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happy valentineâs day!
block the trolls and enjoy these cute pics of paige & azzi đ
THE YOUNG MIKO PFP YES.
my brand
paige bueckers you beautiful beautiful masterpiece of a person.
she deserves everything and more
sheâs so inspiring and her positive outlook on life is so admirable. and it is because of her perspective on life that paige bueckers will be the greatest to ever play the game of womenâs basketball. i have the utmost confidence and respect for her
if you ever stay
Words: 14K (holy shit)
Summary: They begin as UConn teammates who swear theyâre âjust friends.â Then Azzi leaves for USC, and suddenly theyâre spending literal decades pretending theyâre fine while being obsessed with each other in increasingly stupid ways
Tags: UConn Paige and USC Azzi | Friends to Rivals to Lovers | Mutual Pining | Jealousy | Other OCs | Slow Burn but Worse
Notes: Angsty as fuck. I have no idea if I'll keep writing this...(this ACT may be the last)
ACT I â COLLEGEÂ
2035, Paige Bueckers
Minneapolis, Minnesota â Lynx Apartment
Paige Bueckers never thought Azzi Fudd made sense.
I need to stop thinking about her, Paige said to herself, watching the city lights across her living room window, blurred by the glass.
Now she was thirty-four, in an apartment the Lynx had helped her find (good view, decent kitchen, overpriced rent), and Azzi was asleep in a hotel a few miles away, wearing the same team logo Paige had in her jerseys growing up.
Tomorrow, theyâd make their debut as teammates.
Again.
The heater hummed under the window, fighting the Minneapolis cold. The sky outside was winter-black in a way that swallowed everything, but yet left space so downtown could still glow: traffic lights, stadium lights, the faint pulse of a city.
Paigeâs body shouldâve been exhausted.Â
She wasnât tired, she was wired.
Sheâd already cleaned the kitchen twice, rearranged the shoes by the door (three pairs of Js, one pair of slides, one pair of beat-up Birkenstocks sheâd never admit she loved), and still her brain refused to shut up.
Her phone lay on the coffee table, face up, and the last text in her thread with Azzi sat there:
A: u good? P: just canât sleep A: shocking A: go to bed grandpa
She could have replied, something stupid, like u miss me?, or come tuck me in.Â
She didnât.
Instead, she was standing barefoot in front of the window, oversized Lynx hoodie hanging off one shoulder, hair thrown into a lazy bun, staring at a city sheâd left once and then chosen to come back to.
The headline story the league liked to tell about her now:Â Paige Bueckers, Minnesota girl, goes back home.
They never mentioned that sheâd spent a decade in Dallas first, convincing herself that staying there, in that system, under that front office, meant she was tough. Mentally strong, and unshakeable.Â
She left Dallas late, like she did most things that involved walking away.
Azzi wasnât like that, God, Azzi knew how to leave.
Paige pressed her forehead to the glass, and it was cold enough to make her teeth ache.
Fuck, she should be thinking about the game plan, how the ATO sets were going to run, when sheâd need to shift her pace to open the lane.
Instead, all she could think about was Azzi Fucking Fudd.Â
Not UConn Azzi, not USC Azzi. Before all of that.
USA camp, 2018.
A small dorm room, lumpy twin bed, and Azzi sat cross-legged on the mattress, curls straightened, face younger but already serious in that way that made Paige want to wreck every line of her composure.
Sheâd loved her in ways that didnât make sense even then: too much attention for a friend, too many saved photos, too much protective rage when someone bumped her too hard in a scrimmage.
Paige let out a breath, watching it fog the window.
Now they were thirty-something, with more miles on their bodies than some retired vets, with rings and scars and stat lines and years of messiness between them.
UConn together. USC without her. Dallas together. Lynx without her. USA together, but in spurts.
And, the league loved their story: Teammates to Rivals to Teammates to Rivals  (to Teammates again)
Paige pulled away from the window and shuffled back to the couch.
On the coffee table sat a neat stack of Lynx gear: practice tee, shootaround top, tomorrowâs jersey laid flat. Her â5â in teal, the name BUECKERS on the back.
She picked it up, the fabric was smooth under her fingers, slightly heavier than college jerseys, and when she closed her eyes, she could see Azzi in it, no problem.
Brown skin, hair still curly, still perfect. Strong shoulders, stronger than when they were kids, more defined than freshman year at UConn. Same perfect nose, same dimples, same pretty mouth.
And, damn, same effect on Paigeâs heartbeat.Â
Still hung up on the girl who left you twice? she muttered to herself, dropping the jersey back onto the table.
She flopped down on the couch, head tipping back.
God, it annoyed her, how much space Azzi still took up in her head.Â
Paige closed her eyes.
Sophomore year, the north campus dorm.
She could still feel the press of Azziâs mouth, the unsure way her hand had found the back of Paigeâs neck, the way the world had narrowed to the space between their teeth.
They would never talk about it.
Paige swallowed around the lump in her throat.
She wished she could time-travel back to those nights in Storrs and grab her younger self by the shoulders.
Say something, sheâd tell her.Â
Say: I like you. Say: this means something. Say it now so we donât have to keep pretending we only ever cared about basketball.
Instead, at nineteen, sheâd said nothing.
At twenty, sheâd shouted the wrong things.
At twenty-six, sheâd turned their Dallas chaos into a situationship she still didnât know how to define.
And, hell, at thirty-four, all she could do was breathe and hope their bodies remembered how to move together on court.
Her phone buzzed again, this time it wasnât Azzi.Â
Coach Reeves, sending the usual night-before text: lock in, be ready, proud of you.
She shot back a quick always, tossed the phone aside, and scrubbed her hands over her face. She should sleep, she wouldnât.
Instead, she let herself lie there, eyes open in the dim, replaying two scenes on a loop:
Azzi in that teal Lynx jersey, tomorrow, running with her, and Azzi at eighteen, in a dim dorm room, laughing against Paigeâs mouth.
Azzi Fudd didnât make sense.
She never had.
2022, Paige Bueckers
UConn Campus â North Residence Halls
The first time Paige kissed Azzi, it was almost an accident.
(Almost)
If you asked her years later, sheâd blame it on two things: late night Gampel and the lights in the North dorms making everyone look a little more unreal.
Paige had been on campus for a while, long enough to learn the quickest path from the practice gym to the dining hall.
On the other hand, Azzi hadnât arrived until that year with a quiet suitcase and a louder injury history. Paige always thought Azziâs game looked too pretty to belong to someone on minutes restriction.
Officially, they slept at opposite ends of the hall, but half the time Azzi ended up in Paigeâs room anyway: knocking at midnight, curling up at the end of the bed with her laptop, falling asleep to highlights .
Tonight was like that.
Paigeâs room was a disaster, but she didnât care. Azzi knocked once and slipped in without waiting for an answer, because thatâs how it had been since USA camp.
âYouâre not gonna believe what my professor said today,â Azzi started, already toeing off her shoes.
Paige, sitting cross-legged on the bed in a UConn t-shirt and shorts, raised an eyebrow. âDid they try to make a basketball metaphor again?â
âWorse.â Azzi flopped down beside her, leaning back against the wall. âWe were talking about race and media, and this guy in the back goes, âI donât see color.ââ
Paige groaned. âNo.â
âYes,â Azzi said. âAnd then he looked at me when he said it.â
âOf course he did,â Paige muttered. âDid you say something?â
Azzi shrugged, mouth twisting. âNot worth it.â
Paige wanted to argue, to tell her it was worth it, that he was an idiot, that Storrs needed Azzi more than she needed Storrs.Â
Instead she nudged her shoulder âCome here,â she said. âI found something to make you feel better.â
Azzi narrowed her eyes. âIf itâs another video of you crossing someone over in high schoolââ
âItâs not,â Paige lied âMostly.â
She grabbed the remote and pulled up the TV, scrolling to a saved clip: their own practice footage from that afternoon. It was a fast-break sequence, and Paige pushed the ball up the court, threading the pass to Azzi in the corner.Â
Azzi catching, shooting, net barely moving.
Azzi watched herself on the screen, expression sharpening, that locked-in look that meant sheâd be replaying every frame in her head later.
âYou see that?â Paige said, pointing. âLook how pretty that is. Iâll show you this on loop till your eyes bleed.â
Azzi rolled her eyes, but Paige saw the tension in her shoulders ease just a fraction.
âYouâre annoying,â Azzi said.
âYou love me,â Paige shot back, too fast, too easy.
The words hung there.
Well, theyâd tossed it around a lot in late-night texts, and sarcastic âlove uâ at the end of calls. It meant something and nothing at the same time, which was revoltingly dangerous.
Azzi grabbed the bag of Sour Patch Kids and dug out a red one âI tolerate you,â she said, popping it into her mouth.
âSame difference.â
They watched for a while in comfortable silence. Old USA highlights, occasionally Paige would pause, rewind, point out something.
Azzi liked that version of her, the serious one.Â
âRemember when we didnât know any of this shit?â Paige said suddenly, rewinding again âJust vibes and hooping.â
âYou still donât know defensive schemes,â Azzi said.
âI know enough to drag your ass into the right spot.â
Azzi smirked, âYeah, yeah.â
The room hummed with the sound of the mini fridge and the faint bass from someoneâs music down the hall.
Paige shifted, her knee bumping Azziâs thigh, and Azzi didnât move away.
That was the thing about them: always touching. Shoulder to shoulder on bleachers, knees knocking on benches, hands brushing in the huddle.Â
Paigeâs eyes drifted down to where their legs touched.
Azziâs skin was warm through the thin fabric of her sweats. Brown, smooth, scar peeking from under the hem.Â
Paige looked away quickly.
Donât be weird, she told herself. Youâve seen her in a thousand versions of UConn gear. Youâve seen her in a USA jersey, in a sports bra in the training room.
Azzi shifted again, closer this time, their shoulders touching now.
âYour room is cold,â Azzi complained, pulling Paigeâs blanket over her lap.
âMy room is perfect,â Paige countered. âYouâre just softâ
âYou have the AC on,â Azzi pointed out. âIn September. In Connecticut.â
âI run hotâ
Azzi snorted, and Paige opened her mouth to come back with something smart, then stopped.
Azzi yawned, covering her mouth with the back of her hand.Â
Paige had noticed the way Azziâs shoulders hunched a little in certain spaces, and the way she shut down in certain conversations. The way sheâd laugh along at things that werenât funny because it was easier than being the one who always made it awkward.
You canât fix that, Paige reminded herself.Â
She still wanted to fix it âYou okay?â she heard herself ask.
Azzi blinked, caught off guard. âYeah. Why?â
âYouâre making your âIâm thinkingâ face.â
âI donât have a face,â Azzi said.
âYou have several,â Paige said.
Azzi laughed, the sound bright and sudden in the small room âI donât know,â she admitted. âItâs just⊠a lot. People keep asking if my knee is okay. My professor expects me to have something smart to say every time we talk about race. Iâm just⊠tired.â
Paige sat with that for a second.
âYou know you donât have to be anything with me, right?â she said quietly âIâm serious,â Paige added. âIf you want to vent about class or practice or whatever, you donât have to⊠I can handle it.â
Azzi turned her head, studying her.
Azzi didnât always say what she was thinking, but it was all there in her eyes if you knew where to look.
âOkay,â Azzi said softly âSame goes for you, by the way. Youâre allowed to freak out.â
Paige snorted. âI donât freak out.â
âSure,â Azzi said. âTell that to the girl who watched you cry in the bathroom at USA camp because you missed six shots in a rowâ
âFirst of all,â Paige protested, âit was five.We agreed to never speak of that again.â
Azzi smiled, âToo late.â
They looked at each other, the air changing.
It wasnât dramatic, but Paigeâs breath caught.
She didnât decide to move. Her body did it for her.
One second she was sitting there, watching Azziâs mouth curve around some sarcastic comment, and the next, she was leaning in, eyes dropping to lips sheâd definitely not been thinking about for the last forty-five minutes.
Azziâs eyes widened, but she didnât pull back.
Their noses bumped, then Paige adjusted, angle corrected by muscle memory from studying Azziâs face for so many years.
Her mouth landed on Azziâs.
Azzi made a small sound, and Paige felt her own heart slam against her ribs.
God, she expected Azzi to freeze, to laugh, to push her away and call her an idiot. Instead, Azzi kissed her back.
Her hand came up, fingers sliding to the back of Paigeâs neck, palm warm against her skin. It was shy in a way that made Paigeâs stomach flip.
Azzi shifted closer.
It wasnât a dramatic make-out. No one pushed anyone onto the bed, and no oneâs shirt hit the floor.
Paigeâs brain, usually loud, went quiet. All that existed for a minute was Azziâs breath, Azziâs lashes brushing her cheek, the faint taste of Sour Patch Kids lingering between them.
Then it was over.
Azzi pulled back first, lips swollen, eyes wide. They stared at each other, both breathing a little too fast.
Shit, Paige thought, suddenly aware of her own hands, one on Azziâs knee, one braced on the bed.
Say something.
âUh,â Paige said.
Azzi blinked, her hand slipped away from Paigeâs neck âThat wasââ she started, then stopped.
âA thing,â Paige finished.
âA thing,â Azzi agreed.
Paigeâs mind scrambled.
She could say: Iâve wanted to do that forever.
She could say: I like you.
She said none of those things.
Instead, she huffed a laugh that sounded almost normal and flopped back against the wall âBlame the Sour Patch,â she joked weakly. âSugar rush.â
Azzi forced a smile, playing along âYeah,â she said âSugar.â
They watched TV again, pretending their hearts werenât pounding out of rhythm, and ten minutes later, Azzi stood up, claiming she was tired.Â
Paige walked her to the door like they didnât do that every night, at the threshold, they hesitated
âNight,â Azzi said.
âNight,â Paige echoed.
Azzi walked down the hall, hoodie pulled up, curls spilling out, and Paige watched her go until she turned the corner.
It didnât mean anything, Paige told herself. Just two friends. Just a moment. Justâ
She picked up her phone, thumb hovering over Azziâs contact, tempted to text something stupid, like âThat was weird, right?â
She put the phone down instead, and they never talked about it.
Two weeks later, it happened again, and this time it was Azzi who moved first, who looked at her too long, who leaned in like gravity.
This time, it was slower and more deliberate. Azziâs fingers tangled in the hem of Paigeâs shirt, Paigeâs hand sliding up to the line of Azziâs jaw.
When they pulled apart, neither of them smiled.
Paige could feel the fork in the road: pretend it never happened, or say something.
âSo,â Paige said lightly, choosing the wrong path on purpose âSugar Rush, again?â
Azzi huffed out a laugh that sounded a lot like surrender âShut up,â she said, tossing a pillow at her.
They never talked about that night either.
2023, Paige Bueckers (4:10 PM)
Werth Champions Center â UConn Campus
The first time Paige saw the tweet about Azzi and USC, she laughed.
Not because it was funny, more because it was so obviously wrong that it looped back around to being hilarious. Like one of those fake âsourcesâ accounts that said Geno was retiring every other week.
She was lacing up her shoes in the playersâ lounge, phone balanced on her knee, when it popped up in a group chat.
Aaliyah: Saw this? Link: @WBBPortalNews: âHearing rumblings that UConn G Azzi Fudd has been in contact with USC staff about a potential transferâŠâ
Paigeâs first reaction was a snort and a screenshot.
âBro, theyâre so bored,â she muttered, shaking her head as she sent it to Azzi with the caption: theyâre making fanfic about u
No answer yet; Azzi was probably still in the weight room, beating her own lifting numbers while claiming she was âweak.â
Aaliyah walked in, hair in a puff, hoodie half-zipped, scrolling her own phone with a frown.
âYou see that shit?â she said, dropping onto the couch across from Paige.
Paige didnât look up from tugging her laces tight. âYou mean the fanfic about my shooting guard abandoning me for Cali hoops?â
âIâm serious,â Aaliyah said. âPeople are talking like itâs real.â
âItâs not,â Paige said automatically.
Aaliyahâs eyebrows inched up. âYou asked her?â
âNo,â Paige admitted. âBecause itâs not real.â
âThatâs not an answer,â Aaliyah said.
âThat's my answer,â Paige countered.
She finished tying her shoes and leaned back, letting her head rest against the cushion for a second.
The air in the building smelled like it always did, and sheâd lived in that smell since she was eighteen. Tore her ACL here, rebuilt herself here, won here, cried here.Â
If there was any constant in that whole mess, it was the picture in her head that never changed: Paige and Azzi in UConn blue, side by side, for as long as college would let them.
The idea of Azzi in cardinal and gold was so stupid her brain refused to render it.
But Aaliyah was still looking at her.
âYou know how many people have texted me about this?â she asked. âReporters. Old teammates. Everyone thinks itâs real. Theyâre asking why sheâs unhappy here.â
Paige bristled. âSheâs not unhappy.â
âYou donât know that,â Aaliyah said, not unkind, which only made it worse
Paige opened her mouth, then shut it.
Paige knew Azzi Fudd.Â
Azzi was the girl that popped into her room at 1 AM with leftover dessert and crashed at the foot of the bed. Azzi was the girl who let Paige wrap a hand around her waist in the backseat of an Uber after parties, both of them drunk and laughing, then let her kiss her like it was an inside joke.
The one who always answered her texts, even if it was just a single lazy emoji.
âLook,â Aaliyah said, softer now. âIf itâs bullshit, cool. But if itâs not⊠you donât want to find out from Twitter.â
Paige swallowed.
She hadnât noticed anything weird with her best friend that week. Azzi had been sharp, talking more on defense, shooting the hell out of the ball in scrimmage.Â
They hadnât kissed in a while, though, not that that meant anything.
Their pattern was streaky: a couple weeks of nothing, then one party-heavy weekend where theyâd end up in Paigeâs car, because drunk kissing didnât count.Â
You donât bring it up sober. You donât ask what it means. You donât change anything.
They let themselves be greedy in small ways: a hand on a thigh in the dark, an open-mouthed kiss after too much tequila, a sleepy forehead pressed to her shoulder on the bus.Â
Things she could label as ânothingâ in the morning.
Azzi never asked for more, and she never asked for less either.
Paige refreshed Twitter again, scrolling the replies under the stupid portal account. Some fans were freaking out, some were laughing it off, some were writing full dissertations about fit and usage and minutes.
Minutes.
If she was being honest â which she tried not to be â she knew Azzi was frustrated. She felt it in the way Azziâs shoulders tensed when she got subbed out early.Â
Paige tried to help, she ran more action to get Azzi open looks in practice. Fought for her in film, glared at Geno when she felt it.
But there were things she couldnât fix, and the system was bigger than them.
âP?â Aaliyah said again.
âIâll talk to her,â Paige muttered, dropping her phone on the table. âAfter practice.â
âGood,â Aaliyah said, pushing herself up. âBefore ESPN decides to break it.â
Paige rolled her eyes but her stomach flipped.
Paige did what she always did: led, yelled, organized, hit shots. Azzi did what she always did: moved quietly, cut sharp, shot clean, talked more with her hands than her mouth.
If she was tense, Paige couldnât tell.Â
Azzi stayed behind to shoot and Paige watched her from the doorway: the simple rhythm of catch, dip, rise, release. She walked back in.
âSup, Steph,â Paige said, grabbing a ball of her own.
Azzi glanced over, lips twitching âYou know youâre the light-skinned one, right?â
âShut up,â Paige said loftily, taking a three and bricking it off the back iron.Â
âThat wasnât very Steph,â Azzi muttered
They shot for a few minutes in silence, the squeak of their soles echoing in the empty gym.Â
âAli sent me something earlier,â she said, chasing down a rebound âAbout you.â
Azziâs form didnât break, but the ball she shot rimmed out.
âYeah?â she said, too casual.
âPortal account,â Paige said. âUSC. You see it?â
âEverybody saw it,â she said.
âYeah, well,â Paige tried for lightness, âIâm not everybody.â
Azzi sighed, eyes closing briefly, and then she looked over, meeting Paigeâs gaze straight on.
âYou really want to do this in the middle of Gampel?â she asked quietly.
âWhy not?â Paige shrugged, even though she already knew the answer âItâs our gym.â
âItâs not just ours,â Azzi said âAnd this⊠isnât about them.â
There was something in her voice that made Paigeâs smart-ass reply die on her tongue.
âSo itâs real?â she asked, and for the first time there was no joke in it âYouâre⊠talking to them?â
Azziâs fingers tightened on the ball for a fraction of a second.
âPaige,â she said, voice low âCan we please not do this here?â
Paigeâs chest squeezed. âWhy does it matter where we do it if the answerâs the same?â
Azzi looked down at the ball, then back up.
âYour room,â she said âAfter Iâm done. Give me an hour.â
Paige wanted to argue, God, she wanted to demand answers on the spot, under the banners and the lights.
Instead, she heard herself say, âFine.â
She took a step closer, just enough to bump Azziâs shoulder with her own.
âYou know I found you first, right?â she said âUSA camp. Before any of these coaches even knew your name, I was like, âYeah. That oneâs mine.ââ
Azziâs mouth twitched.
âYou know,â Paige countered. âDonât let USC pretend they discovered you. Theyâre late to the party.â
Azziâs eyes softened, then shuttered.
âGo shower, P,â she said quietly.Â
Paige walked off the court, the echo of the ball behind her;
For the first time since sheâd seen the tweet, she let herself entertain the possibility that it wasnât just noise. That maybe, just maybe, Azzi was seriously considering leaving her.
She told herself sheâd get answers in an hour.
She did not tell herself what sheâd do if she didnât like them.
2023, Azzi Fudd (9:30 PM)
North Campus â Paigeâs Dorm Room
By the time Azzi knocked on Paigeâs door, sheâd walked the length of campus twice.
Once in actuality, hoodie up, headphones in, sneakers scuffing the familiar sidewalks. And once in her head, retracing every step that had led her here.
USA camp, D.C., torn ligaments, UConn, two braces, a thousand little moments where sheâd swallowed what she felt to keep the peace.
The dorm hallway was unusually quiet, but there was someone down the way playing music low, bass barely audible.
Paige opened the door almost before Azziâs hands left the wood, as if sheâd been standing there waiting.
She probably had.
Her hair was damp from a shower, and she wore an old UConn hoodie and shorts, socks mismatched. The room behind her was its usual chaos: sneakers, a pair of medals half-hanging and a stuffed Husky on the bed with one ear permanently bent.
For a second, it looked exactly like it had her freshman year.
âHey,â Paige said.
âHey,â Azzi echoed.
They stood there, the distance between them suddenly feeling like something she could touch.
Paige stepped back, letting her in.
Azzi walked past her and sat on the edge of the bed, hands folded between her knees, and she could feel Paigeâs eyes on her.
âSo,â Paige said, shutting the door âYou gonna tell me Iâm an idiot for believing Twitter, or do I have to start packing your bags for Cali myself?â
Azzi swallowed.
God, sheâd spent the last hour trying to figure out where to start.Â
With basketball?Â
With race?Â
With geography?Â
With the kind of homesickness that wasnât for a house, but for a version of herself that existed somewhere else.
She ended up starting with the truth that fit inside a yes/no. âIâve been talking to them,â Azzi said âUSC.â
Paige flinched like someone had slapped her âHow long?â she asked, voice too calm.
âA while,â Azzi admitted. âJust⊠conversations. Nothing official. Yet.â
âWhy didnât you tell me?â Paige shot back.
Azzi forced herself to meet her eyes.
âBecause I knew youâd react like this,â she said quietly. âAnd I needed to figure out how I felt without your feelings screaming over mineâ
Paigeâs jaw clenched âMy feelings are not screaming.â
Azziâs look said really?
Paige exhaled. âOkay, maybe theyâre a little loudâ
Azzi almost laughed, then she laced and unlaced her fingers, searching for words.Â
Her brain wanted to launch into an essay right there: about growing up in D.C, about how Storrs felt like being air-dropped into a snow globe full of whiteness and being asked to perform for the view.
The basketball-player-version of her wanted to talk about usage rates and touches, about feeling like a weapon everyone forgot they had in certain games.
The friend wanted to say: Iâm scared that every version of me here exists in your shadow, even the one that loves you, and I donât know how to separate that from my own name.
What came out was simpler âDo you remember what it felt like the first time you came to D.C. with me?â she asked.
Paige blinked at the left turn. âUh. Yeah. Your mom fed me like six times in one dayâ
Azzi huffed. âBesides that.â
Paige frowned, thinking. âIt was⊠loud,â she said finally. âLike everything was turned up. People, colors, carsâ
âRight,â Azzi said. âAnd no one looked at us twice, my dad talking too loud in the grocery store. It was just⊠life.â
Paigeâs face softened at the memory âYeah.â
Azzi nodded, more to herself than to Paige.
âStorrs isnât like that,â she said. âYouâve seen it.â
Paige shifted uncomfortably. âI know itâs⊠differentâ
âItâs white,â Azzi said plainly. âThe way people look at my hair. Fuck, the way I walk into a room and feel myself⊠shrinkâ
Paige opened her mouth, closed it again.
âIf Iâm honest,â Azzi went on, voice steady because if she let it shake, sheâd stop, âIâve been living here as this⊠bite-sized version of myself. I leave pieces of myself at home every time I fly back from D.C.â
She glanced down at her hands, then back up.
âAnd sometimes it feels like UConn is⊠your place,â she said. âYour story. Iâm your best friend. Your plus-one. And I love you, and I love that, but I donât always love who I am when Iâm trying to fit into that spaceâ
The words sat heavy between them, and Paigeâs face was in conflict.Â
âYou could have told me,â she said finally, voice small for once. âIf you felt like that. I wouldâve⊠I donât knowâ
âI know you wouldâve tried,â Azzi said softly. âBut some of this isnât fixable by you. What this campus is. What this program is built on.â
She hesitated, then added, âAnd some of this is me. Needing to feel like more than the girl who followed you hereâ
When Azziâs knee betrayed her too, it was like the script ran out of pages.
Sheâd spent the months after rehab watching games from the bench, living in that liminal space between valuable and replaceable.Â
Always ready, not always used.
âYou know I donât see you as my plus-one,â Paige said, rough. âYouâre Azzi Fucking Fudd. If anything, Iâm your point guard.â
âThatâs not how it feels,â Azzi said.
âTo who?â Paige demanded. âTo you? To fans? To reporters? Because I can handle the last two. I just need you to know I donâtââ
âPaige,â Azzi cut in. âYouâre missing it.â
She took a breath, âSome places make it really hard to be whole,â she said. âAnd some places make you feel like youâre constantly translating yourselfâ
Paigeâs eyes flickered.
âI want to play somewhere Iâm allowed to be big,â Azzi continued. âOn the court, yeah, but also⊠off it. I want to be loud and wrong and right and Black and mixed, without wondering if Iâm making too much noise in CDâs opinion.â
She let the next words land carefully.
âAnd USC feels closer to that than Storrs does.â
Paigeâs expression hardened.
âThatâs a nice speech,â she said, anger finally pushing through the hurt. âBut it still sounds a lot like Iâm leaving youâ
Azzi flinched. âIâm not leaving you.â
âYou are,â Paigeâs voice cracked. âCall it whatever you want, youâre still choosing somewhere Iâm not.â
Azziâs own frustration flared.
âYouâre acting like I owe this place my whole twenties,â she said.Â
âIt is a betrayal,â Paige snapped before she could stop herself âTo me, to usâ
The word us hit like a bruise.
Azzi stared at her. âYou donât get to play the âusâ card now,â she said quietly. âNot when youâve spent years pretending weâre just friendsâ
Color rose in Paigeâs cheeks. âThatâs not fair.â
âIsnât it?â Azzi asked. âWe only touch when youâre drunk enough to blame it on alcohol, and we never talk about it in the morningâ
Her voice shook now, but she kept going.
âYour teammate? Your best friend? Your⊠what?â
Paigeâs mouth opened and closed, like the word she wanted was caught in her throat.
âYouâre running away,â she said, deflecting, desperate. âFrom work. From the hard part. From staying and making this place better.â
âAnd youâre trying to keep me here for you,â Azzi shot back. âNot for me. For you. Because I make this version of UConn make more sense in your head.â
Paigeâs shoulders rose and fell with each breath.
âI got you first,â she said, voice low and wrecked. âUSA camp. I got you for UConn. I fought for you here. And now youâre gonna let some West Coast coach slide into your DMs and convince you to walk away from everything we talked about when we were seventeen?â
Azziâs eyes stung. âI know you got me first,â she whispered. âThatâs part of why this hurts so much.â
âFuck, then stay,â Paige said, stepping closer, words tumbling. âStay here. Stay with me. Weâll figure out the rest. Iâll talk to Geno and CD; Iâll burn this whole town down if I have to, justââ
âPaige,â Azzi said, and there was no anger left now, just exhaustion. âThis isnât about how much power you haveâ
Her hands had started to shake, she clasped them together: âI love you,â she heard herself say.
The room seemed to stop.
She hadnât planned to say it. Now she did..
Paigeâs eyes blew wide âDonât,â she said weakly. âDonât say that if youâre about to leave.â
âI have to say it,â Azzi replied, everything breaking loose now. âIâm in love with you and I still have to go.â
âDo you have any idea how fucked up that feels?â Azzi asked. âTo choose myself in a way that takes me away from the person I love the most?â
Paige didnât answer, she moved.
One second she was three feet away, the next she was right there, hands on either side of Azziâs face, mouth crashing into hers.
Azzi gasped, then kissed her back like her life depended on it, and Paigeâs fingers were shaking against her jaw. Azzi grabbed the front of her hoodie, anchoring herself.
It wasnât a perfect kiss, their teeth knocked once, and Azziâs nose squished against Paigeâs cheek.Â
Tears made everything saltier than it shouldâve been.
When they broke apart, both of them were breathing hard.
âPlease donât leave,â Paige whispered, forehead pressed to Azziâs âStay. We can⊠I donât know. Iâll do whatever. Just⊠stay.â
Azzi closed her eyes.
God, she wanted to say yes. It would be so easy to fold here, to let all of this patch over the parts of her that hurt.
But she thought of CDâs comments and the feeling of making herself shrink. She thought of scrolling through film and seeing herself used like a tool and not a centerpiece.Â
She thought of wholeness.
âI love you,â she said again, the words steadier now. âI have to do this for meâ
Paige pulled back, eyes glossy. âYou can do it here,â she insisted, last-ditch. âWe canââ
âWe canât fix Storrs,â Azzi said gently. âWe canât fix the way this place makes me feelâ
Azzi wiped at her face, annoyed to find it wet. But Paige didnât bother; tears streaked down her cheeks.
âI donât know what it looks like for us after this,â Azzi admitted. âMaybe we donât talk for a whileâ
Paige let out a sound that was half a sob âYouâre killing me,â she said.
âI know,â Azzi whispered. âItâs killing me too.â
They sat there, and after a long moment, Paige nodded once, like it physically hurt.
âOkay,â she said hoarsely. âGo to USC. Go be⊠whole. Or whatever.â
Azzi managed a shaky smile. âThatâs the plan.â
She stood, legs unsteady, and headed for the door.
Her hand was on the knob when Paige spoke again.
âFor the record,â Paige said, voice small but sincere, âIâve been in love with you too.â
Azzi paused, eyes closing briefly.
âI know,â she said. âThatâs part of why I thought you might let me go.â
She opened the door.
Azzi took a step out, then another.
Behind her, in the room, Paige stayed sitting on the bed, hands still trembling, the taste of Azziâs goodbye still on her tongue.
2025, Paige Bueckers
UConn Campus â Gampel Pavilion
By March, Paige had earned a new unofficial title on campus.
âMenace,â Jana had called her once, watching Paige leave a party with one girl on her arm and another texting her wyd before sheâd even hit the sidewalk.
Sheâd laughed it off, but the word stuck.
It wasnât that Paige was suddenly running through half the student body, she really wasnât. She was still too busy and too tired and too obsessed with basketball to fully commit to the menace life.
She flirted with whoever flirted back, kissed strangers in dark corners. Just letting people think what they wanted when they saw a tall blonde in UConn gear with some girl pressed up against her at a bar.
It was easier than thinking about the one girl she hadnât talked to in almost a year.
âYour hickey game is getting sloppy,â KK observed one afternoon in the training room, eyeing Paigeâs neck as the trainer worked on her calf.
Paige tugged her hoodie up âMind your business.â
âI am literally forced to look at your businessâ KK said. âCoach is gonna start calling timeouts just to hand you concealerâ
The trainer snorted quietly, and Paige glared at both of them âItâs not that bad,â she muttered.
KK raised a brow âAlyssaâs getting bold, thatâs all Iâm saying.â
Paige rolled her eyes, but she couldnât help the little jolt of pleasure at the name.
Alyssa Summer, the outside hitter on the volleyball team.Â
Tall, tan, she was a year younger than Paige, goofy as hell, lowkey smart, and highkey confident.
The first time theyâd hooked up had been at some joint athletesâ part, and Paige had been leaning against a wall, arguing with a menâs hoops player, when Alyssa had cut in, announced that she was âbored of listeningâ and then kissed Paige mid-sentence.
Paige had kissed her back.
It wasnât complicated (and that was the appeal), except, of course, humans are incapable of letting anything be uncomplicated.
âI like her,â KK said now, lying back as her ankle got iced âSheâs cool.â
âWow,â Paige said. âHigh praise.â
âIt sucks, thoughâ KK added, âIt sucks, youâre using her like sheâs a propâ
Paigeâs stomach jolted âIâm notââ
âYou drag her everywhere,â KK went on âPostgames, filmâwhy was she in film, by the way?â
âShe wanted to learn,â Paige muttered.
âShe wanted to stare at you and you said yes,â KK corrected. âAnd every time someone says she looks like Azzi, you get this little twitch in your eye that makes me think youâre gonna punch somethingâ
âShe doesnât look like Azzi,â Paige snapped.
KKâs mouth twitched.
âShe doesnât,â Paige repeated. âSheâs taller, she plays volleyball, she yells a lot. Azziâsââ
She stopped herself before she could start .
KK said, shrugging: âI just think itâs weird that the only person youâve let into your world like that since she left is someone who kinda looks like her.â
âStop saying that,â Paige muttered.
KK held up a hand. âFine. Alyssa doesnât look like Azzi. Happy?â
âNo,â Paige said, because nothing about any of this made her happy.
She knew, logically, that she was being unfair. Alyssa hadnât done anything wrong. She was actually⊠kind of great, she gave Paige shit for her pregame superstitions but still bought the same stupid energy drink every time âfor luckâ
Paige liked her.
She just didnât like why sheâd grabbed onto her so hard and so fast, and she also didnât like the way people kept saying âOh my God, she looks like your best friend.â
Azzi Fudd wasnât her âbest friendâ anymore
Theyâd played USC earlier in the season, and Paige remembered every second.
It had been in December, some big-ticket game the networks had drooled over: UConn vs USC, Bueckers vs Fudd and Juju.
Azzi hadnât looked at her once in warmups, and, God, Paige had tried not to look either, but it was impossible.
USC had punched them in the mouth. Juju went on a heater, and Azzi hit three straight threes in the second quarter.Â
Paige had fought like hell to drag UConn back, but theyâd still lost by six.
âGood game,â Paige had said, staring somewhere near Azziâs shoulder.
âYeah, Good gameâ Azzi had answered, eyes on the floor.
And then the season had rolled on.
Now it was March, and they were doing it again, this time in the Sweet 16, with more on the line and less margin for bullshit.
Juju wasnât playing; an injury had taken her out early in the month, and the bracket had done that cruel, poetic thing brackets do, and here they were.
Winner moves on, and loser goes home.
The game itself felt like an out-of-body experience.
Paige wasnât perfect, but she was close enough, every read felt simple, every shot clean.Â
Azzi looked⊠human.
Her shot was short, and her cuts were a half-beat late. The ball slipped twice in her hands in ways it never did in practice, and without Juju, USCâs offense leaned heavy on her, and the weight showed.Â
UConn won by eight.
âGood game,â Paige said.
Azzi met her eyes this time, just for a second.
âYou too,â she said, voice hoarse.
By the time Paige made it out into the back hallway, the adrenaline had started to leave, leaving her with that exhaustion she got after the biggest games.
She wantedâ God, she wanted to talk to her, just for five minutes or two.
Instead, Alyssa was there.
She leaned against the wall in a UConn hoodie that wasnât hers, scrolling her phone.Â
When she saw Paige, she lit up âPaige!â she said, pushing off the wall and jogging over. âJesus, you were insaneâ
Paige smiled automatically âThanksâ
She reached up, thumb brushing just under Paigeâs eye âYou still got glitter there from the student section.â
Paige hadnât realized there was glitter, Alyssaâs touch was familiar now, and Paige let herself lean into it for half a second.
âYou okay?â Alyssa asked, eyes searching her face. âYouâre weirdly quiet for someone who just punched her ticket to the Elite Eightâ
âIâm tired,â Paige said.
âAnd maybe a little shook about beating your ex?â Alyssa tried lightly.
Paige blinked. âSheâs not my ex.â
âYou know what I mean,â Alyssa said. âThe girl, every story youâve told since August.â
Paige groaned âDonât say it like that.â
âBro, you vent, I listen,â Alyssa said, unapologetic. âYouâre the one who told me she always felt like she was in your shadow, that she couldnât handle it here, that she ran away from the pressureâ
Paige winced âI didnât sayââ
âYou absolutely did,â Alyssa said. âItâs fine, Iâm just saying, maybe sheâll chill after this. She wanted her big girl moment so bad, and she just completely folded. Itâs almost cute.â
Paige felt something pull tight in her chest âLyss,â she said. âCome on.â
âWhat?â Alyssa said, genuinely puzzled. âShe did. She had, like, what, eight points? Maybe now sheâll stop acting like she needed to leave you to shine.â
Paige stared at her.
Alyssa wasnât being cruel for the sake of it. She was just⊠repeating things Paige had said in different words, putting a harsher edge on feelings Paige had spilled into late-night conversations.
âMaybe donât call it choking,â Paige said quietly. âItâs not that simple.â
Alyssa frowned. âYou literally told me she canât handle big moments without you.â
Paige swallowed âI told you I was angry,â she said.
âOkay, well, now Iâve seen her,â Alyssa said, shrugging. âThose portal accounts were hyping her like she was gonna be the West Coast Steph Curry, and she looked a messâ
She meant it like comfort, and Paige knew that: Look at you, youâre the star, youâre the one.
But the words landed wrong, and mean
Before Paige could figure out how to untangle it, a voice cut in from the end of the hallway
âWhat did you just say?â
Azzi
She stood there in USC warmups, her eyes were red-rimmed, not from crying â Azzi never cried where people could see.
Alyssaâs brows shot up. âOh,â she said. âDidnât see you there.â
Azzi didnât even look at her, her gaze was locked on Paige âYou wanna repeat that?â she asked.
Paigeâs brain scrambled. âAzziââ
âYou talking about me choking?â Azzi said, voice low âOr about me being in your shadow?â
Alyssa laughed, a nervous sound. âRelax, itâs not that deepââ
âDonât tell me to relax,â Azzi snapped, finally turning her attention on her âYou donât fucking know me.â
âOkay, rude,â Alyssa muttered. âIâm literally just saying what sheââ
âAlyssa, go, pleaseâ Paige cut in, louder than she meant.
Alyssaâs head jerked back âExcuse me?â
âJustâ go,â Paige said again, throat tight. âPlease. Iâll talk to you later.â
Alyssa pushed off the wall and stalked down the corridor, ponytail swinging, muttering something under her breath that Paige didnât catch.
For the first time in months, Paige and Azzi were alone.Â
Paige swallowed. âPrincessââ
âDonât call me that,â Azzi said
Paige shut her mouth, and Azzi took a few steps closer, arms crossed over her chest.
âSo,â she said. âIâm in your shadow, huh?â
Paigeâs chest squeezed. âI was mad,â she said. âI said a lot of shit when I was mad. I didnâtââ
âYou told her,â Azzi cut in, jabbing a finger in the direction Alyssa had gone, âabout the one thing I was actually afraid of. The one thing I only ever said to you.â
Paige flinched.
âI shouldnât have said that to her,â Paige said now, voice rough. âYouâre rightâ
Azzi laughed once, no humor in it âAt least you know.â
Paige ran a hand through her hair, and suddenly the hallway felt too narrow.
âCan we not do this here?â she asked, glancing at the stray staffer walking by âPlease. Justâ come with me for a second.â
Azzi hesitated, and against her better judgment, she nodded.
Paige reached out, fingers brushing her elbow, and guided her toward an empty media room, door shut.
âYou wanna yell?â Paige said, leaning back against the table. âGo ahead. I deserve it.â
Azzi stared at her, chest rising and falling.
âYou know what the worst part is?â Azzi said, voice shaking. âItâs not that you were talking shit, is that you took something I gave you and used it as a fucking punchline.â
Paigeâs throat closed âI didnât mean it like that,â she said.
