@sierrale8ne - Tumblr Blog

CHAPTER SEVEN ━━ Unexpected Reunions

☆ ━ pairing: oc x paige bueckers x oc (love triangle)

☆ ━ word count: 7.0K

☆ ━ links: my masterlist, eternity masterlist

☆ ━ author’s note: a bit of a filler chapter but next one should be really good

THE BELL ABOVE the diner door jingles behind them as they step out, and Luka stretches his arms over his head like he's shaking off the smell of fries and coffee and eternity itself. Allie feels it clinging to her anyway—grease in her slicked back hair, sugar under her fingernails, that faint stickiness at the back of her neck from leaning too close to the grill. It's her only shift of the week, which is nice she supposes, almost quaint, like she's playing at having a job instead of actually needing one, but tonight she feels it achingly, a dull heaviness that settles behind her eyes. And now she's going to the gym to sweat it out all over again, to double down on the exhaustion, to keep herself moving long enough that she doesn't have to sit alone in her room and let her mind do what it's been doing all day: looping, spiraling, imagining.

"What eternity did they choose?" Luka asks as they start down the ide promenade toward the terminal, his hands shoved in the pockets of his track jacket.

Allie keeps her eyes straight ahead for a moment longer than necessary, watching a group of teenagers race past them, shrieking with laughter as if they've just been handed back the bodies they'd lost. She inhales slowly, the artificial citrusy smell wafting through her nostrils. This is better than sitting in her room after her shift, she reminds herself. It's better than staring at the ceiling and picturing Paige and Imogen somewhere else—somewhere curated and chosen and for them—walking down streets that hold memories, holding hands in a city that belongs to them. It's better than wondering how it's going, better than admitting that a small, ugly, selfish part of her hopes it's not perfect, that the hotel bed creaks too loudly, that the restaurant reservation gets lost, that something tiny goes wrong just to take the shine off it.

She hates that part of herself. She really does.

It's not that she doesn't want it to go well. She wants Paige to be happy; that's the clean, polished truth that she can hold up proudly. But happiness, in this situation, feels more like a loaded gun. If it goes well—if it goes perfectly—what does that mean? If Paige looks at Imogen across a candlelit table and feels several decades collapse into something whole and finished and complete, then what is Allie? A waiting room, a placeholder, a ghost who never quite made it into the life she was supposed to have.

And if it goes badly—if it's strained or disappointing or just not as they expected—then what does that make Allie? A beneficiary of someone else's fracture, a thief waiting politely for a marriage to crumble. A marriage where one of the spouses is also technically her wife.

Gosh.

It's just so complicated, in ways she can't even untangle for herself, let alone explain out loud. Her thoughts feel like a pile of wires in her brain, sparking and crossing and impossible to trace back to their origins. She's waited sixty-two years for Paige. Sixty-two years of Tuesdays at the diner and Thursdays at the gym and long stretches of time that meant nothing except that they were not the day Paige arrived.

Now, Paige is here. And she's not only Paige. She's Paige-with-another-wife. Paige-with-children. Paige-with-a-whole-lifetime that didn't include Allie in the ways that mattered most. And Allie's glad she got all of that—she really, really fucking is—but a part of her aches. Especially now, where she once again has to wait.

It's okay. She's patient.

The terminal is packed at this hour, the escalators bringing up new arrivals in clumps, the bright signage blinking helpfully overhead. A man in a business suit is arguing with a holographic directory. A teenage boy is sitting on the floor, expression empty. And, just to their right, a woman with wild hair and mascara streaked down her cheeks is screaming at the top of her lungs.

"I don't care what you're saying, I was just at Target!" the woman shrieks, pointing accusingly at a very calm AC, who's holding his clipboard like it might double as a shield. "I had a cart, and I had my coupons. This is not—this is not the parking lot!"

The woman looks exactly how Allie feels internally: disoriented and furious, thoughts a wild cluster in her head. Part of Allie wants to walk over and tell her that it does, eventually, settle. That the screaming turns into bargaining, and the bargaining turns into resigned curiosity, and then one day, you're arguing about mundane things like basketball stats as if you've just always been here. But she can't do that, because now she's feeling like she's back at square one again, nearly as turned around in her own head as when she was told that she was dead at twenty-five, despite having just gotten married, despite having a new puppy, despite having the most perfect, very much unfinished, life.

