CONTINUATION RIGHT HERE, PEOPLE.

Panicky. Frantic. Both terms properly encompass one Emily Fields at precisely the moment in which everyone else begins to act accordingly.

Paige anchors me into place just outside the front patio, patiently whispering, "Wait for it. Wait for it." And like clockwork, she begins snickering as line after line of elementary-sized children begins filing through double doors. Worry fills their eyes as each clutches onto what few belongings fill their tiny arms. Paige ditches me to fall into the chaos, clearly standing out above the rest. She whispers into the ear of a recognizable boy and takes his hand, both marching towards me with the insistency of two people who've just robbed a bank. "Thunder cats are a go," she mutters.

"Wha—"

"It means follow me, dumbass," she barks, well ahead of an onslaught of faculty.

And regretfully so, I do.

Thoughts of jail time and kidnapping charges and our faces on the newspaper's front page are what plague my thoughts as we scurry onto yet another bus. Tommy, seated in between us, remains cool as a cucumber. He mindlessly fiddles with a handheld game. Paige busily explains the concept of spontaneous field trips to him as we barrel onward.

The next stop is not our final destination, as Paige further explains, but merely another accomplishable bullet point on our "friend's dumb list of dumb things to do before his dumb ass winds up in the ground."

"Funny," I mention while standing in yet another parking lot, "how we've skipped school to do nothing more than visit a multitude of other schools."

She snickers. "That's the spirit."

We stop short of another front desk, and out of sheer curiosity, I whisper, "Fortune-seeking aunt?"

"I was thinking more along the lines of long-lost stepsister."

"And if she doesn't have any step parents?"

"Details, Emily."

Paige confidently approaches the woman behind the counter, leaning over in her ever blasé way of communicating. A regular day con artist, this girl. Sly and manipulative. Capable of getting whatever she wants, when she wants it. This clerk is far more cooperative, though, and simply adds at the end of Paige's lengthy spiel, "She's at lunch right now. I'll give her a call."

Our partner in crime flashes a toothy grin and winks, only to have both replaced by a frown when the cafeteria door first opens. "Shit," she then mutters when a woman in high heels begins clicking our way. Tall and defiant like Dr. Evans. Years younger, it would seem, but not by much. And definitely not the dreamy high school sweetheart Paige had obviously envisioned.

I take firm hold of the girl's arm. "What exactly are you planning?"

With a deep breath, she wrestles free and mumbles, "Number seven." Marching towards the door that provides a Segway into the main foyer, she calls out in tow, "Cover the kid's eyes."

More regretfully than the first time, I comply. I comply until Paige approaches the woman. I comply until she quickly takes hold of her face. I comply until their mouths meet, a look of bewildered disgust overtaking the Alice Pemberton character's features. After this, all bets are suddenly off, and I collect Tommy into my arms, making a beeline for the door.

Breathless and with aching limbs, I push forward until Paige catches us. Taking but a moment to gather myself, it quickly becomes evident that her stunt has caused the subtlest of uproars. At least, that's what two men in black official wear suggest as they sprint in pursuit.

We run and run as quickly as freshly grounded eight-year-old legs will allow. Thankfully, they carry us back to the bus stop and onto a set of stairs where doors quickly close, shutting our assailants out. And just for good measure, Paige victoriously throws the finger to both men.

It's another forty-five minutes before anyone mentions anything about our journey's end. I merely stare out the window as both Paige and Tommy carry on about how exciting the first escapade was, how the second compares; and I can't help but imagine how "cool" being cool is when cool gets into trouble. And there will be consequences, my wandering, fretful mind exclaims. I mean, have you met your father?

But Paige attempts to soothe my worries by pinpointing just how much progress we've already made. "We can even go ahead and cross 'Lose Virginity' off the list, considering that homeboy got to second base with one Alice Pemberton," she says proudly.