âHow did you mean it?â Azzi shot back. âLike⊠what? Like, âhaha, my old friend ran away because she couldnât handle being near my greatnessâ? Is that the joke?â
âI never saidââ
âYou didnât stop her,â Azzi said. âYou just let her say I choked, that I canât handle being âbigâ without you there to hold my fucking hand.â
âI was mad,â Paige repeated weakly. âI was hurt. You left and Iââ
âAnd you never called,â Azzi said. âYou never texted. So donât act like you were so devastated you couldnât function. You functioned just fineâ
The words stung because they were not entirely wrong.
âI missed you,â Paige said. âSo much I thought my chest was gonna cave in. I didnât know how to come back from that.â
Azziâs expression shifted âI didnât walk out because I didnât love you,â she said.Â
âYou looked good out there,â Paige said quietly, âEven on a bad night. Youâre still you. You know that, right?â
Azzi huffed out a breath âDidnât feel like me.â
âYouâre allowed one shitty game,â Paige said. âWelcome to being The Guy. Sometimes The Guy goes 2-for-15 and still has to walk into the presserâ
Azziâs lips twitched âThat your postgame quote?â
âSomething like that.â
The tension in the room shifted, softened. âI do miss you,â Paige said, and the words rushed out like theyâd been waiting. âNot just the basketball stuff. The⊠everything.The late nights. The way you make fun of my spelling. I hate that the first real conversation weâve had in months is about some dumb shitâ
Azziâs eyes softened. âI miss you too,â she admitted. âIâve wanted to call you so many times I had to delete your number once just so Iâd stop staring at it.â
âYou deleted my number?â Paige blurted, betrayed.
Azzi rolled her eyes. âI memorized itâ
Paige laughed, âIâm sorry,â Paige said again, more sincerely this time. âFor the shadow stuff. For Alyssaâ
Azzi swallowed.
âThank you,â she said.
Paige stepped closer without fully deciding to, until she was close enough to see the faint smudge of mascara under Azziâs eye that sheâd missed while washing her face.
She lifted a hand, thumb brushing lightly at the smear âStill bad at washing your face,â Paige murmured.
âPretty much,â Azzi murmured back.
Paigeâs hand slid from her cheek to the back of her neck, fingers resting lightly where hair met skin.Â
Azziâs breath hitched âPaige,â she warned.
âWhat?â Paige said, voice suddenly soft, dangerously soft âI missed youâ
She didnât finish the sentence, she leaned in.
2025, Azzi Fudd
UConn Campus â Gampel Pavilion
For a split second, Azzi almost lets herself lean in.
Her body knows the motion too well, Paigeâs breath is warm, her mouth a breath away, her fingers curling, already pulling.Â
Azzo turns her head, and Paigeâs mouth lands on her cheek instead, hot and clumsy.
âWait,â Azzi says, hands flying up to Paigeâs shoulders, pushing her back âNo. I canât.â
Paige blinks, confused âWhatâ? Princessââ
âDonât,â Azzi snaps. âDonât call me that while youâre trying to kiss me.â
Azziâs heart is pounding so hard she feels it in her throat, and she takes a shaky breath âYou have a girl,â she says.
Paige recoils like someone slapped her. âSheâs not my girlfriend.â
âMaybe not on paper,â Azzi says. âBut sheâs out there in your hoodie thinking she is, and Iâm not gonna be the secret side quest you cheat withâ
Paige opens her mouth, then shuts it, jaw tightening.
âAnd,â Azzi adds, pulse racing, âI have someone, too.â
The words feel strange in her mouth, and she watches them hit Paige in real time.
Paigeâs eyes narrow âWhat?â
âI have someone,â Azzi repeats. âNot a girlfriend either, but⊠someone I actually respect enough not to do this withâ
Paige stares at her like sheâs speaking another language âSince when?â she asks, the question edged with disbelief âWho?â
Azzi exhales, chest tight, and for a moment the room dissolves, replaced by all the things Paige didnât know about the new Azzi Fudd.
The USC, Azzi Fudd.
For once, California had felt like someone turned the saturation back up on her life. There were afros and braids and curls of every texture; girls with skin like hers, girls darker than her, voices that sounded like home in a way Connecticut never had.
And the âNewâ Azzi loved touching the ball more, loved knowing they wanted her to shoot her way out of slumps instead of looking at the bench at the first sign of hesitation.Â
She loved the trust.
But, God, (even the âNewâ Azzi) missed Paige Bueckers.
She missed the stupid FaceTime calls where Paige showed her Drewâs new haircut or asked what earrings to wear. Damn, she missed sitting on Paigeâs bed with her knees touching, doing nothing important.
She missed her so much sheâd deleted Paigeâs contact once.
Truthfully, the only thing that made a place without Paige feel like a survivable experience at first was Megan.Â
And, of course, Megan wasnât Paige in any way that mattered, but she understood Azzi all the ways that did.
Megan Taylor was a center, a real one â 6â4, wide shoulders, long arms, the kind of frame that made guards throw the ball up too high just because they trusted sheâd go get it.
Her skin was a deep warm brown that caught the California sun and held it. She wore her hair in thick twists pulled back with a headband during practice, dropping down her shoulders when she let them loose.Â
Meganâs eyes were big and expressive, soft when she was listening, and sharp when she was reading a defense.
God, everyone loved her. She knew the janitors by name and brought extra food containers to road trips so she could hand leftovers to the bus driver on the way back.
The first time she talked to Azzi was after a lift.
Azzi was pretending she wasnât dying, sweat soaking through her shirt, legs shaking. She sat on the edge of the training table, and a Gatorade bottle appeared in her line of sight.
She looked up, and Megan smiled, one dimple cutting deep into her left cheek. âYou looked tough, Fudd,â she said. âYou good?â
Azzi blinked. âIâm fine.â
âShe says, lying,â Megan said, but there was no judgement in it âIâm Megan, by the way. I mean, you know that, but Iâm saying it anyway.â
Azzi snorted. âAzzi. Also obvious, butââ
âGotta say it,â Megan said.
She hopped up to sit on the next table over, close enough that their knees almost brushed.
âIf you ever need anything,â she added, casually, like it was nothing, ârides, food recs. I got you, Fuddâ
Azzi smiled âThanks.â
She didnât take her up on it at first, to be fair, Azzi had always been slow to let new people in.
But Megan kept showing up in the quiet, easy ways that were hard to dodge.Â
An extra protein bar tossed her way with a âI know you didnât eat breakfast.âÂ
A âyou wanna shoot after practice?â that was really âdo you want to exist in the gym without coaches?â
Azzi found herself seeking her out more and more. Sitting next to her on the bus, stretching next to her before games, or just sharing small things.
She told Megan about Paige in little pieces, testing the waters.
âMy best friend plays at UConn,â she said once.
âBlonde one?â Megan asked.Â
Azzi rolled her eyes. âBro, you know Paigeâ
âShe your girl?â Megan had asked, and Azzi had hesitated half a second too long.
âShe was⊠my person,â she said. âAnd then she didnât want me to leave, weâre not talkingâ
Megan hadnât pushed, she just bumped her knee gently against Azziâs.
âYou get to be a person too,â sheâd said, and it was the first time Azzi had heard it put that simply.
The first time they kissed, Azzi almost ruined it by overthinking it.Â
Theyâd watched film, then a movie in Megan' s dorm room, that neither of them were really following.
Megan had a blanket thrown over both their legs and a bowl of popcorn balanced on her stomach, and at some point, their shoulders had ended up pressed together.
âYouâre doing it again,â Megan murmured, eyes still on the screen.
âDoing what?â Azzi asked, even though she already knew.
âThinking about practice,â Megan said. âWhat is it? The threes?â
âMaybe,â Azzi muttered.
âYouâve hit a thousand of them in your life,â Megan said âYouâll be fine, Fuddâ
Azzi let out a breath, leaning her head back on the cushion.
âEasy for you to say,â she said. âYou never look scaredâ
Megan shrugged. âI just sweat the fear outâ
Azzi laughed, âEw.â
âThere she is,â Megan said, eyes finally cutting over to her. âThatâs my girlâ
The look held.
It wasnât the way Paige looked at her, it was softer. And Azziâs heart thudded.
âCan I kiss you?â Megan asked.
The question landed like a warm hand on her spine. Sheâd kissed girls before, but it had always been quick, chaotic, flustered.Â
This wasnât
Azzi swallowed. âYeah,â she said, surprising herself âOkay.â
Megan shifted the popcorn bowl aside, moved in slowly, giving Azzi every chance to bail. And when their mouths finally met, Meganâs lips were soft, but the hand she slid up to cradle the back of Azziâs neck was sure.
Azzi exhaled into it.
This was different. With Megan, it felt like finally finding the ground after falling for too long, like: Hey, Iâve got you, put your weight here.
Meganâs thumb stroked the line of her jaw, and when Azziâs mouth opened under hers, Megan deepened the kiss. Her other hand found Azziâs waist, fingertips sliding under the hem of her shirt, warm against her skin.
Azzi shivered
âYou good?â Megan whispered against her lips.
âYeah,â Azzi breathed. âJust, new.â
âWe can go slowâ Megan said. âWe can stop right now and Iâll still buy you dinnerâ
Azzi laughed, breath hitching as Meganâs hand flexed at her hip.
âI donât want to stop,â she admitted. âI just⊠havenâtâŠâ
âWith a girl?â Megan supplied, gently.
Azziâs face went hot âNot even really hooked up with one,â she confessed. âPaige and I⊠we never⊠went thereâ
Megan kissed her again, softer âOkay,â she said âThen weâre not competing with anyoneâ
The next time Meganâs mouth moved down to her throat, Azzi let herself sink into it.
Megan was patient and attentive in a way that made Azziâs chest ache. She checked in with words and hands, never pushed past where Azzi was ready to go.Â
Clothes came off slowly, carefully, and for the first time, Azziâs body felt like it was entirely hers and entirely wanted at the same time.
When it was over, they lay tangled together on the couch, breaths slowing, Meganâs palm flat and warm over Azziâs stomach.
âYou okay?â Megan asked again.
Azzi stared at the ceiling, âYeah,â she said. âI⊠really liked that.â
âGood,â Megan said, smiling.
Now, standing in a little media room with Paigeâs hand still warm on her neck, she thought about Meganâs smile.
âHer nameâs Megan,â Azzi said, watching Paige carefully. âSheâs⊠important to me.â
Paigeâs jaw worked âHow important?â she asked.
Azzi huffed out a humorless laugh âYou really want a report on my love life right now?â
âLove? You reallyââ Paige swallowed. âHave you and her evenââ
âYes,â Azzi said, cutting her off, and her cheeks flushed but she held Paigeâs gaze âWeâve hooked upâ
Paige looked like someone just yanked the floor out from under her.
âYouâve slept with her,â she said, voice thin.
Azzi felt the urge to soften it, to walk it back, to cushion the blow like she always has.Â
She didnât.
âYeah,â she said. âI have.â
Then Paige laughed, but it didn't reach her eyes âOf course,â she said âYou fly across the country, reinvent yourself, and suddenly youâre girlfriend of the year.â
âSheâs not my girlfriend,â Azzi snapped
Paigeâs eyes flashed âSo what, thatâs what this was all about? You wanted to go be somebodyâs girl?â
Azzi recoiled, âDonât do that.â
âDo what?â Paige demands. âYou left because you felt like you werenât getting enough shine here, and now youâre out there being the botty support for USCâs star. Congrats, you upgraded from my sidekick to hers.â
Azziâs hands curled into fists.
âYou watched the same game I did,â Azzi said, voice icy. âShe played out of her mind and I had a bad night. That doesnât make me her sidekick. And it definitely doesnât mean Iâm only ever going to be someoneâs âgirl.ââ
Paige scoffed, âIâm just saying what it looks like.â
âNo, Paigeâ Azzi said, anger rising âYouâre saying what you need to say to protect your ego.â
Paige stepped closer, âMy ego? Youâre the one who ran off because a white kids in Connecticut. You talk all this shit about wholeness and whatever, and at the end of the day youâre still lining up to be defined by another girl.â
Azziâs breath catched, and she felt the words like theyâre aimed straight at every insecurity she ever confessed on late-night calls.
âYou donât get to use my insecurities against me,â she said quietly. âYouâre mad I didnât stay where you could keep an eye on meâ
Paige threw her hands up âBro, this isnât about keeping an eye on you, Azzi, itâs about the fact that you left and then expect me to be fine with watching you play house with someone who isnât ââ
There it is the center of it.
âYou,â she said. âI was crazy for expecting you to be my friendâ
âWe were never just friends,â Paige fired back.
âWe couldâve been,â Azzi said âWe shouldâve been. And now youâre mad I found someone who actually wants to hold my handâ
Paige flinched like she'd been hit, and before either of them could say anything else, the door opened.
âMight be reading this wrong,â Megan says from the doorway, âbut Iâm gonna guess this friendly screamingâ
Azzi turned, and Megan filled the frame, USC sweats on, duffel slung over one shoulder, twists pulled up in a loose bun. She looked beautiful and very, very concerned.
âHey,â she said softly, eyes on Azzi first. âThey told me you were in here. Bus leaves in ten.â
Her gaze flicked over to Paige, taking in the flushed face, the clenched jaw, and there was no jealousy there, just wary protectiveness.
âYou good?â she asked Azzi, and the question is real, not rhetorical.
Azziâs throat tightened, and she looked back at Paige.
Paige looked wrecked, eyes shiny, mouth pressed thin, chest heaving like the game never ended.
For a wild second, Azzi wants to fix it the way she always has â to hug her and tell her theyâll figure it out.
Then she remembers the sound of Alyssaâs voice in the hall, parroting her deepest fear back. God, she remembers the way Paige almost kissed her without hesitating, as if cheating was just another impulsive move she could explain away later.
âNo,â she said to Megan âIâm not good.â
Azzi squared her shoulders and looked at Paige properly âYou wanna know what pisses me off the most?â she said âItâs not that you slept around. I knew who you were when I met you. Itâs not even that you talked shit about me to some random girl, even though that still sucks.â
Paige swallowed hard.
âItâs that you couldnât stand the idea that I might exist outside of you,â Azzi continued. âThat I might be someone that people talk about without putting your name in the sentence. And, fuck, that I might like to kiss someone who is not Paige Bueckers.â
âThatâs notââ Paige started.
âIt is,â Azzi cut in. âYou had to own meâ
Her hands were shaking now, but she didn't stop.
âWe didnât hook up,â she said. âWe thought not sleeping together would save the friendshipâ
Azzi laughed âWell, we didnât need sex to ruin it. We just needed your fucking egoâ
Paigeâs eyes were glassy now âAzzi, pleaseââ
âNo,â Azzi said âYou donât get to cry your way out of this one. You donât get to act like this is happening to you, Paige. You made choices. You chose to turn me into a story you tell new girls in your bed. You chose not to call. You chose to let ten years go into this.â
Her voice cracked on âten yearsâ, but she kept going.
âSo congratulations,â she said, tears finally spilling hot down her cheeks. âYou did it. You ruined our friendship. I mean, we were never gonna work as girlfriends, because you are an egocentric, competitive, selfish piece of shitâ
Paige flinched.
âBut we couldâve been friends,â Azzi went on, softer now âWe couldâve been in each otherâs lives in some way that didnât hurt this much. But, fuck, you had to burn that down too.â
She wiped her face with the back of her hand.
âI hope you win the whole thing,â Azzi finished. âI really do. I hope you get your championship and your trophies and your articles and whatever else you think will make this worth it. Maybe then, when youâre holding that net in your hands, youâll realize there was something you couldnât keep, no matter how good you wereâ
She stepped back toward Megan, who hadn't moved, and Megan reached for her hand.Â
âLetâs go,â Azzi said, voice small.
Megan squeezed her hand once and nodded. âYeah,â she said quietly. âWeâre done here.â
Azzi turned, letting Megan guide her to the door, and she didn't look back this time.
She hears Paige suck in a breath behind her, like sheâs about to say something, one last plea. The room stays silent.
Azzi kept walking, each step feeling like it belonged to a person who is finally, painfully, separate.
For the first time, as Meganâs thumb rubbed circles over her knuckles, Azzi let herself believe she could choose herself, too. Even if it means shutting the door on the only version of her sheâs ever known.
Behind her, somewhere in a beige room full of folding chairs, Paige was finally left alone with the one thing she canât blame on an injury, a ref, or a bad shooting night: Herself.
2026, Paige Bueckers
Dallas / and Everywhere in Between
The thing that scared Paige the most wasnât that Azzi had called her egocentric.
It was that Paige believed her.
The flight home from the Sweet 16 felt like punishment. Paige sat by the window, hoodie up, replaying every word Azzi had thrown at her in that ugly little media room.
You had to own me.Â
She could still see Azziâs face when she said it, voice steady in that terrifying way people get when theyâve finally given up.
The worst part was the tiny, rational part of Paigeâs brain that went: Yeah⊠that tracks.
Because sure, sheâd felt abandoned, but at the end of the day, Azzi had been right about one thing: Paige didnât know how to love anything without trying to control it.
Basketball, her image, her friendships, even her own queerness â she clutched all of it so tightly she crushed a part of it without meaning to.
That was the part she could live with, but hearing that the one person whoâd known her since they were kids now saw her as some self-absorbed asshole?
That sucked. If someone loves you and still looks at you and sees a problem⊠thereâs probably a problem.
By the time they landed, Paige had quietly decided two things:
She was done pretending this version of herself was âokay.â
She was not going to be the player people hesitated to draft because she couldnât keep her personal shit together.
The first casualty of that decision was Alyssa.
And, God, breaking up with someone you were never officially with was confusing as hell.
So they met outside the volleyball facility, and Alyssa came out in leggings and a giant puffer, hair in a bun, smiling before she even saw Paigeâs face properly.
âHey,â she said, leaning in for a kiss.
Paige dodged subtly, going for a hug instead (she wasnât great at this)
Alyssa pulled back âOkay, weird.â
âWe need to talk,â Paige said, then instantly wanted to die because she sounded so fucking corny.
âWhatâs up?â
Paige shoved her hands into her pockets so Alyssa wouldnât see how much they were shaking âIâm not⊠in a place to be anyoneâs girlfriend,â she said. âOr whatever this is. Iâm going to the league in a few months, and I just⊠I donât want you to think this is headed somewhere itâs not.â
Alyssa stared at her for a long beat âYouâre doing the thing,â she said finally.
âWhat thing?â
âThe Paige thing,â Alyssa said. âYou get all serious like youâre saving me from some future heartbreakâ
Paige opened her mouth, then closed it.
âI like you,â Paige said âI genuinely like you. But Iâm also messy. And Iâm still⊠hung up on someone I have no business being hung up on, and thatâs not fair to you.â
Alyssaâs expression softened just enough that it hurt âIs this about the USC girl?â she asked quietly.
Paigeâs stomach twisted. âItâs about me,â she said. âShe made some points the other night I canât really un-hearâ
âCool,â Alyssa said, voice flat âIâm character development.â
âThatâs notââ
âI know,â Alyssa cut in, exhaling âLook. I knew what this was. Iâm not stupid. But if youâre gonna dip, at least own that itâs because youâre into her, not because youâre sacrificing for the greater good of the WNBA.â
That landed.
âIâm sorry,â Paige admitted
Alyssa rolled her eyes, but there was a small smile at the corner of her mouth.
âYou really know how to break up with someone who was never your girlfriend,â she said.Â
Paige huffed out a laugh âIâm sorry, Lyss.â
âYeah,â Alyssa said âMe too.â
She stepped in, pressed a quick, firm kiss to Paigeâs cheek, and then walked away without looking back.
Paige watched her go, hands still jammed in her pockets, feeling the first clean cut. And, fuck, it hurt. But it felt⊠right.
The letter, though? Took three tries.
She wrote the first one at 2 A.M. in her dorm: please donât hate me, Iâm still me, I miss you, Iâm sorry, I miss you, I miss you, I miss you.
She ripped that one up.
The second was defensive: you hurt me too, you know, youâre not the only one with wounds here. That one she didnât even finish, because halfway down the page she heard Azziâs voice in her head saying she was being self-centered.
She trashed that too.
The third she handed to the team manager, folded small, her name written in a corner in the handwriting only Azzi would recognize.
It said:
Azzi,
You were right about more things than I wanted to admit.
I took your fears and turned them into a bit. I talked when I shouldâve listened. I made your leaving about what it meant for me instead of what it meant for you.
Iâm not writing this because I want anything from you. You donât owe me anything. Iâm writing it because I donât want the last version of me you knew to be the girl in that room.
Iâm trying to be better than her.
I hope USC gives you everything you went there for. I mean that.
â P
She never got a reply, but months later, when they ended up in the same building again, Azzi mentioned, in passing, that sheâd read it.
Paige held onto that like it was a lifeline.
Life didnât stop.
____________________________________________________________
Paige finished the season, made a run, did the media circuit, smiled through the questions about her leadership. She cared suddenly and viciously, about how she came across.
Not in a fake way, she just didnât want âselfishâ to be the word people reached for when they described her. Not teammates, not coaches, not fans, and definitely not general managers who had to decide if she was worth an entire franchise.
Dallas called her name on draft night, and when she put on the hat and hugged everyone, she looked for Azzi in the crowd, out of habit, before remembering this wasnât her class yet.
In Dallas, she threw herself into the work like penance.
She watched more film than she ever had in her life. She listened to vets talk about screens and angles and how you couldnât just be âthe girlâ in this league, you had to be âa girlâ who fit a system.
She went out sometimes, flirted with people in bars, and laughed. But she always went home alone. And her phone was full of names she didnât text back.
And if people asked if she was seeing anyone, she said no.
It wasnât entirely true, but it was true enough for the version of Paige she was trying to be.
And then, in the middle of that first pro summer, someone sent her a tweet.
GENO SAID HEâD TAKE HER BACK & HE MEANT IT. AZZI FUDD COMING HOME FOR HER LAST YEAR
Paige stared at the graphicâa photoshopped shot of Azzi in a UConn jersey againâand felt something shift beneath her ribs.
Okay.
Fine.
Sure.
She called KK.
âDid you know?â she demanded, skipping hello.
âHi, P, Iâm great, thanks for asking,â KK said. âAnd yes. I knew. No, I didnât tell you. Yes, you wouldâve been annoying about it.â
âHow long?â Paige pushed.
âSince, like, June,â KK said.Â
Paige rolled onto her back in her Dallas apartment, staring at the ceiling.
âSheâs still with that center?â she asked, trying to sound casual and failing miserably.
âMegan?â KKa said. âYeah, I think soâ
Paige pressed her tongue to her teeth âCool,â she said. âCool, cool, cool.â
âYouâre not allowed to spiral,â KK warned. âYouâre in Texas being a professional and sheâs here being a college kid again. Do not make this about you.â
âIâm not,â Paige lied, very badly.
âSure,â KK said. âAnyway, ring night is in October. You coming?â
âWouldnât miss it,â Paige said.
And she didnât.
____________________________________________________________
She walked into Gampel as a Dallas Wing, not a Husky, and the difference tasted weird in her mouth.
People clapped when she was shown on the screen, but it was a different kind of clap. Not âour point guardâ anymore.Â
Then she saw Azzi, and seeing her back in UConn blue knocked the breath out of her in a way she hated.
It looked right, that was the annoying part. Like sheâd just taken a long, weird detour and finally gotten back on the correct highway.
They didnât hug, God, they barely touched.
They found each other in the hallway after the ceremony.
âCongrats on Coming Back,â Paige said, gesturing with her chin to the ring.
âYou too,â Azzi said âOn⊠everything.â
They stood there in the static for a second, and damn, Paige wanted to say a lot of thingsâ did you like the letter, howâs Megan, do you still think Iâm an egocentric piece of shit âbut there were people around, and she was very aware of the cameras.
So she settled on, âYou look happy.â
Azziâs smile was small âIâm working on it,â she said.
And that was that.
____________________________________________________________
The thing about trying to be a better person is that the universe doesnât clap for you.
You just⊠do it, and hope it sticks.
Paige kept her head down, played her rookie season, and earned respect in Dallas. The Wings were a mess in all the ways expansion franchises loved to be â too many needs, not enough certainty â but she did her job.Â
She started to let people think Alice was her girlfriend because it was easier than explaining she didnât really know what they were.
Alice was a photographer, older by a few years, absurdly cool. Tattoos, rings on every finger, the kind of laugh that made people turn around in restaurants.Â
âSo first Alyssa, now Alice,â KK said on FaceTime one night, eyebrows halfway to her hairline. âYour type being âgirls whose names start with Aâ
âShut up,â Paige said, grinning
And Alice was nice. She was sharp and made fun of Paigeâs Spotify playlists and took good pictures of her on bad hair days. She didnât know anything about UConn or Hopkins or the history with Azzi.Â
Paige liked the version of herself she was around Alice, more present. A little selfish in normal ways, not epic life-ruining ones.
So when people in Dallas whispered âgirlfriend,â Paige didnât correct them.
She also didnât correct the UConn freshman who told her, wide-eyed after a game sheâd flown back for, that Azzi had joked about her in the locker room.
âIt wasnât bad!â the kid rushed to clarify. âShe just said you used to be kind of, like⊠the worst. But you're chill now.â
âGreat,â Paige muttered âLove that for meâ
Later, when she found Azzi in a quiet corner of Gampel, still vibrating.
âCan you not?â she said, skipping hello, hands shoved in her jacket âCan you maybe not talk about me like Iâm the villain in your college story?â
Azzi blinked âWhat?â
âThe freshie,â Paige said. âYou donât have to pretend you donât know what Iâm talking about. I know you said worse things to my face, I can only imagine what you say when Iâm not there.â
Azziâs expression shifted âI was⊠joking,â she said. âIâm sorry.â
âIâve spent a year trying not to be that person,â Paige snapped. âTrying to be better. I apologized, I changed shit. You donât get to freeze me in that moment, bro.â
Azzi held up her hands, palms out âYouâre right,â she said, to Paigeâs surprise. âSeriously. Youâre right. I shouldnât have said anything. Iâm sorry.â
The directness took some of the fight out of Paige, but not all.
âIâm not asking you to say nice things,â Paige said, softer.Â
Azzi nodded âOkay,â she said. âI wonât, talk about youâ
Paige walked away feeling more hollow than vindicated, but she kept the resentment anyway.
____________________________________________________________
When the Wings front office called in the January, she knew what it was about before they even said it.
âPaige,â the GM said on Zoom, all corporate smile and careful eyebrows. âYouâve seen the mock drafts.â
âSome,â she lied. (sheâd seen all of them)
âAssuming the lottery plays out how we think,â he said, âweâre in position for the first pick. You know whoâs at the top of those boards.â
He didnât say her name, and he didnât need to.
Paigeâs heart thudded uncomfortably âThis is not us asking you to make the decision,â he added quickly. âYou earned your spot here, weâre just⊠taking the temperature of the room.â
Paige stared at the little box of her own face in the corner of the screen. For a second, she saw herself at nineteen: Say, yes, do it, I donât care, me and Azzi will figure it out.
Older her felt the scar tissue âItâs complicated,â she said.
âWe figured,â he replied.
âI think sheâs incredible,â Paige said, because that part needed to be on record. âSheâd make any team better.â
There was a but coming.Â
âButâŠâ the GM prompted.
âBut I donât know if weâre good for each other,â Paige said, choosing each word like it might explode âIf youâre asking if I want to play with her, today, right now⊠my honest answer is no.â
The silence on the other end was polite, âThank you for your honesty,â the GM said. âWe appreciate it.â
She closed the laptop and immediately felt sick.
For days, she walked around with that conversation in her throat. She almost called back, twice, to say: Forget it, Iâll figure my shit out, donât let my feelings get in the way of her dream.
She didnât.
Some ugly, petty part of her still stung from being called egocentric, from being told sheâd burned down ten years. She let that part win.
When draft night rolled around, Azzi looked⊠unreal.
Camera-ready, hair done, dress perfect. The kind of gorgeousness that made Paige forget how to act, and of course, Paige told herself she only noticed because the cameras kept cutting to her table.
Everyone assumed Dallas would take Azzi if they had the pick, well everyone except Paige.
âWith the first pick in the WNBA Draft,â he said, dragging the syllables, âthe Dallas Wings select⊠Azzi Fudd, University of Connecticut.â
The room erupted, and, holy shit, Paigeâs brain short-circuited.
She clapped on autopilot, but somewhere, a camera caught her faceâeyes wide, mouth parted, genuine shock.
She barely heard the rest of the speech. Azzi walked across the stage, hugged the commissioner, put on the teal hat Paige had worn first. She thanked God and her family and Geno and USC and UConn and probably Megan somewhere in there.
Paigeâs heart was pounding so hard it hurt.
Fuck, theyâd drafted her anyway.
Either they didnât care what Paige wanted, or theyâd heard her âI think sheâs incredibleâ louder than her âhonest answer is noâ.
Or maybe, and this was the most likely scenario, theyâd simply done their jobs and picked the best player available.
It was almost laughable sheâd thought she had that much power.
____________________________________________________________
The party afterward was on some ridiculous rooftop in New York, and Paige had a glass of something in her hand she didnât remember ordering.Â
âSo,â KK said at one point, leaning on the high-top next to her âUniverse really said âyou two havenât finished being stupid yet.ââ
âShut up,â Paige said.
âIâm just saying,â KK went on. âThey drafted her knowing youâre here. Youâre both stubborn as hell and weirdly obsessed with each otherâ
âWe are not obsessed with each other,â Paige lied.
KK laughed in her face, and Paige glared into her drink.
Across the room, Azzi was surrounded by people: agents, family, media, Megan on FaceTime held up by her mom maybe, Cara from USC, Geno somewhere in the mix.Â
She laughed at something, head thrown back, dimple deep, and Paige wanted another drink.
Alice slid in, looping an arm around her waist.
âYou doing okay?â she asked quietly, picking up on the feeling in the air.
âIâm great,â Paige said. âWe just got the number one pick in the draftâ
âYour voice does that thing when you lie,â Alice said âIt gets a little higher.â
âShut up,â Paige said again, but she leaned into the touch anyway.
At some point, Azziâs parents made their way over. Katie hugged her like she always had; Tim clapped her on the shoulder, asked about her season, told her Drew looked taller in the last photo.
Azzi still hadnât told them about the media room, apparently and Paige felt both grateful and weirdly angry about it.
Alice was still laughing with one of the assistant coaches, camera in hand, already mentally storyboarding whatever photo dump sheâd post tomorrow. Paige kissed her cheek, said something about needing air, promised sheâd be right back.
When she finally found herself alone by the railing, she thought sheâd successfully avoided a one-on-one.
The smoking room was tucked off a side hallway, behind an unmarked door that looked more like a storage closet. It was technically for players and staff, but tonight it was just⊠quiet.Â
She slipped inside, shut the door behind her out of habit, and locked it. The click sounded too loud.
Paige didnât smoke anymore â hadnât vaped since the knee â but her body still associated rooms like this with relief.Â
âSo,â a voice said.
Paigeâs heart jumped into her throat, and Azzi was already there.
She was sitting on the low leather bench under the window, one leg folded up, the other stretched out, bare toes pressed flat to the floor. Tiny white dress, indecent little scrap of fabric that made her look like sheâd wandered out of some perfume commercial.Â
Hair straightened, falling around her shoulders; makeup just barely smudged in that way that made her look even prettier.
Her heels were tossed beside her, straps tangled. Her drink rested carelessly on the windowsill.
She looked⊠wrecked and very, very drunk.
âOf course youâre here,â Paige muttered.Â
Azzi smiled, slow and lazy, looking her up and down without shame.
âYou came to my party, broâ she said, her voice was tipsy. âCouldâve at least said hiâ
âThis isnât your party,â Paige said, pushing off the wall âItâs a franchise event.â
Azzi tilted her head, eyes half-lidded, dimples showing âEverythingâs my party tonight,â she said. âIâm the number one pick, remember?â
Paige rolled her eyes, âWow, fame changed you,â she said.Â
Azzi laughed, and pushed herself up, crossing the space between them in a few slow, barefoot steps.
Paige could smell her perfume before she felt her, so damn expensive and so painfully familiar it made her dizzy.
âSo,â Azzi said again, stopping close. Too close. âYou really werenât going to say hi?â
âWe talked,â Paige said, remembering the polite exchange in the hallway, the careful congratulations, âThat counts.â
Azzi hummed like she didnât agree, and her fingers found the front of Paigeâs blazer, pinching the lapel between thumb and forefinger, nails grazing the fabric.
âOh, this is about the cameras,â she teased. âYou donât want your fans to see you lurking around me in dark cornersâ
Paigeâs pulse jumped âIâm not lurking,â she said. âIâm hidingâ
âFrom what?â Azzi asked, and she leaned closer, the question brushing Paigeâs jaw more than her ears âFrom me?â
She was touching Paige now. A hand on her lapel, then sliding lazily down to the open collar of her shirt, fingertips walking along the edge like they had no idea what boundaries were.
Paigeâs skin lit up under the touch in a way that made her furious.
âYouâre drunk, broâ Paige said, voice a little hoarse. âYou donât get to start shit when youâre drunk. Thatâs my job.â
Azzi grinned, satisfied âYou are obsessed with me,â she said, like she was stating a proven fact âYou canât even help itâ
Paige scoffed.âNo, Iâm fucking not.â
âYes, you are,â Azzi sing-songed, finally hooking a finger in the collar of her T-shirt under the blazer, giving it a small, playful tug that brought their bodies closer âYou have literally been obsessed with me since we were teenagers. You probably asked them to draft me just so you could be annoying about it.â
Paigeâs heart misfired, she felt the words catch in her throat.
She didnât correct her.The truth was right there: No, I told them I didnât want you here.
âWow,â Paige said instead, raising a brow. âSomeoneâs full of herself tonight.â
Azziâs eyes sparkled. âI know you, Pâ she said. âYou have a fake account just to stalk my posts and my girlfriendâs posts.â
Paige froze âHow the fuck do you know about that?â she demanded, before she could stop herself.
Azziâs smile got bigger, âI didnât,â she said sweetly. âBut, thanks for confirming.â
Paige dropped her head back against the door with a groan âYouâre a lotâ
âAnd youâre predictable,â Azzi countered.Â
âAnd youâre confusing," Paige said, offended now. âYou went back to UConn, right? Connecticut wasnât that oppressive after all, I guessâ
Azziâs fingers slid from her collar to the center of her chest, the heel of her hand flattening over Paigeâs sternum.
âYeah,â she said, eyes narrowing, âI guess the problem was you.â
Paige swallowed, âYou left,â she said.Â
Her hand slid up, thumb brushing against Paigeâs exposed collarbone, lingering there.Â
âYouâre doing it again, broâ Paige said, forcing her voice steady. âYouâre being messy. You made this whole big deal about me being the problem, and now youâre here pulling on my shirt.â
Azziâs breath hitched, but she didnât pull back. If anything, she stepped closer, until Paige could feel the heat of her through the thin cotton of that stupid white dress.
âI have a girlfriend,â Azzi said calmly âIâm not doing anything.â
Paige let out a humorless laugh âYouâre literally touching me, all overâ
âI touch everyone,â Azzi said, which was a lie and they both knew it. âYouâre the one with the burner account, your girl doesn't know about.â
âYouâre flirting with me,â Paige said, fingers tightening reflexively around Azziâs wrist now, a warning and an anchor. âWhy the fuck are you messing with my head? You know exactly what youâre doingâ
Azziâs eyes flicked down to where Paige was holding her.
âGo softer on my wrists, Buekers,â she murmured âI might like thatâ
That did something low in Paigeâs stomach âYouâre drunk,â she said again, even as her thumb slid unconsciously against the inside of Azziâs wrist, feeling her pulse race under the skin. âYouâre just acting on whatever pops into your head. Thatâs not fucking fair.â
Azziâs mouth curved. âOkay,â she said. âSince when are you the moral police? You hate it when Iâm messy, but youâre the one who told a front office to draft meâ
Paigeâs jaw clenched. âI didnât say that.â the grip tightening without meaning to.
âJust admit it,â Azzi insisted, leaning in, her breath fanning across Paigeâs lips now. âYou asked them to take me because you like having me aroundâ
Paigeâs hand moved before her brain did, and she caught Azziâs face firmly, almost squeezing her cheeks.
She could see everything up close now, the smear of lipstick at the corner of Azziâs mouth, the tiny freckle near her left eye, the way her pupils were blown wide and stunning.
âI told them I didnât want you there,â Paige said softly, honestly âI told them having both of us in the same locker room was a bad idea because you are troubleâ
Azziâs breath stuttered against her thumb, and for a second, she just stared at her.
Then she laughed, short and disbelieving.
âYouâre an awful fucking person,â she said, voice shaking âYou really tried to keep me from going number one because youâre scared.â
âIt wasnât about the number one,â Paige snapped. âI knew theyâd be idiots if they passed on you. I justââ
The anger, the guilt, the heat, all of it snapped into a single, stupid decision.
She kissed her.
Azzi made a startled sound into her mouth that couldâve been protest or relief, then she was kissing her back.
Whatever distance years and fights and girlfriends had built collapsed in on itself, and Azzi surged forward, fingers fisting in the front of Paigeâs shirt, dragging her down. Paigeâs hand slid from her jaw to the curve of her neck, thumb pressing into the hinge of her jaw like she was afraid Azzi might disappear if she didnât hold on.
It was nothing like college, nothing like those drunk kisses in cars and stairwells. There was no pretending it âdidnât matterâ this time.Â
They knew exactly what they were doing and how fucking wrong it was.
Azzi moaned against her mouth when Paige backed her into the wall beside the window, and the sound went straight to Paigeâs head, and core..
They broke just enough for air.
âYou actually did it,â Azzi said, breathless, eyes blown wide, lips wet and swollen âYou actually sat there and told them not to draft me. Because of you.â
Her fingers dug into Paigeâs blazer, knuckles brushing Paigeâs ribs through the fabric.
âYou were actively working so I wouldnât go number one,â Azzi said, almost laughing, like she couldnât believe it. âYou are awful"
âI told you,â Paige panted. âIt wasnât about the pick.â
Azzi shook her head, hair brushing Paigeâs cheek. âYouâre an awful person,â she repeated, and then she yanked her back in by the lapel.
This kiss was worse, and worse in that it was better. It was deeper, messier, touching each other in a way theyâd never let themselves do it before.
Paigeâs free hand found Azziâs ass, fingers digging into the curve of it, dragging her closer, closing the last space between them. Azzi hooked a hand around the back of Paigeâs neck, dragging her down to exactly where she wanted her.
Paige shifted without thinking, thigh sliding between Azziâs, and Azziâs moaned again, a sound swallowed by Paigeâs mouth.
âWhy are you still kissing me?â Paige managed against her lips, voice ragged, as Azziâs hands still bunched in her blazer like she was hanging on for balance.
âBecause Iâm taking what I want for once,â Azzi said, forehead pressed to hers âBecause Iâm a horrible person too. Because apparently weâre both horrible people.â
Paige laughed, the sound muffled as Azzi kissed her again, slower this time, like she was trying to memorize the shape of her.
It wasnât poetic, not really, It just got hot.
Paigeâs hand was moving before she even gave it permission, slipping under the hem of Azziâs dress, sliding up against skin that was shocking in how warm and soft it was. She was never allowed to touch her like this, her hand was there anyway, fully inside palm flat against the bare skin of Azzy's ass, fingers curling into the warmth.
And Azzi was laughing right against Paigeâs mouth, pressing in close. Paige could feel the damp heat of Azzi against her thigh, a friction that made her breath hitch.Â
God, she wanted this so bad, she wanted to stop thinking, grab Azziâs ass, pull her in harder, and just fuck her until the spinning stopped, but her hand stayed right where it was, touching skin she was never supposed to have.
Then reality shoved its way back in.
âYou really didnât want me here,â Azzi said suddenly, pulling back just enough to look at her, eyes shining in the low light âYou said that. And now weâre going to have to play together, after all this.â
âYeah,â Paige said, voice rough âWe are.â
They stared at each other, both breathing hard.
Paige was the one who let go first.
Her hands dropped from Azziâs body like theyâd been burned, and she stepped back, putting inches between them, then a full foot, as if distance could erase what just happened.
âCool,â Paige said, laughing once, hollow. âSo now Iâve cheated on my girlfriend.â
Azziâs mouth twisted. âYeah,â she said quietly âMe too.â
The silence that followed was loud as a siren.
âI hate you,â Paige said, because there was nothing else big enough to hold what was happening in her chest.
Azziâs jaw clenched. âI hate you too,â she shot back.
Paige huffed out a breath that was almost a laugh âYou wish you did,â she said âI wish you did.â
Something flickered across Azziâs face, and she reached up, smoothing a strand of Paigeâs hair back from her face with a strange, infuriating tenderness that didnât match anything else.
âThis is going to be awful,â she said, âIâm going to have an awful fucking time playing with you.â
Paige caught her wrist, just for a second, thumb pressing into the rapid pulse there.
âRight back at you,â she said. âSee you at training camp, Fudd.â
She let go.
Azzi stared at her for half a heartbeat longer, then bent to pick up her heels. When she straightened, sheâd put her party face back on, shoulders rolled back, mouth annoyingly red and glossy.