"Life in London," Allie finally answers Luka, stepping around a cluster of bewildered new arrivals who are being handed glossy brochures about eternity options.

"London?" Luka repeats, lifting a brow. "Why London?"

She shrugs. "That's where Imogen's from. And... that's where they raised their kids." The words sit heavy as they roll off her tongue.

She pictures it: narrow streets and brick row houses and rain slicking the pavement, Paige pushing a stroller, Imogen fumbling with an umbrella. She imagines birthday parties and school runs and grocery lists written in someone else's handwriting. Over half a century of inside jokes and shared spaces and domesticness and love. It's what Allie used to imagine for herself and Paige, when she was feeling lonely. Now she knows that Imogen got that instead, and she can't even find it in herself to be irritated or angry about it in the slightest. She just understands.

Luka squeezes her shoulder, his grip firm and warm. "She's going to pick you," he says, like he's said maybe a thousand times across the last few days, as if repetition might manifest reality. His accent curls around the words, softening them. "I've been telling you this since the first day she come here."

Allie flits her eyes over to him, expression tired. "You don't know that."

"I know Paige," he insists, then adds, "a little. And I know you. It is obvious."

She exhales through her nose, gaze now dropping to the polished floor as they walk. She watches her feet, each step coming one after the other. "I just want her to be happy," she says honestly. "And... I don't know. I'd feel terrible if she pick me and left the woman who gave her children and a full life. She knew her longer than she ever knew me." She pauses, struggling to articulate the tangled knot inside her chest. "It wouldn't be fair to Imogen."

She means it. She thinks of Imogen's face—pretty and earnest and open, trying so hard to be understanding about all of this, just like Allie—and guilt threads through the brunette like a needle in her veins. Imogen didn't do a single thing wrong; if anything, she did things right. She loved Paige, built a home with her, grew old with her. Allie had decades to romanticize the idea of Paige; Imogen had decades of actual mornings and arguments and compromises and joy.

Luka makes a small, dismissive sound in his throat. "This situation is not fair to anyone," he replies plainly. "Not to you. Not to Imogen. Not even to Paige. Life is not fair, death is not fair. Why eternity should suddenly be fair?"

Allie huffs a reluctant laugh. "You're being bleak today."

"I'm being realistic," he counters. "Also, you waited more than sixty years for her. Sixty. Years." He holds his fingers up like he's counting them off. "You stayed. You did not leave for another eternity. You sit here and play basketball with me and work in the diner and pretend you are okay."

"I am okay," she argues.

He gives her a look that says he absolutely doesn't believe that.

"You never got to live the life you wanted with her," Luka continues, his voice firm but not unkind. "Now, you have the chance. That would be crazy opportunity for Paige to just throw away. I would have to kill her all over again."

Allie can't help but let out a laugh at that, one she knows he was trying to pull out of her. "You aren't allowed to murder my wife in the afterlife," she tells him, seriously.

"She is already dead," Luka points out rather reasonably. "It would be symbolic."

Despite herself, Allie feels some of the tension ease from her shoulders. This is why she goes to the gym with him, why she shows up to every single one of her shifts. Why she fills her life in the Midway with motion and noise and other people's drama. Because if she doesn't, she'll sit in her room and think about things she never got the chance to have.

They've reached the gym now, the doors propped open, the echo of bouncing basketballs spilling out into the hallway. Inside, the air smells like rubber and sweat, the floor gleaming under bright lights. A handful of regulars are already playing, while a few unfamiliar faces also weave in and out of the action.

Allie stands there for a second longer than she needs to, letting the noise wash over her. She knows Luka doesn't like talking about this much either; she can see it now in how his gaze flickers toward the court as if he'd rather be anywhere but inside this conversation. He's terrified that one day he'll be standing where she is now, waiting for his wife who might not choose him.

"Let's just shoot," she says finally, because the alternative is standing here dissecting her own heart until there's nothing left of it.

Luka nods. "Yes. Basketball. No more talking."

He jogs off to grab a ball, and Allie steps onto the court, the polished wood cool beneath her sneakers. She rolls her shoulders back, flexes her fingers, tries to settle into the comforting rhythm of dribble, step, lift, release. Luka tosses her the ball and she shoots it, watching it arc toward the hoop. For a suspended second, she lets herself believe in something simple and clean and hopeful: that there is a right answer waiting at the end of this, that love is not a finite resource to be divided and rationed, that she didn't wait sixty years only to discover she's second best, not the first choice.