I don't bother asking what constitutes "second base" in Paige's book, or how in the hell she got there in so little time. Rather, I patiently await the next location—hopefully the final—as we pass city after city. Small town after small town.

And then the sign for Water Valley, Pennsylvania appears, a smaller advertisement for the town's annual fair just below. Roughly six minutes later, I'm once again being dragged from the comfort of hard plastic seating.

Fairs have always been creepy to me. Sketchy-looking workers. Raggedy equipment. Greasy, unkempt food. The whole lot of it. Paige and Tommy do nothing to aid this process, for just as soon as she swipes my father's credit card and collects a handful of red rectangles, the pair takes off in a mad dash toward something that looks like an outhouse.

This scene plays out for the next couple of hours, in fact. They rush to play games. They sprint to buy funnel cakes. They frolic towards many of the lower level attractions. At one point, I lose them in the crowd's madness. And when a freak out becomes imminent, something jolts me to attention. "Has anyone ever told you that if you frown for too long, your face will get stuck that way?" a voice asks, sneaking up from behind. The voice grows louder, closer, until it's just over my shoulder. Hell, it even has the decency to try sticking a corndog up my nose. "Loosen up, kid," Paige then coos, playfully nibbling at the shell of my ear.

"I'd rather be at school," I grumble.

"Said no one ever," she quickly laughs, bear hugging me from behind. We then pause, if only to admire Tommy as he attempts to lift one of those sledge hammers. I'm led by the hand over, to which Paige bows before placing the slightly heavy object in my arms. "My money's on you, kid."

Awfully therapeutic, putting all of your force and aggression into one motion. And after three successful swings—three successful dings—Paige convinces everyone to applaud. Like a dork, she even lifts one of my arms overhead.

"Still not having fun?" our littlest member asks shortly thereafter.

"A total blast," I say, sounding far more sarcastic than I intended.

"All right, all right," Paige interjects, stepping in between us. A hand proceeds to turn each of our shoulders in the opposite direction. "Piss break, you two. And don't come back until you've settled your differences."

"Strength in numbers, guy," is what I hear come from Paige's mouth as Tommy and I approach her from behind just following our run to the bathroom. She stands in front of one of the fair's game booths. "Now fork over four of the talking bananas, or I'll take our incident to the papers. 'Chet from the Water Valley Winter Fair Whack-A-Mole booth is running a bullshit operation.' Sounds lovely, yeah?"

I hurry over to the game's operator, a kid roughly our age, with long hair and an even longer face. "What's going on?" I ask to the almost statue of a person.

Robotically and with wide-set eyes, he murmurs, "She won the bear." The massive panda that hangs on the back wall, I'm assuming. "She won the bear but she keeps asking for the bananas."

"Then just give her the bananas?" I finally suggest. You'd think I just solved world hunger by the look he gives me. Even as Paige rips the stuffed animals from his hand, gratitude radiates from the guy. Like I've just saved him from being mauled by a cougar.

A scowl forms on Paige's face as we back away. "Fucking hippie," she mutters while fiddling with one of the prizes, pushing a center button that brings the object to life. Continuously, I might add.

"I know someone else who could benefit from giving peace a chance," I go to say, but Tommy's distracted expression has equal effect on ours. His eyes light up at the sight of a big wheel circulating somewhere overhead. I look up, too, at the boisterous Ferris wheel.

Paige joins us in gazing as our bodies begin veering in the ride's direction. Then slowly and almost methodically, she begins to fall behind. One step at first, then two. And within enough time, she's trailing a full ten yards. Both eyes never once flinch from their hold. "I, uh," she begins, but swallows, thus cutting the words off. Eventually, though, she blinks enough to bring herself back. "I'll take this one for the team and babysit our stuff. You guys go ahead."

This is quite possibly the only version of Paige I've yet to witness, and it's absolutely hysterical. Nervous rambling? Sweating on a day that proves lukewarm, at best? Insistent swallowing? I've seen nerves and I've seen hesitation. This is neither. This is full blown fear, and—did I mention that it's funny seeing her so frazzled?