She unlocked the door, paused with her hand on the knob.
âYouâre not going to smoke, right?â she asked without looking back. âYouâre too good for that now.â
Paige almost smiled. âIâm too good for a lot of things,â she said âApparently not you.â
Azziâs shoulders tensed, and then she pulled the door open and slipped out, back into the thump of bass.
Paige stayed where she was, fingers still tingling, lipstick she didnât own on her mouth.
Tomorrow, sheâd look Azzi in the eye and talk about spacing and pick-and-roll coverage like they hadnât just detonated every boundary they had left.
Fuck, theyâd both chosen this.
And now, no way out but through.
Sherry Bomb: A memoir
Theyâve written about her for forty years.
They will tell you what she wore, who she dated, what she overdosed on, and what she said when she came back from the dead..
This is not her biography. Itâs not mine either.Â
Paige Bueckers was twenty-five when I met her, and already belonged to the world. I was twenty-two and didnât know how to belong to anything yet.
â A.F.
IntroductionÂ
Written by: Azzi Fudd (circa 2025)
When I started writing this, I told myself it was research.
Looking at it now, it isnât. Itâs archaeology.
Every interview, every article, every late-night phone call that turned into a quote â theyâve all been dug up, and held to the light again. This isnât the story of Sherry Bomb, or of the girl who defined a generation of rock music.Â
Itâs the story of the woman who lived underneath the noise, and the younger woman who tried, very poorly, to keep her out of the fire.
In 1985 I was twenty-two, a year out of college. I worked in the cultural desk of CBS Features, which sounded impressive until you saw the paychecks.Â
I spent most days transcribing other peopleâs interviews, listening to the professionals talk over me, and trying to remember whether I actually liked journalism or if I just liked proximity to interesting people.
Then they asked me to profile Paige Bueckers.
At the time, Paige was the name on every magazine cover: the lead singer of Sherry Bomb, the band that had turned the Reagan years into a riot.
She was twenty-five, newly platinum, and infamously difficult.Â
âYouâre doing Paige?â my editor asked, half-smiling, half-worried. Â âApparently,â I said. âYou know she doesnât talk to people.â Â âThen maybe sheâll talk to me.â
That was the bravest thing Iâd ever said, and possibly the dumbest.
I was chosen precisely because I had no reputation for asking the wrong questions (mainly because I had no reputation at all).
At that time, what I knew about her could fit on the back of a cigarette pack.
She drank gin straight, smoked like she was paid for it, and she dressed like a man whoâd stolen a woman's wardrobe.
She was, depending on who you asked, either the future of rock or its funeral.
Rolling Stone had called her âIf David Bowie and Joan Jett had a daughter, sheâd look like this.â
She was too pretty to be taken seriously, too bold to be ignored, and too androgynous before the word was fashionable.
I was told she hated interviews.
That sheâd walked out of Time, and told MTV to go fuck itself. So when my editor said, âShe asked for someone new,â I thought it was another myth.
âMaybe she just wants a clean slate,â Colleen said while I tried on outfits. Â âOr a new victim,â I said. âDonât fall in love with her,â she warned. Â âI wonât.â
I did. But that comes later.
Paige spoke in riddles, like she was bored of being understood, and every question I asked, she turned into something else.Â
When I asked about her stage presence, she talked about pirates.Â
When I asked about fame, she talked about freedom.
I wrote the piece that week, filed it on time, and thought that would be the end of it.
It wasnât.
This book began, I suppose, with that first conversation â a few hours in a hotel suite in Los Angeles, July 1985.Â
What follows is not a biography. Itâs part recollection, part documentation, and part apology for the things I never printed and the things I did.
There will be pages from interviews, letters, fragments of songs, and pieces of the world that existed around her.
Some of them are mine, some are hers, and some belong to no one anymore.
I am not here to explain Paige Bueckers, this would be impossible.
Iâm here to remember her.
Interview conducted by Azzi Fudd for CBS Features â July 20, 1985, Los Angeles, California
The first thing you notice about Paige Bueckers is that she doesnât notice you.
At least, not right away.Â
She wears black jeans torn at the knees, a sleeveless white shirt with the words Sherry Bomb scribbled across it in red marker â her own handwriting, she tells me later â and a leather jacket that looks older than both of us.
Thereâs a cigarette behind her ear, a silver ring on every other finger, and a thin gold chain tucked under her shirt. The only makeup she wears is a streak of eyeliner smudged across the corner of one eye.
Her hair is pale and sharp, bleached too many times.
She sits cross-legged on the hotel sofa, sipping a drink that looks like water and smells like gin.
I set my recorder on the table between us, and she grins.
AZ: You donât usually do interviews. PB: I donât usually do mornings either. But here we are. AZ: Itâs two in the afternoon. PB: Morning is a state of mind.
She laughs at her own joke and gestures toward the window.
PB: See that? It looks hot enough to melt the whole city. AZ: You like it here? PB: Not really. I like the noise, though. You canât hide much when everythingâs loud.
She plays with the edge of her drink, tracing the rim, and watches me like sheâs waiting to see if Iâll flinch.
AZ: Youâve been on tour for almost two years straight. Do you ever get tired of being loud? PB: Sometimes. (pauses) Â But silenceâs worse.Â
When she lights a cigarette, she offers me one, even after I tell her I donât smoke.
PB: You should learn. It makes your hands look interesting.
Paige is impossible to categorize.
She moves between masculine and feminine the way other people switch guitars, instinctively.
AZ: People call you a mystery. PB: People call me all sorts of things. AZ: Does it bother you? PB: Only when theyâre right.
We talk about the band â Sherry Bomb â and she mentions the guitarist, KK, with a kind of affectionate exasperation.
The drummer, Nika, she calls âfamily.âÂ
For someone who supposedly hates interviews, Paige was generous with words.
About twenty minutes in, I ask the question Iâm supposed to ask:Â
AZ: What scares you?
She leans back, exhales smoke, and smiles like sheâs been waiting for it.
PB: I love sharks. AZ: Sharks? PB: Yeah, they never stop moving or they die. (pauses) Love pirates, too.
There it is, the first derailment. I donât understand yet that Paige does this when she doesnât want to answer honestly.
AZ: Pirates? PB: Think about it. No one ever knew what to call them: men, women, thieves, gods (grins) I like that.
This, apparently, is her idea of small talk.
AZ: So you see yourself as a pirate? PB: Something like that.
I ask her about fame, and for the first time, she looks tired.
PB: Fameâs like drinking salt water, darling. You think itâs going to help, but it just makes you thirstier.
She doesnât elaborate, and I donât push.
Later, she asks if I want to hear something new.
From a table covered in cassette tapes, she picks one up, slides it into a tape deck, and presses play.
 The song that fills the room is rough, and she watches me listen.
PB: Be honest. Is it any good? AZ: It hurts a little.
She smiles again and leans forward to stub out her cigarette.
PB: Youâre not like the others. AZ: What others? PB: The ones who write about me. AZ: Youâve only just met me. PB: Exactly.
She finishes her drink, stands, and disappears into the next room. I can hear her humming from behind the door, a melody without words.
When she returns, she hands me a folded napkin. Inside it, thereâs a single line written in smudged ink:
The sea doesnât scare me. Drowning does.
âQuote that,â she says. âItâll make me sound mysterious.â
When Paige comes back from the next room, sheâs lost the jacket and the shoes.
Barefoot, tank top hanging loose, a new drink in hand, something neon this time.Â
Her hair falls in her face, and she doesnât bother to fix it.Â
She drops onto the couch beside me â closer than before â and points at my tape recorder.
PB: Is that thing still on? AZ: It should be. PB: Good. I like the sound of my own voice.
She laughs at that.
AZ: Your manager said you hated interviews. PB: I do (grinning) But I like you.
I tell her sheâs not supposed to flirt with journalists.
PB: Who made that rule? AZ: Common sense. PB: You think Iâve ever had that?
Itâs ridiculous how bright she is when she laughs.
AZ: What do you get out of interviews, then? PB: Amusement, sometimes a headline.
She watches me scribble that down.
PB: Youâre really writing that? AZ: Itâs a good line. PB: I have better ones.
She leans forward, elbows on her knees, waiting for me to ask.
I donât. I just stare until she laughs again, softer this time.
PB: Okay, okay. âI donât want to be remembered; I want to be replayed.â That oneâs free.
I tell her it sounds rehearsed.
PB: So what? Everything worth saying should be.
She takes another sip, then eyes me curiously.
PB: You donât look like a reporter. AZ: What do I look like, then? PB: A school-teacher, or a nun who lost her faith.
I raise an eyebrow, pretending not to smile.
AZ: Youâve met a lot of nuns, have you? PB: Catholic school dropout. Twelve years of guilt (grinning) Want to compare notes?
I laugh at that.
AZ: What do you actually want people to know about you? PB: Nothing (pauses) Maybe that Iâm funnier than they think.
And she is.Â
AZ: People say you take yourself too seriously. PB: Iâm the least serious person I know (leans closer)  Youâre the serious one. I can tell. AZ: Iâm just doing my job. PB: Exactly.
Her knee brushes mine barely. She notices, of course. She notices everything.
PB: Relax, rookie. Iâm not gonna corrupt you.Â
Iâm glad my recorder catches the silence that follows, because I have no idea what to say.Â
She laughs again, and reaches over to steal my pen. She spins it between her fingers like a drumstick.
PB: You donât write like a rookie, though. I read that piece you did on the D.C. punk scene. AZ: You read my article? PB: Yeah. I liked how you made it sound like it mattered (shrugs) Â No one writes like that anymore. Everyoneâs too busy being clever.
That surprises me more than anything sheâs said all day.
AZ: And what are you busy being? PB: Bored (smiles) Â Entertain me.
I ask about her music instead, what sheâs trying to say with it.
She groans dramatically, sinking into the couch.
PB: Oh, youâre one of those journalists. Always looking for meaning. AZ: I like words. PB: I like noise (grins)
She toasts me with her glass. I donât clink back.
She asks about me. No one ever does.
PB: So, Washington girl, right? You said D.C.? AZ: Born and raised. PB: You like it? AZ: Itâs home. PB: Sounds boring.
I tell her I like boring.
PB: Thatâs the saddest thing Iâve ever heard.
Sheâs laughing when she says it, but something in her eyes softens.
PB: You know, you look like you belong in the seventies. AZ: Is that a compliment? PB: Depends. Did you like the seventies?
The recorder hums.
PB: Tell me something. Do you ever get tired of pretending youâre not curious about me?
I answer before I think.
AZ: Are you always this arrogant? PB: Only when Iâm right.
Editorâs note (added 2025) Written by: Azzi Fudd
At this point in the tape, thereâs laughter. Then a pause, then the sound of Paige asking me if I want another drink.Â
The rest of the tape is static, but I remember how it ended: she walked me to the elevator barefoot, humming something under her breath.
When I asked if I could call her again for follow-up questions, she said, âYou wonât have to. Iâll find you.â
She did.
The Headline
Written by: Azzi Fudd (circa 2025)
The article came out three weeks later under the headline âPaige Bueckers: a Little Bit of Heaven (and Hell).â
It ran four pages in CBS Featuresâ August issue, accompanied by a photograph that still makes me wince: me sitting on the hotel sofa, in a godawful outfit notebook in hand, Paige mid-laugh beside me, her arm draped over the back of the couch like we were old friends.
It was the first interview sheâd given in nearly a year, and the only one that didnât end in an argument.Â
The piece was passed around newsrooms like gossip: âYou got her to talk?â âHow the hell did you manage that?â
The editor called it âintimate.â I called it âlucky.â
People liked that she sounded both self-destructive and self-aware, like she was in on the joke.Â
I received a bouquet of red carnations from her publicist with a note that only said, âShe doesnât hate you. Thatâs a first.â
A week later, she called me herself.
âHey, rookie,â she said. I could hear laughter and clinking glasses in the background. âRead your piece, it was good. I should fire you for that.â
She couldnât fire me, obviously, but I didnât know what to say, so I said thank you.
âAlso,â she added, âyou looked really cute in that picture.â
I didnât say âthank youâ to that, even though I wanted to.
Then she told me she was playing The Forum next Friday, that sheâd leave two tickets at will-call.
âBring a friend,â she said. âOr donâtâ
I didnât go.
I told myself it was because of work, or because Colleen couldnât make it, or because Iâd already spent too much time thinking about her voice.
The truth is simpler.
I was afraid of what might happen if she saw me again.
Excerpt from âPAIGE BUECKERS: WOMAN, DYKE, OR SOMETHING ELSE ENTIRELY?â
By R. M. Delaney
Rumor has it the rock worldâs golden girl might be rewriting more than just the rulebook on sound.
At twenty-five, Paige Bueckers has already broken every boundary she could find: the charts, the stages, and, some whisper, the bedroom door.
Several sources claim the Sherry Bomb frontwoman has been seen âgetting cozyâ with both male and female companions after shows. One particularly enthusiastic roadie describes her as âone of the guys, and not in a bad way.â
But in an industry where sex sells and gender bends, Miss Bueckers might be selling confusion.
Last month, she appeared at a charity gala wearing a black tailored suit â tie, pocket square, the works â prompting one columnist to ask if âPaige wants to be Mick Jagger or marry him.â
When asked to clarify, her management declined to comment, stating only that âMiss Bueckers wears what she likes.â
The Suit
Written by: Azzi Fudd (circa 2025)
I remember that Delaney article.
I was sitting cross-legged on the floor of my apartment, surrounded by stacks of laundry and half-finished notes for another feature, when I saw her face staring back at me from the cover rack at the corner store.
The photo was grainy, clearly taken mid-laugh at some event, but it didnât matter. The suit did.
It was black, fitted, a little too big at the shoulders. Her hair slicked back, cigarette between her fingers, grin sharp enough to draw blood.
The kind of picture that makes the world nervous for all the wrong reasons.
I bought three copies. I told myself it was for work.
Colleen was on the couch when I got back, eating cereal straight from the box.
âAnother one, Azzi?â âTheyâre saying sheâs sleeping with women nowâ âAnd?â âThatâs breaking newsâ âEverythingâs breaking news with that girlâ
I dropped the magazine onto the coffee table.Â
âAzzi, you gonna call her?â âI donât even know if she remembers meâ âShe called you, didnât she?â âOnceâ âThen she remembersâ
The thing about Colleen is that she was always right, and she knew it.
I stared at the magazine again.Â
The headline made my stomach twist. "WOMAN, DYKE, OR SOMETHING ELSE ENTIRELY?"
Like it was an accusation to be one of those things, or all of them.
âLeen, why do people care so much who sheâs with?â âBecause sheâs famous, because she wears suits better than half the men in Hollywood. Take your pick.â âI just think itâs stupid.â âYou also think sheâs cute.â
That last part shut me up, and Colleen smirked into her cereal bowl.
âOh, come on, Fudd. Youâve been acting weird since that interview.â âSheâs⊠interestingâ âSheâs your typeâ âSheâs not ââ âYou like bad girlsâ
She said it like it was a fact, not a confession.Â
That night, after Colleen fell asleep on the couch, I found the number from the call sheâd made â scribbled on the back of one of my reporterâs notebooks.Â
Just a number and a first name: Paige.
I stared at it for twenty minutes before I dialed, and she picked up on the second ring.
âRookie, youâre late.â âI didnât know there was an appointment.â âThereâs always an appointment with me, darlingâ âYou read Sound & Scene?â âGod, no. Do I look like someone who reads about herself?â âTheyâre saying youâreââ âWhat, gay? Straight? A men?â (laughs) âLet them. It keeps me interestingâ âYou donât care what they say?â âCare? Honey, I write half of it myself.â
She had the kind of charm that disarmed and infuriated you.
âI wanted to ask if youâd do another interview. To, I donât know, clear the airâ âYou want to save me, rookie?â âI want to get the story right.â âThen donât write it yet.â
There was music in the background, possibly someone strumming a guitar, laughter, the kind of noise that made it clear Iâd interrupted something.
âIâll call you when Iâm bored.â âThat could be never, Paigeâ âThat could be tomorrow.â
And just like that, she hung up.
Colleen, half-awake, mumbled from the couch:
âYouâre smilingâ âIâm not.â
But I was.
Interview conducted by Azzi Fudd for CBS Features in July 1986, Washington, D.C.
The second time I interviewed Paige Bueckers, she showed up at my apartment without warning.
It was a Tuesday, unseasonably hot even for D.C., the kind of heat that glues your hair to the back of your neck.
 I was barefoot, wearing a tank top and shorts, sitting on the floor editing copy for a profile that no one would read.
Then the doorbell rang.
I opened it, and there she was, five thousand miles from Los Angeles, leaning against the doorframe like she belonged there.
She had on a black button-down, sleeves rolled to the elbows, sunglasses she didnât need.
PB: You werenât kidding about D.C. heat. AZ: You werenât kidding about calling first. PB: I wanted it to be a surprise.
It was.
She said sheâd been in town for a private event, that her hotel was âtoo quiet,â that she âmissed the noise.â I told her I had work.Â
She said, âGood, Iâll help you ruin it.â
She made herself at home, kicking off her boots near the door and dropping onto the couch like sheâd lived there for years. I fetched the recorder out of habit, mostly to keep my hands busy.
PB: You always record your houseguests? AZ: Only the famous ones.
I pressed play.
AZ: Everyoneâs talking about you again. PB: Still? God, I thought theyâd moved on to the next tragedy by now.
She grinned, then leaned back, eyes half-lidded.
AZ: You know what theyâre talking about. PB: My sparkling personality? AZ: Your sexuality. PB: Ah, yes.Â
She said it lightly, but the air shifted.Â
I asked if she wanted to clarify any of the rumors. She smirked.
PB: Why would I? AZ: Because people are speculating. PB: Thatâs what people do when theyâre bored. AZ: Do you ever get tired of being misunderstood? PB: No. Itâs better than being understood.
She said it with that same careless humor, but her voice caught a little at the end. I wasnât sure if she noticed.
AZ: You could always just tell them. PB: Tell them what? That I donât care which bathroom mirror Iâm looking in when I put on eyeliner?
She laughed after, self-aware.
PB: No one wants honesty from a rock star.Â
I asked if she thought she owed the truth to her fans.
PB: I owe them the music. The rest is none of their business.
She stood, restless, pacing the small space between my couch and the window.
PB: You want to know more about me? Listen to the next album. AZ: Iâd rather hear it from you. PB: And ruin the mystery? Never.
I tried a different angle.
AZ: So you donât deny it â that youâve been with men and women? PB: Jesus, rookie (laughs) Why are you keeping score? AZ: Itâs part of my job. PB: You have a weird job.
She leaned against the window.
PB: You really think that matters? AZ: To some people, yes. PB: Then thatâs their problem, not mine.
She looked out toward the street
PB: See, thatâs what I mean. Why do you care so much? (turns back to me) Â Why does anyone?
I didnât have an answer.
We moved from talk of gossip to talk of clothes, which, for Paige Bueckers, seemed to amount to the same thing.
AZ: You caused a stir with that suit. PB: Which one? AZ: The black one, the charity gala. PB: Oh, right. That one. (laughs)
She flopped back on the couch.
AZ: Why did you wear it? PB: Because I wanted to. AZ: Thatâs it?
PB: Yeah. It made me look cool.
I blinked.
AZ: Thatâs not â thatâs not an answer. PB: Sure it is. You just wanted a different one.
Then she tilted her head, studied me for a beat that lasted too long.
PB: Do you think I looked cool?
There was no safe way to answer.
AZ: I â itâs not aboutâ PB: I think you think I looked cool.
She smiled like sheâd won something.
PB: People make such a fuss about clothes. I wear what makes me feel good. If itâs a suit, great. Half the men at that party looked like penguins. At least I looked like I knew what I was doing. AZ: So, the rumors about you and your bandmates â PB: Oh, god. Those again.
She rolled her eyes and lit another cigarette.
PB: For the record, Iâve never had anything with K.K. or Nika. Not my style. AZ: What is your style? PB: Complicated (grinning) Â And before you ask â no, Iâve never hooked up with the guys from the band either. Artists are the worst people to date.
AZ: Youâre an artist. PB: Exactly. I wouldnât date me either. AZ: Good self-awareness.
Then she leaned forward, grin softening into something that wasnât quite a smile.
PB: Would you?
Before I could respond, my elbow caught the recorder, sending it clattering off the table. The tape jammed, spinning helplessly.
PB: (laughing) Careful, rookie. Youâll lose all your evidence.
Editorâs Note (added 2025)
Written by: Azzi Fudd
The tape ends there.
For years, I told myself it was an accident. That Iâd hit the recorder by mistake, that it had nothing to do with the heat in the room or the way she was looking at me.
Truth is, Paige never broke eye contact the entire time. And every question I asked, she answered like it was foreplay.Â
When the tape died, she asked if I wanted to go out for a drink.
Girls wearing TiesÂ
Written by: Azzi Fudd (circa 2025)
I told her no.
When she asked if I wanted a drink, I said I didnât, that I had work, that it was late.
 She laughed, said, âSuit yourself,â and left me standing in the quiet. I remember thinking that was the end of it.
It wasnât.
A week later, I saw her again â not in person, but on glossy paper, under a headline that said âBueckers Turns Heads in D.C.â
The photo stopped me cold.Â
She was at some party uptown, the kind with champagne towers and people who used âdarlingâ as punctuation, like Paige did.Â
She was wearing what might once have been a white dress shirt, though calling it that feels generous. The fabric clung to her skin like humidity, transparent under the camera flash.Â
No bra and no apologies. A black tie hung loose around her neck, like sheâd stolen it from someone and never planned to give it back.
I remember feeling heat rise through me. Not shame exactly, but something familiar.
Iâd grown up in Catholic schools, plaid skirts and confession booths, and of course: black cotton ties.
When I decided to write this book, I didnât know how to talk about things like that. My sexuality isnât really the subject here, but itâs part of the story.Â
It always was.
In college, at St. Johnâs, it wasnât uncommon for girls to test the limits of what âfriendshipâ meant. You kissed in the dark and prayed in the morning.Â
We didnât really call ourselves anything, like the girls know days do, we didnât have words that felt safe enough to use.Â
But we understood what it was, at least I did.
By the time I moved out, I thought Iâd grown out of it.Â
I told myself that I liked men, or at least the idea of them.Â
Colleen, my roommate, had always known better. One hazy afternoon after my twenty-first birthday, somewhere between laughter and the taste of cheap gin, we finally said it out loud:
âI think Iâm gay, Azzi.â âYouâre not.â âYes I am. And so are you.â âFuck,â I said, âyouâre probably right. Pass me the gin.â
We never crossed that line â she wasnât my type, and I wasnât hers â but we lived in the same quiet code. Two women who never dated men, and never bothered to explain why.
Someone like Paige couldnât have hidden if sheâd tried.Â
She was too bright, too unguarded.Â
Lord, she didnât seem afraid of being seen, she didnât seem afraid of anything.Â
There was danger in that, not the kind that warns you away, but the kind that pulls you closer.
That picture haunted me for days.Â
The looseness of the tie, the confidence of her posture, the sheer, shameless joy of looking like herself.Â
I told myself I was fascinated by her freedom, not by her.Â
And maybe thatâs when I started wanting her.
Or maybe I just wanted to understand her.
That same week, an envelope arrived at my office.Â
My name typed on the front, her handwriting scrawled across the back.Â
Inside was a single page:
Hey rookie, Heard youâre still mad at me for not giving you better quotes. Iâll make it up to you. Come to the album launch â 9 p.m., The Green Room, Friday. I promise to behave for five minutes, maybe ten if youâre wearing something short. Also, track sevenâs about you. Donât panic. â P
I must have read that note a dozen times.
Then I looked at Colleen and said, âIf she asks me for a drink again, Iâm going.â
And I did.
Preface to the The Burning Red Album Launch Interview (added 2025)
Written by: Azzi Fudd
When I wrote this piece, I thought Burning Red would be big.
I didnât realize it would be immortal.
It went on to sell thirty-five million copies, win every award imaginable, and turn Paige Bueckers from a cult phenomenon into the face of an era.Â
I can still recite half the track list from memory.
I remember the sweat-sweet air of that night, the crush of people, the champagne flutes balanced on amplifiers.Â
Even then, before the first note played, you could feel history about to happen.
The Burning Red Album Launch
August 1986 â The Green Room, Washington D.C. By Azzi Fudd for CBS Features
There are parties, and then there are coronations disguised as parties.
The Burning Red launch was the latter.
The Green Room was packed shoulder to shoulder with producers, critics, and people whoâd managed to convince security that they were insiders.Â
And in the center of it all: Paige Bueckers.
White T-shirt, half-tucked, sleeves rolled, the faint smear of eyeliner turning her eyes into something feral.Â
AZ: Congratulations. Big night. PB: Feels small in here, doesnât it? AZ: You knew this record would be big. PB: I knew it would be mine. Bigâs a side effect, darling.
She grinned and took a sip of whatever was in her glass, something crimson that matched the album art.
AZ: The title, Burning Red â what does it mean? PB: Passion, anger, heat. Everything that makes you stupid and alive at the same time. AZ: Thatâs⊠broad. PB: Soâs life, rookie.
She said it fondly now; the nickname had stuck.
AZ: Youâve talked before about not liking labels. The songs on this album sound like youâre trying to outrun them. PB: Thatâs close. I wanted to write about feeling, not form. Everyoneâs always asking who I love, what I am. I just wanted to talk about the way it feels when you want something.
She gestured toward her hand, wrapped in a bandage speckled with tiny drops of blood, the aftermath of blisters earned from playing too long.
PB: See that? Thatâs passion. But itâs the only thing that makes art worth doing.
For a moment she looked almost serious, eyes wide and bright.
AZ: Do you think passion always has to hurt? PB: God, I hope so. Otherwise whatâs the point?
Someone called her name from across the room, she waved them off.
PB: People think passion is romantic. Itâs not. Itâs wanting without permission.
She laughed, a quick spark to break the tension.
PB: Donât quote that. It sounds too honest. AZ: Iâm definitely quoting that. PB: Knew you would.
She drained her glass, already half-turned toward the stage where her band was assembling.
The noise around us kept swelling, but Paige stayed where she was, one hand hooked through a belt loop, watching the chaosÂ
AZ: Youâve seen the critics tonight. PB: They say a lot of things. AZ: You read them?
PB: I tell people I donât. But I do. (shrugs) Thereâs this guy from Melody Maker. He called me âa hurricaneâ. I liked that.
She looked almost shy admitting it, eyes down, thumb tracing the lip of her glass.Â
AZ: It must feel good, though. Hearing people get it. PB: Yeah (smiles small) It feels⊠good.
She finished her drink and reached for a fresh one from a passing tray, holding it out to me.
PB: Come on, rookie. Celebrate a little. AZ: I donât really drink. PB: You didnât last time either
I hesitated, then took the glass.Â
The liquid was sharp, sweet, the kind that warms too fast. Paige clinked hers against mine.
PB: To bad ideas. AZ: You have a lot of those? PB: Enough to keep life interesting. AZ: Doesnât that get reckless? PB: Reckless is underrated. You canât live carefully and expect to make art.
She laughed, but there was a flicker of something tired behind it.
AZ: Youâre always drinking something. PB: Vices are fine. Keeps the hands busy. (beat) Â Donât look at me like that, rookie. Iâm not a cautionary tale yet.
I didnât look away.
Editorâs Note â added 2025
Written by: Azzi Fudd
She only played the first five tracks that night.Â
The rest of the album, including âHysteria,â the song she said was about me, was held back until release week.Â
After the interview, she pulled me into a quick hug before heading backstage. I remember the heat of the room, the buzz of champagne, the way her hand grazed the hem of my skirt.
âNice outfit,â she murmured, low enough that only I heard. âDangerous for a journalist.â
I laughed, nervous, dizzy.Â
She didnât move her hand right away.
âSo,â she said, voice close enough that her breath brushed my cheek, âyou gonna keep judging my drinking, or are you gonna have another with me after this?â
I said something useless like, âYou still owe me the rest of the album.â
She smiled. âThen let me play it for you. Privately.â
She never waited for an answer.
She just slipped back toward the lights, leaving me standing there with a half-empty glass.
Private ListeningÂ
Written by: Azzi Fudd (circa 2025)
People always ask when the line blurred.
When I stopped being the journalist who covered Paige Bueckers and became the journalist Paige Bueckers would let cover her.
I usually say it was the Burning Red cover story â the first ârealâ one, the one that got me a byline big enough to live on its own line of the magazine.Â
But the truth? The line blurred that night in the green room.
Because after that night, Paige never gave another interview to anyone else, not once.
From that moment on, every quote, every confession, every word the world read from her came through me.Â
Sheâd call and say, âRookie, Iâve got something new,â and that was that.Â
We were tethered: her voice and my pen, my pen and her name.
Thatâs how you build a mythology: one voice to sing, one to translate.
That night, I remember tugging the hem of my skirt lower, the fabric sticking to my skin in the humidity.Â
I remember thinking that I should leave, that my job was finished, that this woman was dangerous in every way a woman could be.
Then the door opened.
I heard her before I saw her â laughter, the scrape of boots against concrete, then the sharp click of the door closing behind her.Â
She didnât speak right away.
When I turned, she was leaning against the wall, hair damp with sweat, T-shirt clinging to her shoulders. Her lipstick had bled a little at the corner of her mouth.
We stared at each other.
âYou stayed,â she said finally. âYou asked me to.â She smiled. âYou donât always do what I ask.â âIâm learning.â
She took a few steps forward, unhurried, until the air between us shifted from professional to something else.
Thereâs no graceful way to describe what happened next.
She didnât ask. She moved like someone who already knew the answer.
My back hit the wall, and I remember thinking: This is going to ruin me.
Iâd been with women before, but Lord, Paige Bueckers was something else entirely.
The taste of her, the sound of her breath between laughs, the smell of gin when she kissed my body.
Afterward, I kept waiting for guilt to arrive, for professionalism to click back into place, for the rational voice in my head to remind me that this was reckless.
 It never did.
Paige sat down on the couch, T-shirt bunched at her ribs, one knee pulled up.Â
âYou okay, rookie?â âYeah,â I said, but it didnât sound like me. âGood,â she whispered. âBecause Iâm not.â
For a long time, neither of us spoke.
She ran a hand through her hair, exhaled, and said, almost to herself, âMaybe this is the most reckless thing Iâve ever done.â
And somehow, I believed her.
Paige was sitting cross-legged on the couch, hair falling into her face, a small bruise already blooming at the edge of her collarbone.
Iâd pulled on one of her robes, smelling faintly of cigarette smoke.Â
My body didnât feel like mine at that moment
Paige glanced at me and smiled.
âYou still nervous?â she asked. âShould I be?â âProbably.â
She leaned over the side of the couch, picked up her guitar, and started tuning it by instinct.Â
âI said Iâd play you the rest of the album,â she said. âMight as well start with your track.â I laughed, or tried to âYou named a song for me?â âItâs about you, not for you.â
Then she started to play, and then she started playing Hysteria.
The melody was quiet at first, the kind that sneaks up on you. But the lyrics were what stopped me:
I want to touch you, but I know that when I do, youâll be the only thing I want to touch. When I get my hands on you, I know that I will, Iâll never let go, even once.
It was serendipity, and it was surrender.
She looked at me while she sang, not performing, just telling the truth in her own language.Â
And I understood, then, that this wasnât flirtation or even her usual rebellion. In fact, it may be the most honest thing sheâd ever done.
When Hysteria was released, critics called it âa generational anthem of chaos and hunger.â They said it captured the ache of the 80s youth, the fire of desire, the urgency of being alive.
They were right about the hunger, but they never knew what it was for.
Hysteria wasnât about love or fame or self-destruction. It was about Paige Bueckers deciding, for once, to be reckless enough to commit to something.
Because commitment, for her, was the wildest act of all.
After that night, she never sat for another interviewer, and after that song, she never wrote a love track that wasnât about me.
People have written essays about her lyrics for decades, tracing themes, theories, muses.Â
Maybe this book will be their final confirmation.
What I do know is that Hysteria wasnât written for the world. It was written for me.
Excerpt from âTHE GIRL WHO WONâT TALKâ
By Megan Carlisle for Rolling Stone, February 1987
Itâs been six months since the release of Burning Red, and Paige Bueckers has officially entered that rare stratosphere reserved for artists whose names donât need last names anymore.
Her single âHysteriaâ has gone platinum four times over, her tour sold out before it even began, and her band Sherry Bomb has become a household name from Minneapolis to Madrid.
But for all her omnipresence, Bueckers herself has vanished from public view.
Requests for interviews have been met with polite refusals, or complete silence. A representative from her label confirmed that sheâs âfocusing on writing.âÂ
When pressed, the rep quoted Paige herself:
âIf you want to know what I have to say, listen to my music, or wait until I have something to tell Azzi.â
Itâs not unusual for artists to have preferred outlets, but this is⊠unprecedented.
Azzi Fudd, a young correspondent for CBS Features, has been the sole journalist granted access since the albumâs release.Â
Every word the world has heard from Paige Bueckers since 1986 has passed through Fuddâs pen.
Rumors, naturally, have followed.
Some insiders suggest the two share âa friendship thatâs become creatively symbiotic.â Others whisper itâs simply business, Bueckers trusting the one writer who doesnât ask the wrong questions.Â
A few, with gossip in their eyes, wonder aloud if thereâs something more there.
Whatever the reason, the effect is the same: Paige Bueckers has rewritten the rules of fame, choosing silence and one singular voice to speak for her.
And the rest of us are still listening.
Sherry Bomb: A memoir
CW: Addiction
Words: 10K
Letter from Paige Bueckers to Azzi Fudd
(undated, circa 2001)
Rookie,
Iâve rewritten this letter about six times already and I still donât like the opening line.
I was going to start with something poetic like âItâs raining here,â but itâs not. Itâs dry as hell.
Then I thought about starting with âI miss you,â but thatâs not a sentence that deserves to sit alone at the top of a page, itâs too fucking heavy.
So I guess Iâll just start like this:
Hi.
Iâm sorry. (You can underline that one if you want. I mean it.)
I donât really know how to write apologies without sounding like a Hallmark card written by someone whoâs never done anything wrong. The problem is, I did a lot of things wrong. (Some to me, most of it to you).
Iâve been thinking a lot about addiction â which is the kind of sentence only people in recovery ever say â and Iâm both embarrassed and a little angry about it.Â
Itâs strange, you know? Realizing that I built my whole personality around not needing anyone and then turned myself into someone who couldnât be alone for five minutes without lighting something, snorting something, or drinking something.
You used to tell me I drank to disappear, and I think you were right. (Donât get used to hearing that from me.)
You were always right about the hard things.
The truth is, I hurt you because you were the closest thing I had.Â
When you told me you couldnât be my other vice, I wanted to scream, because I thought you were abandoning me.Â
Now I realize you were trying to save me â and maybe yourself.Â
You were the only person who ever told me no without disappearing afterward.Â
I was mean to you sometimes, especially when you didnât deserve it. I said things that I thought sounded clever but were really just sharp. And I mistook cruelty for control.
Azzi, you kept giving me kindness and I kept treating it like it was charity.
I hate that.
I donât remember everything about the overdose, but I do remember waking up and seeing your hand on the hospital bed, holding mine.Â
That felt like a cosmic joke. That the person Iâd pushed away the hardest was the one who still came back.
I think you already know this, but addiction is not romantic. Itâs just boring destruction.
The weirdest part is, I thought all of that made me interesting. Rookie, now I see it just made me small.
Iâve been learning things here, slow and stupid, like a child learning how to walk.Â
Youâd laugh if you saw me now. I meditate. I journal. Fuck, I even made a smoothie last weekÂ
My therapist says I should forgive myself, and I said, âIâll do that when Azzi does.â (So no pressure or anything)
I know you canât be my girlfriend. I get it now.Â
I respect it, and if friendship is all I get, Iâll take it. Happily.Â
You donât have to write back right away. Just know that every sober day I have now has your fingerprints on it.
You were the first person who believed I could live differently, and Iâm starting to.
Sometimes, when the nights get quiet and I canât sleep, I hum your name under my breath. It helps.Â
Tell my cats I said hi. Tell my plants Iâm jealous. Tell yourself you did the right thing.
Yours, however youâll have me, Â
P.
P.S. I know I made your life harder. I know I scared you. I know I made you think youâd have to write my obituary for real one day. I promise Iâm trying to make sure you never have to do that again.
P.P.S. If friendship is the only thing I get, I swear Iâll be the best goddamn friend you ever had.
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Rehab
Written by: Azzi Fudd (circa 2025)
The hardest part about rehab is that itâs boring.
Rehab is beige walls and coffee that tastes like pennies, and the same meal three times a day because your body still doesnât trust food.Â
Paige spent thirteen months in rehab, at least, thatâs the neat number the clinic gave me when I asked for a statement for her file. In truth, it was closer to fifteen if you count the in-between time â the weekend she came home and didnât call, the relapse.
She relapsed once. And I want to write that, because people like to pretend recovery is a straight line. Itâs not.Â
I went back to work, because what else do you do?
The world didnât stop for her, or for me. I wrote about newer artists â the pop prodigies who smiled for every camera, the rising stars who didnât know what heroin smelled like.
The airwaves shifted, replaced by studio polish.
Rock, as we knew it, was dying. Or maybe it had just evolved into nostalgia â the way people talked about Paige in past tense, like she was a myth instead of a person still breathing.Â
Every magazine wanted retrospectives: Where Were You When Burning Red Came Out?Â
I hated them all.Â
She wasnât even gone, and theyâd already started writing her obituary (To be fair, so had I).
Sometimes, in bars, her voice would come on, and I would excuse myself to the bathroom and sit in a stall until it ended. I told myself it was because I didnât want to cry in public. The truth? I didnât know if she would ever sound that alive again.
Months passed, and then, one afternoon, I saw her reflection in the glass door of the CBS building.
I almost didnât recognize her.Â
The hair was shorter, uneven; her cheeks were sharper; She stood there, hands in her jacket pockets, the way she used to before stepping onstage.
She smiled when she saw me.Â
 âHey,â she said.
It had been nearly two years.
I said, âYou look different.â âIâm trying something new,â she said. âItâs called not dying.â
We both laughed.
We went to a coffee shop near Dupont Circle.Â
She ordered tea, she winced at the taste and told me she missed cigarettes more than music. She said rehab taught her two things: that boringness was worse than pain, and that she could survive almost anything except herself.
She didnât say much else about it.Â
Outside, the early 2000s were already humming with a different rhythm.Â
Boy bands, pop princesses, music videos about nothing. The country had moved on from the idea of rock being revolutionary, and Paigeâs generation was being packed into box sets.
Every producer I talked to said the same thing: Nobody wants guitars anymore.
But Paige wasnât thinking about guitars. For the first time, she didnât talk about her next album, or about writing, or about fame.Â
She talked about her cat, and her plants. And she talked about wanting to tell the truth, when I asked her what truth, she smiled and said:
 âThe kind that doesnât sell.â
A few months later, she called me at 3 a.m.
âLetâs talk,â she said. âBut this time, Iâll try to tell the truth.â
That was the beginning of everything again.
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CBS Features â September 3, 2001
âThe Comeback: Paige Bueckers on The Art of Starting Overâ Interview conducted by Azzi Fudd, Washington D.C.
The hotel suite is nothing like the ones she used to stay in.
No champagne, no chaos. Just an open window, a mug of coffee gone cold, and Paige Bueckers sitting cross-legged on the floor, her guitar leaning against the wall like an old friend.
Sheâs smaller now, though not physically. It's her volume thatâs changed, like her armor has worn down to something human.
Her hair is back to its natural shade, shorter at the ends â a haircut that looks like a promise to stay.
AZ: Itâs been⊠what? Two years since youâve done a formal interview? PB: Two and a half, technically. But whoâs counting? AZ: Everyone.
She smiles faintly, her hands still move like a performerâs, even when sheâs sitting still thereâs rhythm in the way she fidgets.
PB: I wasnât ready to talk. You shouldnât talk when youâre down AZ: And now? PB: Iâm up, Rookie.
(Thereâs a pause long enough to breathe in)
AZ: How are you, Paige? PB: Iâm alive. Thatâs the headline, right?
She says it with a crooked grin.
AZ: Thatâs a good place to start. PB: Itâs not bad. I wake up early now. I eat breakfast. I donât throw things when I canât find my lighter â mostly because I donât have one anymore. AZ: Do you miss it? PB: The lighter? AZ: The smoking PB: (smiling) Sometimes. I miss not caring. But I donât miss how small I got. AZ: You used to say that silence was worse than pain. Do you still believe that? PB: (thinks) Silence isnât death. Itâs just⊠quiet. Death itâs Death
For a long time, Paigeâs mythology thrived on noise.
The rebel girl from Minnesota who made punk feel holy, who drank like she was allergic to tomorrow. Now, she looks like sheâs trying to build a smaller mythology, one where she doesnât have to burn herself to prove sheâs alive.