The ball swishes through the net, and the sound is crisp and satisfying. She exhales.

"See?" Luka calls. "You are still best shooter in the whole afterlife."

Allie just shakes her head fondly, jogging forward for the rebound. And then they fall into it like they always do. Luka shoots; she rebounds. She shoots; he rebounds. The ball thuds against the hardwood, against the backboard, against the rim. After a while, they start taking stupid shots from too far back just to see if one of them can make the other swear. Luka talks mild trash and Allie rolls her eyes, telling him his form is ugly, and, for a handful of blessed minutes, she almost forgets that somewhere, in some curated version of London, Paige is getting the taste of spending an eternity with another woman.

She focuses on the mechanics of her body instead. The bend of her knees, the flick of her wrists, whether or not her hips and shoulders are squared. She focuses on the ball, on if it goes in or if it bounces out.

Just as she's hit a half-court shot, Luka rolling his eyes because she's made more of them now, a voice cuts across the court, loud and incredulous and threaded with a familiar accent that Allie doesn't expect in the slightest.

"Alaska fucking Hart, is that you?"

For a split second, Allie thinks she's imagined it, that her brain has finally tipped over into full hallucination mode. Nobody has called her Alaska in that exact tone in a long, long time. She turns slowly, almost afraid the court will be empty behind her, and then she sees her.

Nika Mühl stands a few feet away, a basketball propped against her hip, one brow raised, her grin breaking wide across her face. She looks the exact same as she did in college, and, lighter, too, as if the weight of her body has been reset to a version she liked best. Her hair is pulled back in a messy bun, a few strands escaping at her temples, and she looks so real that Allie can hardly stand it.

"Oh my God," Allie breathes, and then she's moving, the ball rolling forgotten across the floor as she practically launches herself forward. "Oh my God, oh my God!"

She crashes into Nika, and they hug hard enough that it almost hurts, arms wrapped tight. Nika smells like sweat, and Allie buries her face in her shoulder for a second longer than is probably necessary because this—this—is uncomplicated. This is just Nika.

"When did you kick it?" Allie demands as she pulls back, hands still gripping Nika's arms.

The Croatian snorts softly. "Shit, hello to you, too. Missed you, by the way." But her eyes are soft as she says it. "Less than a week ago. Dementia. It was..." She shrugs one shoulder, and there's a flicker of something like defeat in her expression that makes Allie sad. "It was getting bad. Honestly? I'm kinda relieved. Toward the end, I didn't even know my own name."

Allie doesn't like thinking about that; her heart aches in her chest cavity, wilting a little. Nika—who once remembered every defensive rotation, every minor slight from an opposing guard, exactly how many turnovers she had for every single game—forgetting her own name. There's something cruel and sick about that, something unfair that makes Allie—not for the first time—want to march to whatever cosmic authority runs life and death and the Midway and demand a better explanation.

"I'm sorry," Allie says quietly, and she means it, even if Nika seems to be mostly at peace with it. She wonders if Paige knows yet, if she's seen Nika here yet. She wonders if Paige got the call in London and felt even more defeated, considering she'd also lost Imogen within the same week. It had to have been hard on her.

Nika waves it off gently. "Hey. I'm here now. Brain's back online. It's great." She glances around the gym like she's cataloging it for later bragging rights. Then, her gaze snaps back to Allie, curious and sharp. "Why're you still here? It's been forever, Al. You never picked an eternity?"

She's right—it has felt like forever.

Allie shifts her weight, suddenly aware of Luka hovering a few steps away, pretending not to eavesdrop and failing miserably. She fiddles with the end of ponytail, an old nervous habit. "Well... I've been kinda, like, waiting for Paige," she admits, the words coming out a little sheepish, even though she's stood by that decision for decades and will continue to.

Nika's mouth drops open. "Shittt," she drawls, dragging the word out.

Allie nods, not much of an other way to put it. "Yeah."

Nika studies her face for a second, and Allie can practically see the calculations happening behind her eyes. Nika was always slightly closer with Paige, the twins as they called themselves, Paige's maid of honor at her and Allie's wedding. Nika was there for so much of their relationship—from the confusing, slightly messy and teenage situationship they came into UConn with o the flourishing and happy and serious engagement they left with. Nika had been their biggest third wheel all throughout college, wedged between them on buses, sprawled in bed with them to watch movies, sitting across from them during late-night dinners.