So, with an obvious grin plastered to my own face, I say, "Hold on." She almost jumps at the remark. "You were literally prepared to go to war over a couple of fair prizes, but won't step foot near a Ferris wheel?"

"'Twenty people die annually from freak Ferris wheel accidents.' Fact," she instantly returns, defense on high alert. "'The likelihood of dying on a Ferris wheel lessens significantly if you do not step foot on the damn things.' Fact. 'Ferris wheels are stupid and ugly and for idiots.' Fact. Paige McCullers does not risk her life or intellectual standing over pointless endeavors. Fact."

Through a fit of laughter, I manage, "You're a wuss."

And then a relatively silent Tommy chimes in with the kill shot by defiantly including, "Fact."

Paige's face contorts around this time, and I figure that maybe, just maybe, we could twist her arm into joining. I could offer blue popsicles, but that'd be too difficult a task. I could offer sex, but that'd be too irrational. I could offer to cover her eyes and hold her hand, but that would only produce a severed ego. Instead, I finally settle on, "Has anyone ever told you that—"

"Still not afraid to set you on fire," she mutters without so much as batting an eye.

At a loss, I take hold of Tommy's hand and lead him to what you would think was the Promise Land, considering the way his body anxiously fidgets as though it may burst at the first convenient seam.

We're then situated on either side of the cart when we're approached by the ride's operator, who insinuates that our unbalanced weights pose a major problem. "You either grab a plus one, or neither of you are riding," the dingy man explains. We both agree to taking on another little girl, probably around Tommy's age.

"A fan of heights, yeah?" I ask once the gears begin turning and the boy's sense of excitement elevates to an entirely new level. He begins nodding insistently in answer. "Your brother was, too, huh? After all, this was his idea."

Okay. Probably not the best question, considering. But thankfully, kids are resilient. And by resilient, I mean open and willing to laugh at Paige's expense. Because he says, "Nope. He's kind of like Paige. A chicken."

"Fact," I agree.

We sit in utter silence through the first go-around. The strange little girl shows damn near no emotion, no interest, in the journey. Tommy, on the other hand, is eating the entire ordeal up. But nearing our second rise to the top, his overwhelming joy falters. His eyes cut to the sky, and he squints as though he's trying to locate something in particular. "He was never good with heights," Tommy sullenly points out. "Makes me wonder how he's handling being up there."

"I'm sure he's handling it relatively well," I say because I'm a bumbling idiot who possesses not one fraction of a clue as to how these conversations should work.

"Oh, I know that much," he almost laughs. "Paige says that Bobby won't have to worry about falling off of the clouds because his head's too massive. She says that it'll just smack into an asteroid and get carried back off into space."

"That's certainly one way of putting it."

Much to my avail, he diverts the attention by cracking up hysterically, a lone finger wagging towards below. With a mouth full of cotton candy, Paige dances around. And it would be slightly less amusing if she wasn't frantically ducking and dodging a bee that flies nearest her head. Two of the stuffed fruits are tucked in the front of her pants, the others stuck underneath her arms, as she performs a full blown jig.

Even the little girl begins giggling, and much of the rest of our ride is devoted to laughing at Paige's expense. The best part being that she has no earthly idea. But like the candid bastard that he is, Tommy capitalizes by asking, "Are you and Paige girlfriends?"

"Of course," I immediately respond in the same way my parents might've at one point in their lives. "She's my friend and she's a girl."

My bullshit clearly reeks, though. Especially to the four interrogating eyes that peer at me from the other seat. "You know what I mean," Tommy says, eliciting a nod of approval from his age-like counterpart. "Like, when me and my mom came to visit, Bobby said that you were girlfriends. He said that you both liked each other a lot, and that it was cool."

Even from six feet under, the sly bastard haunts me, I think, biting my lip. Racking my brain for the suitable response to a question that I, myself, have never asked, let alone conceived answer to. What would Paige do? She's the one that's good with kids. With these messes.