AZ: What did you learn, in all that time away? PB: That Iâm not special. AZ: Thatâs a surprising answer. PB: Itâs the truest one I have. Every musician thinks theyâre immortal. Well, turns out Iâm just another idiot who almost died on drugs. AZ: Are you lonely now? PB: Less. (pauses) You know, itâs funny. When youâre famous, people want to touch you all the time. They think thatâs love. But itâs not. AZ: You were always writing about connection, about wanting it and running from it at the same time. PB: (smiles) Yeah. I used to think wanting someone meant they had power over you. I disagree with that now. AZ: Thatâs new. PB: So am I.
Her voice is rougher now â smoke-stained, maybe permanently.Â
But when she laughs, it still fills the room.
AZ: People are going to want to know if the new record is about all this. PB: Itâs about breathing. Thatâs as specific as Iâll get. AZ: Come on. Give me something. PB: (grinning) Less âletâs die beautifully,â more âletâs just live.â AZ: Thatâs a good quote. PB: You always say that when I sound like Iâve been in therapy. AZ: Have you been? PB: Yeah. Turns out, unpacking childhood trauma works better than coke. Who knew?
(A laugh breaks the tension)
AZ: What do you think about pop taking over? PB: I think itâs fine. Popâs fun. AZ: Some people would say you helped make that possible. PB: Then I hope theyâre sending royalties. AZ: So you donât care that people call rock dead? PB: Rockâs not dead. It just grew up, went to rehab, and started journaling. AZ: Thatâs an answer only you would give. PB: Thatâs why you keep interviewing me.
She stands up, stretches, and walks to the window.Â
AZ: Do you ever think about everything thatâs been written about you? PB: Only when I canât sleep. Then I read it out loud in funny accents. AZ: You donât ever want to correct the record? PB: Nah. The truthâs boring. AZ: And yet you said you wanted to tell it. PB: Yeah, but not for them. For me.
She sits back down. The afternoon light cuts across her face, and for the first time in hours, she looks young.Â
AZ: What scares you now? PB: The quiet. But Iâm learning to listen to it. AZ: Do you think youâll ever stop making music? PB: Probably. Not because I want to â just because someday Iâll run out of things to say AZ: Youâve always said you hate being analyzed. PB: I do. AZ: Then why keep letting me do it? PB: Youâre cute.
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Vice Versa (2002â2003)
Editorâs Preface â Azzi Fudd (2025)
You could tell Vice Versa was coming before anyone heard it.Â
Paige always telegraphed her resurrections. A snide quote here, a grainy photo there, a rumor that sheâd been seen humming to herself in a diner.Â
When the magazine piece dropped, it wasnât an announcement.
It was a warning shot.
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Rolling Stone (Op-Ed by Paige Bueckers, March 2002)
âPop Isnât the Problem â You Areâ
Look, I love guitars as much as the next washed-up rock romantic, but some of you sound like ghosts yelling at the living.
Every decade, we pick a new villain. Once it was disco, then it was synths, now itâs pop.Â
The truth is, pop didnât kill rock â Rock overdose on its arrogance.
People say Iâve gone soft because I like melody now. But maybe thatâs just growing up.Â
Maybe rebellion looks different when youâve survived yourself.
Hereâs a confession: I like Britney Spears. I think sheâs cool as hell.Â
Rock used to mean freedom. And somewhere along the way, we decided it meant misery.
So yeah, Iâm making a pop record.Â
Call it betrayal, call it evolution, call it whatever helps you sleep.
Just remember: Every time you accuse someone of selling out, what youâre really saying is that youâre afraid of changing.
Iâve already changed. You can catch up or stay angry
â Paige Bueckers
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Letter â Paige to Azzi (sent on Sherry Bomb stationery)
Rookie,
The label says I should âcontrol the narrative.âÂ
I told them Iâd rather just write a song.
Everyoneâs calling me a sellout. Youâd think I joined the CIA instead of the Billboard charts.
You know whatâs funny? I like writing about love.
The new recordâs called Vice Versa. Because I think It's a clever little name
Donât worry, itâs not about you. (Okay, maybe a little.)
â P
P.S. Canât wait for the tabloids trying to guess who âyouâ is on my songs.Â
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Excerpt â Vanity Fair Profile, August 2002
âThe Return of Paige Bueckers: Quieter, Cleaner, Still Dangerousâ
In person, Bueckers looks younger than 42. Her eyes are clearer now, but the same stubborn spark lives behind them.Â
She jokes about her âretirement from chaos,â but the music sheâs making suggests anything but retreat.
She plays me an unfinished track from Vice Versa â all honeyed synth and clear vocals. âItâs a song about waking up,â she says. âThe literal kind. Mornings fucking suck.â
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Phone Transcript (August 2002)
(recorded with consent for reference notes)
PB: The thing about getting sober is, I lost my fucking rhythm. AZ: You mean creatively? PB: Everywhere. AZ: You sound happy. PB: Donât start rumors, Fudd.
(A laugh)
PB: I keep thinking about that letter I wrote you. AZ: The one where you apologized? PB: The one where I said Iâd be your best friend. AZ: Yeah? PB: I meant it.Â
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Vice Versa (2003)
Released February 17, 2003 â Platinum within three months.
Tracklist (select):
Static
Pop Song for Old Men
No Reason (single)
Dirty Mouth
Vice Versa
Bad Reputation
Halo Drive
Lungs
Midnight ApartmentÂ
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NME Review (2003)
Vice Versa is Paige Bueckersâ softest record and somehow her most dangerous.
âPop Song for Old Menâ skewers the purists; âVice Versaâ seduces them back.
Thereâs joy here â not naive, but earned.
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âVice Versaâ â Written by Paige Bueckers (2003)
My sins are smaller, same obsession Write it down, thatâs my profession.
Vice versa, itâs give and take, Loveâs a gamble, artâs the stake,
You can keep your heaven â I like my scars, Rock never dies â on my guitar.
Vice versa, honey, thatâs my curse, Every punk just writes their worst.
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The World Tour (2004â2005)
Editorâs Preface â Azzi Fudd (2025)
The world tour was supposed to be her victory lap.
People thought Vice Versa was about redemption, about Paige learning to play nice.
In all truth? The World Tour was about control, about seeing how close she could get to the edge without falling off.
And the tour was her way of proving she could live on that edge without drinking.
Iâd love to say it was easy. It wasnât.
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Letter â Paige to Azzi (January 2004)
Rookie,
I said yes to the world tour. Donât laugh. I know what youâre thinkingÂ
But I need to know if I can still be meÂ
You once told me that my addiction wasnât just the bottle. You were right. (God, I hate writing that sentence.)
So Iâm going to test it.
No booze. No drugs. Just me.
Wish me luck
â P
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Excerpt â Rolling Stone, April 2004
âPaige Bueckers: Still Loud, Still Aliveâ
At 44, Bueckers has nothing left to prove â but that hasnât stopped her from trying.Â
The Vice Versa world tour is her first in nearly a decade, and it already feels like a miracle.
 Her setlist swings between confessions and anthems, her voice sharper, her jokes cleaner, her eyes clearer.
âRockâs not about dying young anymore,â she tells the crowd in Chicago. âItâs about not dying, period.â
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Phone Transcript â May 2004 (Stockholm stop)
AZ: You sound exhausted. PB: Iâm not immortal. AZ: Are you sleeping? PB: Define sleeping. AZ: Paigeâ PB: Iâm fine. Really. Iâm justâtrying to remember how toÂ
(silence)
PB: Do you miss me? AZ: Every day. PB: Good. Then Iâm not doing this for nothing.
Editorâs Note
Written by: Azzi Fudd (circa 2025)
People talk about recovery like itâs a straight road. It isnât.
But she stayed sober.
Every show. Every night.
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Tour Memo â London, August 2004
BUECKERS ARRIVAL â 19:30 LOAD-IN â 20:00 PRESS CALL â CANCELLED (âno interviews tonightâ)
SECURITY BRIEF â âCrowds expected to double. Maintain distance.â
(handwritten at bottom: âShe hates the cameras again.â)
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Tabloid Clipping â September 2004
âBUECKERS SNAPS AT PHOTOGRAPHERS OUTSIDE THE SAVOY â âGET A JOBââ
Witness reports companion Azzi Fudd intervened, leading the musician to retreat into her vehicle.
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Letter â Azzi to Paige (undelivered draft, 2004)
Paige,
You canât keep picking fights with ghosts. Theyâre not after you. Theyâre after a picture that proves weâre together.
I know you hate being looked at. But if you keep shouting back, youâre just giving them new headlines.
I love you. (Youâll roll your eyes at that. I can feel it already.) I love you anyway.
â A
Editorâs Note
Written by: Azzi Fudd (circa 2025)
I never sent that letter. I just folded it and stuck it in my notebook. She didnât need more advice, she needed peace.
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Excerpt â NME Review, January 2005
âThe Vice Versa Tour: A Quiet Riotâ
Halfway through her London encore, Paige stops singing and just listens.Â
The crowd sings the chorus of âNo Reasonâ back to her â word for word.
She laughs, puts her hand to her chest, and mouths, Thank you.
Itâs not rockstar arrogance anymore. Itâs grace.
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Letter â Paige to Azzi (July 2005)
Rookie,
Iâve been gardening. (Yes, you can laugh again.) Thereâs something addictive about watching things grow slowlyÂ
I donât know what we are.
But when I write, I still start every song with your name in the margins.
â P
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Post-Tour Dressing Room, Minneapolis, February 2006
Written by: Azzi Fudd (circa 2025)
The room smelled like sweat and Paige sat in front of the mirror, wiping the last of her stage makeup off with a trembling hand.
I didnât knock. I never did.
She looked up for a moment, neither of us said anything.Â
PB: You came. AZ: You didnât ask. PB: You always come.
Her voice cracked halfway through the sentence, and I stepped closer.Â
The sight of her hit harder than I expected. Her hands were shaking a little, then steady against my shoulders.
The hug started carefully, then she exhaled, and suddenly it was not a hug anymore.
It was a homecoming. It was frantic. It was kissing.
Her breath smelled like mint and she pulled back just enough to look at me.
PB: I didnât drink. AZ: I know, your mouth tastes like mint. PB: I think I can trust myself again. AZ: I think I can trust you again.
We kissed again â soft, slow, and inevitable.
When she whispers, âIâll earn it every day,â
I believe her.
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Excerpt â Vanity Fair Retrospective, 2015
âLooking back, the Vice Versa tour feels like the moment Bueckers transcended myth. It wasnât her loudest or wildest chapter â but it was the one where she learned how to live without imploding.
Those who were there say you could feel it in her voice: a raw, healed hush, as if she was singing for someone just beyond the spotlight.â
Editorâs Note
Written by: Azzi Fudd (circa 2025)
That someone was me.
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Privacy (2006 - 2010)
Written by: Azzi Fudd (circa 2025)
I think thereâs a moment in every love story when it stops trying to prove it exists.
When it no longer needs to be loud or legendary, or even understood. When it becomes something small and steady, like a heartbeat.Â
That was us, in those years.
After the tour, Paige and I disappeared â not in the romantic way people like to imagine, but in the quiet, domestic sense.Â
We stopped showing up to things.Â
She still made music; I still wrote. But we both learned how to do it without letting the world consume every piece of us.Â
She kept her house in Minnesota, near the water, and I stayed in D.C., in a walk-up apartment where the heat never worked right.Â
We saw each other on weekends, sometimes longer, and we called it balance.Â
It wasnât secrecy that kept us apart â it was protection.Â
We didnât want to give anyone the chance to pick at something that finally felt whole.Â
Paige once said, âWhat we have doesnât belong to anyone else,â and she wasnât performing. She said it while washing dishes, half-distracted, sleeves rolled up, sunlight cutting across her collarbone.
She didnât even look at me when she said it. She just meant it.
People speculated, of course.Â
They always do.Â
The tabloids called her âmysteriously domestic,â which we both found hysterical.
Apparently, being sober and unavailable made her an enigma.Â
Sheâd tell me about new riffs she was working on, about her band learning to rehearse in daylight, about how sheâd accidentally adopted another stray cat.
When her label begged her to do a feature about âthe comeback of the decade,â she said, âIf they want a quote, tell them to use an old one.âÂ
Eventually, they stopped asking.Â
The one exception was that interview. CBS called it âa rare check-in.âÂ
We sat across from each other, microphones between us. When the interviewer asked about us, she smiled, the kind of half-smile that meant sheâd already decided what truth to give âItâs a friendship built on stubbornness," she said. âWe just refused to die separately.âÂ
I remember nodding, that was the official story.
Those were some of the best years of my life. There was laundry, and mornings that smelled like burnt toast, and Paige trying to learn how to make coffee. There were arguments about stupid things â toothpaste caps, schedules, my tendency to leave drafts scattered everywhere.Â
Sometimes, on quiet afternoons, sheâd sit on the floor with her guitar and play half-songs she never recorded. Iâd be editing something on the couch, and sheâd call out, âRookie, does this sound too sad?â And Iâd answer, âOnly if you stop there.âÂ
When I look back now, I realize how rare it was.
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E-mails
Written by: Azzi Fudd (circa 2025)
By the 2010s, our lives had gotten quiet in a way neither of us ever expected.Â
The world had changed â so much noise, so many people shouting their own names into the void. Paige watched the âInternetâ with a kind of horrified fascination.Â
She didnât hate it, not really; she just couldnât understand it.
Sheâd say things like, âWhy does everyone wants to be seen?â And then sheâd look at me across the kitchen table, half-smiling, and say, âWe got out just in time.â
There were days sheâd text me links, and I could feel her oscillating between amusement and unease. âItâs like watching someone elseâs ghost,â she said once, referring to a grainy concert clip from 1988 with over two million views.
The internet had made her immortal without her consent, and that frightened her more than death ever had.
She didnât post, and refused to. âIf they want a quote, they can find it,â she said.Â
Paige didnât like the speed of it all, she wanted meaning to last longer than a scroll. âSongs used to be played for years,â she told me once. âNow it just trends for a weekend.â
Still, she wasnât bitter, just curious.Â
Sheâd watch interviews with younger couples posting on Social Media and say, âTheyâre braveâ then sheâd look at me and smile âWeâre pirates, Rookie. We hid our gold.â
Email replaced our letters. I still have the folders â labeled by year, sometimes by mood.
 Even when we lived in the same city, she liked to write. She said typing made her honest.
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Email â Paige Bueckers to Azzi (March 2012)
Subject: existential nonsense
Rookie,
I thought Iâd die before thirty. That was the plan, the prophecy, whatever you want to call it.Â
And now the only thing dying is my Wi-Fi connection (?)
Everyone keeps asking whatâs next.Â
âA memoir? A comeback? A brand?â (Kill me) I think they want me to invent a new version of myself they can sell nostalgia for.
But what if this is it? What if I already said everything worth saying at twenty-two, and high on stage?
Maybe thatâs the point: To outlive the myth and see whatâs left.
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Email â Azzi Fudd to Paige (Reply)
Subject: Re: existential nonsense
Youâre not dying, grandma.
You donât need to invent yourself again. Just be someone who gets to wake up.
Also, please fix your Wi-Fi.
â Azzi
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Modern (2010 - 2015)
Written by: Azzi Fudd (circa 2025)
By then, our relationship had settled into a rhythm.
Paige had traded cigarettes for herbal tea (she still hated it) and guitars for house projects she never finished.
I was still writing, though less often about other people.Â
We never married.Â
Not because of principle, not even because of fear â it just didnât feel necessary.Â
Paige liked to say, âMarriage is a legal synonym for ownership, and Iâve never been great with leases.â
Still, the topic came up. Usually late at night, after a bottle of wine (mine, not hers) and a few too many jokes about mortality.
âYou know,â she said once, sprawled on the couch, a cat purring on her chest, âIâd marry you if I believed in that stuff.â I didnât look up from my laptop. âAnd Iâd say yes.â She laughed and said, âPerfect. Weâre engaged in spirit.â
We started spending more time in Minnesota. It was supposed to be temporary â a summer, maybe two â but I never left since.Â
The lake near our house froze solid in winter, and sometimes weâd skate across it at night, wrapped in too many scarves.
We were getting older, and we could feel it.Â
Paigeâs hair had gone shorter, her skin softer, the sharpness of youth replaced by a kind of weathered light. She called herself âvintageâ one night and I told her she was âlimited edition.â She liked that better.
We talked a lot about meaning. What it means to grow up, to stay alive, to make art when the world moves on without you.Â
Paige struggled with irrelevance more than she admitted. She said she didnât care about critics, but when her newer records didnât sell the way the old ones had, sheâd pretend not to notice.Â
I noticed.
But she also changed.Â
She found joy in small things: morning radio, crossword puzzles, feeding stray cats, painting her porch the wrong shade of blue.Â
We never had children. We didnât need to.
Instead, we collected animals, neighbors, and half-finished projects.Â
There was jealousy sometimes, still.Â
Paige would see my name on bylines with other artists and call me a âtraitor.â Iâd tell her to shut up and play something new.
When I think of the 2010s now, I think of Paige in the kitchen, humming something unfinished, sunlight catching the grays in her hair, the sound of her saying, âWe made itâ
And we did.
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Diagnosis (2010 - 2015)
Written by: Azzi Fudd (circa 2025)
It started with the kind of cough you laugh about.Â
Paige always coughed a lot â from laughter, from smoke, from running late and sprinting. But this one lingered.Â
Weeks went by, and the sound became sharper, drier, something I didnât like.Â
She kept brushing me off. âRookie, Iâve had worse hangovers than this.â
I told her she should get it checked out.Â
She told me I was being dramatic.
Then she went.
It was in its early stages. Thank God, it was early.Â
The doctor said the word malignant but followed it with contained, small, treatable.
Paige looked at him and said, âSo, not the full ending yet?âÂ
The poor man didnât know if she was joking. I did, she was half-joking.
Later, in the parking lot. She didnât cry, didnât even look scared.Â
She said, âHonestly, Rookie, with how much Iâve smoked, I shouldâve been a statistic years agoâÂ
Chemo began that spring.Â
She was lucky, responsive to treatment. Her hair was already short by choice, so she didnât lose much of it.Â
Sheâd run her fingers through the strands like she was testing the odds.
We tried to keep it light.Â
We watched old movies and made a running list of all the things she wanted to do when she got out: eat greasy food, dye her hair pink again, go to a concert she wasnât performing at.Â
She hated being treated like a patient, but the nurses adored her anyway â she told them jokes, signed their old vinyls.
The thing about Paige is that she doesnât do fragility well. Even when sheâs pale, sweating, and gripping my hand so hard it goes numb, she still finds something to make me laugh. âIf I die,â she whispered one night, âWrite something funny. Say I finally quit smoking.â
I said, âYouâre not dying.â She said, âFuck, then you better find a punchline.â
It wasnât all easy.Â
There were nights sheâd get quiet, stare at the wall, and mutter things like, âMaybe God is telling me to stop trying to outlive myself.â She didnât like that her body could betray her.Â
But then there were mornings when sheâd wake up and say, âYou know whatâs crazy? I feel betterâ As if her body healing had somehow made her softer too.Â
She started eating better, walking slower, saying no to things that once seemed urgent.Â
She wasnât chasing anything anymore.
The tabloids didnât know.Â
The world didnât know.Â
For the first time in her life, Paige Bueckers had something that belonged entirely to her. Ironically it was fucking cancer
By summer, the scans were clear.Â
The doctor said remission like it was a reward, but Paige called it âa technicality.âÂ
âIâm not dying,â she said, âbut I guess Iâm not immortal either. Kinda disappointing.â
We celebrated with bad pizza on the porch.
She took one bite, made a face, and said, âMaybe Iâm too healthy for this now.â
That night, she leaned her head on my shoulder and sighed
 âI get to keep annoying you.â I told her, âIâll take it.â
Looking back, I think that was the first time I saw her truly at peace.Â
She was right. With how much sheâd smoked through the years, she was lucky â outrageously, undeservedly lucky.Â
She said that herself, often, like a punchline she couldnât resist.
âGuess even the universe doesnât want to deal with me yet.â
I laughed every time.Â
Because thatâs the thing about Paige: she can find humor in the places where other people find endings.Â
When she got the all-clear, Paige swore she wasnât going to âturn it into a headline.â
âDonât you dare,â she told me âIf I see âRock Legend Battles Cancerâ anywhere with my face on it, Iâll move to the woods.â âYou already live in the woods,â I said. âThen Iâll move deeper,â she shot back.
But she was the one who called me a month later and said, âAlright, Rookie. Letâs talk.â
We did it at her kitchen table.
 No lights, no stage, no PR handler hovering with a clipboard. The conversation started casual, then she said,
 âYouâre gonna write this anyway, right?â I didnât answer. She smiled. âYeah. You always do.â
She didnât want the word fighter anywhere near it
 âThatâs not who I am,â she said. âI didnât fight anything. I showed up, took the medicine, did what the doctors said, and got lucky.â
I wrote that line down exactly as she said it â and, of course, it became the pull-quote.
When the article came out, the headline was:
PAIGE BUECKERS SURVIVED CANCER â DONâT CALL HER A HERO
It ran in Vanity Fair and got picked up everywhere.Â
They called her brave for refusing to be brave. Paige thought that was hysterical.
She didnât even read the full piece at first.Â
One night, I found her sitting in the living room, reading a printout.
When she saw me, she said, âYou didnât make me sound too nice. Thank you.â
That was her version of approval.
The response was overwhelming.Â
Letters, flowers, essays.Â
A whole wave of fans who said theyâd gone to the doctor because of her story.Â
She said, âWell, shit, now I canât die. Iâve got a reputation to uphold.â
She started writing again, too â not for an album, not for anyone else.Â
Just little phrases, half-poems.
 Iâd find them tucked under coffee mugs, scrawled on grocery lists. Things like:
âThe quiet used to scare me. Now it sounds like home.â
It was the most sober sheâd ever been â in every sense of the word.
When people asked if she was making a comeback, sheâd laugh. âI donât think I ever came back from anything. I just didnât leave.â
Then, when they walked away, she leaned toward me and whispered, âRookie, thatâs gonna be my epitaph. âShe was stubborn as FUCK.ââ
She laughed so hard she coughed.
And this time, I didnât flinch.
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Cat Moms (2019â2020)
Written by: Azzi Fudd (circa 2025)
The lake house was never supposed to be permanent.Â
Paige bought it in the late 2000s as a kind of joke âa place to hide when the tabloids get rabid,â sheâd said.Â
But after the cancer, after everything, the joke became a life.
Itâs small and uneven, built like itâs leaning toward the water, with paint that always looks like it needs a second coat.Â
By the summer of 2019, we had an army of stray cats. I think the first one just showed up at the door, and Paige said, âWe canât just not feed it,â and that was that.Â
The next week there were three.Â
A month later, five.Â
They came and went like ghosts, and Paige pretended she could tell them apart.
Paige couldnât play guitar for long stretches anymore. Her fingers were cramped.Â
So she picked up painting, at first it was a disaster, then she started getting good, in the way only Paige could: obsessive, curious, and artistic.
She painted the lake.Â
The cats.Â
Once, while I was asleep. I woke up to find myself on canvas, and her standing there with the brush like sheâd caught herself doing something intimate.
When she showed it to me later, she said, âI didnât get the color right.â âWhat color?â I asked. She pointed at my eyes. âThat one.â
Weâd text each other from different rooms, even when we couldâve just shouted across the hall:
Paige: do you think cats can tell weâre gay Me: they absolutely can Paige: thatâs why they keep bringing us dead birds. Me: maybe theyâre just bad at affection Paige: same
Another day:
Me: the basilâs dying again Paige: maybe it just wants to reincarnate into something less needy Me: like you? Paige: rudeÂ
And my favorite:
Paige: do you think we got pets because we didnât have kids Me: probably Paige: weâd make terrible parents Me: yeah. Paige: yeah but theyâd have great taste in music
Sometimes Iâd catch her sitting by the window with a cat in her lap, humming nothing in particular. Iâd ask what she was thinking.Â
Sheâd say, âAbout you.â
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Rolling Stone â March 2021
âThe Low-Key Couple: Paige Bueckers and Azzi Fuddâ By: C. Denton
Itâs a gray morning in Minnesota, and Paige Bueckers is making tea.Â
Azzi Fudd, sits across the kitchen table, half-buried under a cat and a stack of books.
They donât correct me when I call them a couple. They donât confirm it either.Â
Bueckers, now sixty-one, is still effortlessly magnetic â blue eyes sharp, smile wry, a little more lined but no less mischievous. Fudd, 58, has the calm gravity of someone whoâs seen fame up close and chosen to walk the other way.Â
Together, they radiate something like peace.
When I ask about their life these days, Paige laughs.
âWe garden. We argue about music. We feed strays. Weâre wild,â she says, voice thick with irony. âIâm boring now. I buy ergonomic furniture.â Azzi adds, âShe says that like she doesnât still rearrange the living room at midnightâÂ
Paige grins, unbothered.
Theyâre not on social media â Paige deleted her last account in 2015 (âI prefer mystery,â she says), and Azzi claims she never liked the noise of it.Â
âThereâs nothing wrong with people sharing their lives,â she says. âItâs just⊠not for us. Weâve spent so many years being seen, itâs nice to just look at each other.â
I ask if they still work together.Â
Azzi shakes her head âNot formally. I wrote about her life for decades. Now, I write about other people.â Paige interrupts, âSheâs lying. She still edits my liner notes when I forget how commas work.â
They both laugh.Â
Outside, snow falls softly across the lake.Â
They talk about music, age, and legacy.Â
Paige says sheâs not sure she believes in legacy anymore. âPeople remember the wrong things. Iâd rather be forgotten by the world than misunderstood by it.â When I bring up the word private, she smirks. âItâs not privacy,â she says. âItâs rebellion. You canât sell what you canât see.â
Before I leave, Paige points at the article title on my notes â The Low-Key Couple.Â
She throws her head back and laughs. âLow-key? Me? Godâ
Sheâs still laughing when I walk out the door.
Editorâs Note
Written by: Azzi Fudd (circa 2025)
Paige laughed for three days after that piece ran. âLow-key couple,â she kept saying, like it was the punchline of the century
âThey make it sound like we whisper at each other.â
But I think she secretly liked it.Â
For someone whoâd spent her whole life under bright lights, being described as quiet mustâve felt like a strange, hard-earned compliment.
Public interest in us surged for a week or two â the usual think pieces, the recycled photos, people online trying to calculate how long weâd been âsecretly together.âÂ
Paige read some of them aloud in ridiculous accents until we were both crying with laughter.
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The Book Proposal (2022)
Written by: Azzi Fudd (circa 2025)
It started the way most of our biggest moments do. By accident.
We were sitting on the porch, the lake catching the last orange of summer.Â
Paige had a cat asleep in her lap and a cigarette she wasnât supposed to be smoking tucked behind her ear.
The day had been long and easy â gardening, reading, a nap that turned into a full afternoon â and I think the quiet made her restless.Â
She hates when things stay still for too long; she starts looking for ways to shake them.
She leaned back in her chair and said, offhand but deliberate, âYou know, Rookie, maybe you should just write the damn book.â I laughed. âWhat book?â She didnât blink. âThe one people think already exists.â When I didnât answer, she looked over the rim of her glass. âThen people will stop asking if Iâm still alive.â âThink about it,â she said, quieter now. âWe donât have kids. We donât have heirs. Maybe thatâs our legacy.â
The word legacy hung in the air like a ghost.
 I knew sheâd been thinking about it for months â since the diagnosis, since the recovery, since we both realized that time had started moving faster again.
She wasnât nostalgic. She never is.Â
She just wanted control over the ending.
âYou really want me to write it?â I asked. She smirked. âI want you to tell it right. Youâve been narrating my life since I was twenty, you might as well finish the job.â
That was the moment this whole thing began.
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Email from Azzi Fudd to Paige Bueckers
Subject: Book Proposal (Or: the thing you started)
Paige,
Youâre getting your wish.
I started writing last night. Just a few pages, but itâs happening.Â
You should know, though, that it wonât be a biography. I canât do that.Â
Itâll be something else â a mosaic, maybe.Â
If this is going to be our legacy, I want it to sound like us â a little reckless, a little romantic, mostly honest.
Also, Iâm not calling it The Book.Â
Thatâs terrible branding.
My current shortlist includes:
The Pirateâs Heart
After the Noise
Untitled (Love Song)
Donât roll your eyes. I can hear it from here.
P.S. If you die before I finish, Iâm dedicating it to the cats.
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Email from Paige Bueckers to Azzi Fudd (Reply) Â
Subject: Re: Book Proposal (Or: the thing you started)
Rookie, no one send e-mails anymore
Also, Iâm literally in the garden, but Iâm glad you didnât say this in person.Â
I didnât want to look ate your pretty brown eyes when I said those titles fucking sucked
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CBS Features â August 12, 2024
âThe Last Interview: Paige Bueckersâ
Interview conducted by Azzi Fudd at Lake Minnetonka, Minnesota
The porch creaks when I open the screen door, the same sound itâs made for thirty years.Â
Paige Bueckers is already there, coffee mug in hand, hair freshly dyed the shade of blonde that used to set photographers trembling.Â
A few silver strands betray her age,Â
The morning light catches her face â same sharp jaw, same impossible blue eyes, but softer now, framed by fine wrinkles that gather when she grins.
AZ: Iâm starting this now before you get us cancelled. PB: Cancelled? Rookie, Iâve been retired from sinning since 2003.
She gestures toward the recorder. âThis thing on? Better get it right â itâs the last time anyoneâs hearing from me.â
I laugh.Â
She smirks, the corner of her mouth curvingÂ
AZ: So â this is it. The last one. PB: (mock gasp) Donât sound so relieved. AZ: Iâm just making it official for the record. Paige Bueckersâ final interview. PB: âFinal interview.â Sounds like Iâm about to get executed. AZ: You said this yourself, not me. PB: Yeah, yeah. But Iâve said a lot of things. I said I was quitting touring in 2006. Guess what happened in 2007? AZ: The world tour. PB: Exactly. Iâm a liar by nature. Keeps me interesting.
She leans back in the porch chair, sunlight sliding over her.
AZ: You still look like a rockstar. PB: You still look twenty-five. Which is rude. AZ: Dye helps. PB: Lies. Youâre still disgustingly beautiful.
Her tone is playful, affection disguised as teasing, the way it always has been.
AZ: Tell me about the book. PB: Our book. AZ: Your idea. PB: Youâre the journalist, darling. AZ: You said, quote, âWrite the damn thing before people forget me.â PB: Doing you a favor, of course.
We laugh for a moment, the air fills with birdsong and the smell of coffee.Â
Paige reaches for the recorder and adjusts it slightly, like she can still control the soundboard of her own story.
PB: You know whatâs weird? Seeing it all in print. It reads like someone elseâs life. Like I was method-acting the whole time. AZ: Maybe you were. PB: Maybe. You were the director.
Thereâs a small silenceÂ
AZ: People are going to call this your farewell. PB: It is. But not the tragic kind. Iâm not dying.Â
She grins again, lines deepening around her eyes, not signs of age, but proof of how often sheâs laughed at the world.
AZ: If this is the last time the public hears from Paige Bueckers, what do you want them to remember? PB: Oh, thatâs easy. Remember that I was funny. AZ: Funny? PB: Yeah. People forget that. They remember the overdoses, the Grammys. But I was hilarious. AZ: You were. Are. PB: Youâre just saying that because youâre married to the myth. AZ: To the woman. And weâre not marriedÂ
Then, softly:
PB: Married in spirit, but, good answer
I smile, canât help it
AZ: Do you have a favorite line that never got published?
She frowns, thinking.
 Her hands, still ringed with silver bands, tap against the table in rhythm.
PB: Yeah. It was for a lyric that never made the record. âI hate being admired, I rather be loved.â
AZ: Why didnât it make it? PB: Too honest.Â
She was still performing, just for me this time.
And even then, even after all these years, I kept thinking: sheâs still beautiful.The wrinkles just told the story better.
The sun has turned the lake into glass.Â
Paige has switched her coffee for lemonade and her chair for the porch railing, balancing there like sheâs twenty again.
Sheâs talking about something unserious â the Grammys, maybe, â when I ask it.
AZ: Why did you choose me?
She blinks.Â
AZ: For that first interview. 1985. You didnât do press, remember? You turned down Spin, Rolling Stone, Billboard. So why me?
Paige leans forward, her expression a perfect imitation of mischief and confusion.
PB: Youâve been wondering that all this time? AZ: I think itâs a fair question. PB: Okay, then smile. AZ: (deadpan) What? PB: Smile for me. AZ: Paige. PB: Come on. You asked a question, Iâm giving you an answer.
I groan but do it anyway. A small, self-conscious grin that I immediately regret.
She points at me triumphantly.
PB: See? That. Thatâs why. AZ: What? PB: (grinning) The most beautiful fucking face Iâd ever seen. AZ: Oh my God. PB: I saw your photo in the press kit and told my agent I wanted to talk to you.
I cover my face with my hands. Sheâs ridiculous, this is probably a lie anyway.
AZ: You cannot possibly be telling me that I got the biggest interview of my career because you thought I was pretty. PB: I can and I am. AZ: Iâ You said you read my article on the D.C. punk scene! PB: (shrugs) I did. AZ: You wanted me to like you. PB: I wanted everyone to like me (pauses)Â Especially you. AZ: Youâve never told me this before. PB: You never asked. AZ: Iâve literally been asking questions for forty years! PB: Yeah, but not that one.
I shake my head, and she looks absurdly pleased with herself.
AZ: So I got the story because of my face. PB: And you stayed because of your brain (beat) And your patience. But the smile definitely got you in the door, darling. AZ: You are absolutely insufferable. PB: (softly) The best thing I ever said yes to.
Thereâs a pauseÂ
AZ: Do you ever think about that version of us? PB: All the time. But I donât miss it. I like that we survived it.
She grins, but her eyes linger on the water, and I can tell sheâs thinking about those years.
PB: You know, I used to think the best parts of my career were the albums or the tours. But looking back, itâs the in-betweens. The writing at three a.m., talking to you backstage. That was the work. AZ: Youâve always been romantic about misery. PB: And youâve always been romantic about me. AZ: (snorts) Donât flatter yourself. PB: Oh, I donât need to. You wrote a whole book about me.
I throw a napkin at her. She dodges it.
AZ: How do you actually feel about your career now? About everything you built?
She leans back, face thoughtful for a moment.
PB: I think I made a lot of noise trying to prove I existed. And it worked. Maybe too well. AZ: Do you think people misunderstood you? PB: (smiles) No, I think they got exactly what I wanted them to. AZ: And what about the rest of it? The fame, the mythology, the headlines? PB: The headlines were fine. I never fucked with fame
Sheâs quiet after that, and the silence feels earned.Â
The recorder hums, cicadas chatter in the trees, and I think about how rare it is to meet someone who can still surprise you after forty years.
AZ: Anything you wish youâd done differently? PB: I wish Iâd bought more land before it got expensive (grins) But no, not really.Â
The afternoon light has gone syrupy by the time we get to the last part.Â
Paige insists we move inside because âIâm too old to be photogenic.â
Sheâs lying on the couch now, one arm draped over her eyes, hair sticking up from where sheâs been running her hands through it.
I sit across from her, the recorder balanced on the coffee table, blinking its little red light.
AZ: Letâs talk about pirates.
She groans. âYou always start with the embarrassing stuff.â
AZ: Itâs not embarrassing. PB: Itâs childish. AZ: Itâs very you.
She drops her arm, revealing one squinting blue eye.Â
PB: Fine. What about them? AZ: Youâve always said you love pirates, youâve been saying that since the eighties. Do you still like them?
Paige sits up, slow and deliberate, like sheâs bracing herself for something serious but doesnât want to give it away yet.
PB: Of course I do (pauses) You know, people used to think pirates were greedy. But the truth is they just didnât trust the world with what they treasured. I get that. AZ: So you still think some things should be hidden. PB: Absolutely. Especially now. Everyoneâs addicted to exposure. Everyone wants to prove theyâre alive by filming it. You sneeze, you post. You fall in love, you livestream. AZ: Do you think thatâs possible anymore? For two people â two famous people, even â to keep something private?
She studies me, as if Iâve asked something dangerous.Â
PB: I hope so (pauses) God, I really do.
She looks out the window, where the lake has turned into molten gold.Â
PB: Because being loud is easy. But being quiet togetherâthatâs the real thing
She looks at me again, her expression suddenly open, the kind that used to undo me when we were young.
PB: You were always that for me.
I donât answer right away.
AZ: You think thatâs why we lasted? PB: We didnât last. We outlasted
We both laugh a little, though it sounds more like an exhale than a joke.
AZ: If you could say one thing to those kids like us now â the ones trying to love each other â what would you say? PB: Love doesnât need an audience. You donât owe anyone your joy. The best things I ever had were the ones I never shared. AZ: And your treasure? PB: (smiles) You know damn well
She gestures toward me.
PB: Sitting right there asking annoying questions.
When I turn the recorder off, she leans back, satisfied.
 âThatâs it?â she asks.  âThatâs it,â I say. She tilts her head, thinking. âSo this is the last time anyone ever hears from me?â âYes.â âGood.â She pauses. âYouâll make it sound beautiful, right?â âI always do.â
Final Letter from Paige BueckersÂ
(Found sealed, postmarked from Lake Minnetonka, addressed to Azzi Fudd. Read publicly only upon the publication of the book.)
Dear Rookie,
You told me this had to be a letter â that it had to end with my words, not yours.
 Iâve spent my whole life running my mouth into microphones, and still, Iâve never said half the things I meant to. So this oneâs for you, and for whoeverâs still reading, and maybe for the part of me that still canât believe I got this far.
You also told me not to be dramatic. (Which is like asking a fish not to swim, so forgive me in advance.)
First things first: Iâve always been terrible at goodbyes. Thatâs why I never actually said one.
Every time a tour ended, I called it a âpause.â
Every time we broke up, I called it âspace.â
Every time life tried to shut me up, I called it an encore.
This â right now, this book, these words â is the closest thing Iâll ever give to a curtain call.
When you asked me to write this, I thought, God, whatâs left to say? Weâve already confessed everything. You wrote the truth better than I ever sang it.
So what could I possibly add? Then I realized â you wanted a letter, not a lyric.
And letters, unlike songs, donât have to rhyme.
So here it goes.
You didnât make me better, Azzi. You kept me alive.
Iâve said a lot of stupid things in my life â publicly, privately, occasionally on live TV â but Iâve never said this, so Iâll say it now:
 Iâm proud of what I made, but what Iâm grateful for â thatâs you.
You were there when I was a headline, when I was a has-been, when I was a half-person trying to remember what breathing sounded like.
You saw me without eyeliner, without the leather jacket, without the myth.
You saw me sick and shaking and ugly and scared, and you stayed anyway.
You asked me to end this book, hereâs my attempt at closure:
When I think about my life, it doesnât play in order. It flickers.
The first interview â you in that too-serious blazer, pretending not to blush. The years we lost, the years we got back.
You still look exactly the same, by the way. Youâll say thatâs a lie, but itâs not. You still have that precious dimple when you smile.
Thatâs my favorite part of you, the dimples.
 The second favorite part is your brain.
Youâve always been the smarter one. Iâve always been the one who needed reminding.
And since youâre going to be too professional to print this part, Iâll say it anyway for whoeverâs reading â what I want my last words in the book to be: Dear reader, Azzi Fudd has the prettiest damn smile Iâve ever seen.
Now go publish your masterpiece. And promise me you wonât fix my grammar.
P.S: Since this is apparently my âlegacy,â Iâll do what I never did wel: give advice.
Not to you; you never needed it.
To whoever picks up this book and thinks love and fame are the same thing: theyâre not.
One feeds you. The other eats you alive.
To the girls coming up after me â if youâre lucky enough to find an Azzi Fudd of your own, promise me youâll hide her like a treasure.
Keep her safe. Guard her from the noise, the cameras, the cruelty.
Make sure the world in all its ugliness never touches her.
Your âAzzi Fuddâ will be the best thing youâll ever have.
Keep her safe.
Thatâs what love is â something quiet, something yours. And if youâre lucky enough to find it, I hope you have the sense to hold on tight, laugh a lot, grow old together, and never, ever let the world make you explain it.
â Paige Bueckers (or Bueckers-Fudd, if weâd ever been corny enough to pull that off)
Sherry Bomb: A memoir
CW: Overdose, Addiction
Words: 8K
Quiet before the Storm
Written by: Azzi Fudd (circa 2025)
If there was ever a quiet before the storm, it was the months after Burning Red.Â
Paigeâs name was on every wall, every edgy teenage bedroom door with a poster curling at the corners.Â
She wouldnât give interviews anymore.Â
Not to Rolling Stone, not to Spin, not even to NME, whoâd been begging for months.Â
Only me.
When I met Paige, I was twenty-two, living in a brick-walled apartment off Dupont Circle. Colleen was my roommate, and we were both working entry-level jobs and splitting canned soup at midnight.Â
My parents thought Iâd wasted my degree by going into âarts journalism.â Paige thought it was the only kind of journalism that mattered.