However, before Nika can say what her thoughts are articulating, her attention flicks over Allie's shoulder and her eyes widen comically. "Luka Dončić, what the hell?"

Allie laughs a little, the reaction sort-of universal at this point. It's the same one Paige had, at least. She turns to see Luka lift a hand in a lazy salute.

"You two know each other?" Nika asks, incredulous.

"We're friends," Allie responds. "He's, uh—he's also been waiting for his wife a while."

Nika's eyebrows climb even higher. "So this is the Waiting Room for Hopeless Romantic LA Basketball Players, then."

"Uh, we like the term 'devoted' more," Luka says, strolling closer, ball tucked under his arm. "Sounds a little less pathetic."

Nika laughs, bright and delighted. "Devoted. Okay."

Allie feels warmth spreading through her, one that has nothing to do with the sweat clinging to her skin from shooting. She missed Nika. She missed this—knowing and seeing someone from her life, her real life.

"But I heard Paige is now, though," Nika changes the subject, turning back to Allie. Her expression sharpens with interest and then softens with the next words that come out. "Let me guess. Not exactly simple?"

Allie exhales slow through her mouth. "That's one way to put."

"She came with baggage?" Nika asks, though the way she says it makes it clear she already knows the answer.

"All sixty years of it," Allie replies, quietly.

Nika winces in sympathy, rubbing her hand up and down Allie's arm. "Imogen."

The name sits between them. Allie assumes Nika has to know her, like actually know her, if she and Paige stayed close. She wonders what she thinks. She wonders if Nika was the maid of honor at that wedding, too. She wonders if Paige and Imogen's kids called Nika their aunt, just like Nika always insisted Paige and Allie's kids would.

Allie nods, throat tight. "Yeah."

For a second, neither of them speak. The sound of the gym fills up the space, full of squeaking sneakers, the hollow thump of dribbles, people actually laughing. Allie feels suddenly exposed, as if the fluorescent lights have shifted to spotlight her specifically.

"She has to choose," she adds finally, no graceful way around it. "She gets one eternity. And she... she can't split it."

Nika's gaze softens, eyes an understanding pool of warm brown, and she squeezes Allie's arm again. "And you're okay with that?"

Allie just shrugs, swallowing hard so she can get the next words out. "I don't know if okay is the word," she admits. "I just... I want her to be happy. But if she picks me, she's leaving the woman who gave her a whole life. And if she picks Imogen..." Her voice thins for a second, and she takes a deep breath. "Then I waited sixty-two years for nothing."

The word nothing feels a bit too dramatic, but it's the one that surfaces in Allie's head. Nevertheless, she hates how small it makes her sound, how transactional it feels, as if love is a down payment she expects returned with interest. That's not what this is, not at all. She just doesn't really know how else to articulate how she's feeling.

Nika shakes her head. "It wasn't for nothing," she argues firmly. "You loved her. That counts for something."

Allie stares at the floor for a moment, at the scuffed lines on the court that have been redrawn time and time again. She thinks about the nights she lay awake imagining this scenario, only in those fantasies there was no Imogen, no complicated moral calculus. There was just Paige—all anything Allie has ever wanted.

"I don't wanna be the reason someone else loses her," Allie murmurs, sighing. "Imogen didn't do anything wrong. She just... lived her life."

"And you didn't," Nika counters gently, eyes gone a little sad.

Allie opens her mouth, then closes it. Nika's right; she usually is.

Luka clears his throat. "If I may," he interjects, as if they haven't been talking about this subject constantly lately, "sometimes there is no option where nobody gets hurt. That does not mean you choose the one where you hurt yourself automatically."

Nika looks at him for a long second. "I didn't know you were a philosopher."

He shrugs. "I am full of wisdom."

Despite the heaviness of the conversation, Allie feels the knot in her chest loosening a bit, her tangle of thoughts in her brain soothing just a little. Being here with them—with people who know her for her, rather than some waitress at a diner who helps people process the idea of death and then move on to their next step while she doesn't—makes her feel less like a cautionary, tragic tale and more like just a person.