What I do next epitomizes throwing caution to the wind, for I poke my head just over the railing and call down below, "ARE WE GIRLFRIENDS?"

At least seven people glare up from the ground, but only one answers. "WHAT?" It's the typical "I'm still stuffing my face with food and you're interrupting" response.

"ARE WE DATING?" I yell back.

"WHY?" she yells, hands cupped around her eyes as she looks up. "ARE YOU CHEATING ON ME?"

Both of the cart's little people snicker at the last tidbit, and even I have to admit that it kind of catches me off guard. Not necessarily in a bad respect, either, but more as a too quick breath of fresh air. A sigh of relief that's long wished to be emitted.

Yes, I've been grouchy for the better part of today. Yes, I've been apprehensive of the situations into which I've been dragged. Yes, I now possess windburn from being outside in the unforgiving Pennsylvania winter.

But if it serves as any consolation for my overall sour mood, the sultry grin that Paige gives upon our landing makes me suddenly glad that I tagged along after all.

At the day's end, with everyone returned to their rightful places, an angry mother's reprimand, and a silent bus ride, Paige and I stumble up to my room. She's insisted that we be very quiet in the ascent, and I don't have the heart to tell her that I cleared our road trip with my parents earlier this morning. They simply shrugged it off.

"So generous of you, giving them the best view," I tease when the two remaining prizes are placed on my window seat, facing the glass. Tommy took one of the others, and per Paige's advice, gave the fourth to our Ferris wheel companion.

"Please," she scoffs. "I just didn't want the bastards to see me naked."

When we finally curl up in my bed, Paige hunkers over and insists that I scratch her back for a half hour. I don't protest, but simply lie back against a comfortable pillow and groggily drag five fingers against her skin. "To answer your question from earlier," she says, flopping over to where our faces meet, "no, we are not dating. We're way too weird to be dating."

"Weird can be good," I mutter through lidded eyes.

"But weird isn't always lasting, either," she says with an air of disappointment. It catches my attention. She smirks. "So I'll tell you what, kid. You and me, we'll take this—whatever it is—one day at a time. That way, if and when shit hits the fan, we can say that we were prepared."

I can't help but laugh at how methodically Paige approaches just about everything. She could be asked to take the trash out and first have to pause, weight the outcome versus effort, systematically calculate every little detail, and finally go on her way. She leaves nothing to chance, this girl. "Not even dating and you're already breaking up with me," I say in like fashion. We both giggle at this, and I somehow manage to include, "No worries, though. Breaks up give way to make ups."

In an instant, her body hovers over mine. Brunette hair tickles my forehead. An arched eyebrow invades my field of vision. "You've got my attention," she coos.

"See?" I joke. "Already a change of heart."

"You've persuaded me, Miss Fields."

Her eyes glimmer now, and I'm miraculously allowed past the guard she often keeps erect. This is the Paige I know. This is the Paige I've missed. "Is this what I should expect of the next few months?" I ask, not entirely sure of the underlying connotation my words hold.

"And years," she corrects. "Four, to be exact. But I ultimately plan on tormenting you for the rest of our days, 'til death do us part."

"Sounds an awful lot like a proposal," I challenge.

Paige cracks the subtlest of grins. "Don't flatter yourself, kid," she coos, casually dipping her head as the sentence progresses. Then, when the whites of our eyes meet a final time, she says, "We're not even dating, remember?"

The first touch feels like a million fire crackers going off at once. This is different, I think. This is most definitely weird. Because I look at Paige and it's difficult to see the depressed individual she was a mere two weeks ago. There's new life in her demeanor. Much like a lone ember that selfishly soaks in oxygen, hoping to catch fire.

Maybe this is why I kiss her first, long before she can consider making the initial move. Why I place both hands to either side of her neck. Why I linger as long as physically possible before parting.