When Burning Red hit platinum, my editor sent me to shadow her for a weekend piece.
That weekend never ended.Â
When I ask what she wants people to know about her, she shrugs:
âThat Iâm just trying to stay human while everyoneâs busy mythologizing me.â
After that profile ran, my phone didnât stop ringing.
I followed her from city to city, notebook full of her one-liners and contradictions.Â
By the time the Burning Red tour ended, I was no longer sure where my career ended and she began.Â
Overnight, I became the Paige Bueckers journalist.Â
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Excerpt â Spin Magazine, March 1989
âThe Bueckers Bibleâ â by Staff Writer
Music journalists donât write about Paige Bueckers anymore.
They write through her.
The best of the lot â Washingtonâs own Azzi Fudd â seems to have been adopted as the singerâs mouthpiece.
Insiders say Bueckers wonât so much as tune a guitar if Fuddâs not in the room.
Editorâs Note
Written by: Azzi Fudd (circa 2025)
Sheâd started joking that I was her âpress secretary,â.
 One night, after too many drinks and too little sleep, she said quietly,
âIf youâre the one telling my story, do I still exist when you stop?â
I didnât know what to say.
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Excerpt â Los Angeles Times, July 1989
âBUECKERS ERUPTS AT LABEL PARTY â âGET ONE WHILE IâM STILL STANDINGââ
Rock sensation Paige Bueckers caused a scene last night outside the CBS summer party when paparazzi swarmed the artist and a female companion identified as Washington journalist Azzi Fudd.
Witnesses claim the star shouted profanities and threw a drink before being escorted inside by security.
Fudd declined comment.
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Letter â From Paige Bueckers (hotel stationery, that night, slid under my door)
Rookie,
I hate that they know your name now. I hate that they think they know mine.
I wanted to hold your hand. I wanted to bite a camera. I did the wrong one.
Meet me in the service elevator at 1:10. Weâll practice leaving without being seen.
â P
Editorâs Note
Written by: Azzi Fudd (circa 2025)
I went.Â
We kissed between floors, and she laughed into my mouthÂ
âFucking hate papparazisâ she said.
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Excerpt â People, August 1989
âTHE GIRLFRIEND THEORYâ
Speculation continues around Paige Bueckersâ relationship with CBS journalist Azzi Fudd.
Sources claim the two have been âspending an unusual amount of time togetherâ following the singerâs explosive Venice incident.
âSheâs obsessed with this reporter,â says one studio insider. âWonât talk to anyone else.â
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Gossip
Written by: Azzi Fudd (circa 2025)
Every story about Paige started with noise.
But ours kept unfolding in the quiet, in hotel rooms where she took her boots off one at a time and asked, âDo you still like me when Iâm sober?â
After Venice, after the flashes, we went underground (Or tried to)
She said she didnât care about the gossip, but she did â not about being called gay or reckless, but about the idea of being known.Â
She hated being definable.Â
People like to imagine we were suffocating under the secrecy.
We werenât.
What suffocated us was the noise â the speculation, the headlines, the whispers at every after-party that always started with âDid you hear...â and ended with our names.
Paige never cared that no one knew.Â
She cared that everyone wanted to.
In those early years, privacy wasnât our prison â it was our country, and we built a life inside it.
There were hotel rooms where the curtains never opened, long drives with no radio, shared cigarettes on fire escapes at 2 a.m. while her band slept two floors below.
Iâd watch her tune her guitar, barefoot, and sheâd watch me watching her.
She liked that I wasnât impressed.
She said fame made her feel like glass. Everyone was looking through her, no one was looking at her.
I was the exception.
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Letter â From Paige Bueckers (torn page from a notebook, postmarked from Dallas, August 1989)
Rookie,
I keep replaying that night. Your little noises. The way you looked at me after. Like Iâd just set our lives on fire. Maybe I did.
Every magazine in America is writing about my mouth. No oneâs writing about yours, but me.
Call me when you land. Or donât. Iâll call you anyway.
â P
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Private Notes â Paigeâs Journal (1989)
8/19 â âYou say I make you nervous. I say you make me realâ.
8/21 â âI drink to remember your pulse. I snort to quiet your name. Every habit started holy.â
8/28 â âYour lips are a religious experience, Iâm on my kneesâ
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Letter â From Paige Bueckers (handwritten on Sherry Bomb stationery, December, 1989)
Rookie,
Theyâre running out of new ways to describe me. âAndrogynous.â âRebellious.â âProvocative.â How long until they just say âhuman?â
I wrote something for you tonight. Not a song yet.Â
â P
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Demo Transcript â âQuiet Warsâ (Paige Bueckers, 1990)
You kiss like a confession I canât make twice, my soul burns where your mouth bites.
And I want peace but peace gets bored, so we fight for our love like a quiet war.
(laughter, Paigeâs voice off mic)
PAIGE (off mic): Youâre gonna say thatâs too dramatic in your little Review of the new album, ainât ya?.
AZZI (off mic): Iâm gonna say itâs honest
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Quiet Wars
Written by: Azzi Fudd (circa 2025)
That line gutted me: âWe fight for our love like a quiet war.â
It was the first time sheâd said love out loud, even if she hid it in a rhyme.
Sheâd played thousands of shows by then, but that night it felt like she was performing only for me.
She didnât write âQuiet Warsâ for an album.
She wrote it for me. The tape never made it to the label.
She kept it in a shoebox with the words âfor Azzi, not for saleâ scrawled on top.
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The GardenÂ
Written by: Azzi Fudd (circa 2025)
We were in a greenroom that looked like a broom closet â fluorescent light, folding chair, her leather jacket hanging off the mic stand.
She was sitting on the floor, knees drawn up, tapping her rings against a water bottle like a metronome.
I said, âYouâve done this a hundred times.â She said, âNot like this.â
She wasnât nervous about her first show at Madison Square Garden; she was nervous about how she would be seen in her first show at Madison Square Garden .
 âThis fucking victory lap,â she said. âWhat if itâs just my funeral?â
I just took her hand, pressed my thumb against the inside of her wrist, and felt her pulse hammering like Nikaâs drums.
When the stage manager knocked, she kissed my palm and said,
 âWish me luck, Rookie.â
Then she stood up, rolled her shoulders, and walked out to 60,000 people.
That was the show that made her immortal.
Iâve seen the footage a hundred times since. The grainy VHS, the lights gold, her hair plastered to her face.
Every time, I wait for the part no one else sees: her looking just offstage, right where I stood, and exhaling like sheâd finally let go.
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Excerpt â Rolling Stone, July 1990
âBueckers Sets the Garden Ablazeâ
Some performances change a career.
Paige Bueckersâ Madison Square Garden show changed a generation.
She walked onstage barefoot, in ripped jeans and a sleeveless white tee, guitar slung low, hair damp like sheâd just come from the rain.
Her voice cracked on the first line and no one cared. When she hit the chorus, the crowd sang it back, 60,000 strong.
She smiled, mouthed something no one caught on camera, and walked offstage crying.
(Editorâs note, 2025: What she mouthed was âRookieâ)
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Letter â From Paige Bueckers (hotel stationery, New York Hilton, postmarked the morning after)
Rookie,
I couldnât sleep. My headâs still buzzing. I keep hearing them, and thinking: that was me.
But I also keep thinking: that was you.
 I walked onstage with your fingerprint still on my wrist.
The world can have my music. Iâm yours.
â P
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AftershockÂ
Written by: Azzi Fudd (circa 2025)
Every myth has an aftershock, and Madison Square Garden was ours.
The night the world fell in love with Paige Bueckers â and the night I started losing her.
The Garden had turned her into something bigger than a person.
Sheâd call at 3 a.m. from hotel rooms in Paris or Tokyo, slurring half sentences, saying, âYouâd hate it here. Everything smells like perfume.â
 When I didnât pick up, sheâd leave voicemails that sounded like songs.
âRookie,â sheâd say, âthe sky looks fake tonight. Tell me something true.â
Iâd listen the next morning on my way to work and think, Sheâs lonely.
I didnât realize it was withdrawal.
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Letter â From Paige Bueckers (handwritten, Los Angeles, February 1990)
Rookie,
I canât walk outside without seeing my own face. Billboards, magazines, TV, all of it. I thought I wanted this. I think I did.
I saw a photo of us from the Garden, someone caught you in the wings. You were watching me.
When are you coming back to me?
â P
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Excerpt â People, April 1990
âThe Voice of a Generation⊠or Just a Girl Too Loud for Her Own Good?â
Paige Bueckersâ explosive rise continues to blur the line between brilliance and burnout.
The singer, who recently sold out Madison Square Garden, has been spotted leaving L.A. bars at dawn and reportedly âsnappingâ at fans.
Bueckersâ representative declined to comment.
(Editorâs note, 2025: That article was the first one that scared me.)
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The Grammys
Written by: Azzi Fudd (circa 2025)
The Grammys were supposed to be a celebration.
She won everything: Record of the Year, Album of the Year, and Song of the Year for âHysteria.â
We hadnât seen each other in almost three months.
Iâd been buried in work at CBS, and she was somewhere between London and Los Angeles, touring, drinking too much, calling me from hotel bathrooms at dawn.
She told me not to come to the ceremony.
âI donât want to look at you and forget my lines,â she said.
But she still sent a car.Â
Still left a hotel key under my name.Â
Still texted, âRoom 812. Donât knock.â
When I saw her that night, she looked otherworldly â hair slicked back, suit sharp, a single silver earring shaped like a dagger.
She hugged me so tightly I could smell the champagne on her skin.
âJesus, Paige,â I said, laughing into her shoulder. âYouâre shaking.â âHavenât seen you in forever,â she said. âLet me remember what you feel like.â âYouâre supposed to be getting ready.â Â âThis is me getting ready.â
Thatâs what I remember most, how much she missed me.
She was drunk on the room, the music, the power, and somewhere in between all of that, on me.
She won her first award and thanked âthe people who listen when I sing instead of when I speak.â
She won her second and forgot the speech entirely.
After the ceremony, we met again at an after-party in West Hollywood.
Every famous person in the world seemed to be in that room, and yet, somehow, she only saw me.
âYouâre still wearing that,â she said, tugging at the neckline of my dress. âYou told me not to change.â âI tell you a lot of things.â
She kept her hand on the small of my back the entire night, I told her to stop.
She didnât.
âYou missed me,â she whispered. âI did.â âThen let them look.â
And that was the problem, someone did.
The photo ran in the morning.
My hand in hers, our faces turned toward each other, mid-laughter, the flash turning everything into white.
At eight a.m., the phone rang, and her voice was hoarse from smoke and champagne.
âRookie,â she said, âitâs bad.â âHow bad?â âFront-page bad.â
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Excerpt â CBS Newswire, February 1990
STATEMENT FROM AZZI FUDD
âMs. Bueckers and I have a friendly working relationship built on mutual respect. Iâve been privileged to document her artistry over the years, and I deeply admire her as a musician and friend.â
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Interview conducted by Azzi Fudd for CBS Features â April 6, 1990, Los Angeles, California
She shows up to the interview in a white tank top, black slacks, sunglasses inside, and a mood that says donât ask, donât tell.
Her publicist hovers by the door like a nervous parent, and Paige waves her off. Â
PB: Relax. I promise Iâll behave. AZ: Thatâs what you said last time. PB: Yeah, but this time I mean it.
She flops into the armchair opposite me, legs slung over one arm of it.
Thereâs a half-empty glass of whiskey on the table that wasnât there a second ago.
PB: You look tense. AZ: You look hungover. PB: I won a Grammy. Iâm allowed to be both.
AZ: Youâve been quiet lately. PB: Thought Iâd give everyone a break from my voice. AZ: You? Giving people a break? PB: (smirks) You say that like Iâm loud. AZ: Youâre the loudest person Iâve ever met.
She stretches her arms over her head, bones cracking, looking at me through the slant of her sunglasses.
PB: You ever get tired of writing about me? AZ: Constantly. PB: (laughs) Then why do you keep doing it? AZ: Because you wonât talk to anyone else. PB: Exactly. Iâm loyal.
She grins, all teeth and mischief.
AZ: So, Paige, congratulations on the sweep. Record, Album, Song â thatâs the holy trinity. PB: Donât forget Best Rock Performance. That oneâs my favorite. AZ: Why that one? PB: Itâs the only one that actually sounds like me. AZ: Howâs that? PB: Uninvited.
Thereâs a pause.Â
AZ: Does it ever feel like too much? The attention? PB: Always. But thatâs the job, right? Let them love you until they hate you. AZ: And in between? PB: In between you write about me, and they think they know me.
She pulls off her sunglasses and sets them on the table.Â
AZ: Thereâs been⊠a lot of speculation about your personal life. PB: (deadpan) Is this the part where you ask if Iâm dating you? AZ: Iâm asking if the rumors bother you. PB: Only when people get creative.
Her smile is razor sharp.
AZ: So, to clarifyâ PB: (interrupting) Clarify nothing. It ruins the fun.
She laughs, leaning back in the chair.
PB: Donât worry, rookie. You can write that Iâm single. I am.
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Excerpt from CBS Features (April 1990, print edition)
âAfter the Grammys, Paige Bueckers is learning to live louder than the noise around her.â
âIâm not dating anyone,â she insists, âJust myself, and sheâs hard enough to keep up with.â
She pauses, eyes glinting. âPeople always want to know who I love. They never ask what I love. And thatâs easy, itâs the musicâ
Paige Bueckers will begin the Burning Red World Tour this summer. Tickets sold out in under ten minutes.
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Letter â From Paige Bueckers (postmarked the next day)
Rookie,
Thank you. For lying for me. I know you hate it.
I hate it too.
Iâll make it up to you
â P
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High
Written by: Azzi Fudd (circa 2025)
When I met Paige, I already knew what addiction looked like.
My mother was an addict.Â
So when I saw Paige drinking too much, I recognized it instantly. But I told myself she was different (She was brilliant, and brilliant people are allowed to be a little unsteady).
What I didnât see â or didnât want to see â was how much Iâd become her coping mechanism.
The truth is, she needed me to keep her standing, and I needed her to make me feel alive.
 It was a dangerous kind of symbiosis.
The moment I left, she cracked.
When I started spending more time at CBS, working on other stories, sheâd spiral, miss sound checks, pick fights with bandmates.
Call me mid-rehearsal, whispering, âWhere are you?â like it was a lifeline.
And if I didnât answer? Sheâd get drunk enough to make headlines.
Once, Nika called me from backstage, voice shaking:
âCan you talk to her? Sheâs pacing, she wonât go on.â âWhat happened?â âNothing. Youâre not here, thatâs what happened.â
I put her on speakerphone and said her name once.
 âPaige.â
She stopped pacing.
I heard her laugh, thatâs when I realized: I wasnât her girlfriend, I was her new drug.
When I look back now, itâs so clear how fragile everything was.
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Tabloid Clipping â May 1992
âPAIGE SHOVES LENS, SHOUTS EXPLETIVE OUTSIDE SOHO CLUBâ
Witnesses say the rock star yelled, âWhy the fuck are you in my face?â before being bundled into a black sedan around 2 a.m.Â
Sources report that CBS Features journalist Azzi Fudd was also present at the scene. The two were seen exiting the venue separately but entering the same car.
Representatives for both declined to comment on the nature of their relationship.
âSheâs unpredictable,â said one onlooker. âShe looks like sheâs ready to punch the camera.â
â Starline Weekly, May 6, 1992
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Paige Bueckerâs Notebook Scraps â used later in âVice Versaâ (â93 draft)
If the pill makes the floor stop moving, why does the ceiling keep learning my name?
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CBS Features â March 1993
âSound Before Senseâ â Paige Bueckers Pre-Tour Check-In Interview by Azzi Fudd
Los Angeles, March 1993.
Paige Bueckers opens the door barefoot, eyeliner smudged, a cigarette dangling from her lips like punctuation.
Thereâs a gold Grammy on the windowsill being used to hold spare guitar picks.
 PB: I ran out of coffee. Hope ginâs fine.
I decline, and she grins, unbothered.
PB: Still the professional. You havenât changed. AZ: Neither have you. PB: Thatâs what everyoneâs worried about.
She collapses into a chair and starts rolling the cigarette between her fingers like a metronome.Â
AZ: Youâre about to start your biggest tour yet. How are you feeling? PB: Tired, which means Iâm doing it right. AZ: Youâve been âtiredâ since 1985. PB: (laughs) Yeah, but I used to fake it better.
She leans forward, elbows on knees.
AZ: People close to you say youâre pushing yourself too hard. PB: Thatâs what people close to me are for. They worry, I work. AZ: You call it work? PB: I call it survival.
She taps ash into a coffee mug that says WORLDâS OKAYEST GUITARIST.
AZ: Youâve said before that you write better when youâre miserable. PB: Everyone does. Happy songs are propaganda. AZ: So youâre miserable now? PB: Iâm alive (beat) Thatâs enough material.
When I ask about Vice Versa, the long-rumored follow-up to Burning Red, her entire posture shifts.
AZ: Whatâs the new record about? PB: Nothing AZ: Thatâs not an answer. PB: Thatâs the only one Iâve got (smiles)
She picks up a guitar thatâs missing a string and plucks at it absently.
PB: Everyone keeps asking what it means. The songs donât mean anything. They just⊠happen. You bleed a little, record it, sell it, move on. AZ: That sounds cynical. PB: Iâm not in the business of healing people. AZ: Do you think thatâs what people love about you, the chaos? PB: They love that I live the way they wish they could.
She lights another cigarette with the end of the last one.
AZ: Is that sustainable? PB: Who said Iâm trying to sustain it
AZ: People talk about your lifestyleâ PB: (interrupting) My lifestyle has better press than I do. AZ: â they say itâs dangerous.
The tape clicks.
AZ: What do you say to people who call you reckless? PB: I say, âThank you.â AZ: You donât mind that word? PB: No.Â
She finishes her cigarette.
AZ: One last question. What would you tell people who think youâre losing control? PB: You canât live carefully and expect to make art.
The interview is over.
Editorâs Note
Written by: Azzi Fudd (circa 2025)
This was the interview that started our first real war.
The quote âYou canât live carefully and expect to make artâ ran in full-page bold, under a photo of her with a cigarette
 By the time the issue hit stands, that line was already being printed on bootleg T-shirts outside her concerts.
She called me three days later, drunk, and said, âYou finally wrote me right.â
I wanted to tell her I hadnât written her at all.
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The Moment I Knew
Written by: Azzi Fudd (circa 2025)
Thereâs a difference between chaos and addiction.Â
Chaos is dramatic, and addiction is repetitive.
Addiction is the same night lived over and over with slightly worse outcomes.Â
When people ask what Paige was âlikeâ in those years â as if personality could explain the prognosis â I tell them she was gifted, funny, stubborn, and chronically unwell.
The shows were dazzling, and the days in between were not.
I did not come to addiction as a tourist.
I learned early what dependence looks like from the outside: how it shrinks a lifeâs options.
I also learned how it shapes the people nearby.Â
You become vigilant, you learn to read breath and pupils, speech patterns and skin tone. You become oddly good at logistics (Where the exits are, what time the pharmacy closes, which friend is safe to call at 2:00 a.m)
With Paige, I recognized the pattern long before I wanted to name it.Â
Drinking as pre-show courage, then drinking because a day without it felt impossible.Â
The justifications were stable: itâs part of the job; itâs temporary; itâs not like your mother; I can stop when the tour ends; I deserve this
From the outside, here is what I noticed.
Small health flags: infections that wouldnât clear, hoarseness, tremor on waking, that specific grey around the eyes.
Addiction also reorganizes relationships.Â
People like to talk about âenablersâ as if we are all indifferent or complicit.Â
I was neither.
God, I set rules, I said no, I left rooms, I canceled nights.Â
But I also picked up the phone, booked the flight, sat on the floor between her and the door while the worst of the night passed.
There is a common lie that artists tell: that recklessness is synonymous with truth.Â
That line looks good in print, and Iâm guilty of printing it.
What it actually does, in practice, is making addiction sound like bravery.
 âYou canât live carefully and expect to make artâ was a sentence I ran as a pull-quote and regretted immediately.Â
Paige was not addicted to danger because it made better songs.
Paige was addicted because the combination of her biology, her history, and the machinery around her rewarded anything that kept the show running.Â
This is the most honest thing I can say about that period: I understood exactly what was ahead of us and also had no idea.Â
The night I finally admitted it to myself, I sat on the floor of my kitchen and said out loud, to no one, Youâre fucked.
If you are reading this because you love someone who drinks or uses the way Paige did, here is the only practical sentence I can offer: boundaries are not punishments; theyâre seatbelts.
They donât stop the crash, but they keep you from going through the windshield with them
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Territory â Europe, 1994
Written by: Azzi Fudd (2025)
The Europe leg in â94 was short, the nights were long, and in the hours between sound check and stage time anything could happen and often did.
Paige was brilliant onstage and awful off it.Â
In Paris she burned through a set like she was racing a clock.Â
In Berlin she lost her pick, playing with blood on the strings.
In Copenhagen she skipped dinner
By Oslo she had started using the word fine like a period
âIâm fine.â âItâs fine.â âWeâre fine.âÂ
(The band stopped believing her and kept playing anyway)
Nika had always been the counterweight.
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Backstage â Stockholm, July 24, 1994
Compiled recollections; transcript reconstructed 2025
Paige came offstage laughing too loudly, pupils wide.
Someone handed her a towel, and someone else handed her water (She took the towel.)
Nika blocked the door with one hand on the frame.
NIKA: Iâm not watching you disappear. PAIGE: Then close your eyes. NIKA: Iâm serious, Paigey. PAIGE: So am I.
KK took a step toward them and thought better of it.
NIKA: Youâre going to end up like your father. PAIGE: Donât. NIKA: Then stop. PAIGE: Donât know how.
It went quiet.
NIKA: I need you to try. PAIGE: I try every night. NIKA: Onstage isnât trying.Â
Paigeâs laugh cracked.
She reached for the water, put it down, reached for the towel instead.
PAIGE: Do not parent me. NIKA: Thatâs not parenting. PAIGE: Sounds like control. NIKA: Sounds like love.
There is no right line after that line, and Paige chose the wrong one.
PAIGE: Then love me less.
KK flinched. Nika nodded just once.
NIKA: I canât.
She set the sticks on the dressing table, not dramatic, just final.
 The door shut behind her without slamming.
That was the last show she played with Sherry Bomb.
I caught up with Nika in the loading bay, âAre you coming back?â I asked, because I didnât know what else to ask.
She looked past me down the white corridor the crew builds and unbuilds in every city.
âAsk her to,â she said. âIf she asks, I willâ
Paige came out ten minutes later with her jaw set and her hands empty.
âWhereâs Nika?â she asked. âGone,â I said. âGood,â she said.
That was the whole fight.
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Press Brief â AP Wire, July 1994
âDrummer Nika Larsen Exits Sherry Bomb Mid-Tourâ
Oslo/Stockholm (AP) â Nika MĂŒhl has departed the Paige Bueckers â led rock outfit Sherry Bomb in the midst of the bandâs European tour, citing âcreative differences,â according to a statement released by management on Tuesday.
Dates will proceed as scheduled with a touring replacement to be announced.Â
Bueckers did not immediately comment.
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Madison Square Garden (again), May 1995
Written by: Azzi Fudd (circa 2025)
The band was smaller now. The crowd wasnât. If anything, it had doubled.
Paige looked thin in a way that wasnât glamorous anymore.Â
But when the lights came up and she opened her mouth, the world rearranged itself, and she was incandescent again.Â
Thatâs the cruelty of addiction â you get glimpses of the person you fell for, just enough to keep waiting for their return.
The crowd screamed for an encore, and Paige gave them three.
Afterward, she came backstage, eyeliner melted.
âSee, Rookie?â she said. âStill got it.â
I told her she scared me.
âGood,â she said. âMeans youâre paying attention.â
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First Overdose â Tour Clinic Report (Confidential, June 2, 1995)
Patient: Bueckers, Paige Location: New Orleans â Post-show medical suite Symptoms: Tremors, tachycardia, emesis, shallow respiration Stabilized: Yes Discharged: Against medical advice Recommendation: Inpatient detox, 30â60 days Notes (staff): Patient coherent but resistant. Repeated: âI canât miss the next city.â
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On the First Collapse
Written by: Azzi Fudd (circa 2025)
When I got the call, I was asleep on the couch.
They told me she had been âbriefly hospitalized, for overconsumption of prescribed medicationâ.
I remember sitting upright, saying, âShe doesnât even take aspirin.âÂ
Then I remembered she didnât take aspirin because it didnât do enough.
By the time I reached the venue, she was already discharged.Â
There were photographers outside, and I knew if I went through the front door, Iâd be in the tabloids by morning, too.Â
I waited by the back exit until the tour bus rolled out.Â
When she saw me, she smiled like we were meeting for coffee.Â
âDonât be mad,â she said, already climbing the steps. âIâm furious,â I told her. âIâm fine.â âThen why did they call me?â She looked away âBecause you always answer.â
I did, that was the problem.
The first overdose changed something fundamental in me.Â
Before that, I still believed I could manage her.
After that night, I realized I wasnât holding her together, and I was cushioning her fall.Â
Every apology came rehearsed, every promise with an expiration date
âNext month,â she said âNext leg.â âAfter the next show.âÂ
I drove behind the tour bus for fifty miles before I pulled over and cried into my notebook.Â
Not because sheâd scared me, but because I knew Iâd still write about her, still follow her to the next city, still believe her when she said she could stop.Â
Thatâs the curse of loving an addict: you canât tell which side youâre on.
Later, when she called from some nameless hotel to tell me she loved me, I didnât say it back.
I said, âYouâre going to die.â She laughed. âNot before the encore.â
And that wasnât funny, that was torture.
When I finally wrote The Price of Fire, months later, I told myself I did it to save her.Â
The truth is, I did it because I didnât know what else to do.
 Some people intervene with rehab. I intervened with sentences.
God, I wish I could say it worked.
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âThe Price of Fireâ â The New Yorker, July 1995
By Azzi Fudd
(Editorâs Note, 2025: I tried to retract this piece two days after it ran. Every journalist has one piece they wish they could unwrite. This is mine.)
Paige Bueckers has always been the kind of artist who refuses to come quietly.Â
Last week, I watched her take the stage in New Orleans, the setlist was chaotic, and between each track, she drank from a silver flask and laughed at something no one else could hear. âDonât look at me like that,â she told the crowd.Â
Thereâs a rhythm to watching someone destroy themselves beautifully.Â
The first time, it looks like performance art.
 The second, it looks like endurance.Â
The third, you start realizing itâs a pattern.
Addiction, for Paige, has become another form of authorship. She rewrites her own limits nightly: one more show, one more drink, one more miracle.Â
When I spoke with her earlier this year, she told me:
âYou canât live carefully and expect to make art.â
Recklessness isnât art.Â
She is, without question, one of the greatest performers of her generation. But somewhere along the way, Paige began to mistake the applause for permission.Â
We have learned to mythologize women like her.Â
At what point do we stop calling this genius and start calling it what it is? The price of fire is always ash.
And Paige Bueckers will pay that price.
(Editorâs margin, 2025: It wasnât journalism. It was an elegy I wrote for someone still breathing. I told myself I did it to warn her, instead, I became part of the destruction.)
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Faxed Note â July 18, 1995
Nice essay. â P.
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The Crash
Written by: Azzi Fudd (circa 2025)
Paige didnât speak to me for three months, and she shouldnât have.
I had done the one thing we promised each other weâd never do â turned the private into performance.
We had built our lives around secrecy, and we thrived in it. To publish that piece was to rip the curtain open on something that had only ever survived because it was hidden.
For a while, she got better.Â
She started running again, cutting her drinks in half, showing up to rehearsals early.Â
Sheâd send postcards sometimes, a lyric scribbled on the back.
 âStill here,â she wrote once.Â
And then the crash.
It was August of â97 when Nikaâs car spun out on a wet road somewhere outside Copenhagen.Â
She survived â barely.
 Paige found out after a show.Â
They told her while she was still in stage makeup, a towel around her neck. She asked for me, they said.Â
I wasnât there.
That night, she started drinking again.
I heard the story secondhand â how she disappeared backstage, how they found her an hour later on the floor, whispering my fault over and over.Â
How she called my apartment and left a voicemail: Please come.Â
How I didnât pick up, because I didnât know which version of her Iâd find on the other end.
We saw each other a few times after that, always in fragments: in the corners of parties, in apartments, between rehearsals.Â
But something essential had shifted, I couldnât keep watching her come undone again.
Thatâs what led us to that kitchen in January 1998.
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Transcript, Apartment Kitchen (January 4, 1998)
(Partial recording, restored from microcassette found in Fuddâs 1998 notes. Ambient noise)
PB: Youâre not gonna drink? AZ: Not tonight. PB: Since when are you allergic to fun? (pause)
PB: You donât get to moralize AZ: Shut up.
(A chair scrapes. Paige is pacing. You can hear the ice rattle in her glass.)
PB: Youâre not my mother. AZ: I know. PB: Then stop sounding like her. AZ: I want to sound like someone whoâs terrified. PB: Of what? AZ: Of coming home to a phone call instead of you.
(Long silence. Paige exhales through her nose, sharp.)
PB: You think I likeâ AZ: I donât think you know what you like anymore.
(pause)
PB: I like you. AZ: No, you need me. Thatâs not the same thing. PB: Iâm trying. AZ: Try somewhere I canât watch.
(a crashâglass hitting tile, Paige threw a bottle on the foor next to me)
 AZ: Iâm done with this
PB: Fuck, donât. Iâm sorry AZ: No, youâre not PB: Do you love me? AZ: Thatâs the fucking problem.
(Recorder clicks off. Then on again).
AZ: Love has limits. You crossed all of them.
(Paige laughs once, hoarse, humorless.)
PB: Iâm poison, right? Say it. AZ: Youâre not poison.
(soft movementâPaige steps closer, voice low)
PB: Then stay. AZ: I canât. PB: Lie to me. Just say youâll stay. AZ: I canât even do that anymore.
(pause. footsteps. the click of a lighter.)
PB: What happens to all the songs now? AZ: Youâll write new ones. PB: Without you, I canât AZ: Then maybe theyâll finally be honest.
(tape distortion)
PB: Youâre cruel when youâre scared. AZ: So are you. (silence) PB: Iâll call you tomorrow. AZ: Donât. (beat) PB: Youâll answer anyway. AZ: I hate you.
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The End
Written by: Azzi Fudd (circa 2025)
After the kitchen, I left.
I packed a weekend bag I never opened and took a cab to a friendâs place I barely knew.
I did what people tell you to do when you finally draw a boundary: I didnât answer the first call, or the second, then I turned my phone face down and practiced breathing.
Paige went back to the hotel the label had her in, and somewhere between the front desk, the minibar and her room, she overdose.
The 911 call made when they saw her body, colapsed on the floor, would later assign a time window âBetween 22:40 and 01:10.âÂ
People ask if I think it was an accident, the honest answer is that I donât know.Â
The honest-er answer is that part of me is sure she meant to scare me, and part of me is just as sure she didnât care what scared me anymore.Â
I know she called twice and hung up once, and I know the last clear word I said was âI hate you.âÂ
It was shorthand for everything I hated â what the drinking made her say, what it made me tolerate, who we were in those rooms.
The overnight staff at the hospital were efficient in that way you donât appreciate until your life depends on someone else.Â
A resident with gentle eyes met me at the doors and said, âWeâre doing everything we can.â
Thatâs a sentence designed to hold people together through an elevator ride.Â
They said âmulti-substance,â and I nodded like we were discussing the weather.
Someone asked for next of kin and I gave them her motherâs number from memory and wrote my own name under âfriend.â
A nurse took me to a family room with a coffee machine.
She said, âYou should prepare yourself,â and then she said the softer version: âIt may be a long night.âÂ
Another doctor explained what had already been done and what they were watching for now: respiratory stability, cardiac rhythm, the way a body tells you if it wants to stay.Â
Thereâs a cruelty in hearing your lover reduced to a list of numbers that all mean maybe.
I sat on the floor and I opened my notebook because thatâs what I do when I donât know what to do.
Then I started the obituary because the doctor said âprepare,â and I only know how to prepare in sentences.Â
Paige Bueckers, 1970â1998.Â
The numbers looked wrong even as they matched the facts. I listed achievements in a column (Grammys. Madison Square Garden. Burning Red).
I tried to write one thing that wasnât for public consumption, a single sentence that was only for me, and all I could manage was her laugh.
What if Iâd answered at 10:43. What if Iâd gone back. What if Iâd been gentler, or harsher, or quieter, or louder.Â
My mind tried on versions like coats, and none of them change the weather outside.Â
So the anger kept me breathing.Â
I was furious at her for choosing the floor of a hotel over the bed we made, and I was furious at myself for believing that leaving would save either one of us.Â
Every few hours someone came in and told me not very much in a voice that sounded practiced and kind
âHolding.â âNo change.â âWeâre watching.â
I remember the headline I would never forgive myself for, and the way betrayal takes hold of your body no matter how noble you believed your reasons were.
If youâre looking for closure here, there isnât any.
If you are reading this looking for absolution, I donât have any to offer. I did my best; my best was inconsistent; she suffered anyway.Â
Those statements can all be true at once.
I thought about how much of our story had already been written in public, and how little that helped me now, when the only story I wanted was the one where she woke up and I got to say something better than what Iâd chosen.
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âPAIGE BUECKERS, 1970â1998â
A Memorial by Azzi FuddÂ
She taught us that loudness could be vulnerable.
That a woman could burn and not apologize for the smoke.
She was impossible, and she made it impossible not to care about her.
If there is a heaven that accepts girls like us, I hope she is there, finally at peace.
Editorâs Note
Written by: Azzi Fudd (circa 2025)
It ran online for three hours.
Paige didnât die.
She stayed under for four days, maybe five â itâs all a blur now.
I stayed in that chair the entire time, writing and rewriting her obituary because I didnât know what else to do with my hands.
When she woke up, her first words were, âStop crying. You look like hell.â.
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Transcript: Post-Overdose Conversation (Hospital Room, April 30, 1998)
PB: I didnât do it because of you. AZ: I know. PB: I did it because I didnât know how to stop hurting myself. And then I hurt you too. AZ: You did. PB: Iâm sorry. I didnât mean for it to beâ AZ: A punishment? PB: Yeah. (quiet)Â
AZ: You scared the shit out of me. PB: I scared myself. AZ: I canât do this again. PB: I know. AZ: I mean it, Paige. The next time, Iâm going down with you. PB: Thatâs why Iâm not going to let there be a next time.
PB: Iâll go. AZ: Go where? PB: Rehab. You can even pick it. AZ: Donât joke. PB: Iâm not. AZ: (softly) Okay.
(Paige starts crying then)
PB: I donât deserve you. AZ: You donât get to decide that.
Editorâs Note
Written by: Azzi Fudd (circa 2025)
When she hugged me goodbye, she said, âDonât write about this.â
 And I didnât â not until now.
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Letter â Azzi Fudd to Paige Bueckers (hand-delivered, Rehab, June 1998)
Paige,
This is the hardest thing Iâve ever had to write, and that includes your obituaries.
I canât be your girlfriend.Â
Not because I stopped loving you, but because loving you in that way would kill us both.
And right now, when I look at you, I see myself disappearing too.
So this is the deal: I will be your friend.
I will bring you fresh fruit on Sundays, and magazines youâll never read, and Iâll sit with you while you complain about the coffee and the nurses and the world.Â
Iâll keep loving you in the only way that doesnât burn us alive.
I will love you until the day you die â and I hope thatâs very, very late.
But if you go before me, I want you to know you were the first person who ever made me understand what love means.
Stay
Not for me, but with me.
Thatâs all Iâve ever wanted.
âA.
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Reply â Paige Bueckers to Azzi (found folded in Vice Versa lyric notebook, dated July 1998)
Rookie,
I read your letter three times.
Then I cried, then I laughed, then I asked the nurse for paper.
Iâll take whatever you can give me â the Sundays, the fruit, the silence, the distance.
If love can change shape, then let it.
Youâve already given me more versions of it than I deserve.
Iâll love you every way I can, every way youâll let me, until the day I die.
And if I ever get to live past that â Iâll love you stil
âP.
P.S. Rookie,
I wrote something last night. Itâs not finished, but itâs yours.
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âNo Reasonâ â rough draft
I donât need a reason to love you, No season, no sign, no cue. Itâs the quiet between my heartbeats, The sound of the world when itâs you.
I donât need a promise or pardon, No map for where this goes. Iâd still choose the crash and the madness, If it meant I could love you close.
I donât need a reason to love youâ Itâs all Iâve ever known. Youâre not the fire that burns me out, Youâre the place my soul calls home.
Iâm calling it âNo Reason.â
Youâll hate it, because you hate when I make things too obviousÂ
 âP.
Editorâs Note
Written by: Azzi Fudd (circa 2025)
No Reason was track three on Vice Versa.Â
When the album dropped, critics called it âthe love song of the century.âÂ
They said it was the kind of thing people get married to, the kind of thing that makes you believe in something again.
Paige and I never believed in marriage â not really.Â
But if we had ever done it, if we had ever stood somewhere and made promises we already knew by heart, this would have been our song.
The critics were right about that one.
Somewhere right now, someoneâs proposing it.Â
And every single time I hear that opening chord, I still feel the same thing I felt that morning in 1999, standing outside the CBS building when it hit the airwaves for the first time.
The most beautiful love song in the world was about me.
For the first time in years, Paige was writing about love without destroying herself to do it.Â
She wasnât drunk, she wasnât high, she wasnât chasing chaos for the sake of the art, she was just âin loveâ.
And now, I have to confess something to you, reader.
 I am crying as I write this. Because I just realized that No Reason was the first song she ever wrote sober.
And after that, she never wrote a song that she wasnât sober for.Â
Not one.
I am crying because I understand, now, that this isnât just the most beautiful love song in the world â itâs the most important song of my life.
Not because it made her famous again, or because people call it timeless, but because that was the day I realized got the love of my life back.
ౚৠi want to be something useful, like in love.
best friends to lovers!pazzi. men & minors dni.
wc: 15.2k
synopsis: paige and azzi have been blurring lines since they were kids. eventually, the lines disappear entirely.
cw: medium burn best friends to lovers, mutual pining, emotional repression and yearning like you wouldn't believe, gaslighting yourself into believing you and your best friend are just platonic, angst, injury, jealousy, communication issues (they're so bad at talking; let's hear it for avoidant attachment), codependency but make it romantic, religious imagery, sexual content, non-sexual intimacy, neither of them knows how to be normal about each other.
notes: friends to lovers, you will always be famous. we are playing fast and loose with the timeline, okay, including roster. so bear with me, please. i hope you all enjoy. as always, let me know what you think. all my love. x
PRELUDE. SARASOTA / RIGHT HERE / LIL PEEP
with every flex of azziâs shoulder blades, paige felt a warm urge rise. itâs how she knew she was in trouble, the first sign of falling, like a fin cutting through the water beneath their feet.
the morning had come with strength, glazed with light and collared thickly with heat that made the air feel wet and spoke of lasting a full dayâs length. paige watched as the room grew skin and bone, the shadows beaten back by the fervent gold kisses of the sun, light singing across her face as she shifted carefully so that azzi settled further into the shaded dip of the bedâs dusty pink pillows. there was something nearly religious in it, the way dawn made its claim without mercy, always assuming there was space for its presenceâthis way it thrusted everything into living.
sarasota was symptomatic of the typical florida feeling: flat palms, white roads, a sky too blue to be trusted backed by the wide rise of dimpled dunes in the distance. this was a state that promised a dream that always threatened to linger for far too long, that began to feel heavy around the mouth and eyes until you were blinking tiredly with the hope youâd wake up somewhere else. everything here felt half-remembered, had the lingering quality of a grip around the wrist that refused to break.
paige glanced down at where azzi was tucked into her body, coiled slightly as if moments from bursting into motion. she always began the night in fetal position, her limbs drawn into her like a secret, the entirety of her body sheltered by someone who loved her. then, like a flower, she opened and opened until she was pressed fully out, nearly knocking the other girl loose from the bed entirely.
but paige always adjusted, always found a way to resettle in a way that allowed them to touch and prioritized azziâs comfort. this was a language they could utter in the dark, syntax built from years of sleeping in the same bed, an endless communication of need and accommodation.
eventually, summer took the remains of the evening by the teeth and wrung out every bit of darkness, biting and biting until its gold painted itself onto the plump of azziâs cheek. with a groan, azzi curled into a tighter spiral before stretching out into a full line, her ribs layered for a moment onto paigeâs own.
paige smiled softly, lips splitting with slight discomfort provided by the dehydration of sleep. she bent down, nosing at the dark crown of azziâs head before thumbing back a patch of curls to press a kiss to the temple.