"Whatever happens," Nika says, bumping her shoulder, "you deserve something good, Al. Not just scraps."

Allie doesn't know about that. She has no idea what's in store for her.

THE MIDWAY looks different in the morning, or maybe Paige just feels different walking through it this time. The terminal's lights are softer, less theatrical, the rush of movement subdued compared to the chaos of peak hours. She and Imogen walk side by side through the wide terminal corridor, their shoulders occasionally brushing, their hands almost—but not quite—finding each other.

Life in London. It was nice. The restaurant tucked between brick buildings, candlelight flickering against Imogen's cheekbones, the dress she'd picked out looking perfect on her. The way the slow piano music drifted over tables full of couples who looked happy, content with spending the rest of forever there. The hotel room with its tall windows and heavy curtains, the comfort of holding Imogen through the night.

But, God, Paige is tired. Her eyes feel a little droopy as they walk.

It's not as if she'd been uncomfortable last night. The bed was truly perfect, mattress firm like Paige prefers, the sheets crisp and cool. Imogen had curled into her like always, one arm slung across Paige's waist, her breath warm against her collarbone. It had felt normal, felt like them.

Paige just hadn't been able to fall asleep; gaze stitched on the ceiling for hours. Her mind hasn't shut up since she got here. It plays highlight reels without her permission, memories and decisions twisting into a constant, painful headache. Imogen. Allie. Imogen. Allie. Imogen. Alaska.

She feels like she's being pulled in two directions by equal force, her chest the rope in some cosmic tug-of-war.

Eventually, they reach her hotel room, stopping just outside the door. For a moment, neither of them speaks. Instead, Paige just looks down at Imogen, really taking her in. She looks back, a small smile on her face, caramel-colored eyes a constant Paige has had for a while. There's a steadiness to Imogen, something that only comes from having lived a full life. Paige loves that about her. She loves that she was there for that life.

"I had a really good time yesterday," Paige murmurs, her voice low.

Imogen's smile widens a little, soft and genuine. "Me too, honey."

Honey. The word sits there, warm and sweet and deeply ingrained. Paige's lips lift up a little bit at it, and she leans down, kissing her. It's slow, mouths pressing together like they've done this a thousand times, because they have. There's comfort in it, and affection, and Paige lets herself lean into it for a drawn-out moment.

When Imogen pulls away, she rests their foreheads together briefly. "I'll see you later?" she asks.

"Yeah," Paige answers. "Yeah, later."

Imogen gives her one last small smile before turning and walking back down the hall, her footsteps fading. Paige stands there for a second longer than she needs to, staring at the space where Imogen just was. Then, she herself turns, sighing as she enters her hotel room. Its silence is immediate and total. Paige locks the door, toes off her shoes, and flops backward onto the bed without bothering to change. The ceiling stares back at her, just as blank and unhelpful as always.

She presses the heels of her palms into her eyes.

It would be so much easier if yesterday hadn't gone nearly perfect. If London had felt wrong—which, in a way, it felt off, the city a bit different, but it wasn't because of Imogen. If the restaurant had been maybe a little awkward, if the conversation had stalled, if she'd looked at Imogen across the table and not felt as much as she had back during their life. But instead, it felt good, easy, the same as always. It felt like slipping into a well-worn sweater that fits her perfectly.

She could spend eternity there. She can see it clearly: morning walks along the Thames, quiet evenings in a townhouse maybe, the two of them cooking dinner and laughing about nothing. It would be peaceful, safe.

A knock at the door interrupts her thoughts. Instantly, she groans, before pushing herself up. She can guess who it might be.

Just Paige she predicted, Hanna stands on the other side of the door, her clipboard tucked under one arm, expression equally professional and concerned. "So," she says, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation," how was it?"

Paige shuts the door and leans back against it for a moment before answering. "It's Genny," she says, as if that explains everything. "And it's London. I know both of them. I know the way she likes her tea and the way the city smells after it rains. It was... nice. It felt..." She searches for the right word and comes up short. "It felt almost like home. Like how our life was back there, minus the kids and grandkids bein' around."

Her chest tightens on that last part. The absence of them had been a quiet ache all day, a reminder that even the most perfect eternity is still a curated slice from your life, not the pie.

"It was familiar," she finishes. "And it could definitely be somewhere I could spend eternity."