Part of me believes that she won't disappear again. That she won't beg for pain this time, and that I won't be forced to deliver. But the other part, the present one, is no longer afraid, should she vanish once more. Because right now, in this moment, the sheer sight of this girl fills me with unmatchable emotion. It invades my chest and threatens to destroy me in the best way possible.

Her presence is what brings me back. She's filling the silent void. Blocking out all negativity and pain and strife with her body. Shielding me from our harsh reality. Protecting me, more or less.

And I'm almost fully convinced that I could love her for doing so.

All of these reasons damn near bring me to tears. Instead, though, I allow the raw desire to course through my limbs. To fuel the hands that peel her shirt away. The fingers that aimlessly tickle up her sides, eliciting the most playful of flinches. We laugh for a good minute, and God, does it feel good.

"You're still okay, right?" I ask when Paige's face buries itself into the crook of my neck, struggled breaths meeting skin.

"A little hot and bothered at the moment," she responds, lifting to meet my eyes. "But completely and utterly okay." She then grins that devilish grin. She nods. "I promise."

It's easy to trust Paige under these circumstances. Especially considering that she's been more truthful as of late. Quick to speak her mind. Unafraid of professing her deepest grievances. And something tells me that if she truly was going back to the bad place, her demeanor would be far more haunted. Her body would feel like nothing but a skeleton falling from a dusty, cobweb-filled closet.

It doesn't.

Electric is how she feels.

Renewed.

Like someone catching that first glimpse of light at the end of their tunnel, long after sheer human nature insisted that they keep trudging forward.

I think I might love her for that, too.

Hands suddenly begin to work more fervently. They try to operate in tandem with our mouths, nipping, scratching, biting, and grabbing. The last of our clothes are removed in a matter of seconds. Torn from skin that need not be covered. With hands weary from weeks of carrying each other. Within a minute, we're both lying bare and flush against the other, breaths as heavy as the emotional weight that's been lifted.

It's a bit overwhelming, feeling as though another person could swallow you whole. For it means that they could just as easily spit you out. It's something that I've yet to experience, the tenderness with which she traces over the contours of my stomach. The way she rushes herself only to slow down, seemingly fearful that such a rapid pace would merely bring our time together's end much closer.

Before I know it, my hands are pinned overhead. Paige's lips trail from the base of my neck down, stopping and catering to every square inch. My breasts. The small valley in between. She struggles in trying to be everywhere at once.

This only drives me up the wall. Sends my eyes rolling backwards and hips arching as far up as they can.

But if I thought the attention to my midsection was torturous, then it doesn't hold a candle to the exact moment in which she frees my arms and her mouth meets the inside of my thigh. Teeth tug at skin. A wandering tongue soothes the ache.

At least, up until it first runs through my center, newly restoring the irritation. My fingers lash out, locking on to a tuft of brown hair. One, two, three flicks of her tongue is the only response.

Body writhing. Hip bones pinned firmly in place. It's all too much. Not enough. Which is why, through gritted teeth and an all too stern voice, I say, "Paige." She simply runs through me again. Words catch in the back of my throat. "Paige."

The whites of her eyes appear from the bed's foot. Her eyebrow arches. "Kind of busy here," she says before dipping back down.

"And in five seconds, you'll be even busier trying to explain to my parents why their daughter is making the noise I'm about—" Two lips cut me off. And where the absence in touch is most evident, most excruciating, two fingers quickly fill.

I spend the following minutes searching for a place to hold. First, the small of Paige's back. Next, her shoulders. Backs of her thighs. Her neck. But when each area proves as faulty as the one before, as incapable of providing adequate grounding, I settle for the sheets.

They contort and twist under the force of my clenched fists. They remain intact, though, as nimble fingers pluck at the sensitive bundle of nerves, diving lower and losing themselves within me before resurfacing. Continuously, until I'm caught between gasping and moaning; inhaling and exhaling. Frame violently shaken upward into Paige's.