âup, princess. we have a date to keep.â
azzi groaned again, but paige felt her toes curling against her calf underneath the linen duvet as she began to stretch.
the bathroom held them in its small white throat, made smaller by their bodies moving around each other in the steam. paige stood at the sink, toothbrush working mechanically, while through the fogged glass of the shower she could see the ghost of azziâhead tilted back, throat exposed to the water's violence.
she looked away. looked back. looked away again.
she could hear her mother like a choirâs call in her head: girls, there are six bathrooms in this house alone. you donât have to share one.
but why would she go somewhere where azzi wasnât?
when paige took her turn under the spray, the water still seemed to hold azzi's warmth, and the air was thick with the scent of her shampoo: coconut and vanilla orchid, a sweetness that landed neatly at the back of paigeâs tongue, enough to make her mouth water. she stood there longer than necessary, letting the heat work at the knots in her shoulders, trying to wash away the feeling that had been strengthening since dawn.
by the time she emerged, azzi was at the mirror, bent close as her fingers moved in careful circles as she worked sunscreen into her skin. the cream disappeared in small increments, absorbed into the brown warmth of her face. paige watched the ritual of it, transfixed by the deliberate slowness, by the way azzi's lips parted slightly as she concentrated on the vulnerable skin beneath her eyes.
"you're staring," azzi murmured, the words tempered with affection, never once looking away from her reflection.
"making sure you don't miss anywhere," paige said, moving into the narrow space beside her. their elbows knocked. "your ears. you always forget."
azzi tilted her head in offering, and paige dabbed the cream behind her ear, along the hinge of her jaw. the touch stretched longer than it needed to, her thumb following the curve where azzi's pulse beat visibly beneath the skin. in the mirror, their eyes met, something passing between them as quick as lightning, gone before it could scar.
âthank you, paigey,â azzi teased, eyes crinkling as she smiled. paige knew she was baiting her, and so she rose to it dramatically, rolling her eyes âtil the blue of them was at the sky and then back to her again.
âwhat would you do without me?â paige sighed, crossing her arms before breaking into the wide stretch of her smile, the pink tip of her tongue peeking from between her teeth.
azzi shoved her lightly as she ducked back into the room to grab her swimsuit, laughing as paige pretended to stumble from the non-existent intensity.
they drove from the rental house with the windows down, hair already sticking to their necks after ten minutes spent sitting in the driveway as they argued over aux, salt freckling on their skin as the breeze burned itself out in the same loop.
azzi was twisted away from paige, face always turned to the water, but she smiled when she heard the beginning riff of âright hereâ by lil peep spill from the speakers. paige felt the motion rather than saw it, and she dropped one hand from the creamy leather of the land roverâs steering wheel to the console, where she turned it upward so that azzi could slide her palm on top. their fingers entwined, and azzi settled further into the seat, looking forward now, sunglasses taking the brunt of the dayâs radiation.
paige knew that her eyes were most likely closed beneath the lenses, those dark lashes lush and eternally romantic against the high bones of her cheeks. she wanted to reach over and lift them, just to check, just to see if she was right, but she kept her hand where it was, thumb stroking absently across azzi's knuckles. the rhythm matched nothing but her own heartbeat.
they drove in silence, their shared playlist doing the work of holding conversation, only breaking when paige squeezed azziâs hands so that she could see the wild horses disappearing into the vast horizonâcoats brindled, feet wild, eyes dark as her own.
the parking lot was half-empty and composed of crushed shell and white dust, gulls wheeling overhead in patterns that couldâve been symbolic to someone more spiritual. paige pulled into a spot near the weathered walkway, and they unloaded the boards from the roof rack. paige did most of the lifting while azzi steadied them, her fingers trailing tentatively on the waxed surfaces.
the boards themselves were perfect illustrations of how well they worked: paige's a cream white with a thin navy stripe running down its center, the fiberglass worn smooth from years of use, scarred in places where rocks had kissed it recklessly; azzi's a pale pink scattered with hand-painted hibiscus, delicate and almost too precious for the water, chosen because she'd gasped delightedly when she saw it leaning against the rental shop wall.
they walked the wooden planks toward the water, past sea oats genuflecting in the wind, past the scattered abandonments of towels and umbrellas. the gulf stretched before them, turquoise bleeding into navy where the sandbar dropped away into nothing.
"ready?" paige asked, board under her arm, eyes always ahead.
azzi looked at the water, then at paige, then back at the water.
"ready," she echoed, but her voice snagged halfway. paige reached to the side, squeezing the side of her stomach before beginning to walk. she waded in first, the cold a bright shock against her sun-spoiled skin, and turned to watch azzi follow more slowly, testing each step as if the bottom might give way. as if the whole world might.
paige bit her bottom lip, that familiar feeling tugging at her belly, that desire to protect azzi from everything, even her own fears.
now they drifted, the boards swaying where the gulf turned from light to dark. azzi sat stiff-backed, a different picture than the version of her in the car and even the holiday house. she was overly cautious, eyes darting between the horizon and the glossy water that hid whatever lived below. paige watched her shoulder blades shift, like an angel searching for the reassurance of their wings, stomach contracting as she tried to keep her rising anxiety at a shallow level.
here it felt strange and wide, for her; far from safe. paige couldnât help the uptick of the corners of her mouth, her eyes falling to the way azziâs fingers were clenched along the round edge of her board.
âyou okay, princess?â
âi canât see the bottom,â azzi said, voice thin and high.
it reminded paige of their middle school days, when she would coax azzi into watching a horror filmâslasher or creature horror, never âelevatedâ, whatever that meantâonly to relish in the feeling of her best friend practically climbing into her lap, eyes screwed shut tightly, hands over her ears.
âthatâs okay. donât need to.â paige paddled closer, knees brushing azziâs thigh as the boards bumped. âyou got me.â
the world narrowed to this: the hum of cicadas from somewhere offshore, the slide of water against fiberglass, the sun leaning in as if to commit them to memory. paige reached to steady her, fingers at azzi's waist, skin damp and sun-warmed. she slid them down, always keeping contact, fingertips playing with the docile bows of azzi's bikini bottom.
this swimsuit was one of paigeâs favorites, a bright cobalt that made azzi's skin look like something poured bronze straight from a tap. the top was a simple triangle cut that tied behind her neck, the bottoms sitting low on her hips with bows at each side like two small promises waiting to be broken. the color reminded paige of the deep end of pools, those spaces where light couldn't reach, of drowning as a choice rather than an accident.
sheâd texted azzi a week before, reminding her to bring it.
around her neck, azzi had tied a beaded chokerâwhite and blue ascending wth each breath, glittering proudly in the sunlightâand paige found herself watching every shift, every single thing about how azzi moved, like she was down to seven more minutes living and was trying to never forget.
azzi breathed shallowly, chest rising under the spaghetti straps, eyes blinking warily.
paige tilted her head, touching her chin.
âprincess, look at me.â
azzi obeyed, that cervine gaze peering up from underneath her lashes, her cheek momentarily dimpled as she chewed the inside of her cheek to pieces. for a moment, paige didnât think and leaned forward, loose strands of blonde tumbling from her bun with the movement. she thumbed at the bottom of azziâs lip with her index finger, slipping it slightly inside when azziâs teeth parted, and tugged the tissue from between her molars.
âstop it. you know itâs gonna hurt you later.â
âyeah,â azzi said quietly, âthanks.â her breath ghosted warm against paige's finger. neither moved to sever the contact, the moment pulled taut as wire, singing with the tension.
paige looked at her then, and it was as if the sea had vanished. there was only the shimmer of light across azziâs eyes, the dark bloom of her curlsâthe volume slightly dampened with saltwaterâ, and the faint tremor that ran through her body as she tried to keep steady on the waves. paige felt the shake of her own pulse move up through her arms, a tide she couldnât turn back.
âyouâre okay,â paige murmured. âjust breathe. just look at me.â
paige knew, even then, that something in her had begun to tip. a shift too subtle to name, but irreversible. the sluice of her blood to a single point of gravity. she felt it in the hush that followed, in the fever snaking beneath her skin and working at her neck. in the way, azziâs gaze never left its fixed point on her face, muscles relaxing as she gazed deeply at the one thing she had always known how to love.
there was a knowing then that they both were teetering at the edge of a cliff with rocks at the bottom, black and jagged, aching for a fall. whatever it was had already started to pull paige over, and her only thought was to twist so that it was her against the stone, and azzi against only her.
always this. always her body as the barrier between azzi and the breaking.
I. MINNESOTA / STELLATE / SAMIA.
when azzi arrived like the following july, like summer itselfâimmediate and without warningâpaige had been half expecting her in the way you learn to expect a storm by the airâs sudden weight and the ache in the injury thatâs spent half your life wounding you. all that dragging and the sudden onslaught.
paige could always feel it when azzi was near, even her entrance past state lines. sheâd dubbed it their âtwin thingâ affectionately in high school, mostly because it was true, but also because every time she said azzi would correct her, so automatic.
paige, sheâd protest. we canât have that. weâre best friends.
canât we? paige would always murmur, fingers stretching out to thumb at some part of azzi that was within reach. we could be the first.
and azzi would always fold, her smile fleeting but so tender. it felt good to be on that podium, even when azzi was only letting her win.
so, at the tail end of july, when azzi came sailing easily through paigeâs front door, words tumbling over themselves in their excitement, landing on the forest green cotton hill of her beloved weekend duffle before sliding to the floor, sentences breaking apart before they could finish formingâpaige was not as shocked as someone else might have been.
and by the time paige had fully registered her presence, the familiar cut of that gentle dove-like voice cutting through the once-impenetrable minnesota heat, settling into every inch of the negative space coalescing around her body as she stood frozen in time on her carpeted stairs, azzi had already climbed past her and begun the pilgrimage to her bed.
she turned at the last moment, mouth soft and pink as she beamed, pleased with herself, and said,
âgrab me something, will you? or like, make your snack plate twice as big.â
paige usually would balk at sharing her well-earned snacks, but this time she did nothing but grin back, hands bunching at the hem of her oversized sweatshirt bought from the state fair, the same confectionery pink as the cotton candy they always got sick on.
when paige returned to her bedroom, azzi only allowed her a few minutes to set the plate (packed to the brim) on her nightstand before she tugged the other girl down so that she could climb eagerly on top of paige's stomach, straddling her with the unfaltering confidence of someone who had done this a thousand times before and would do it a thousand times over.
"i did it," azzi said, breathless, her hands braced on paige's shoulders like she was trying to hold the worldâher world in place. "i fucking did it. i committed to uconn."
the pajamas she wore were almost indecent in their brevity, a matching set in striped grey and white, the shorts so short they barely qualified as clothing, riding high enough that the white band at the waistband cut into the soft give of her hips. the tank top was thin enough to be translucent where paigeâs lamp light hit it, so flimsy and forgiving, spaghetti-strapped and pulled taut across her chest in a way that made it impossible not to notice the shape of her, the rise of her breasts and how they had always sat so nicely; the way her body had continued its relentless work of becoming hers.
paige felt something lurch in her chest, a fish hooked and thrashing.
"you're fucking with me," paige managed, but she was already grinning, her hands coming up instinctively to rest on azzi's hips, thumbs sliding beneath the hem of the tank top to press against skin that was exertion-warm, damp from the heat. she felt the joy grow, the spiral dizzying and setting a buzzing off in both rows of teeth. "you actually did it?"
"i actually did it." azzi was bouncing slightly, unable to contain the energy thrumming wildly through her body like an electrical current, and each movement sent a matching voltage through paige's stomach, made her fingers tighten their grip until she could feel the bones of azzi's hips pressing back against her palms. "we're going to play together. can you believe it? we're going toâ"
"âbe everyoneâs worst fucking nightmare," paige finished, and she sat up slightly, engaging her core to bring herself closer, enough to wrap her arms fully around azzi's waist and pull her in. the shift in position brought them chest to chest, azzi's knees bracketing paige's ribs, thighs pressed warm and solid against her sides, and for a moment they just stayed there, pressed together in the pale wash of moonlight that filtered through the window and painted everything the color of pearl, of something delicate enough to perish with a single touch.
paige nearly wept at the feel of it, this closeness.
always this, she thought desperately. always this.
paige could feel azzi's heartbeat slowing to replicate the path of her own, could feel it hammering away like a flock of birds attempting jailbreak from the skin, could smell the faint scent of her lotion, something bright and wane that made paige think of tiare flower and wedding arrangements and white dresses and white suits, mixed with the clean smell of recently washed skin and underneath it allâsomething earthier, more animal.
azziâs hair was still damp at the ends, as if sheâd climbed into the car drenched and frantic to get to the woman she had beneath her now, curling slightly as it dried, so dark, so beloved. paige found herself staring at the way it stuck to her neck, at the way droplets of water had gathered in the glistening hollow of her throatâbrown column gleamingâand sat there glittering like gems cut to the smallest carat.
she wanted to press her mouth there. apply pressure.
she wanted to taste the freshwater, the sweat, the salt.
the thought came unbidden and left her breathless, a hummingbird state of mind. it left her feeling like she'd been running sprints in the heat until her lungs burned and her vision went white at the edges. she forced herself to look away, counting to twenty seconds and cutting five short as she did her best to focus on something else, anything else, but there was nowhere safe to look. everywhere was just more of azzi: pictures of her, chicly faded from many a photobooth, the curve of her shoulder, the demanding jut of her collarbone, the way her stomach flexed with each intake of air, the small gold pandora heart at her throat catching light.
"canât believe you drove in matching pajamas to come and tell me this," paige said finally, her voice rougher than she intended, scraped raw. her hands had started traveling of their own accord, fingers tracing idle patterns on azzi's sides, feeling the give of her waist, the way her body was all softness layered deceptively over something stronger, the tension of ambitious muscle beneath the yielding.
azzi pulled back enough to look at her, eyebrows raised, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth. the movement made her shift in paige's lap, made everything worse.
"do you have an issue with my pajamas, bueckers?"
"mmm, no. promise. not much of anything to have an issue with anyway." paige's eyes dropped again, helpless, tracking the way the shorts had ridden up even higher, the way they revealed the dark expanse of azzi's thighs, smooth and endless. azzi struck her shoulder playfully at the comment. "they're just very, um, coordinated. like always. always matching."
"so?" azzi's cheeks were flushed, though whether from excitement or their mixed body heat or something else entirely, paige couldn't tell. didn't want to guess. "i like to match. it's cute."
"it is cute," paige agreed, and then, because she couldn't help herself, because the proximity to her favorite girl on earth always made her reckless and azzi was sitting on top of her looking like every slick, sweet dream paige had ever tried to forget and failed, she added: "i bet your underwear matches too. let me guessâ" she tilted her head, made a show of thinking about it, even as her thumbs pressed more firmly into azzi's hips, even as she felt the hitch in azzi's breathing. "grey? no, wait. white. has to be white to match the waistband."
azzi went very still. the flush on her cheeks deepened, spreading down her neck to disappear beneath the neckline of her tank top, and paige watched it go, watched the way azzi's skin betrayed her, the way her body could never keep a secret, always spilling its guts if paige showed a hint that she wanted to know. "no. shut up."
paige cracked out a victorious laugh, a flash of pride searing through her.
"i'm right, though, aren't i?" paige was grinning now, wolfish, enjoying the way azzi's composure had cracked, the way she was suddenly the one who didn't know where to look. "lace, too, huh? so predictable, princess. everything matches. your entire life is color-coordinated."
"that's notâ" azzi started, then stopped, bit her lip. her hands had moved from paige's shoulders to her own thighs, fingers splayed wide like she was trying her best to hold herself together. "you're being annoying."
âiâm just someone who knows you," paige murmured, voice just shy of revealing, and she couldn't stop staring at where azzi's teeth sank into her bottom lip, at the way the tissue went bloodless under the pressure before flooding that warm, dark rose again. she wanted to reach up and tug it free the way she had in the water in sarasota, wanted to tell her to stop before she hurt herself, but she was afraid that if she moved her hands from azzi's hips, she'd do something stupid instead.
something devastatingly irreversible.
"come on, princess,â she egged, pupils almost fully blown. âjust admit it. then iâll let it go.â
"i am not telling you what color my underwear is, paige,â azzi said, but she was laughing too now, aerial and solar in power, and the sound of it made something shudder open in paige's chest, a pressure point that could send her catatonic if she didnât ignore it as much as she worked to. "you're such a pervert. should be ashamed of yourself."
"mmm, i'm just observant." paige's fingers had found the hem of the tank top again, had begun playing with it absently, brushing against the skin dipping across azziâs belly. she could feel the muscles jump underneath the touch, could feel the way her hands were forced up then down as azziâs breathing went shallow and quick. "it's called paying attention. i notice things about you. itâs what all good best friends do."
"yeah?" azzi's voice had gone low, velveteen and uncertain, and when paige peered up at her face, she found her already looking back at her with an expression that made paige's throat seal shut. "what else do you notice about me, p?"
everything, paige wanted to say. i notice everything about you. you make me notice more about myself. youâre like a tattoo, an eternal mark. i notice it all, i keep staring at it, tracing where you sit inside of me, pretty in script along the soft inner seam of my hip. you are the moment the artist goes over the bone, and i feel every vibration, like a car speeding down the vast highway. i like it, no matter how odd. i try to keep every part of you, because you remind me how much i enjoy being alive.you call me back to myself. with you, even just the thought of you, my veins spark, my blood pumps, my bones buzz and buzz and buzz.
there is a name for this feeling, but it escapes me. you cannot escape me. i dream about you, i let you settle into me like an occupier. i take what i can get.
but she couldn't say any of that. couldn't say anything that indecipherable with its honest desire, that throb for further allowance; adoration in nudity. so instead she shrugged, forced her face into something casual, something safe.
"i dunno. just stuff."
azzi's expression gathered itself, underwent a million transformations in only a minute, before falling into something like disappointment. it flickered across her features before she schooled them back into a smile. paige wanted to scream, loud and unrelenting, at how badly they performed their pretending. but she tucked the sound behind her teeth.
"just stuff. wow. so specific."
paige scrambled, anxious to rescue the moment.
âif you wear studs instead of hoops, youâll forget to take them off before bed," paige said, reaching up to adjust the small gold chain around azzi's neck, settling the clasp at the proper spot behind the neck. "i know that if you love a book enough, youâll buy multiple copies so you can have different covers. and i know that you're gonna sleep in my bed tonight because you always do when you're here, even though the guest roomâs made up. and that tomorrow morning you're gonna steal my clothes and act like you didn't."
"i do not steal them," azzi protested. "i borrow them."
"you never give them back."
"that's still borrowing just...with an extended return policy."
paige giggled despite herself, and azzi smiled down at her, and for a moment, it was like looking into the heart of the sun. everything felt normal again, felt like it always had: the two of them existing in their own private world, speaking their own private language, burrowing in a space equivalent to the blank territory behind the glass frame held fragile inside a heart-shaped locket.
but then azzi shifted again, altering her weight, and paige's hands tightened on back on her hips reflexively. the air between them went thick and strange. azzi's eyes dropped to paige's mouth, then back up, and paige felt her heart kick up in her throat, felt her whole body burst into flame as her pulse thrummed.
"paige," azzi said quietly, and the way she said it made it sound more like a question than a name belonging to this body begging for more like a prayer.
paige didn't know how to answer.
"hm?"
"are youâ" azzi stopped, shook her head slightly, began to power down. "never mind."
"hey, no, what?" paige's thumbs circled again, now drawing those same small shapes along the base of azzi's spine, and she watched the way azzi's breath left her, the way her pupils dilated. "what were you gonna say?"
"nothing. it's stupid."
"youâre never stupid, az. tell me anyway?â
azzi was quiet for a long moment, and paige could see her working through something, weighing options, making calculations. finally, she said, so tentatively that paige almost didn't hear it:
"are you happy? that i'm coming?"
"am iâ" paige sat up straighter, bringing them even closer, until there was barely any space between them at all. "azzi, are you serious right now? i'm fucking ecstatic. this isâyou have no idea what this means to me. getting to play with you. getting toâ" she stopped, swallowed hard. "yeah. fuck, yeah, princess. âm happy."
azzi's answering smile was blazing, luminous enough to hint at harm, and she threw her arms around paige's neck and hugged her fiercely, face buried in the curve where paige's shoulder smoothed into her neck. paige wrapped her arms around azzi's waist and held on and on, as if she was trying to memorize the feeling, the pressure, and warmth of her, the way her curls kissed at the skin of paigeâs chest.
the way her lips brushed there, too.
they stayed like that for an indeterminate amount of time, tangled together until they felt like an undiscovered country, and paige thought about how this was enough. how it had to be enough. how she would make it enough.
but even as thought drifted through her mind, she couldnât find the strength to pledge allegiance to it. instead, her hands slid further up azzi's back, fingers splaying wide, and azzi made a sound so small and wet against her neck that masqueraded as contentment but most likely was something more, and paigeâ
paige knewâknew with the same certainty she knew her own nameâthat it would never be enough. that she would always want more. that wanting azzi was like dragging the tongue along the bladed edge of a slab of ice because you could remember so clearly what the goodness of water tasted like, how it once was that, too.
when azzi finally pulled back, her eyes were shining, two large wet stars.
"we're gonna be so good together," she said, and paige nodded, even though she wasn't sure anymore which game they were talking about.
and paige believed her, because azzi would always be true. she could see it now, without being there. the two of them, a duet of bright young women, at home on a shared court, paige could see it, how she would turn to accept the pass from azzi, would see the sweat beaded on her best friendâs skin, its catch in the wetness of her mouth.
everything azzi gave her, paige let rule over her.
weâre gonna live forever, paige wanted to promise.
paige could feel that nameless emotion rising, the rush dawning like the sky opening in apocalypse, a sun coming out like blood at the tip of the tongue. she could feel it slicing at her mouth, the parts of it, enraged at being repressed.
she could hear it begging for reprieve, for the solace of azziâs lips crushed against it.
but she had to save it.
so, she said,
âweâre gonna be the best.â
II. CONNECTICUT / DUST BOWL ( DEMO ) / ETHEL CAIN.
azzi usually steered clear of thick florals, especially roses. but in the fall, she forgave herself for her fallacies, including indulging in the smell of it. she only liked it in the end months of the year, and specifically as it came across when dusted over paige. her best friend often leaned vanilla in cologne, but sometimes sheâd spritz a bit of a fragrance so old that the label had been worn off the bottle by the repeated love of her fingers against it.
it was so rarely used, and so it aged and aged until it bled out a blend of oud and deep roseâdamask, if azzi recalled correctly. it never smelled as good as her memory had saved it, but she loved falling asleep with her nose pressed to paigeâs neck, the flower softening nearly to rot but still beautiful. sheâd drift, then, mind slurring into a peace she associated with autumnal woods with a path nearly gone, hidden inside, trodden hand-in-hand when paige came to see her in virginia four years ago.
now she could smell it again as she sat on the quad, eyes flickering over the kaleidoscope of the seasonâs leaves and the dark, brittle skin of the trees in the last throes of life. despite the annual decay, the campus was alive in the way only october at uconn could make it. students were undeterred by the wet earthâa souvenir from a flash pour that occurred just before azziâs contemporary media activism lectureâand sprawled across both the grass and one another, offerings to the expiring warmth.
the air was sharp with the smell of coffee orders, either overly elaborate or ridiculously minimal, and someone's cigarette smoke drifting from the direction of the library. that had to be a fire hazard in some way. azzi sat, cross-legged on the stone wall near the student center, her body angled toward the watery kiss of the last-minute sun so that her back was settled snugly against the strong line of paigeâs shoulder.
sheâd chosen comfort today: flared yoga pants in deep grey that hugged her hips, paired with a color-matched ribbed tank top that grew thin at the straps. it was all grounded by an open cardigan in the deepest black that kept slipping off one shoulder, revealing the smooth brown skin there, the ridge of her collarbone. her hair was pulled back in a high ponytail, curls cascading to the middle of her back, and she had her phone balanced on her knee as she tuned back in just in time to laugh at something kk was saying, her whole face transforming with it, luminous and unguarded.
paige couldn't stop looking at her. she could feel it, like godâs eyes. sheâd been looking at her all morningâall week, all month, reallyâto the point where sheâd asked if she looked bad. paige had stammered out a negative, flustered, and azzi had squeezed her hand before walking off to her lecture hall.
ever since azzi had arrived on campus, it had been different. she was almost always in paige's dorm room, determined to make it feel less like the cell it appeared to be and more like a home. here, their habits continued, azzi falling asleep in paige's bed more nights than not, her body curved into paige's like they were two parts of the same equation.
it was making paige insane. the proximity of it all. the way azzi touched her so casuallyâfingers at her wrist, hand at the small of her back, head on her shoulderâlike it meant nothing, like it didn't make paige's blood sing and her hands shake and her mouth press together so hard that she could feel every bit like a death pact come collect.
"yo, p, you listening?" kk was waving a hand in front of her face, dark brows raised in amusement.
"what? yeah. sorry." paige dragged her attention away from where azzi was now scrolling through her ipad with its matching white stylus, her onenote open to painstakingly precise notes, that small line appearing just above the ridge of her noseâthat fixed symbol that meant she was concentrating so hard on the task at hand that sheâd get a headache later.
paige made a note to give her ibuprofen before they hit the court later.
"we were saying that apparently you've been busy." this time it was ice speaking, grin wicked and knowing. paige felt dread begin to build, latent and hot in her throat. "heard you had alyssa from the soccer team in your room last week. and before that, that girl from your bio class. what's her nameâ"
"bro, can we not?" paige interrupted, but she could feel her face heating, could feel the way azzi had gone very still beside her, eyes trained militantly on the screen in front of her, laughter gone dead in her throat upon arrival.
"i'm just saying," ice continued, oblivious or maybe just uncaring, "you're like a campus legend at this point. paige bueckers, heartbreaker extraordinaire. there's probably a running list somewhere."
someoneâpaige thought it might have been aubreyâpulled out her phone and started scrolling through instagram, tilting the screen toward the group. "oh shit, yeah. this other girlâkat, i think?âshe posted about you like two days ago. i took a screenshot. 'best night everrrr.ââ
aubreyâs voice sang high with the tease, and the table erupted in laughter and shrill catcalls. paige wanted to sink into the ground, wanted to disappear entirely, because she could feel azzi looking at the phone now, could feel the way her body had gone rigid, immovable. could practically hear the gears turning in her head as she blankly studied the girl in the photo.
brunette, hair thick and glossy, and spilling into a question mark of a ponytail. tall and toned in a way that spoke to running, pretty in an effortless way that was perfect under the influence of mango-infused tequila, but currently made paige's stomach hurt.
paige turned fully to look at her best friend, trying and failing to catch her eye, trying and failing to communicate an understanding, but azzi wouldn't look at her. azzi always looked at her, was always ready. but she wasnât ready anymore.
instead, her jaw was set, teeth gripped as tightly as her fingers were around the sides of her phone. the knuckles had gone pale, and paige could see her doing itâthat thing she did where she catalogued all the ways she didn't measure up, where she made an inventory of her own inadequacies and displayed them like evidence of some crime she'd committed just by existing. she watched as azzi subconsciously reached toward the dark ends of her own pulled-back curls, and the action was so small but carried enough pain to fell paige like a demolition site.
"az," paige said quietly, reaching out to touch azzi's knee, but azzi flinched away. paige felt as though she was burning down, bones gone to ash and blood all in her mouth.
azzi blinked at her, face unreadable, and then stretched a smile from ear to ear. it was so unnatural that it nearly appeared to hurt, and paige scrambled inside.
"hey, so i forgot that i have a study session for a group project for my mass communications class," azzi said, standing up so abruptly that she nearly knocked iceâs water bottle from its spot on the wall. her voice was bright, fragile, wrong, the words all stilted. "i gotta go, but iâll catch you later, okay?"
and then she turned, already walking away before paige could begin to respond, cardigan fluttering around her like a birdâs frantic flapping when pushed from the nest. paige sat there, frozen, watching the shape of her disappear into the sudden surge of students crossing the quad, feeling like she'd just failed some test she hadn't known she was taking.
"is she good?" kk asked.
paige didn't answer. she was already pulling out her phone, dragging open the google calendar they shared, the one they'd set up freshman year of high school, color-coded in pink and purple, every game and study session and family holiday and doctor's appointment meticulously logged because they liked knowing where the other one was, liked being able to look at their phone and see proof that their existence within each other's lives.
she scrolled through azzi's schedule for today until she was dizzy and the white space blurred. nothing. no study session, no group project, nothing except practice later that afternoon.
she took a screenshot, fingers slipping on the first attempt, and sent it to azzi.
me: ????????? i know im not tripping
the three dots appeared immediately, then disappeared, then appeared again.
a đđ: forgot to add it in me: yeah bc itâs a lie me: bro nika is in ur class, she said thereâs no group project me: azzi what the fuck me: talk to me
but azzi had stopped responding, had probably turned her phone face-down on whatever surface she was near, and paige felt something crack open in her chest, something that had been building pressure for months, maybe years.
she felt like the emoji sheâd chosen for azziâs contact name, pulsing and pulsing, radiating as it searched for signs of life. only to come up short, revealed to be all alone.
she didn't see azzi for the rest of the day. she wasn't at practice, which paige only found out through an irritated geno, who told her azzi claimed she was sick, which paige knew to be another lie but backed up anyway.
it was another fracture in the foundation of everything they were. paige went through the motions, ran the drills, took the shots, but her mind was elsewhere, caught on the image of azzi's face when she'd seen that instagram story, the way her whole body had contracted like she'd taken a hit.
by the time practice ended, paige was vibrating with anxiety, with the need to see azzi and fix whatever she'd transgressed without intention. she showered so quickly that she was teased about it on the way out of the locker room, and headed straight for azzi's dorm, letting herself in with the key azzi had given her during move-in week.
the room was dark and quiet, and for a moment paige thought maybe azzi wasn't there. but then she heard it. a small sound from the bathroom, something between a gasp and a whimper.
"azzi?"
paige crossed the room and pushed open the door. she found her there, standing in front of the mirror, tank top pushed up to just below her breasts, and there was bloodânot a lot, but enoughâtrickling down from her navel where a silver barbell now gleamed, the skin around it flushed and angry.
"jesus, az," paige said, and her voice came out strangled. "what did you do?"
azzi's eyes met hers in the mirror, and they were wet, defiant. "what does it look like, bueckers? letâs use our brains."
paige closed her eyes and prayed momentarily for patience before returning her gaze to the golden plane of azziâs belly.
"i mean, obviously, itâs a fucking piercing. but i guess âm confused because we were supposed to go to your appointment together." paige could hear how childish it sounded even as she said it, but she couldn't help it. they'd talked about this, had planned it as a special moment for just the two of them, had researched shops and argued about gold over silver and silver over gold; paige had promised to hold hands with azzi all the way through it. "we had a plan."
"yeah, well." azzi turned to face her properly, and the movement made her wince, one hand coming up to hover over the metal without quite touching it. "things change. you of all people should know that."
the words landed like a slap, and it felt so unfair that paige took a step back, feeling all air abandon her.
"what's that supposed to mean?"
"you know exactly what it means." azzi's voice was trembling now, anger and hurt tangled together until they were indistinguishable. "apparently, you've been having all sorts of adventures that you haven't told me about. so i figured, why not have my own?"
"azziâ"
"were you ever going to tell me?" azzi's eyes were nearly on fire with her pain, tears spilling over, tracking down her cheeks, and breaking off at her chin. "or was i just supposed to find out from our fucking teammates that my best friendâ" she stopped, bit her lip so hard paige was afraid she'd draw blood. "that you've been sleeping with half the campus?"
"first off, itâs notâit wasn't like that." paige felt helpless, like she was drowning despite being in shallow waters. "it didn't mean anything. none of them meant anything."
"then why keep it from me?" azzi's voice stuttered halfway through the question, cleaving in two.
because youâd look down on me just like right now, paige wanted to say. because i feel you like a hole in my head, and i needed to staunch the bleed. because i want to be loved and touched and needed without making you suffer me. because i thought maybe if i fucked enough other people, i'd stop thinking about what it would be like to fuck you.
but she couldn't say any of that. couldn't confess to any of it.
"i don't know," she said instead, and because she never knew when to leave well enough alone, she continued. âwhy do you even care?â
azzi jerked backward, face crumpling like sand under the weight of water. âmy whole life is about caring about you. youâve never kept something from me before. we tell each other everything.â
the truth of it left paige defenseless and therefore silent, so they stood there in the fluorescent bathroom light, the space between them feeling more like a chasm than something simple to close. paige thought about how easy it would be to just reach across it, to pull azzi into her arms and apologize until her voice gave out. but the rigor in azzi's posture, the relentless stand of her spine, told her that the touch wouldn't be welcome right now, that azzi needed distance the way paige needed her, and the asymmetry of it made her want to cup her throat and squeeze until she conquered the scream.
"it's getting infected," paige said finally, gesturing to azziâs stomach with its little red beads of blood. her voice came out flat, clinical. "you need to clean it."
"i know how to clean it," azzi said, but she made no effort to move. only stood there with her arms wrapped around herself like she was desperately trying to hold her body together.
paige wondered what would fall out if she let go.
"câmon. let me help you." paige was already walking to the sink, wetting a clean washcloth with warm water. "please. az. just let me help."
let me fix it. fix it. please. please, god, please. i can fix it.
azzi was quiet for a long moment, and then she nodded, just barely, and lowered her arms to her sides. the tank top was still pushed up, exposing the soft give of her stomach and the gentle beginning curve of her hips, and paige tried not to look as she came to her, tried to focus on the task at handâbut it was impossible.
her best friendâs skin was warm beneath her fingers as paige steadied her with one hand on her hip, using the other to gently dab at the blood and clear fluid leaking from around the piercing. azzi hissed at the contact, muscles jumping with the sensitivity, and paige murmured an apology, blowing cool air across the inflamed skin.
"you have to be more careful," she said quietly, blue eyes latched steadfastly on the inner pucker of azziâs belly button. "you can't justâyou can't do something like this and not take care of it properly."
"i didn't think it would hurt this much," azzi admitted, and her voice was small, younger than paige had heard it in years. âeveryone said it wouldnât.â
"everything hurts more than you think it will." paige squeezed antibacterial solution onto a cotton swab and pressed it gently around the piercing site. "but that's kind of the point, right? of getting one?"
azzi didn't answer, but the way she watched paige work with those dark eyes spoke to what she was thinking. she had always had such a heavy gaze, those wide cervine eyes that had always seen too much, that had always been the one to know how to handle it if they were both looking. paige could feel the weight of them like a physical thing, could feel azzi reading her the way she read defenses, finding all the weak spots and cataloguing them for later use.
she would know them in sleep, her dreams colored after them, her every action validated by the presence.
when the piercing was clean and paige had applied a thin layer of healing ointment, she should have stepped back. should have put space between them again and let the moment end. but she didnât, couldnât. she needed azzi to know she was sorry, needed permission to call her her princess again.
her hand stayed in place, still on azzi's hip, thumb stroking in absent sweeps, and before she could think better of it, she was slipping to her knees. she leaned in, pressing her lips to the unblemished skin just to the left of the wound.
she had never felt azziâs body be this halcyon. for a moment, there was nothing, but then her hand came up to tangle in paige's hair as if receiving sacrament, fingers tightening almost painfully at the roots.
paige kissed her again, just below the navel this time, feeling the way the muscles contracted under the pressure of her mouth. and again, to the right, and again, mapping the territory around the metal with her lips, taking liberties to kiss away the pain she'd caused, lips falling open and more open again.
"paige," azzi breathed, and the way she said it made paige's whole body go liquid.
paige looked up at her from where she kneeled, blood stellate, eyes endless from this angle, and found azzi gazing down at her with an expression that made paige's heart practically stop.
there was so much she was swollen with.
wanting.
confusion.
terror, which always arose in the face of something beautiful.
for a moment, they just stayed like thatâpaige on her knees like a supplicant, azzi trembling above herâand paige thought this is it, this is when everything changes, this is when i finally tell her and she will finally understand.
but then paige messed it up because she looked away, back in front of her, and pressed a kiss to the slip of azziâs hipbone, her tongue tracing the boneâhot and slick and soft. and it was this that sent azzi stepping back, pulling her tank top down, the wall going up behind her eyes so fast paige could practically hear it slam into place.
âthank you," azzi said, her voice carefully neutral. switzerland. "for helping me."
"yeah," paige said, pushing herself up on legs that felt unsteady. "course."
she knew they wouldnât talk about it, that she wouldnât be able to without bursting into tears. she wanted to burst into tears now, bawl like the child she would always feel inside of her. the same one that had watched her parents split.
and maybe azzi could tellâpaige knew she couldâbecause she reached out and cupped paigeâs cheek, eyes softening until they were as tender as meat. they stood there, face to palm in a bathroom not worth the tuition, overhead light flickering and turning paigeâs hair further blonde with every other shine.
they stood there, looking at each other across a distance that felt insurmountable, and pretended that everything was fine. that everything was still the same as it had always been.
that paigeâs hands werenât trembling by her sides, that azziâs thumb wasnât near paigeâs bottom lip.
this was mutualism.
III. VIRGINIA / SMOTHER / DAUGHTER.
virginia in december burned with a special nature of winter, and in the mountains, it only felt further alien.
in the peaks, the cold felt personal, always on the verge of acting as a threat, an endless searching for the warmest parts of you just to press its thumb there until something gave way. the cabin geno had rented for them sat perched on the side of a hill just moments from erosion, comprised of exposed beams of light wood and floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out onto nothing but white, the snow so thick it erased the distinction between earth and sky. it was a task to tell what was solid and what was simply the absence of something else.
while their coaches had helped arrange the holiday, they had begged off on joining, something every girl able to attend was grateful for. the intended bonding wouldâve fallen short, flickering threads of connection failing to touch and strengthen the weave of their relationship.
azzi had been in the hot tub for the better part of an hour, body submerged up to the collarbone in water that scalded and soothed in turns; it made her skin feel like it was moments from slipping off and belonging to someone else.
she wore a black bikini, simple and minimal, that made her hyperaware of the suggestion of her own silhouette. it gave the feeling of wearing almost nothingâbut in a welcome wayâwith its triangles of fabric barely containing the swell of her breasts, and ties at her hips that pledged a loose vow of security. a shell necklace sat against her throat, the white and cream ovals slick with steam, and she kept touching it absently, a nervous habit she'd developed somewhere between childhood and now.
the air bit mercilessly at her face and shoulders, creating a strange dichotomy of being both sweltering and freezing all at once. her body always so unable to decide what it wanted, what it could tolerate. she'd slipped further into the water to escape the contradiction, letting the heat work at the knots in her shoulders that had been building since they'd arrived two days ago.
since paige had receded, a radio tower gone silent, too devastated to properly pretend she was fine.
azzi looked away from where caroline drifted before her to where paige sat in one of the lounge chairs just outside the hot tub's perimeter, hunched forward with her elbows on her knees, swimming in an oversized grey hoodie that made her look smaller than she was, frailer than sheâd ever let on. basketball shorts despite the cold, because she was stubborn like that, always had been, her body a testament to refusal.
her knee was wrapped, the black brace visible beneath the hem of her shorts like cainâs mark. she'd been sitting there for what mustâve been forty minutes now, phone in hand, scrolling through nothing, contributing nothing to the conversation happening around her. azziâs chest squeezed tightly, and she clenched her fingers around her thigh beneath the bubbling water.
she kept glancing over at her. couldn't help it. kept waiting for her best friend to meet her eyes, to give her somethingâthat smile like heaven, that smirk, the lifting of the veilâbut paige's gaze stayed fixed on the middle distance, jaw tight, mouth pressed into a line that meant she was barely holding something back, that the dam was one more word away from breaking.
azzi wanted to go to her, to crawl to her, to place her hands along her spine and beg her to spell it out.
"earth to azzi," caroline called, pulling azzi's attention back to the group with the violence of interruption, at odds with the kindness of her tone. "you ready for the bahamas? three weeks, right? iâm so excited. jesus, to play in actual heat for once instead of this frozen hell."
âyeah,â azzi said, smiling half-heartedly.
the conversation around the hot tub shifted like the weather, everyone eager to talk about the tournament: the hotels they'd be staying in, the restaurants they wanted to try, the practices on the beach that would feel more like vacation than work.
âweâll fucking kill it,â morgan chimed in, face bright with the hope. âweâre gonna bring it home.â
azzi felt her stomach drop, felt the way the air suddenly went thin, identical to the onset of altitude sickness. she had the sudden, horrible feeling that she was watching something tragic happen in slow motion and couldn't move fast enough to stop the loss.
morgan's face changed as soon as she realized what she'd said, crumpling sweetly, eyes going wide with the particular horror of accidental cruelty. "oh my god. paige, i didn'tâ"
"it's fine," paige said, voice empty and mechanical, the possession of someone who was trying to will a lie into the quality of truth. she didn't look up once from her phone. "y'all have fun. bring me back a seashell or whatever."