"'Could' be?" Hanna repeats, arching a brow.

Paige exhales sharply, and then lets herself fall back onto the bed. She drags a pillow over her face before tossing it aside. "Fuck, I just—" She scrubs a hand over her mouth. "I'on know what to do."

Hanna sits down beside her, the mattress dipping under her weight. She doesn't say anything at first, which Paige almost appreciates more than immediate advice.

"You spent your whole life worrying about other people," Hanna says finally, steadily. "Your parents. Your teammates. Your kids. Imogen. Even Alaska, when she was there to. Now, it's time for you to decide what's best for you."

Paige turns her head to look at her. "Lemme guess. Allie's best for me?" She already knows, not blind. It's not been hard to see where Hanna's stood since she got here.

Hanna opens her mouth, then hesitates, sighing as if she's weighing how honest to be. "I want you to choose Alaska because it's the life you missed," she says at last. "Eternity is a long time to have regrets, Paige." She shrugs. "But, at the end of the day, it doesn't matter what I want. It's what you want. It's your decision to make."

The life you missed.

The phrase lodges under Paige's ribs like a splinter.

She sits up abruptly, pulling the hair tie from her bun and dragging her fingers through her hair until it falls loose around her shoulders. Her nails dig into her scalp, a sharp and somewhat grounding sensation. "What if I... what if I don't know what to choose?" she asks, frustration cracking through the words. "What if both of them feel right in completely different ways?"

She pictures Allie. She pictures the life they had just before the accident, how perfect it had felt, how they thought it was just the start. Then, she thinks about the years they didn't get—the W championships they never get, the kids that were never born, the growing old that never occurred.

Then, she pictures Imogen's hand in hers, the weight of their children as babies, the sound of their laughter echoing through a real house filled with real history. That life wasn't hypothetical. It was lived. It mattered.

"Well," Hanna says bluntly, rising from the bed and smoothing down her jacket, "I'm sorry, but you're gonna need to figure it out."

"Right. Super helpful," Paige replies sarcastically, through a humorless laugh.

Hanna shoots her a look that's both fond and firm. "Get some rest. And try to have some fun at the beach tomorrow. Maybe afterwards your decision will be clearer."

The beach.

Paige's stomach flips slightly. Beach Paradise eternity. A whole entire day spent with just Allie, just them, in the sand and sunlight the way they used to spend majority of their days. She hasn't let herself think too hard about it yet, trying to stay in the moment, especially yesterday with Imogen. But when her mind wanders to it now, she can't help but feel a twinge of nerves and excitement. This isn't something she's been able to have in a long time.

"Yeah," she mumbles. "Okay."

"You're not the first person to struggle with this," Hanna adds by the door, before leaving. "And you won't be the last. But you don't get to opt out. So... just feel it, Paige. All of it."

The door clicks shut behind her.

Paige sits there for a long time after, once again staring at nothing. She lies back down slowly, one arm draped over her eyes.

Try to have some fun at the beach tomorrow. Maybe afterwards your decision will be clearer.

Paige sure hopes so.

PAIGE WAKES BEFORE the alarm she doesn't technically need, eyes opening into the soft grey-blue of artificial dawn filtering through the hotel curtains. For a moment, she doesn't move. She just lies there blankly, expecting the usual rush of thoughts to slam into her like they constantly have since she arrived. But today, there's a strange, tentative stillness instead. It's not exactly peace. It feels more like the pause before a game tips off, anticipation coiled low in her stomach.

She rolls onto her stomach and exhales slowly, pressing her palms into the mattress.

Today is the beach. Today is Alaska.

The name alone is enough to make her stomach flip in a way that feels almost adolescent. Sixty-two years. The number presents itself at the front of her mind again. Sixty-two years since they spent an entire day together. Sixty-two years apart, torn between life and death. Sixty-two years since she got to wake up beside Allie, since she got to really, really have her. The math of it seems impossible, and yet here she is, twenty-something again in a body that remembers everything and forgets nothing.

She pushes herself upright and swings her legs over the side of the bed, feet landing on the cool wood. She walks into the bathroom and flicks on the light, blinking at her reflection in the mirror. In some ways, it still surprises her—the fact that the face staring back at her is worlds younger than the one she left behind in the hospital bed. It's the face that knew Allie best, that knew every corner, every crevice, every inch. It's an amalgamation of her happiest self, whatever that means. She sometimes wonders who decided that—what version of her qualifies as happiest.

