her, I would never think twice about stumbling across these moments. That without her hardships, I would never fully come to appreciate the sanctuary that stillness can offer.
My head rests against Paige's shoulder as these thoughts run rampant. She tenses at first, but soon relaxes under my touch. "We're survivors, you and me," I mutter into the oncoming darkness. "And we get along, with or without help, because that's what we do."
"We?" she quickly taunts.
I giggle. "You're kind of stuck with me, it would seem. After all, you brought me the last blue popsicle. You thumb wrestled me during sex, and you kind of offered up a full scholarship to college for me. All of that's got to count for something."
Paige laughs, too, this time, if only to herself. And then she places a kiss to the top of my forehead, just below where hair meets skin, playfully nibbling at the flesh. There's this almost sigh of relief as she smiles against me, whispering in return, "Yeah, I guess it does."
The hours that pass are the most heartfelt, joyous moments that we've shared together. The kind that only true sorrow can elicit. Darkest before the dawn, right?
We spend a great deal of time lost in a nearby hardware store's aisles, simply trying to delay our return to reality. Testing out each and every sample doorbell. Twice over. Laughing heartily as their choruses drown out the noises that have long plagued our minds.
All is well until we encounter the power tools. Paige picks up a drill, flattens herself against a wall, and playfully peeks around the corner, waiting for a random passerby. It comes in the form of a young man, probably just a few years our senior, who's initially startled. But he relaxes, connects opposing forefingers and thumbs, points them at my roommate, and says, "Bang."
Never before have I seen the life drain from someone's face so quickly. Paige drops the tool, which crashes loudly against the floor. Various clerks appear at the scene, but Paige is in too much of a petrified stupor to heed their questioning.
I escort her outside as quickly as possible.
"Was it that bad?" I dumbly ask once her feet begin moving en route to the hospital. We've managed to address everything but the obvious. A traumatic experience she willingly jumped in to, whose effects have undoubtedly taken their toll. I chalk it up to merely another uphill battle that we must fight.
She nods.
We finish the journey in silence, stopping only once as the sound of a backfiring car rattles throughout the night. Even against total darkness, I can see Paige's face turn a pale shade of white. And as we finally near the building's sliding doors, I stop her a final time, feverishly searching those eyes for some sign of life.
This business of keeping strong is becoming increasingly difficult, and I want to say something, anything, that'll pull her back to my side. That'll give her the courage to press on, should I ever falter. An assurance that'll soothe the quickly building urge to puke that settles into my gut.
"I want you to promise me something."
She nods again.
"From this point on, things have to be different."
Nod.
"And no matter what happens, it won't be about forcing ourselves into happiness, but it will be about refusing to let the sadness win out, okay?"
This time, with mist in her eyes, she reaches for my hand, places a chaste kiss to each finger, and nods once more.
The climb upstairs is a somber one. More unsettling, though, is the multitude of people gathered just outside of BHB's room. His mother. His brother. A woman in a long white lab coat. A man in a black suit.
Each's expression tells a story far greater than words.
Paige's hand instantly falls lax under my own. I clench harder, fearful that she might tear off in the opposite direction.
In nearing, I notice the room's lone bed to be vacant. Paige does too, for her breath catches. "Where is he?" she asks, voice unsteady. No one responds, which clearly upsets her. Much to the point where she hollers, "WHERE IN THE ABSOLUTE FUCK HAVE YOU TAKEN HIM?"
The scene is one I've seen many times. Once, when my mother returned from visiting her aunt, who had long battled with cancer, in the hospital. Another, after my father made frequent painful phone calls to the families of his military buddies.
Both were similar to this in many respects. Both taught me many valuable lessons that I'd foolishly hoped would never be necessary.
So, when Paige brokenly demands, "Answer me," the unstated realization is easily grasped. A conclusion that I can't bring myself to relay on.
Their silence is the answer.
kyla (Guest): I'm sorry, dear friend. Please do not cry. (Or do. That's pretty cool, too.)
Guest: Something like that. Just play along.
Zapa (Guest): Part of me almost killed her just because you said not to. Then again, I absolutely refuse to kill any character not of my own creation. As a side note: I'm sorry for doing this to you.
tahneejaye: No, friend, you rock.
Plamin24: I almost didn't go there, but rum lead me in that direction. Lol. I'm sorry for such a long wait. I truly, truly am.
PailyIsLove (Guest): No problem, friend. I'll see what I can do for the rest of it.
dotylink64: Many, many thanks.
Yesni83: I'm sorry for not making this a happy chapter. I almost did, just because you keep asking for one. Hold on for me, will you? Happiness will come. (Eventually.)
ponderhouse: I waited two weeks, simply because you said I was updating too quickly. (I wish that were the case. Lol.) And I am certainly most grateful for your kind words. Honestly, who's spoiling who here?