"Holy shit," is all that I hear next. My mind instantly runs wild with every possible scenario. Someone's coming? A cramp? The roof is on fire? Fuck, I don't know. Whatever's going on is obviously the reason for Paige's newfound stillness. What's more unclear, though, is the reasoning for her a dumb smile that creeps along her face. Or why she says, "It happened."

"What happened?" I ask, suddenly more nervous than turned on.

Small droplets of water form in the corners of her eyes. Not beads of sweat, but tears. Her smile never once disappears. Not even as she mutters, "What I thought would happen. Most of it, anyway." And before I can question the nature of "it" or "what", Paige kicks back into overdrive, a hand falling lax against my neck as the other returns to its original position.

She's gentle in sending me over the edge, just as she always has been. Cradling the area right above my backside as white light invades my vision. Silencing the last whimper with a firm, open-mouthed kiss. Finally lowering me onto the mattress.

Heat flows through my veins. Sweat trickles from my brow, and a numbness succumbs my bones. All eventually falls still.

Paige is patient, smiling to herself as I blink in an attempt to regain full coherence. "You look like a newborn, gassy baby."

Thankfully, I have enough strength to punch her square in the arm. And then moments pass before my breathing steadies, and my legs function enough to lift and straddle Paige's waist. "Get some rest," she coos, gently rubbing the tops of my thighs. "You need sleep."

"And you need to be very, very quiet," I return, hunkering over, hovering dangerously close to her face.

She fiddles with a string of hanging hair. "I'll still be here in the morning. You can get to it then."

I kiss her, purely because it's the only thing that feels right. Bodies pressed together, not sure where one begins and the other ends. Fitting like two pieces of a puzzle. "I could," I singsong into her ear. "But patience has never been my strong suit."

She giggles. "You're a woman of many talents, Miss Fields. I think you can somehow master the art of holding your horses."

Now is my turn for the eyebrow cocking. "Need we thumb wrestle over the issue?" Paige again begins giggling to herself, and I know that I have her. "So here's the deal. There will be no taking lest equal giving be expected. Can we at least agree on that?"

Her eyes glimmer in the most innocent manner as she nods. As she brings a hand around the back of my head. Then, in a split-second, the same smug Paige returns. For she folds both hands behind her own head, props up against the pillow, and says, "Proceed."

I catch my mother early the next morning, long before Paige intends on waking, considering the deep-throated snores she currently emits. Which is probably just as well since the advice I'm about to seek out, the shred of insight I'm about to probe for, is of a matter that wholly concerns the girl in my bed. On a topic that was only brought to my attention last night, but threatens to plague my thoughts for the next fifty years if unanswered.

Here's to trying.

She sits at the kitchen's island setup, slowly sipping from a cup of coffee. Meekly tending to a bowl of cereal, just as she has for as long as I can remember. Mom's ears perk up when I take a seat. "Seven o'clock? On a weekend? To what do I owe this surprise?" she playfully taunts.

I laugh, but only in an effort to somehow fish out the frog that's lodged in my throat. A few weird seconds pass, and with the help of my mother's "anytime now" cough, I ask the question that desperately requires answer. "When you first realized that Dad was the one for you, what did it feel like? Like, how did you know?"

My mother snorts coffee through her nose, she's so caught off guard. I'll admit, it's a terribly out-of-left-field request, asking something so random and unwarranted, but even this reaction sends me into a fit of laughter. Thankfully, sparing me the awkward birds and bees conversation, she laughs, too. "That's, uh—why do I feel as though this will lead to an interrogation?" she teases. "Because whatever your father said is absolutely incorrect."

We both chuckle again. "No reason," I halfheartedly insist. "Just asking is all."

"Right," she says, nodding and dropping her cereal spoon. "Just asking. Of course. Because every kid wants to know everything about their parents' love life. Absolutely." She's speaking in the short-tongued, sarcastic way. The kind that parents and teachers when they think they're being funny, but secretly know otherwise. Instead, they're merely trying to convince themselves that the truth isn't necessarily as truthful as they know it to be. "Well," she breathes, an air of uncertainty following. "If there's one thing I had to first learn about your father, it's that he comes in waves. There are layers upon layers upon layers to that man."