She brushes her teeth slowly, methodically, watching foam gather at the corners of her mouth. After she's done, she leans over the sink, splashing cold water onto her face, the shock of it immediate and bracing. Droplets cling to her lashes as she straightens, and she grips the edge of the counter for a second.

Allie and Paige, spending the whole day together.

It feels enormous, which is almost sad if she thinks about it. The fact that something so short as a day is huge for them.

She changes then, pulling on a pair of jorts and a pink t-shirt, something she absolutely would have worn when she was with Allie, something that works for the beach, too. There's something intentional in the choice, even if she doesn't fully articulate it to herself. She doesn't want to show up in something polished or overly curated. She wants this to feel like them.

Her hands hover near her hair for a moment. Most of the time, she slicked it back, tight, into a ponytail or a bun. Today, she hesitates. The waves are there naturally, soft and just a little bit unruly around her face. She considers tying it back out of habit, then stops herself. She decides to let it fall as it wants to fall, fingers combing through it once before she drops her hands.

She stands there staring at herself for a long moment, searching her own expression. There's nerves there, a whole bundle of them. They go along with a flicker of excitement she hasn't felt in years. And, underneath it, a deep, aching tenderness that she hasn't allowed herself to fully touch since she was first reunited with Allie here.

Paige has missed her. So, so, so much. In ways she can't even properly explain. It was the kind that didn't even fade with time, just simply settled into her bones and became part of her structure. She was able to build a whole life around it, around not looking too deeply at that absence because, no matter when it was, all it did was hurt. But now she's here, and Allie's here, and they—at the very least—get this day.

It's overwhelming; her brain can't help but race a little. What if it's different? What if they're different? What if the chemistry that once was isn't there anymore? What if it is?

She grabs her room key and pauses at the door. For a moment, she thinks about waiting like she has the whole time she's been here. She's let people fetch constantly here, whether it be Hanna or Imogen or Allie. She doesn't want that today. She's not a package to be delivered, not a child to be escorted.

If she's going to do this, she's going to walk toward it herself.

The basement level is quieter than the main floors, the air cooler. This is where the long-term residents stay, where they're kicked to once their week is up, the ones who haven't chosen yet or have chosen to linger. The elevator ride down feels longer than it is, Paige's reflection faint in the brushed metal walls. She watches herself inhale and exhale, trying to steady the sudden quickening of her pulse.

When the doors slide open, she steps into a corridor that stretches far and long. She walks slowly, taking in the fact that each door bears a name printed clearly at eye level. She reads them as she passes, almost all of them she doesn't recognize. The hallway seems to elongate with each step, and she becomes acutely aware of the sound of her own breathing.

She passes Imogen's door.

Her steps falter, just slightly. The name is there in clean, black lettering. IMOGEN BROOKS. Seeing it like that, fixed and official, sends a ripple through her chest. She's here, within reach. A life she built, a life she knows how to inhabit without guessing.

Paige doesn't stop. She keeps walking.

Finally, near the end, she sees it.

ALASKA HART.

Paige stops in front of the door and inhales deeply, her lungs filling. And then she knocks before she loses any of her nerve.

The sound echoes sharply against the stillness of the hallway. For a split second, she considers the possibility that Allie isn't here—that she's already left, that Paige will have to stand here like an idiot with her heart in her throat—but then, from the other side of the door, a familiar voice calls out, "One sec!"

Just like that, Paige's entire body softens. It's actually ridiculous how immediate it is. A subconscious smile curves at her mouth, her shoulders dropping half an inch. Allie's here, she's here and she's real, and there her voice is, slightly muffled by the door, but there.

There's the sound of movement inside—something shuffling, a faint thud—and then the door swings open.

Allie stands there, framed in the doorway, and for a moment, Paige forgets the mechanics of breathing.

It doesn't matter that she's seen her multiple times since arriving in the Midwayy. It doesn't matter that they've spoken, that they've nearly kissed, that they've shared the same space again. The sight of her still feels incredibly unreal, like something Paige conjured too vividly in a dream. She wouldn't put it past herself—a lot of her dreams were filled with her face. Besides, it's not very often that you get to see your dead wife of sixty-two years standing in front of you again. Your dead, very beautiful, very sweet, and somehow very real, wife.