"pâ" ice started, but paige was already standing, moving with a careful deliberation that communicated that her knee was aching worse than she'd admit. azzi hated this, this voyuerism of a girl carrying pain like a teenage secret, hoodie pulled up over her head as she limped toward the sliding glass door that led back into the cabin's throat.
azzi watched her go, watched the way paige's shoulders were drawn up to her ears like she was trying to shrink in real time, watched the way she was trying so hard to appear as though she didn't care, like this wasn't killing her slowly, and felt something crack open in her chest in a jagged line.
"fuck," morgan said quietly. "i'm such an idiot."
"she knows you didn't mean it," azzi said, but she was already halfway out of the hot tub, water streaming off her body, steam rising from her skin as the winter chill crawled eagerly over her exposed limbs.
she nearly slipped as she grabbed her towel and wrapped it around herself, didn't bother with anything else. not her clothes or her shoes or her usual performance of normalcy. azzi stumbled with a lack of humiliation, anxious to get to paige, dripping water across the deck and then through the cabin, leaving wet footprints on the hardwood like evidence of passage. she took the stairs two at a time, her body still burning with phantom warmth from the hot tub, her skin slightly prickled with glaciation.
the bedroom paige had claimed was at the end of the hall, door closed, no light visible beneath it, a darkness so complete that azzi knew it to be intentional.
her room was next door.
she didn't knock, only turned the handle and slipped inside, closing the door behind her with the soft click of the latch.
the room was devoid of all light, curtains drawn tightly against the world, forcing it back with a hard hand. the only light came from the digital clock on the nightstand that read 9:47 pm in numbers that glowed an accusatory red. paige was in bed already, or at least in the bed, no longer wearing her hoodie and shorts, curled on her side facing away from the door like she was trying to disappear into the wall, trying to merge with something more solid than herself.
"i need a minute, az," paige said, voice muffled by the pillow, by the refusal to be seen.
azzi was unable to help the small smile that brushed across her face, pleasure rising at being known so thoroughly.
"no." azzi dropped her towel, toeing it open before undoing the delicate ties of her bikini, the fabric hitting the wood with a muffled slapâgravity enforced by the water content. she crossed to the bed, droplets still lingering along her skin, and climbed onto the mattress without asking permission.
she knew if she waited, the invitation might never come, and so she pressed herself against paige's back with abandon. one arm slid around paigeâs waist, the other tucking beneath the pillow they'd been sharing since arrival, her body an answer to the question paige never had to ask.
paige went rigid, every muscle locking. "bro, youâre getting the bed wet."
"don't care. iâll just change the sheets when you shower.â
"azzi."
"i'm not leaving." azzi pressed her face against the back of paige's neck, right where her hair was pulled into a messy bun, loose strands escaping to brush against azzi's mouth, and breathed in the familiar scent of her. vanilla lightened with a lavender touch, spiced with vetiver and something that was just paige. something azzi would recognize blindfolded, in a crowd, in another life. "so you can stop trying to get rid of me."
paige was silent for a long moment, and then azzi felt it: the tentative shake of her body that gained quickly in intensity, slight tremors that traveled through her like fault lines and then burst into their full earthquake, the uneven, ragged pull of her breath.
"it's just a little over a month," paige said, the words small and wet enough to clog azzi's own throat. she wanted nothing more than to gather paige up, hide her somewhere safe until it was all over. "six fucking weeks. it's nothing. i don't know why i'm being such a fucking baby about it."
"because it's not nothing, p," azzi corrected quietly, lips shifting tenderly against paige's neck, the words transferring directly into skin. "because basketball isâit's everything to us. to you. it's how you know yourself. it's the language you speak. and someone took it away, changed the build. you canât even translate.â
"okay, miss communications major,â paige puffed out, and azzi squeezed her stomach softly. then,
âbut i took it away, az,â and there was something juvenile in her voice, something savagely self-lacerating. "it was my fault. i went for a steal i shouldn't have, and i landed wrong, and now i'mâ" paige stopped, swallowed hard enough that azzi could feel it. "now i'm fucking useless."
"don't." azzi's arm tightened around paige's waist, hand tucking under the hem of her shirt to splay wide across her stomach, feeling the rise and fall, the proof of life. "don't you ever say that."
"it's true, though. who am i when iâm not on court? what am i if i'm notâ" paige's voice cracked like ice, and the lake rose. "i don't know how to be anything else. i feel buried alive."
azzi's heart was hammering so viciously she was sure paige could feel the vibrations against each ridge of her spine, a frenetic drumming that was trying to say something her mouth couldn't. she closed her eyes, pressed her lips to the nape of paige's neck over and over, arranging and then re-arranging in the shape something that wasn't quite a kiss but felt like one anyway, and felt the words rising in her throat.
words she'd been holding back for months, maybe years. sentences that felt too big and terrifying for the hold of a diary, too exposing to reveal in daylight, but somehow felt more possible here, in this black, dead air, where neither of them could see each other's faces.
in the dark, it was always easier to be brave. it was never confession, only relief.
"you're more than that," azzi said, and her voice came out rougher than she intended, scraped raw. "you're so much more than this sport. then any team contract or brand deal, or highlight reel. you'reâ"
she faltered, tried to gather these thoughts that came too quickly, tumbling over one another and onto her feet like water over rock. and she let them, abandoning pretense.
then, almost casually, she said,
âyou know, when we were younger, the thing i used to look forward to most was the away games. because of the bus ride after. you always came to the back with me, where no light reached. and weâd end upâgod, i donât even knowâhalf-asleep on each other, limbs everywhere. you and me in that dark corner on one side, sinking into each other like it was the most natural thing. it was, i think. it felt like we were the same person for a while, feeling all the same things without thinking twice.â
paige had gone very still beneath her touch, so still azzi might have thought she'd stopped breathing if not for the steady rise and fall of her back against azziâs chest.
âsometimes youâd fall asleep on top of me, and iâd stay wide awake, and i wouldnât move. i couldnât risk waking you, and iâi liked the weight. your warmth solidified me, especially after a loss. iâd get home smelling like you more than anything else. like iâd been dipped right inside of you. iâd lie on my floor in the dark, curled up like a kid, trying to hold onto it; the sense of you still on my skin. letting it pool around me for as long as i could before i had to wash it off and return to being my own separate body.â
azziâs voice broke, splintered. she pushed through.
"you make me feel seen. you make me feel safe. like i matter in ways that have nothing to do with what i can do, what i can produce, what i'm worth. and i don'tâi don't know how to separate loving you from needing you, and that scares me, because what if something happens and you're not there anymore? what if i lose you? what if thisâ"
she curled in closer, crushing what little space had been between them, holding on to the memory of their bodies pressed together in the dark.
"what if this ruins everything and i lose the only person who's ever made me feel like i could just be?"
"azzi. baby," paige had rolled over while she was talking, was now facing her in the dark, close enough that azzi could see the tears tracking down her cheeks even in the minimal light, silver trails catching what little illumination bled stubbornly through the curtains. "what are you saying?"
"i'm saying that you're everything," azzi said, and she was crying now too, couldn't help it, the tears coming hot and fast and unstoppable. "i'm saying that watching you hurtâphysically, emotionally, any of itâit destroys me, paige. it unmakes me. i'm saying that i don't care if you never touch a basketball again, you'd still be the most important person in my life. you'd still be the person i think about first thing in the morning and last thing at night. you'd still be the person iâ"
she stopped, screwed her eyes shut tightly because she couldn't bear to look at paige when she said it, couldn't bear to see whatever expression would cross her face.
"i'm saying that i love you. best friends, yes, but more, too. i love you so deeply, in a way that keeps me awake at night, half-insane and staring at the ceiling, trying to figure out when it happened, trying to remember a time when i didn't feel this way, and coming up empty. youâve been the constant weather of my life. so when you say youâre just a player, just someone for people to watchâno. youâve been the person i revolved around since we were little kids, paige. iâve been in love with you so long it feels like part of my body. i donât know how to separate it from anything else.
âi want to crawl inside your body and live there, be responsible for your skin and bones and blood. i want to know what it feels like to be you, to see the world the way you see it, to always know what youâre thinking. i love you in a way that probably isn't healthy and definitely isn't normal, and i'm sorry, i'm so sorry, but i can'tâi donât know what to do with it. i justâi just want to give it to you. and then some.â
and then some.
the silence that followed felt eternal, stretched lean as a vein waiting for the needle. azzi kept her eyes pressed closed, the pressure so great that bursts of color were flickering in the dark. she couldn't handle whatever horror was surely paige's face, couldn't stand to watch her pull away or shut down or worseâlook at her with pity, with the particular cruelty of kindness offered to the pathetic.
but then she felt it. paige's hand came up to cup her cheek, warm and careful, thumb brushing away her tears with a level of affection that nearly wrenched another sob from beneath azziâs ribs.
âprincess, hey. look at me," paige whispered. âbaby, can you please look at me?â
azzi forced her eyes open because sheâd do anything paige asked, and blinked through the blur of tears. found paige staring at her with an expression so intense it stole her breath, something callow and unguarded that paige would never let just anyone see.
but for the entirety of their lives, one of them had always been something to the other. someone.
"do you know how long iâve been waiting to hear you say that?" paige said, and her voice was wrecked, destroyed. "or at least some version of it? iâazzi, i donât know why you didnât tell me earlier. we tell each other everything.â
azzi thought of that bathroom, the cleaning of her piercing.
âbecause i didnât want you to send me away.â
paige scoffed, a brief laugh loosed out, high with disbelief. âthere isnât any version of the world where i donât want you with me. azziâi've been losing my fucking mind, dying time and time again, wanting you so fucking badly i could barely breathe around you. i felt like a fucking asthmatic. i used to lie awake at night thinking about what it would feel like to kiss you, to touch you, to have you be mine in all the ways that mattered. i do everything to show you that iâll cater to you. and you thought, you actually thought, that i wouldnât feel the same way?"
"youâ" azzi couldn't find the strength to finish the sentence. she couldnât process what paige was saying, couldn't make it fit into the reality she'd been living in.
"i sleep with other people because i can't have you," paige said, and her voice was raw, scraped clean of any pretense, any performance. "iâd go out and find girls who looked nothing like you, and iâd pretend it helped. iâd pretend if i just fucked enough of them, i'd stop wanting you, but it didnât work. nothing works. nothing makes me stop needing you. nothing makes me stop dreaming about having you. you're in my head all the time, you're my first in every instance, and it's killing me, azzi. it was killing me to love you this much and not be able toâ"
"roll over," paige said suddenly, cutting herself off.
"what?"
"roll onto your back, baby. please."
azzi obeyed, bewildered, her body moving on instinct, powered by trust, and then paige was moving too, was shifting her weight carefully. she sat up first, tugging her shirt up and over by the neck and then shimmying off her boxers, mindful of her knee. then she shifted until she was on top of azzi, settling her body against the naked line of the other girlâs with a low groan that sounded like coming home, like respite, like the end of something long and painful.
her head came to rest on azzi's chest, right over her heart where it beat wildly, and her arms wrapped around azzi's waist, holding on as though she was the only thing keeping paige tethered to earth, like without this anchor she'd drift away into nothing.
azzi's hands came up automatically, one tangling in paige's hair, the other tracing patterns on her backâcircles and figure eights and shapes that had no name. she dipped lower, to the small of her back where the fullness of her hips began to flow. she could feel paige's breath evening out, could feel the way her body was finally, finally relaxing, the tension bleeding out of her shoulders, her spine, her jaw.
"is this okay?" paige mumbled against her chest, lips moving against the line of azziâs collarbones.
azzi wanted to laugh. wanted to cry. wanted to scream at how much time they'd wasted, how many nights they could have had this.
"yeah," she managed, her voice thick. "this is okay."
itâs so much better now, she wanted to tell her.
they lay there in the dark, breathing together, heartbeats finding their shared rhythm; two organs bestowed by god, meant to synchronize all along. azzi kept running her fingers through paige's hair, kept tracing those idle patterns on her back, and thought about how many times they'd been in this position before: holding each other, seeking comfort, pretending it was just what friends did, just what teammates did, just what people who loved each other platonically did.
but it had never been just that. it had just felt less dangerous to ignore it.
"we should probably talk about this more when we get back," paige said eventually, her voice thick with exhaustion.
"okay," azzi said, "but later. right now, just rest, p. let me hold you."
"yeah," paige whispered against her chest, the vibration pushing through azzi's chestplate like a drill looking for oil. "okay."
and so, that was what azzi did. she held paige through the night, mapping every point of touch like a star chart. hip to thigh to breast to leg. paige shifted to the right slightly, and it made her leg fall between azziâs, the length of her thigh firm against the heat of azziâs cunt. it felt good there, felt grounding. it was less about the placement and more about the act of it.
her best friend was past the line, venturing into this private space, and unfraid to stay there.
azzi held paige the way she'd wanted to for years, and paige held her back.
she looked to the floor, where a small bit of moonlight had crept to the edge, and thought of the brightness of morning. how the sunlight would fracture against the snow and blind them, everything so white, everything so blank.
cold and bright and beautiful and blinding. like an afterlife.
this always, she thought. our bodies, bridged together like a banister.
IV. FLORIDA KEYS / SUNSET ( SLOWED ) / LUCKI.
the keys were the best in the shoulder season. from late april to early june, the islands had a distinct quality compared to the rest of the state. they seemed to shudder with a different kind of life, as if theyâd decided to let their guard down for a brief, private interval. the light carried a submerged quality, as though it had traveled a great distance underwater before reaching them, arriving pale and shimmering, a little distorted.
this return to florida was different. they kept touching one another in these small, accidental ways, as if to confirm that they were really here, really doing this. not just two girls pretending that every duet of friends needs to sleep with each other to make it through at least half a night.
they had driven inâagain, a rover; always a symbol to themâand the water along the road was a flat blue-green, too still, as if watching. birds wheeled overhead in loose, indifferent arcs. and beneath it all, there was an inescapable electric thrum. the land seemed to receive them almost reverently, as if recognizing a returning species.
their rental sat at the end of a private road, where the asphalt gave way to crushed shell, rising like a sleeping creature. white walls glowed faintly in the heat, the stucco a little bleached. the shutters were soft blue, like the underside of a shell. through tall windows, the courtyard appeared like the heart of a drowned palace: palms arching protectively overhead, the pool lit from below with a strange, luminous blue. beyond it, a deck extended in a narrow path toward their private beach, the sand pale as bone as it bled out into nothing but the slow exhale of the gulf.
azzi liked that you had to park and then continue to walk to get to it. it made her feel that they were properly private, instead of barely secured. the ocean seemed to be reaching for her, needy for her, its pulse a magnet to the foundations every time she turned toward it.
she lay on her back on the living room floor, legs stretched long, bare feet flexed toward the ceiling fan that turned its lazy rotations overhead. she wore an old tee sheâd stolen from paige: navy with yellow stripes bleeding down the sleeves, âmontaukâ screaming in capitals across the middle, so oversized it grazed her mid-thigh.
it made her look smaller than she was, younger.
nothing underneath except white cotton panties that rose high in the front and fell entirely into lace at her hips and ass. her hair was still damp from her earlier shower, dark curls spreading easily across the pale pine hardwood like an oil spill. the only thing providing her comfort was the careful placement of a lilac and jejune persian rug, the print softened with age.
wired headphonesâwhite, tangled at her collarboneâsnaked from her ears to her phone resting on her stomach, and she had her eyes closed, lips parted silently to reveal the ridges of her two front teeth, mind swayed by a rhythm only she could hear. it was slow, instrumental, a melody that matched the afternoon light pouring through the windows in bars so thick they looked solid enough to hold.
one hand rested on her stomach, fingers drumming absently against her ribs in time with whatever she was listening to. the other lay palm-up beside her hip, open, receptive. she rolled her ankles clockwise, then anti. lifted her hips until only her shoulders pressed into the ground, then settled back down.
paige stood in the doorway, watching. couldn't help it. would never be able to help it, she was learning.
she'd been with the wings for nearly a year now, and the distance had been harder than either of them had anticipated. they'd known it would be difficult. paige in dallas, azzi still at uconn finishing her fifth year, one she'd chosen to buy more stocks of time before the inevitable separation of professional careers pulled them in different directions.
but knowing something would be hard and living through the reality of it were two different diseases entirely.
the bouts of distance had taught her this: to memorize azzi in every variation of light, to catalog every instance of her existence. but this versionâpeaceful, unguarded, the little line between her eyebrows finally smoothedâthis one she wanted to keep.
two weeks until azzi graduated with her masterâs. and then there would be the difficult geometry of trying to exist always within the same place, the same timezone, the same bed. but at least, for now, they had this.
five days with no outsiders, no schedules, no pretending they were anything other than what they'd always been and what they had evolved to. five days to exist as nothing but paige and azzi, girlfriend and girlfriend, two people who considered their highest obligation to be to one another.
paige crossed the room without another thought. lowered herself until she was on her knees, then forward onto her hands, then stretching out along the length of azzi's body, settling her weight the way you'd handle something sacred.
azzi's eyes slid open. she pulled one earbud out, let it dangle.
"hey, baby," paige said, the words coming around a bright smile.
âhey yourself, pretty girl,â azzi murmured, and her voice was warm, honeyed with contentment. she laughed lowly, sound lingering in her throat as paige flushed pink at the endearment.
she looked away and lowered her face to azzi's neck, pressing her mouth there just below her jaw where her pulse beat steady. azzi's breath stalled, then changed pattern completely. her hand came up to tangle in paige's hair, fingers finding blonde, then darker roots. they curled, holding her there.
"what are you doing?"
"kissing you," paige said against her skin, and she did it again, slower this time, with teeth. "that okay?"
"mmhm. yeah." azzi's voice had gone high and thin, breathless. "yeah, that'sâthat's good."
paige grinned against her neck, suddenly aching and restless, and felt the way azzi's pulse jumped under the glide of her tongue. she kissed her way along the middle of her throat, taking her time, tasting salt and sunscreen and something a little earthierâa touch sweet. her hands bracketed azzi's ribs, thumbs pressing into the spaces between bones.
this was the relief of itâbeing allowed. being able to want her without the practically biblical weight of repression, without having to build a wall and then a moat between touch and meaning. they had a name for it now.
several names.
best friend, girlfriend, soulmate. other half, wifeâeventually.
the naming in itself was its own form of liberation. they could just call it what it was.
"paige," azzi said, and there was a hitch in her voice that made paige lift her head, look at her properly.
azzi was gazing up at her with an expression almost painful in its intensity, eyes dark and wet at the corners. her hand trembled slightly where it had latched onto paige's hair.
"i love you," azzi said, tone uncharacteristically fierce. "i love you so much.â
âi know, princess.â paige felt her throat close. "i know. i love you too."
"no, likeâ" azzi's free hand came up to cup paige's face, tilted it until her own throat was bared, pale and vulnerable. she idly dragged her thumb across paigeâs cheekbone, felt the ridge. "i've loved you since we were kids, and i didn't know how to tell you, and now i get to, and it still doesn't feel real."
"it's real," paige said, turning her head to press a kiss to azzi's palm. she shifted and tumbled, curtaining them both in a slew of gold. "weâre here, mama. we're together, and thatâs never gonna change."
"promise?"
"pinky swear."
azzi pulled her down into a kiss then, and it was different than any of the others before. less playful and more urgent. her mouth opened with a hungry request for tongue that made everything inside of paige go molten and liquid. her other earbud fell out, forgotten, the tinny sound of music still playing from where her phone had slipped off her stomach onto the tile.
paige kissed her back with everything she had, one hand sliding up under azziâs shirt to find bare skin, ribs and the soft underside of her breast. she claimed it, groped at the fullness, and it made azzi send a sound through her mouth, something between a gasp and a moan, and her hips lifted, pressing up into paige's.
"deck," azzi breathed when they broke apart, a string of spit glistening from between their lips before delicately breaking. âletâsâdeck.â
"yeah," paige agreed, already moving, already pulling azzi up with her. "yeah, okay."
the deck was empty and sun-drenched, wooden planks still warm from hours of exposure, the ocean stretching out before them, draining turquoise to teal to midnight blue at the far horizon.
light was fading but still present. the beach was private, theirs, no one around for miles, and the knowledge of that privacy made paige feel reckless, made her feel young and invincible in a way she hadn't since before basketball became a career instead of a game.
there was a lounge chair, positioned to face the water. wide enough for two. paige sat first, bringing azzi with her, guiding her to straddle her lap. azzi came willingly, eagerly, her thighs bracketing paige's hips, shirt riding up to reveal the thin white of her underwear, the smooth brown expanse of her legs.
"hi, baby," azzi said again, smiling down at her with eyes crinkled at the corner, and there was something so tender in it, so fond, that paige felt her chest crack right open.
"hey, princess," paige said back, hands settling on azzi's waist, squeezing the sides of her stomach.
she tugged her in by her belly piercing, the bar new and gold with a pink diamond dangling from the end, and they kissed again, slower this time, but no less intense. paige let her hands wander: up azzi's sides, along her spine, down to cup her ass through her panties. azzi whimpered against her mouth, bleating like a little lamb, lithe fingers working at the buttons of paige's cover-up, pushing it off her shoulders.
and then her hands were on paige's skin, warm and sure, mapping territories they'd explored before but never like this, never in daylight, never without the fear of fucking it up.
the sun beat down on them, the ocean providing its lull, and paige thought about that first morning in sarasota, how she'd watched azzi flex her shoulder blades on the paddleboard and felt that first dangerous pull of want, that recognition of falling.
she'd been right to be scared.
loving azzi was terrifyingâthe magnitude of it, the way it had rewritten every part of her lifeâbut that just meant that it was what she truly wanted.
but she'd also been wrong. because thisâazzi's mouth on hers, azzi's body against hers, azzi's hands in her hairâthis wasn't falling. this was a landing instead. this was an arrival home.
"i want more," azzi whispered against her lips, and her hips rolled forward, pressing down, and paige felt the heat of her even through the bottom of her own bikini.
"you can have it, mama," paige said, and she meant it in every possible way. "just take it. you can have whatever you want, always.â
azzi pulled back just far enough to look at her, eyes searching. whatever she found there must have satisfied her, because she smiledâbright and unguarded and so beautiful it made paige's teeth ache at the rootâand then she was pulling the montauk tee up and over her head, tossing it somewhere behind them onto the deck.
and paigeâ
paige had seen azzi's body a thousand times before. in locker rooms and hotel rooms, and that every summer morning spent in a heat so deep she felt dizzy, when countless bikinis and mini dresses had revealed nearly everything. but this was different. this was azzi offering herself, bare and unashamed, with the full knowledge of what it meant and what would follow.
"you sure?" paige asked, because she had to.
azziâs eyes darkened, went low and ravenous.
"i've never been more sure of anything."
paige kissed her again, dragged her closer until distance was no longer an option. her hands found azzi's tits again, thumbs circling her nipples until they hardened, until azzi was gasping and grinding down against her, clit throbbing as she climbed sky high.
they moved together like they played together: instinctive, synchronous, each knowing what the other needed without having to ask. paige's mouth traced the path her hands had taken, lips and tongue and teeth working across azzi's collarbones, down to her tits, and azzi's fingers tightened in her hair, taking her captive, encouraging.
"fuck, paige," azzi breathed, and it sounded like the only thing paige wanted her name to ever mean.
the sun moved across the sky, falling and falling, the world flooding red with the last of it as theirs went white.
later, when the sun had fully fled and the moon reigned unclouded, they lay tangled together on the deck floor, a blanket barely enough for both of them draped across their cooling, sticky bodies.
azzi's head was resting mindlessly on paige's chest, their legs intertwined.
"we should probably go inside," azzi said, but she made no move to get up.
"probably," paige agreed, fingers tracing idle patterns on azzi's bare shoulder. âor we could just stay here forever."
âmmm,â azzi hummed. "i'd be okay with that."
paige smiled against the crown of her head. âi have such great ideas.â
azzi lifted her head to look at her then, chin propped on paige's sternum. "yeah, but. you'd get bored."
âwith you? never."
âyouâre such a fucking liar." but azzi was smiling, soft and private. "you'd miss basketball, your family. dallas, probably."
"maybe," paige admitted. "but when youâre gone, i miss you more than all of that combined."
azzi's expression shifted, turned vulnerable, so utterly revealing as a mix of emotion crossed her face. "i know, p. just two more weeks."
"two more weeks," paige repeated, as if to affirm the truth of it. "then you're done. then you're mine."
"i've always been yours," azzi said quietly.
paige pulled her up into a lazy kiss, slow and deep and thorough. when they broke apart, she pressed her forehead to azzi's, breathing her in.
"yeah," she whispered. "i know, princess. me too."
eventually, azzi untangled herself, stood on legs that looked unsteady. she paused at the top of the stairs that led down to the beach, turning to look over her shoulder at paige still sprawled on the floor, and smiled. the moonlight caught her just rightâporcelain and pearlescent, haloing her dark hair like an angelâs kiss, her skin luminousâand for a moment, time stopped entirely.
paige tried to commit it to memory: the divine curve of azzi's neck, the perfect slope of her bare shoulders, the deep pink of her kiss-swollen lips, her hips in the light and the shadows that striped across her legs and stomach, paigeâs bite marks left littered along her thighs, ruby and iris.
the world often proved her too unearthly to be real, but she was real nonetheless.
and paige could never believe it.
"let's go swim," azzi said, and her voice carried on the air, taken up with the salt mist of the water just off to the edge.
with the request, the world rushed back in: the mellow surge of the waves, the cry of the birds still loitering along the water, the feel of smoothed wood beneath paige's palms as she pushed herself up.
"let's race," paige called out, scrambling to the stairs eagerly, bare feet hitting every other step.
azzi laughed as she shouted after herâthat is so not fair! you got a head start!âand took off running, hair streaming behind her like a meteorâs streak. when she passed paige, the other woman continued to follow, but not too closely, purposefully slowing down.
she held back just enough, let azzi sail ahead like a shooting star across the sand, her body a blur of unbridled joy.
paige could have caught herâprobably. but she didn't.
she let azzi win, an inverse of the way azzi always did when it mattered for paige, when the winning meant getting to watch her celebrate. she let her crash into the waves first with a whoop of victory, watched her turn back with that triumphant grin, arms raised to the sky like she'd conquered something more than a footrace.
paige stood still, raised her hands until she fixed them into the shape of a faux camera frame, pretending to take the shot.
azzi posed, mouth pouty, eyes bright because she always got the joke.
here, paige thought. my heaven is here.
then paige dropped her hands and ran, gaining momentum to take azzi down around the waist into the salt and the blue. the moon was bright enough to pierce the water, and paige saw azzi in all its glow.
angel on fire.
eudaemonia.
© hcneymooners.
RECOGNITION
contains: stepmom!pazzi. mommy issues. slight daddy issues. lesbophobia. drunkenness. throwing up. smut. slight age gap (p is early twenties, a is early thirties) mommy kink. praise kink. service top!p. hailey bieber level plotting. a man getting his hoe snatched by his daughter. a fade to black ending
word count: 20k
niyah speaks: this took a lot out of me because i have been going through thee fucking ringer. plot and moodboard by @hcneymooners. sorry it's so long, but also i'm not sorry at all lol low-key proud of myself. proofread (sorta) this time guys. love ya, enjoy.
SPRING BREAK
paige met azzi during the spring break of her junior year of college. she was twenty-one then, and when her father told her that he had a new girlfriend, paige didnât think much of it.Â
when she was kid, sheâd gotten attached to nearly every woman her father introduced her to. she chalked it up to her biological motherâs coldness towards her (she used her three psych credits to form the conclusion that she was just desperate for a mother figure.)
by the time she was twelve, paige learned that they never stayed and they never called her like they promised. so she stopped letting herself get close. she looked at them more as temporary visitors rather than nurturers or authoritative figures. she figured out that they came and went, and nothing lasted forever with her dad.Â
when she got to her childhood home, there was no one to greet her. it wasnât shocking, and she didnât take offense because she knew her father wasnât a homebody and that he made it a point to eat lunch at the same place every single weekday. she just took her suitcase to her bedroom and taken a shower to wash the plane ride and uber off of her.Â
when she got out, she looked in the mirror and decided sheâd spend that week trying to bulk up. she wanted to be bigger. she was too thin and she drowned in her basketball uniform. she figured that would be her excuse for being away from home all week.Â
she had no intention of making this a spring break to remember. she didnât enjoy spending copious amounts of time with her father, or walking on eggshells around her mother. the gym would be the perfect safe space.Â
by the time sheâd showered and braided her hair and gotten dressed and put on deodorant , sheâd heard rustling from the front of her house.Â
her father was home.Â
she took her time on the journey from her bedroom. she eyed the pictures on the walls, tried to remember every moment that each frame encapsulated.Â
she paid special attention to her senior pictures. only four years had gone by, but alot changed between seventeen and twenty-one. sheâd never wear jeans that tight again, would never be caught dead in a flannel that pink.Â
âyou were still just a kid, then.â she didnât hear her father creep beside her, and she didnât register his presence until his hand was clasped on her shoulder. âyou wanted to wear sweats for your photosâ fully ready to die on that hill.â
paige had learned to bite the bullet since sheâd went to college. her freshman year, she beat the demons of bisexuality and dipped her toe into the men's section of every online shopping site.Â
it was covid, she was a baby lesbian. she was stubborn and unwilling to listen to reason. sheâd freshly figured out who she was, newly solidified herself within her own identity.
college did that to you, she learned. it had a way of thrusting you into yourself and you had no choice but to deal with it.Â
when she came home for christmas, her mom asked what boy broke her heart. because, of course it had to have been heartbreak that spurred such a dramatic change. it was totally unexpected for her six-foot daughter, who was away at a D1 college on a full basketball scholarship, to realize she was a lesbian who preferred to present as masculine.Â
sheâd overheard her dad telling his girlfriend at the time that this was another one of her things. like when she dyed her hair purple, or took up painting.
sheâd heard the you havenât found the right man speech four times in the last four years. it wasnât one she was interested in listening to again.Â
âyeah, well.â she turned to face him, âdid you enjoy your lunch?â
âuh, yeah, sorry i missed you getting here.â he fixed his gaze to the front of the home, âazzi brought you something.â
paige had no idea who âazziâ was, or why she felt inclined to bring her food, so she cut her eyes at her father.
âazzi?â he repeated the name like that would ignite some sort of familiarity. when he realized that it wasnât clicking, he sighed and gave a youâre so silly smile. âmy girlfriend, paige.â
paige had honestly forgotten that she was supposed to be meeting her, but something tightened in her chest at the realization.Â
âoh,â she forced herself to seem neutral because neutrality was better than dread. âright.â
she followed her dad down the rest of the hallway and thought about how there was nothing more ridiculous than the fact that her fifty-something year old father still had girlfriends.Â
sheâd always told herself that she wouldnât be like that. she wouldnât have children of divorce or a plethora of exes. she wanted to get it right the first time. she wanted foreverâ she wanted a wife.Â
the second they stepped into the kitchen, she realized that she was wrong. in actuality, there was nothing more ridiculous than the fact that her fifty-something year old dadâs girlfriend was clearly too young.Â
her father never brought home ugly women, so sheâd expected this woman to be beautiful, but she wasnât just beautiful, she was attractive.
she was tall, not as tall as paige, but tall. her hair was in a tight half-bun at the top of her head, but paige could tell she had thick curls. she had warm brown skin that flushed when she turned around and saw her boyfriend and his daughter.Â
âhelloâhi.â sheâd stuck her hand out, âiâm azzi.â
azzi had a pretty smile. she had bucked teeth that sunk into her bottom lip while she waited for paige to take her hand.
she took it, and tried not to smile back at her. her hands were warm and soft, like sheâd never known discomfort in her whole life. she was the one who moved their hands in a single up and down motion. it was firm and final and when she pulled her hand away, paige never wanted to touch her again.
she turned her attention to the plastic bag on the counter that held her to-go plate.Â
âpaige.â she didnât mean to sound like a dick when she introduced herself but there was no point in an enthusiastic meet-and-greet. not when sheâd be doing the same thing with someone else on thanksgiving.Â
when she sat down at the kitchen table, paige had to force herself to sit with her legs closed. natural instinct told her to spread out and be comfortable, but she didn't want to be told to sit like a lady, so she crossed her ankles under the table, despite the fact that she was in pajama pants and a beater and there was no chance of someone looking up her skirt.Â
âyour dadâs told me alot about you.â she watched paige pop the styrofoam plate open. âitâs nice to finally meet you.â
paige nodded, never taking her eyes off the chicken and rice.Â
something about this felt like uncharted territory. azzi wasn't following the scriptâ her voice wasn't obnoxiously high, she wasn't fidgeting with her nerves. she was calmâ too calm. she almost seemed indifferent.
luckily, her father's phone started ringing. it seemed that azzi had learned the everyone be silent until heâs done rule because she didnât say a word. she just watched paige nibble at the food untilâ
âi gotta goâŠâ of course he did.Â
who would bob bueckers be if he wasnât leaving his daughter with unfamiliar women?Â
âitâs a work thing. theyââÂ
azzi cut him off with a raise of her palm. âitâs okay,â her smile almost seemed genuine, except her teeth were still in her mouth. âjust go. me and paige can talk while i make dinner.â
paige shouldnât care that her dad was leaving because she was supposed to be going as well. the gym was waiting for her. it didn't matter that her dad was taking the car, because she could uber⊠except she didn't want to go anymore.
all the more reason for her to get the hell out of there.
her dad leaned over the counter and pressed a kiss to azziâs cheek, âweâll go shopping monday, hun,â then, he wrapped his arms around paige. âglad you're here, p.â
paige let herself enjoy the hug, she savored that moment where no one cared what she was wearing, or how she was sitting and let herself melt into her dads arms. âlove you, dad.âÂ
she meant it.
when he walked out the door, paige turned to azzi, who was doing something in the refrigerator.
âyou just ate lunch,â azzi didn't turn around. âwhy you already making dinner?â
still in the fridge, azzi rummaged until she pulled out a concerningly large tub of butter.Â
âyour father wants duck.â she brought the container to the counter. âi donât know how to cook duck, so i need time for trial and error.â
that was bullshit. her father was the one to cook in all of his relationships. he didnât trust people to do it right, and he enjoyed listening to everyone tell him how talented he was. even if azzi was a cooker, she wasnât doing it for paigeâs dad.
she wouldnât air her out. she didnât care enough to do that, but paige had always been intrigued by liars. perhaps it was her own form of narcissism.Â
she got up from the table, the goal not being to be closer, but to know more. the bar stool was near enough for paige to see everything. she didnât know this woman. she needed proximity to learn her tells.Â
âyou cook for him alot?â
azzi dug through a drawer, pulling out a rubber spatula. ânot really, no.â
paige was used to over-explaining and over-achieving. azzi seemed like she was more worried about ruining a bird than talking to paige. it was weird, the feeling that she was the one trying to hard for something that wouldnât last.Â
she dug her heels into the step of the bar and tried to keep her discomfort under wraps. âwhy the special occasion?â
azzi shrugged, now armed with a butcher's knife. âdunno.âÂ
it was kind of scary, the way she was prepping and yet she didnât even have the duck out. paige knew the knife wouldnât be necessary until the bird was cooked, and that she shouldnât apply the butter until the duck was stuffed.Â
paige wanted to warn her. the usual willingness to let someone learn the hard way was nowhere to be found. that was scary enough for the conscious decision to let azzi learn the hard way regardless to be be made.Â
paige pointed at herself, âfor me?â
she thought, for a second, that she sounded like she wanted this. she worried that she sounded like she cared. which, she didnât. she just felt a little bad. which was a sign of empathy. anyone would feel empathetic when watching a car crash.Â
thatâs what this wasâ azziâs relationship with paigeâs dad was a car crash in the making. it would end the way they all did, except azzi was Different.
azzi shook her head, still not fucking looking at paige. she had no clue why she wanted azzi to look at her, but the disappointment in her chest was hard to ignore.Â
âthink i just wanted to busy myself. your dad says youâre hardly ever home when youâre home.â
she was doing it so she wouldnât be bored, it had nothing to with paige or her father. azzi simply did not want to be bored. that was understandable. that was justifiable. paige knew nothing about the woman, but she had the feeling that she should never be bored.Â
so what the fuck is she doing dating the most boring human on the planet?
it wasnât paigeâs business. she had no reason to want the answer to that question. so she nodded, once, and left her head hanging.
âyeah.â it was a small acknowledgment, enough to confirm paigeâs future absence.
azzi laughed, quiet but not in a self deprecating way. like the situation was pathetic, not her need for entertainment. âso iâm going to butcher a duck.â
this is the end, paige thought. this is the end of whatever was going on here.Â
she stood up and headed to the hallway, leaving the food and azzi behind.
âiâm going to the gym.â
by the time she heard, âhave fun, p.â it was already too late to turn around and see if azzi looked as unbothered as she sounded
ââ
easter dinner was bound to be a disaster of drastic proportions. paigeâs parents were those weird divorcees who got along well enough to spend the holidays together for the sake of kid. except, for the past few years, it always ended up feeling like they were only in the same room for paigeâs detriment.Â
not because they didnât get along. that was never the issue. amy and bob made it a point to never argue in front of paige, as if that would have made her oblivious to their agony towards each other. no, these days, the issue was that they did not approve of paigeâs Lifestyle Choices.Â
when she came out as bisexual, neither of them seemed to care much. they probably thought it was one of paigeâs phases, or that sheâd end up with a man anyway. and then christmas 2020 happened, and they suddenly were enthralled with who paige planned to spend the rest of her life with.Â
her mother had convinced her to curl her hair for the family photo instead of wearing a slickback bun. her father told her that there would be no suit because she and her mother always wore matching dresses.Â
it had been nearly three years of biting her tongueâ of wanting to crawl out of her skin for the sake of keeping the peace. paige knew that her parents didnât like the way she dressed. or the way she talked, sat, and turned down male advances.Â
and it wasnât that she just rolled over and did what they wanted. it was just that trying to get them to understand that this is who she was took more than it was worth.Â
paigeâs step family, dan and taylor, never really said much during these meetings either. theyâd just passively agreed with whatever amy was saying. they never really acknowledged paige, never wanted to know things about her and always declined the game tickets paige provided.Â
they didnât feel like familyâ none of them did. but then again, only family could make paige feel the way she did.
but this year, easter would be something different. azzi would be there, and paige knew sheâd be more focused on the Difference She Could Not Explain than her mother.
her blended family never met up at anyoneâs house. theyâd always opted for neutral territoryâ whatever restaurant was open that holiday.Â
the steakhouse had been reserved for easter. it wasnât fine dining like her father loved, and it wasnât homey the way her mother preferred. it was casual in a way that said weâre trying to get a star without seeming like weâre trying.Â
her parents always reserved the same table. it was in the back with six chairs. paige sat beside azzi, who sat beside her father. her mother, step-dad, and step-sister all sat on the other side.Â
theyâd done their quarterly helloâs. amy smiled when she met azzi, but paige knew her motherâs disapproval when she saw it. azzi didnât seem bothered by the awkwardness of it all. she shook everyoneâs hand and smiled without her teeth. she was quiet and contained when anyone else would have let their nerves scream over the whole building.Â
when the waiter asked for their drinks, the whole table asked for ice water. except paige, who requested sweet tea with lemon slices on the side. she quickly realized her mistake when her father sucked in a harsh breath and her mother began to wave her hand.Â
 âthatâs okay, sheâll just have water.â she had her usual smile on her face, completely oblivious to the look on paigeâs face.Â
paige didnât speak on her annoyance, but when the waiter left, her mom leaned forward and whispered, âi donât know why you insist on making things so hard for everyone.â
paige didnât know why she was whispering. there was no one near them, hardly anyone in the restaurant at all. it was a holiday, everyone was at home having a home cooked meal.Â
she didnât answer her mom, hoping that she would be left alone. of course, that was just too much like right, because her father chipped in.Â
âyeah paige,â he was still nose deep in the menu, as if he was going to order something different this year. âeveryone got water. why would you want the waiter to make a whole different drink?â
paige knew this wasnât worth a clapback. she also knew it was just the beginning of her parentâs nitpicking, so she put her head down and physically retreated into herself. she should have just stayed in storrs, or went to kkâs house. she didnât know why she always voluntarily put herself through this shitâ
âmaybe she just wanted something sweet.â
paigeâs head popped up then. it was azzi who'd spoken up, brown eyes dead set ahead of her on amy.Â
sheâd hardly spoken to paige the entire week sheâd been there. theyâd been in the same house, yet paige made sure they were worlds apart. azzi had made no effort to know paige, and yetâŠ
amy flushed beet red. sheâd never been confrontational, never pushed the line on anything besides paige. azzi didnât let up, though. she didnât blink until paigeâs mom buried her face in the menu and asked bob how work was going.Â
dinner went the way it usually did. paige learned that azzi was an ER nurse, that taylor was set to start nursing school in a few months, and bob didnât like his new assistant.Â
it was all noise to paige.
maybe she just wanted something sweet.
azzi had no reason to pipe up, but she stood up for paige. anyone else would have just minded their business. theyâd have probably felt bad, but told themselves that this was between parents and their child. but azziâŠ
it didnât make sense. they never talked, and the one time they did, azzi seemed as disinterested as paige was pretending to be. Â
but she spoke. and paige would spend the rest of spring break thinking about how azziâs lips pushed out the word âsweetâ.
sheâd been playing with her veggies when her mother addressed her again.Â
âpaige, sweetie,â she tapped the prongs of her fork on the table âsit up. you look like a boy.â
she broke out of her comfortable position and leaned forward so that her ribs were pressed into the table and her feet were under her chair. she didnât say anything, didnât even look at her mother. she just did what she was told and went back to her plate.Â
still her mother continued.Â
âand whatâs with this outfit?â she waved her fork lazily in paigeâs direction âi donât know why you want to look likeâŠâ
paige knew what was coming. it happened every single time, and there was no way to avoid it besides re-becoming something she wasnât. that wasnât an optionâ cosplaying a girly bisexual would never be an option again. so paige just braced for impact.Â
she dropped her fork and sat straight up. with her hands folded between her legs, she steeled her eyes on her mother. âlike what, mom?â
âlike aââ she lowered her voice, âlike a lesbian.â
paigeâs sighed.Â
paige had never outright said iâm actually not bi, i'm a full blown âmo, but it didnât take much to tell. her mother could read between the linesâ everyone at that table was able to read between the fucking lines.Â
âiâm just saying,â amy stabbed a piece of broccoli onto her fork, âyou donât have to broadcast it for everyone to see.â
âmom.â her monotone pitch wasnât because she was forcing herself to not be upset, sheâd just gotten bored of the same conversation every time she came home. âiâm not broadcasting anything iâm justââ
she was cut off by taylor. âyou donât have to argue all the time, paige.â
âiâm not arguing with her.â paige furrowed her brows, âi barely even said anything.â
âbut you were going to,â her father chimed in now. âyou know yourself, p.âÂ
âyour mother just wants whatâs best for you, paige.â dan didnât look up from his plate when he decided to add his two cents. âmaking a scene all the time isnât good for anyone.â
âhow am i making a scene, though?â paige felt exhausted, even though she knew they were just getting started. âby dressing the way i want toâ in clothes i feel comfortable in?â
amy sighed, setting her fork down and looking at paige again. âitâs just inconvenient for everyone when your comfort makes everyone else uncomfortable. who do you think you are to just force this on us for all these years?â
paige reared her head back, like she was dodging a punch. and maybe she actually was, because the words found her anyway. they rippled cross her face like the impact of an actual hit, taking over her whole being and making her head fuzzy.Â
she should expect shit like this. her mother had wobbled on the line of passive aggressive to flat out homophobic for years, but something about tonight hurt a little worse. it usually felt like a punch to the gut, and paige had built an endurance to that. tonight, felt like a hook to the temple.Â
she was dizzy and genuinely unsure of if she had the strength to walk away from this in one piece.Â
everyone kept going, kept agreeing with amy and adding their own issues with paige into the mix, but she just sat there in her chair. she didnât speak, she didnât defend herself, she didnât moveâ she couldnât do much of anything besides try and keep her eyes from closing.Â
if they closed, then paige would be crying.
she heard one voice through all of it.Â
azzi.Â
she was making an effort, paige assumed, but she was ultimately unsuccessful. even she wasnât strong enough to cut through all the tension that spread over the table. sheâd been saying paigeâs dadâs name. over and overâ like he was going to listen to her. he didn't listen though, no one ever did. so, azzi huffed out a tight line of air and sat back in her seat.Â
paige guessed that this would be her leaveâ this conversation would be the reason she left. sheâd probably say it was because she felt bad for paige, when in reality she was just leaving like everyone else. sheâd make paige her scapegoat just like the rest of them.Â
she was an idiot for thinking azzi would be anything different.