"Like an onion," I play along.

"Like an onion," she agrees, sipping from her coffee. Her eyes that have seen far too much in one lifetime then hunker in, knitting themselves into a tapestry that reeks of mixed emotions. "He's an entirely different human being month to month, year to year. And to the unconditioned heart, he would appear cold and distant one day, while possessing saint-like qualities the next."

I think of how honest her words are. Dad's always been that way, though. Quick to brush you off one half of the week, only to flip a switch and become overly-involved the second. I've never known him to be any other way, which makes it difficult to grasp the kindly struggled manner in which my mother speaks.

"A sociopath, almost," she continues, laughing to herself. "Even having you was a hard pill for him to swallow."

I laugh, too. "That's comforting."

She again takes a long draw from the mug, tenderly placing it down with both hands before extending them outward in a joking manner. "But we love him just the same, do we not?" she asks.

"I'd like to think that," I agree, chuckling. As the minutes pass, however, I find it increasingly difficult to wrap my head around their past and incorporate it into my own present. Kind of a long shot, really. After all, Paige and I have been through an entirely different set of circumstances. We've seen and experienced different things. Things that don't compare to meeting each other on a military base, getting married, and popping out yours truly months later. So I'm forced to ask, if only for the wisdom that age and experience can offer, "Something had to have changed along the way, right? No two people can remain the same throughout the years."

Mom nods in understanding. "That's where the gray area comes in," she explains rather matter-of-factly. "You see, I discovered my truest feelings for your father somewhere in between the good and bad days. In between the hustle and bustle of work and school and our stagnant lives alongside each other." She pauses. Thumbs at the bowl's rim. Brings the spoon up only to allow it to plop back down. Then she continues in the steadiest tone, "Following the moment in which I realized that the boy he was and the man he'd become were the exact same person, I had no difficulty in accepting whatever curveballs his mood or life threw our way."

Curveballs.

Mood.

Life.

Her words resonate within me. They hold significant weight over my heart strings. Because now, instead of merely coping with feelings towards another girl—a matter that simply no longer matters—I'm burdened with the task of choosing who I invest myself into. My time. My efforts. My emotions. Maya was never this difficult. Things were easier back then.

And then again, maybe easy isn't always best. Is swimming against an opponent with no arms or legs really as gratifying as defeating a champion athlete?

"Was there ever a time that you stopped loving him?" I eventually ask, attempting to tackle the obvious issue. The one most concerning Paige's tendencies to push back should someone ever cling too hard. "Is it possible that one of his bad days was enough to send the good away?"

This time, my mother smiles. "Love is energy, my dear," she coos. "It lessens, it grows, but it never disappears."

"And it can never be created, in the same respect," I tease, referencing every science class following elementary school.

"Technically speaking," she quickly returns, reaching across to nudge my arm. "But it's more of a connection than anything. Like two magnets drawn together, their polar opposites collide and create something lasting. Something powerful."

Opposites. Collisions. Power. In even the worst regard, the words describe us to a tee. Six months. Two weeks. The past two days. Last night. Chaotic, sure, but moments that will forever be ingrained into my mind. Funny, how Paige always manages to have that effect.

And so, with these ideas in mind, I place a quick to my mother's forehead before darting back upstairs.

Paige groans when I sneak under the covers. Through lidded eyes, she flops over with the grace of a newborn fawn, attempting to blink back the rays of light that creep in. In the moment, she's particularly beautiful. Hell, even the slobber stain left on my favorite pillow isn't as gross as it probably should seem.

She smiles, though. Dumbly, but only in her signature Paige way. "We're two completely different people, you and me," I mutter when she fully turns over.

"True," she mumbles.