Allie blinks at her, clearly surprised. She's wearing a green tank top that pulls the color from her hazel eyes, and jean shorts that show off her long legs. Her hair is down, in its normal stick-straightness.

Paige just stares.

She catalogues every detail: the faint freckle near Allie's collarbone, the way her mouth tilts slightly at one corner when she's confused, the tiny crease between her brows forming now.

"I thought I was coming up to you?" Allie asks.

Paige opens her mouth to answer, to say something about being tired of being escorted everywhere, about wanting to come get her herself—

—and then there's a bark from inside the room, high and sharp.

Paige's head snaps toward the sound just as a chocolate lab puppy barrels forward, skidding slightly on the floor before poking his head between Allie's legs to get a better look at the visitor.

Bear.

Her brain stutters around the name, as if glitching. Bear, with his too-big paws for his body and his floppy ears. Bear, who used to chew the corners of their coffee table and fall asleep with Paige's toe in his mouth because apparently he liked the taste of foot. Bear, who died in the car with Allie. Bear, who Paige buried in the backyard of their house in LA.

The puppy freezes for half a second, nose twitching, and then recognition seems to dawn in his whole body at once. His tail starts wagging so violently it practically moves his entire back half.

Paige's jaw drops. She feels twelve different emotions slam into her at once. "No way," she breathes.

Bear doesn't wait permission. He launches himself forward in a clumsy, enthusiastic spring, and Paige steps fully into the room without thinking, dropping to her knees just in time to catch him.

"Oh my God," she laughs, the sound unguarded and bright. "Oh my God, hi, hi—"

She scoops him into her arms, and he wriggles happily against her chest, licking at her chin, her cheek, her lips. His fur is soft and warm and so painfully real that it makes her eyes sting. She buries her face against the top of his head, inhaling deeply.

"You remember me?" she murmurs into his fur, voice wobbling just slightly. "You remember me, buddy?"

His tail thumps against her arm in response.

Paige feels something inside her crack open. She had prepared herself for Alaska, for the emotional whiplash of seeing the love of her youth standing in front of her again. She had not prepared herself for this—for a piece of that life she lost to show up with a wagging tail and unfiltered joy.

"How is he here?" she asks, looking at Allie, still clutching Bear like he might disappear if she loosens her grip.

"I don't know all the logistics," Allie says gently, expression soft. "Most pets don't end up in the Midway. But because we—y'know. Died together." Her voice dips slightly on the words. "He just... came with me. That's all they told me."

Paige swallows hard.

Died together.

The phrase is enough to carve open the tiny hole that event opened in her heart. She remembers the phone call, the hospital, how her entire world folded in on itself in the span of minutes. She remembers not knowing whether to be more devastated that she lost them both at the same time, or to feel slightly better knowing that at least neither of them were alone when it happened.

Paige runs her hand down Bear's back, fingers shaking just a little. "You've been here the whole time?" she asks softly.

Allie shrugs one shoulder. "Yeah. He's kind of... my roommate."

There's something shy in the way she says it, like she's worried Paige will think it's strange. Paige just laughs again, this time softer, a little wet around the edges. "''Course he is."

Bear shifts in her arms and leans sideways, stretching to lick Allie across the face as if to prove his loyalty is evenly split. Allie scrunches her nose and laughs, swatting gently at him. Paige watches the exchange with something akin to awe, eyes wide as they flick between the girl and the puppy. Without realizing, her smile deepens.

"Should we bring him with?" she asks, the words tumbling out before she fully considers them.

Allie blinks, surprised again, and then her mouth curves into a grin. "You wanna see the beach?" she asks him, poking at his chest.

Bear barks loudly in response.

Paige laughs again. "I think that's a yes."

Allie grins and Paige watches, staring at the girl who lost everything in one brutal instant and somehow still stands here soft and open and willing, and her heart does something reckless in her chest.

For what she thinks might be the first time since arriving in the Midway, the noise in her mind quiets. It's just them, and Bear, and a beach waiting somewhere beyond the terminal.

And Paige, standing in the doorway of a life she once thought she'd never get back.

sierrale8ne

it’s crazy how it took me 30 minutes to flip from paimogen to pallie 😂

#maddie 🫐#ive been going back and forth this whole time

Trending Blogs

Recently Viewed Blogs