"And that's a recipe for disaster, wouldn't you say?"

Paige grunts while lifting herself up, reaching the peak, turning mid-air, and hitting the mattress face first with a loud hoof. Face drowning in white cotton, she says, "Maybe at a different time. You know, like on a Tuesday or something."

I can't help but laugh. "I'm being serious, you ass," I say, knocking at her head.

"I'm sorry, but the person you are trying to reach is currently unavailable," she says in a monotone voice. We both giggle this time, even as I wrestle the pillow from underneath her face. She barely puts up a fight. Instead, she merely crawls closer toward me, head resting on my lap. "What do you want me to say, Fields? Because if you think that my happy ass is showing up in your front yard with a boom box over my head, then you're sadly mistaken."

Sarcasm. A valiant defense, and subsequently Paige's only means of fending off the things that are most important to her. A good sign. I begin tracing circles along the crevices of her face. The nose. Cheeks. Eyes. Lips. "Fine," I breathe. "Then say something that'll ease my mind."

"No, the Jonas Brothers are not getting back together," she deadpans, eyes closed and cracking a smile.

"Okay. Now say that whatever we've got going on is special. That it means something."

"It's a connection," she offers more sheepishly. "There's no denying that."

There it is. That word. Connection. Maybe we're not on such a separate wavelength after all. Maybe Paige understands where I'm coming from. "Lastly, I want you to say that I'm not crazy for feeling the way I do. About you, mostly. I want you to say that it's not totally weird to halfway believe that you're experiencing the same."

There are no immediate jokes. No sarcastic replies. Instead, Paige merely says, "Doesn't matter," and the words crush me. But her eyes remain closed as she bites her lip. As she inhales and exhales in a cadence unlike any other. Then, after a deep, lasting breath, Paige offers, "Because weird can be a good thing."

A plethora of "mights" and "coulds" begin cycling through my mind, but they cannot distract me from the lone truth. From the one snippet that stands out against all minor detail.

One of many lessons that Dad has taught me over the years revolves around the nobility of consideration. "Some say that the thought breeds the action, but they're wrong. Because if you think about doing it, then chances are, you already have," he would say. And I never understood his words, but always nodded accordingly.

Now, though, it makes sense in the oddest imaginable way. Because I used to think that being with Maya was love in its truest form, but it was nothing more than a naïve, veiled misconception.

For our time is love, and love is fleeting.

But cherishing every waking moment that you spend with another has to mean something, right? After all, Paige makes the sound of a ticking clock more bearable. She makes me feel okay about the end, wherever it may lie. She could even make four years feel like a lifetime, too, but only in the best possible way.

She's the only person who's given me spontaneity, adventure, and stillness in one fell swoop. The only person who's left holes in my heart, only to fill them to the brim once more. In accordance to what my mother said, she's the only person to have been in a constant state of changing, yet somehow managed to remain the same.

There's valiancy in choosing to keep your eyes trained straight ahead, veering only on the rare occasion in which you peek to the side, hoping to catch a glimpse of the standing next to you. There's value in realizing that it's been the same person all along.

Yeah, I could be in love with Paige McCullers.

I might be.

I probably am.

After all, she's left me swallowing back words and desires that I'd never thought myself to possess. Maybe that's what Dad was saying all along. Maybe the pit in my stomach is a creation of my own subconscious. Maybe I've been considering Paige since day one.

I lean back against the headboard, soaking in the tiredness that an early morning can provide. My eyes slowly drift to a close, as do Paige's, whose head seems lighter as the minutes progress. Then, soundlessly, we both just lay. Basking in each other's company. Enjoying the security of another warm body.

And all the while, an emulsion of ideas, realities, and undeniable truths flutter throughout my head. A string of words plays on a continuous loop. They rest atop my chest. They sink lower and permeate into my heart, threatening to escape at any moment.

One single phrase that finally sends me off into a peaceful slumber.

Yeah, Paige. Weird can definitely be a good thing.