ââ
the next day, paige woke up before the sun and drove her dadâs car to the gym. her father was still asleep, as was azzi. she just left. her head was still hurting from the night before, her face still felt hot with embarrassment and tears.Â
 she was leaving that night and she planned to stay away from her house until it was time to get her suitcases. sheâd uber to the airport. she wasnât telling anyone bye, or announcing her exit in any way, shape or form.Â
somehow, someway, paige had lost her edge. she nearly lost herself at dinner, which was something that she didnât let happen. sheâd forged herself into steel years ago, and every time she prepared to return home, she hardened herself even more.
at dinner, she felt shame force itself into her gut and take her over. sheâd known what the difference was, the only thing that had changed from the usual was the fact that she seemingly had someone in her corner.Â
azzi.Â
she was on paigeâs side, which was new. but more than that, azzi had only known the version of paige that was built. she hadnât known the version that had to be erased to get there.Â
her mother had ripped that paige out and left her on the table for the vultures to get, and azzi had seen it. azzi watched as everyone picked paige apart and poked at her skeleton. there was nothing that could be done to come back from that.Â
this womanâ who wouldnât even there for another three monthsâ had seen paige. an outsider had seen it all.Â
when this ended, sheâd walk around with the knowledge that paige wasnât steel. sheâd know forever that there wasnât a non-chalant bone in her body, and she almost cried when her mom hurt her feelings.Â
paige left the gym praying that azzi went with her father to lunch. she couldnât look at her.
when she got home, no one was there. it was a blessing. truly. she didn't stop in the kitchen, or look at the photos in the hallway. she beelined for her room, determined to be out of the house before azzi and her father got back.Â
her bedroom door was closed. she didnât close it when she left, which meant someone had been in her room. paige thought the cleaning lady probably left it open, even though she always told her dad to remind her that paige could clean her own room.
bob never cared to remember shit like that. he never cared to remember anything.Â
only, he might have remembered this time. her room was just as she left it. her desk chair was still facing away from the desk, her duffel bag was still in the middle of the room and her bed was still unmade with the dent of her body molded in the mattress.Â
but there was a bag. a single gift bag with no label on it. it was brownâ not like a paper bag but something expensive that shined when paige turned the light on. there was no bow attached, no card tied to itâs handles. just a brown gift back placed dead center on the bench before her bed.
paige didnât open it right away. she just stood there staring at it, like something would climb out of it on its own. she wondered who put it there and what was in it. bob was never one for spontaneous presentsâ he didnât pay enough attention for shit like that. her mom wouldnât be over their spat yet, so it wasnât her. paige was pretty sure taylor and dan hated her, so not them either.Â
there was azzi. over the past week, there had been azzi. but she didnât know paige. paige didnât even know if azzi liked her. so why would she get her a gift? but then again, why would azzi defend her?
the possibility jumpstarted paigeâs anticipation enough for her to snatch the bag up and rip the ribbons that tied it shut.Â
it was clothes, maybe three items. they were folded and stacked in the bag. on top of the top item, though there was a receipt. paige grabbed that first.Â
POLO RALPH LAUREN ran across the top of the paper in big, bold letters. it was an expensive gift. too expensive for an ER nurse in minnesota. and there were multiple items, so paige decided it definitely wasnât azzi.Â
but then she looked at the bottom, where the card information and signature would have been and there it was.Â
CUSTOMER: Azzi Fudd
************1857
azzi fudd.Â
azzi had gotten the gift. for paige.Â
paige dropped the receipt and dug the clothes out of the bag. the top item was heavy and thick. it was meant for cold weather. it was a deep red quarter button sweater. cable-knit. it felt expensive and intentional in paigeâs hands. it was a menâs sweater, too. a womenâs top would have a curve in the waist, and it would have been lighter.Â
the second item was a pair of black pants. fancyâ slacks or something like that. the fabric wasnât soft, but it wasnât rough either. it was textured and smooth. these were made for men, too. the pockets were big.Â
in the bottom of the bag, there was a package of briefs. a five pack of ralph lauren briefs.
there was no note, no explanation for why azzi had purchased menâs winter clothes for paige. the fact that sheâd purchased anything for paige was deserved an explanation. but there was nothing.Â
just clothes and a gift receipt.
FOURTH OF JULY WEEKEND
as expected, paigeâs dad wasnât home when she got there. he was at lunch, same place as usual. paige wasnât excited to see him, anyway. she wanted a shower and a nap and then to eat so that she wouldnât have to leave her bedroom until the next day.
but, unexpectedly, someone was sitting on the living room couch with their back to the door. paige didnât have to see their face to know who it was. she didnât even have to open the door and enter the house to know. those curls were imprinted on her brain.Â
her hair was half up-half down, the top secured to the base of her head with a white claw clip. her hair looked soft, moisturized by something too cultured for paige and her midwestern whiteness to know the name of.Â
several deep breaths were needed before paige could open the door, but when the lock finally turned, azzi turned her head slowly, like there was no urgency to know who it was.Â
she smiled the same way she did when she and paige first met, with her two front teeth pushing into her bottom lip. she had make-up on, a deep pink lined her lips while a lighter one covered the totality of her mouth. her lashes were longerâ long enough to reach just under her brow bone.Â
âyouâre here.â azzi didnât sound the way she did during spring break. she sounded relieved, almost. sheâd been expecting paige. âyour dad is having lunch, but he gave me a list.â
obviously, paige was missing something. she didnât even have the brainwidth to try and figure it out. she was lost looking at azziâs mouth as she spoke. her mouth and her perfect fucking teeth.
âuhâŠÂ list forââ she blinked out of her trance. âlist for what?â
âfor the barbecue?â azzi sounded like this was something paige was supposed to know. âamy's barbecue at the park tomorrow?â
paige felt her whole body kind of reset at the mention of her mother. it all came back to her. easter dinner. azziâs gift.Â
she didn't think azzi would even be a topic of conversation anymore, but here she was.Â
âoh,â paige dropped her duffel at the entrance. âright.â
azzi stood from the couch and turned so she was facing paige completely. âdo you need to do anything before we go or are you ready?â
âuh, nah.â paige looked around like a task would magically appear out of thin air. âwe can go.â
azzi said nothing else. she just walked around the couch, grabbed her purse off the hook and opened the front door. on the way to the car, paige trailed behind her, watching the way her body moved with every step.Â
she had a silk shirt on with no sleeves and an open back that showcased the muscles on her back like waves rippling under the skin. her jeans werenât baggy, but they were loose like they were hanging off of the womanâs hips.Â
azzi drove without the use of GPS. the drive wasnât long, maybe 10 minutes. mitski sang about eggshells crumbling, and paige tried not to side-eye azzi.Â
she felt an uncomfortable calmness in azziâs car. she didnât think twice about pushing the seat back so she could slouch and spread her legs. she wasnât scared to have her phone laying her lap, or to keep her hair in itâs bun. with azzi, she didnât have to have blonde waves cascading down her back, or perfect posture.
it was quiet besides the music, but not tense. that was the problem. paige wanted to talkâ to converse and bond. she had questions, but something told her that conversation with azzi was dangerous for her.
the grocery store was busy, crawling with last minute shoppers grabbing hot dog buns and beers. paige and azzi were not those people. apparently, paigeâs dad had left azzi with a listâ written sloppily on what used to be an envelope.
paige was pushing the basket but azzi was leading. with one hand gripping the front of the cart, she guided them around. it was all going rather quickly. there was no pausing for long amounts of time, running her eyes over the shelves trying to decide what was needed. bob and his neuroticism had everything on the list specified down to the brand.
azzi pulled paige throughout the store, turning her head every now and then. sheâd look at paige with raised brows and her chin tucked into her collarbone, and paige would nod, silently answering whatever question azzi was trying to ask.
they went like that until every item had been retrieved. it felt routine, like theyâd done this every weekend.
unsurprisingly, the lines were filled and checkout would take longer than the actual shopping. that uncomfortable calmness was back.
âcan i ask you something?â paige starting talking out of no where, causing azziâs head to whip around so fast it looked like it hurt.
she was so fucking pretty. too pretty for bobâ too pretty for anyone. no one would notice the things that paige noticed, they wouldnât pay as much attention as she did. maybe that was the problem. maybe it was why azzi had barely spoken to paige that day, despite them having been together for over forty-five minutes.
either way, paige didnât want silence anymore. she wanted to make the uncomfortable calmness a conversation.
azzi smiled her real smile. âyes.â
âthat giftâ the clothes,â paige looked for the rest of her question in azziâs face and found nothing. âwhyâd you do that?â
âyou deserve it.â it came out like it was the obvious answer. like azzi and paige weren't virtual strangers, and they had the kind of relationship where they gave each other random gifts for the simple fact that they deserved it.
it was absurd.
paige blinked. âwhat?â
azzi just looked at paige not angrily or annoyed, but with a tenderness that paige wasn't familiar with. âyou deserve to feel comfortable in whatever you wear. your clothes donât make me uncomfortableâ they shouldnât make anyone uncomfortable.â
âoh.â
something about hearing those words, while azzi was looking at her like that, had paige at a loss for words.
she stared at azzi, who despite knowing nothing about paige, was capable of saying the one thing paige thought sheâd never hear. she was an ocean of beautiful confusion, and suddenly, paige wanted to drown in her.
azzi kept her eyes on paige. she didn't push paige for a response, didn't say anything at all. she just kept fucking looking.
what was paige supposed to say? what could she say that wouldnât make her seem like sheâd been silently begging for this since she was nineteen?
the answer was nothing. this conversation had to end for the sake of paigeâs pride.
she shook her head and tried to put some bass in her voice to counteract the softness that was flooding her. she failed miserably.
âwhy winter clothes?â her voice came out more choked and grovel-ly than prideful and indifferent.
sheâd tried to sound like she didn't care, like she still had no skin in the game and nothing to lose. but she knew the look on her face said she had everything to lose. she just hoped that it didn't also say she was considering losing it in azzi.
the difference in azzi was becoming abundantly clear. it was sickening and it made paigeâs head spin in the best way.
she watched azzi close her eyes and open them again. it wasnât a blink. it was something slower and more intentional than that.
âbob told me about the christmas photo situation that happened a few years ago.â that smile stretched across azziâs face once again. âi want you to like what you wear in the picture this year.â
of course he did. of course heâd told her about one the most embarrassing moments of paigeâs life. heâd probably brought it up in casual conversation, too. it probably wasnât that big of a deal to him. actually, paige knew it wasnât. nothing was that big of a deal to her father.
azzi had got those clothes because she felt bad for paige. and if it was anyone else, paige would have gotten pissed off. sheâd have demanded that azzi take the clothes back, and told her that she didnât need her sympathy.
but something in paige lit up. something bloomed at the concept of having this womanâs sympathy. she could have just minded her business. she could have been like everyone else and pretended not to see what was going on between paige and her parents. but she didnât.
sheâd wear that outfit for christmas this year. sheâd wear it allâ down to the fucking briefs. sheâd argue with her father and tell her mother to go to fucking hell, because azzi wanted her to like what she wore in the photo this year.
azzi was moving. it took four steps for her to get around the basket but she took another one anyway. she and paige were nearly chest-to-chest. âdid they fit?â
paige almost didnât hear a word she said. she was too busy watching azziâs mouth as it moved. she thought she could feel the wind when azzi blinked. she was painfully aware of everything about the woman in front of her.
âhuh?â paige felt hot, like her whole body was beet red with heat. she shoved her hands in her pockets to hide the way her fingers were practically twitching. âsorry iâ what was your question?â
she wanted to touch. to tug at one of the curls that laid over azziâs shoulder. she wanted to smear that pink across azziâs mouth and kiss the mess away.
azzi didnât seem to mind that paige was acting like sheâd never experienced human interaction. she just shook her head and told paige it was okay before asking her question again.
âi asked if the clothes fit. the ones i got you.â
paige tried the clothes on as soon as she got to storrs. sheâd stared at herself in the mirror and tried to figure out the soonest occasion that called for an outfit like that. sheâd worn all 5 pairs of the briefs, some of them twice.
âoh, yeah.â she nodded. âyeah, they fit.â
azzi stepped even closer, forcing eye contact with paige. âyou didnât have to return anything?â
paige couldn't take eyes off of azziâs. she didn't move away from herâ she didn't want to.
ânothing.â she spoke lowly, like she wanted no one but azzi to hear her.
âthatâs good.â azziâs teeth poked into her bottom lip. âand you like them?â
paige wanted to laugh. what a ridiculous, basically rhetorical question.
âi love them.â she stood on her tippy toes and rocked back down onto her heels. she just needed movement, otherwise sheâd physically jump out of her own body. âthank you.â
azzi kept smiling for a second before she spoke. âanytime, p.â
with that, azzi turned and pushed the basket. they still had a while before it was their turn, but paige was thankful for the separation.
the pull she was feeling towards azzi was beginning to to escalate. it started the second they met, and the proximity was only making it worse.
paige wanted to feel azzi. she needed to know the root of all that tenderness. she needed to know where the softness originated. then, maybe sheâd know why she felt so drawn to her. maybe sheâd be able to stop herself from doing something colossally stupid.
ââ
paige didnât mean to get so drunk.Â
really.Â
sheâd planned to go to the fourth of july party and take a few shots, maybe share a joint with some high school friends. she planned to have a good nightâ thatâs the whole reason she went to the party. she didnât want to be around her family. she just wanted one good fucking day in her hometown.
but of course, she never got anything she wanted.Â
her dad made her tell her mom that she wasnât going to the barbecue. he said he didnât want to be the one to deal with her mouth, even though amy had never so much as given bob a dirty look. but paige called anyway, deciding that if worst came to worst, she could always hang up the phone and go about her night
her mother was pissed, but not like she was at dinner. her mom was angry in that i know youâre not coming, so iâm gonna make you hurt kind of way.Â
paige didnât hang up, she sat there curled in a ball with the phone to her ear and listened to her mother berate her. her fingers popped around her duvet, her eyes salted her pillows with tears as she listened.Â
paige felt that small crack in her chest expand just a little bit more. she felt so⊠wide. so open and empty.Â
she went to that party wanting to be full. so she drank more than sheâd planned to. she danced until she couldnât breathe. she flirted with the same girl all night.
the girl was pretty. paige never got her name, but she was short and her smile was bright. she left without telling paige bye, though. not that paige minded, she was too busy knocking back bombpop flavored jungle juice and chasing it with red, white & blue jello shots.
by the time her uber came, paige had given herself a field sobriety test and failed miserably. she couldnât walk in a straight line, she couldnât even say the alphabet in the original order, much less backwards, and she poked herself in the eye while trying to touch her finger to her nose.Â
she was drunk. beautifully, undeniably wasted.Â
she asked the uber driver if she could roll her window down, and the man said sure and asked her not to throw up in his back seat.Â
the car ride made her sick. the fresh-air did nothing to calm the nausea swirling in her belly or the burning in her chest. she felt her head get light and then heavy and then light again. her eyelids felt too heavy to keep them open for the entire ride.
she didnât realize sheâd gotten home until the driver banged on the seat in front of her. her eyes popped open and she flew forward, causing her head to feel like it was going to fall off her shoulders. it took her a second and more than three deep breaths to be ready to get out of the car, and when she did, she nearly fell.
paige wasnât a sloppy drunk. sheâd never been one to black-out, or make mistakes she could blame on alcohol. but tonight, she felt like she wasn't gonna make it into the house.
she wasn't even enjoying her drunk anymore. she was so hot, so heavy and so fucking tired.
the front door was unlocked, which she was grateful for because she couldn't remember which pocket her keys were in. she tried to be quiet, but her foot dragged over the doorstep, which made her begin to fall.
she didn't fall, thankfully. azzi caught her. tall, beautiful, Different azzi with her strong hands caught paige and pulled her back on solid ground. she moved paigeâs body with ease, grabbing her just below the shoulders and guiding her back up right.
for a moment, paige could do nothing but stand there with azziâs hands on her arms gripping them like she was scared to let go. her eyes were wide. her usually styled curls were piled on top of her head in a frizzy bun.
paige was too drunk for azzi to be wearing the pajamas that she was wearing. it was a pinkâ soft pink that almost looked whiteâ camisole dress. it was so short, stopping way before azziâs knees with a shallow v neck.
paige felt her mouth begin to water, and she didnât know if it was because of azzi, or because she was about to projectile vomit. she couldnât act on either one. she couldnât drool over azzi and she couldnât ruin this fucking dress.
she was already hot and azziâs hands on her weren't helping but she wanted azzi to keep touching her. to always feel the heat of her palms.
âyouâre up.â it was supposed to come out like a question, but paige was more focused on trying to actually say the words than her tone of voice.
azzi nodded, flexing her fingers around the meat of paigeâs arms. âi was waiting for you.â
paige nodded, meaning to say something about what azzi said, but the movement made her dizzy and the reason her mouth started water became clear.
âiâm gonna be sick.â she jumped backwards for the sake of azziâs dress.
azzi took a step forward, placing her hand on paigeâs back. âletâs go to the bathroom.â she stepped to the side of her. âcâmon, p letâs go to the bathroom.â
paige didnât nod again, but she took a slow step forward. sheâd have gone wherever azzi took her because she didnât have it in her to think about whether things were ideas or bad.
Sober Paige would have avoided close proximity to azzi, but Drunk Paige told herself she could handle itâ that sheâd much rather be guided off a cliff by azzi, than stumble to the bathroom alone. so, she just walked and turned three corners, not remembering if that was really the path to her bathroom.
azzi guided her the whole way with the softest press between the shoulder blades. she kept a hand on paigeâs hip, steering her for every turn and keeping her up right. her grip wasnât hard and she didnât seem annoyed but there was firmness in her thumbs that made paige try a little harder to not knock into the walls.
azzi didnât let paige go until they made it to the bathroom, and even then, she helped her sit on the toilet lid before closing the door and turning the light on.Â
it seemed like azzi knew what it was like to be drunk and blinded by bright lights, because she didn't tirn the big light on. she opted for the lights on paigeâs mirror, which filled bathroom with a warm orange glow.Â
paige leaned against the tank of the toilet, trying her absolute hardest to keep her head from falling back. âi think i have alcohol poisoning.â
azzi was at the counter, pulling something out from under the sink. âdo you feel hot or cold?â
paige watched from the toilet as azzi rummaged through the bathroom. she didnât know what she was doing, she just looked so sure. like everything she was doing had a purpose.Â
âhot.â paige blinked. âreally fucking hot.â
azzi turned the sink on with a deep sigh, âyou donât have alcohol poisoning. people who have alcohol poisoning feel hypothermic.âÂ
she was relieved, paige noticed. her shoulders relaxed when she said it.Â
paige followed her every movement, catching the way her nightdress clung to her body. paige was a fan, so she said so.Â
âi like your dress.â inside thoughts were no longer inside thoughts, apparently.
azzi turned and smiled, still messing with things on the counter.
âpink is like,â paige paused to swallow the sour taste in her mouth. âyour color.â
azzi smiled again and moved so she was standing in front of paige. âitâs my favorite.â then, she pressed something cold and wet against paigeâs chest.
any other person would have jumped back at the unexpected contact, but paige leaned in. it was a nearly painful contrastâ the heat of her body versus the coolness of the rag. she felt her face get even hotter and she knew that whatever was spreading in her chest wasnât because of the ragâ it was because of the woman holding it.
paige craned her neck so she could look at azziâs face instead of her chest. she was too closeâ closer than sheâd ever been before. she was dizzy and nauseous but sheâd pretend she wasnât if it meant she could keep looking.
azzi had waited up for her. it was the middle of the night, and azzi had waited up for paige. she didnât think twice about helping her and she didnât seem annoyed, she wasnât rushing the process. she was just standing there, giving paige whatever she needed.
âyouâre so soft.â the beauty of being drunk was that you didnât care about the repercussions of your words. paige couldnât even remember why being around azzi was a bad idea anymore.Â
there was no facade or distancing. there was just nearness and cold water trickling down her shirt.Â
âeverything is soft like,â paige reached up and touched her own head. âlike your hair is so fucking soft and your handsâ i love your hands. i saw them when you were trying to make the duck.â
azzi let out a laugh and paige beamed. she really liked when azzi smiled and she loved even more when azzi smiled at her.
âand your smile is soft. when you smile your teeth go into your lip and it looks like someoneâs laying on a pillow.â
paige wanted to lay on that pillow. sheâd give anything to lay on that fucking pillow.
paige blinked and swallowed that taste again before speaking. âyou have soft eyes and your voice is soâ yeugh.â
paige interrupted herself with a gag. the taste sheâd been trying to swallow had crept itâs way back up her throat. she slapped a hand over her mouth and squeezed her watery eyes shut. it took a minute for her to to shove it back down, but when she opened her eyes again, she was face-to-face with a kneeling azzi.
she put her hand on paigeâs shoulder and pulled. âletâs get on the floor.â
paigeâs body stiffened at the idea of vomiting in front of azzi. she shook her head and tried to pull it together âno, iâmââ she gagged again, and she decided there was no escaping it. âokay.â
she let azzi nudge her to her knees. the tile was cold and it bit into her knees and paige was becoming more and more overwhelmed by the second.
she slid her hair over her shoulder and leaned over the toilet and forced herself to gag. she just wanted to get over with. she wanted to be done.
but she couldn't throw up. no matter how much she retched, nothing happened. it was humiliating and paige was so dizzy and her stomach was still bubbling.
she didnât mean to start crying, but the tears began to fall and all she could do was rest her head on her arm, which was laying on the toilet seat.
she felt a handâ azziâs handâ on her back. she didn't move it, but she didn't have to. it was doing itâs job.
she leaned in so her mouth was beside paigeâs war. âwhatâs wrong, sweetheart?â
paige wanted to cry even harder. azzi had never called her anything but her name, and sudden switch up was an even harder shock to her system.
âi canât.â she whined. âit wonât come up. i almost yacked all over you and now i canât.â
none of this was supposed to happen. she was supposed to get tipsy, come home, sleep, and leave the next morning. but things never happened the way paige wanted them to.
âthatâs okay.â azzi cooed. âdo you need help?â
paige didn't know how azzi was supposed to help in this situation, but sheâd have done anything for this to be over, so she nodded and groaned into her elbow.
âokay,â azzi patted paigeâs back twice and pulled her so that she was sitting up. âi need you to lean over the toilet anâ no not right now. in just a second, i need you to wait just a second, okay?â
paige pushed her hair out of her face and nodded. she was still wet with tears and she felt her bottom lip shaking from trying to keep it together.
âgood.â azzi held onto paigeâs shoulders and rubbed her thumbs along the sides of her neck. âi need you to lean over the toilet and iâm gonna put my fingers down your throat so you can throw up. is that okay?â paige nodded again. âalright, now lean over.â
she did as she was told, of course. turning to face the toilet again, paige braced her hands on the seat. azzi scooped all of her hair up into her fist and held it at the base of her neck.
âgood. now open up for me, sweetheart.â
paigeâs whole body locked up. she was too drunk for shit like that, too intoxicated to stop her mind from wandering. but then, azzi tapped two fingers on her chin and her mouth popped open.
she didn't do it hardâ she was never rough with the way she moved. azzi slid her fingers into paigeâs mouth quickly but gently. she went all the way back, her knuckles brushing against the roof of paigeâs mouth. she reached all the way down paigeâs throat, waiting for her gag before ripping them out.Â
paige burned as she emptied herself into the toilet. her eyes burned, her throat burned, her cheeks burned. everything was hot and violent. it burned until she was done, and even then, her body sat at a simmer.Â
she gasped over the toilet bowl, huffing and puffing and wiping at her face like it would clean her up. she felt awful and gross to the point that a shower might not have helped.Â
azzi pushed her through it all. she rubbed at her back, patted it at times. sheâd said little shit like there you go and youâre doing so good, as if she were cheering her on at a game, and not making sure she didn't pass out in the toilet.Â
when paige could breath again, all she wanted to lay down and forget any of this ever happened. she moved to get to her feet, stumbling on the way. she got there eventually, and that was the point.Â
azzi guided paige to her bedroom the same way she did beforeâ one hand on her hip, one on her back. again, she wasnât rough, she didnât speak. she just got paige where she needed to go, and helped her sit at the side of her bed.Â
âdo you want pajamaâs, p?â
she had her hands on paigeâs shoulders, and her head dipped low so that they were eye-to-eye. she looked tired, her usually big eyes a little smaller. paige felt horrible. this was all her faultâ azzi would never be up well after midnight, but here she was. exhausted for the sake of paige.Â
the tears came again, this time paige didnât have it in her to fight them off.
azzi caught it immediately, of course. she stood up to her full height, sliding between paigeâs knees. she brought her hands to the back of paigeâs neck, pulling her in so that she was resting just below azziâs breasts.Â
it was comfortable there, warm but not hot. paige let go of herself in those arms. she cried softly, shaking her head for every tear that fell.Â
azzi ran her hands up the nape of paigeâs neck and held her. she asked no questions, but paige couldn't shut herself up if she tried.
âiâm so sorry.â she whined. she was so fucking whiny tonight. âi didnât mean for this to happen. i swear. itâs just all got fucked up and iâm just sorry. it wasnât supposed to happen.â
azzi kept rubbing at the back of paigeâs neck. âi know, sweetheart.â she let out a breath, and paige felt the exhale against her cheek. âi know.â
she pulled away, looking up at azzi with wet cheeks. azzi looked down at her, still holding her. she still looked tired, but there was something in her eyesâ something that made paige nervous.
âare you mad at me?â
god, she needed to go the fuck to sleep. she was drunk and crying and fucking pathetic.
azzi shook her head, her eyes bugged out. âno, paige.â she used her thumb to wipe at paigeâs face. âiâm not mad.â
paige kept her eyes on azzi, still. she felt too good to pull away, and she still was worried that azzi was mad. she ran her eyes over every one of azziâs features, and by the time sheâd gotten to her mouth, azzi was smiling.
paige felt a little lighter (which could have just been her drunk taking over her again). she didnât want azzi to be mad. she was literally crying because azzi looked sleepy. sheâd have done whatever in that moment if it meant azzi wasnât mad.
âi just need you to lay down for me.â she pushed at paigeâs shoulders and helped get her feet in the bed. âneed you to sleep it off.â
like before, paige did what she was told. she shimmied until her head was on her pillow (an uncomfortable contrast to azziâs ribcage) and her feet were rubbing together. she was still in her jorts and t-shirt, but sheâd worry about that the next day.Â
âokay.â azzi pushed the cover over paigeâs shoulders. âthank you, mommy.â
nobody moved. nobody said a word.
paige nearly started crying again as azzi still held the duvet over her shoulders. she closed her eyes and tried to control herself enough that azzi would think sheâd fallen asleep. she was drunk enough for this to be ignoredâ she prayed that this would be ignored.
maybe paige had fooled her, or maybe azzi was showing grace, but she patted paigeâs shoulder twice and squeezed at her bicep with a âgoodnight, p.â
and paige waited until she heard her bedroom door close before she turned on her belly and screamed.
ââ
when paige woke up, she thought the sun was a lazer trying to slice her skull in half. she was beyond hungoverâ she was hungunder. she shoved her head into her pillows in an attempt to ease the ache behind her eyes. of course, she was unsuccessful.Â
everything hurt. her mouth tasted like vomit and tequila. it hurt to use her eyes. and worst of allâ sheâd over-fucking-slept. she didnât know where the hell her phone was, but she knew it was too bright outside for early morning.Â
her flight wasnât until two, but sheâd planned to leave the house way earlier than necessary and sleep at the airport. she needed to know how late she was, because if God loved her, her father and azzi would be at lunch already.
she sat up in her bed and patted around her mattress. she was still in her clothes from the night before, but they felt stiffer. her hair was knotted at the scalp, her head was about to explode.Â
she found her phone charging on her nightstand next to a bottle of ibuprofen and a bottle of white gatorade. paige didnât have to think about whoâd done it.Â
it was ten thirty-seven in the morning, and her dad wouldnât be leaving for lunch until twelve.Â
she wished she forgot what happened last night. she wished she actually did get alcohol poisoning so that sheâd have died in her sleep. maybe she could have choked on her vomit if sheâd have laid on her back. anything so that she didnât have to walk out of her bedroom with the knowledge that sheâd called her fatherâs girlfriend mommy the night before in a drunken, tear-induced stupor.Â
paige would have to leave eventually. she had a boat trip with kk in two days, and sheâd be damned if she missed that flight.
technically speaking, azzi was supposed to have been gone. none of her dadâs conquests lasted more than three months, and heâd been seeing azzi since february.Â
why the fuck was she still with him?
there was no way azziâ who seemed like the most interesting person on the planetâ was in love with bob bueckers.
maybe she was like an escort or something. maybe she was gold digging. maybe paigeâs dad was sick and dying and azzi had met him at the hospital and swooped in to anna nicole smith him. that made more senseâ anything made more senseâ than her staying with him because he made her happy.Â
bob didnât make anyone happy. he didnât make anyone feel anything. he was like wonderbread from subway. bland and boring and way too fucking old for someone like azzi. there was no way she was getting what she needed from him.
paige got out of bed and went to the bathroom. she peeâd, she brushed out her hair, she brushed her teeth, she wiped the crust from her eyes. she stared at herself in the mirror and prepared herself for what she was about to walk into.
when she walked into the living room, her father was watching blue bloods. azzi wasnât sitting with him, and paige couldnât find a trace of her anywhere.
bob nodded in paigeâs direction. âmorning.âÂ
she didnât stop on her way to the kitchen. âhey, dad.â
as she made her coffee, she looked around the kitchen for azzi but there were no dirty dishes, no lipgloss tubes, no hair-ties.Â
her father shouted from the couch. ââm surprised youâre still here. youâre usually gone before anyone else wake up on your flight days.â
âyeah i uhââ how did you say i got shitfaced to your father even though youâre over the legal drinking age? âi went a little hard last night. had to sleep it off.â
that worked⊠right?
she popped her head around the corner and took a sip of her coffee. âwhereâs azzi?â
still watching tv, her dad shrugged. âoh, she went back to her place this morning.â
âher place?â
âshe doesnât live with me, p.â he laughed. âsheâs thirty-one. she has her own house.â
azzi had her own house. of course she did because she was an Adult who worked in an emergency room. she was thirty-one of course she had a house. she was thirty-one.
had bob been to azziâs house? if she had her own house, why was she always at bobâs? if was an ER nurse and had her own house, why the fuck was she with bob bueckers?
it wasnât paigeâs businessâ azzi wasnât paigeâs business.
but azzi had made paige her business. with the clothes and the tucking her in. she cared about paige. she asked bob questions about her, so what was the harm in reciprocating energy?
âright.â she nodded. âis it serious? with you and azzi?â
âi dunno,â he shrugged. âsheâs nice. canât cook, but sheâs nice.â her dad never looked away from the tv, and that told paige all she needed to know.Â
azzi wasnât going to be with him much longer. there was no way someone like her could stand to be around someone like paigeâs dad long term.Â
she leaned back on the couch and thought for a second.Â
whenever bobâs girlfriends broke up with him, paige usually never saw them again. sheâd never wanted to see them again, but azzi was different. paige was older now. she could get azziâs number. they could talk even when she and bob broke up. that could be normal.
âyeah.â she stood up, coffee in hand. âokay, iâm gonna go pack my bag.â
her dad called down the hallway. âlove you!â
âme too, dad.â
FALL BREAK
every time paige came home for thanksgiving, she spent the whole flight thinking about one thing: mac and cheese.Â
they always ate at the same soul food spot for thanksgiving because it was one of the only places that served actual thanksgiving food on thanksgiving. they had the best mac and cheese, and paige waited all year for it.Â
this year on her flight home, all she could think about was azzi fudd.Â
paige spent the last five months learning all google could offer on azzi. she was an ER nurse, which paige already knew, but azzi was also an NP, which meant she made the big bucks. hence the house. sheâd never been in a public relationship, but she was a bridesmaid in her best friends wedding, and her date was a brunette masc in a suit that didnât match the theme. her favorite color was pink. she had a dark pink accent wall in her bedroom and her bedspread was always some shade of pink.
pink is like⊠your color.Â
paige had gone through her instagram highlights countless times. sheâd memorized azziâs linkedin. sheâd turned her profile views off on tiktok so she could check azziâs reposts, but sheâd never reposted anything.Â
paige was aware that this was teetering the line of stalking. she knew that Normal people were not this invested in their dadâs girlfriend. but paige was almost positive that azzi would have broken up with bob by now. it was november. no one lasted more than a year with bob, not even paigeâs mom.
amy had called paige before her flight to say she was excited to see her. paige never wanted her mother to be excited to see her. shit like that never ended well for her.Â
she called kk immediately after that to ask if she could spend the holiday in wisconsin. she got cussed out, of course. kk told her that her mom had already started cooking, and that paige had to woman up and just tell her mother to shut the fuck up.Â
paige would never.Â
paige never had an issue being confrontational unless it was her mother. she was a one hundred and twenty pound masculine lesbian basketball player. the slick mouth came naturally. but being around familyâ her biological family, not her chosen oneâ made paige something she learned she wasnât.Â
she became quiet in minnesota. she became softer, more susceptible to bruising. sheâd always been the one that someone always had an issue with.Â
her mom hated when paige started playing basketball. she hated when paige didnât got to any school dances. she hated when paige refused to wear a dress for her senior pictures. she hated that paige moved twenty hours away for school.
she gotten used to their dance. she didnât talk, her mother said things, everyone agreed with amy. a few days later, amy would call paige (who had most likely already went back to school) and apologize, while also making it seem like paige was the one in the wrong. sheâd ignore everyoneâs calls and texts until it was time to come home again, and the cycle would repeat itself.
toxic? yes. routine? also yes.
she mastered avoiding it. she was never home for more than a week at a time, she never called her mother first and she kept an excuse to leave early on lock.Â
but then azzi came, and paige had someone in her corner. youâd think that having azzi would have made paige feel betterâand it did. paige wasnât so much worried about being dogpiled on as she was about azzi seeing it⊠again.Â
paige worked hard so that no one knew how much her mother hurt her. it was why none of her dadâs girlfriends ever spoke up for her, no teachers, no hometown friends. she seemed like she had itâ she didnât even really care. azzi saw that, and still said something. still did something.Â
it was all paige could think about.Â
then there was the fourth of july.
you deserve it and open up for me, sweetheart.
what the hell any of that weekend was about was anyoneâs guess. but it stuck with paige. she didnât know how she was supposed to act like it didnât, but sheâd figure it out. she had no choice.Â
on the uber ride from the airport, paige felt her heart pound. she was nervous. she was excited. she was anticipating. she wanted to seeâ she wanted azzi.Â
of course, azzi wasnât there when paige got home. small conveniences didnât happen for paige.
she wanted to ask her dad where azzi was and when sheâd be coming over but againâ that would throw her father off. so she went to her room and thrust her duffel onto her ottoman and unpacked her suitcase. she tried to do it slowly, to convince herself that she didnât care. except when she finished settling in, and azzi wasnât there, paige felt like she was going to go insane.Â
her father, the poor, useless man, was sitting at the kitchen tableâlike he didnât have an officeâ shuffling through papers.Â
bob was one of those men who you never really know what her does for work, but he always seems to be working. paige was twenty-two and she still had no idea how her father had so much money. she just knew that sheâd gotten a brand new car for her sixteenth birthday, and that her let amy keep the house in the divorce because he could buy another one. sheâd never been told no because they couldnât afford something, and her father told her she didnât need to get a full scholarship if she didnât want to play basketball in college.
she didnât care to know about his job, she didnât know anyone who ever did. he just worked.Â
but his working was annoying her because he was so calm and she was nearly manic. he knew where azzi was, and he knew when sheâd be coming over and he wouldnât say a damn word about it unless he was asked. he probably didnât even recognize azziâs absenceâ it didnât effect him the way it affected paige.Â
he was pissing her off, and she needed to be gone. so she did what any girl in her early twenties did in crisis; she took her dadâs car and went to the mall.Â
she didnât really shop, she just walked around and went into the stores she always went into and rummaged through the racks without trying things on.
every time she saw something she liked, sheâd pick it up and hold it to her body. sheâd imagine it on herself, the way it would fit, the way it would feel on her skin. then sheâd picture the face her mother would make if she saw paige in it, and sheâd get sick to her stomach and sheâd put the clothes back.Â
the thought of purposely irritating amy made paige sick. but then she thought about azziâs gift and the plan to rebel for the christmas photo. she smiled at the memory of azziâs face while she asked paige about the clothes. she wanted her to like them. she wanted her to be comfortable.
âyour clothes donât make me uncomfortableâ they shouldnât make anyone uncomfortable.â
paige could have fallen to her knees that day and promised azzi everything sheâd ever wanted in life. sheâd never experienced anything like what she felt when azzi was around, and her want for that feeling was almost unmanageable.Â
when paige walked into the jewelry store, she planned on getting her earrings cleaned. they were her first Big Girl purchase, and sheâd been walking around aimlessly for about an hour. she needed productivity. she planned to hand the man with the strange mustache the earring and go eat.Â
she didnât plan on talking to the man with the mustache and learning his name, nor did she plan on letting him show her jewelry she wasnât going to buyâ she wasnât going to buy any.
but, he picked up a necklace. silver chain, pink square cut diamond held in place by four prongs. it glittered as johnâ the salesman's name was johnâ explained that it was lab grown and heâd give it to her for the bargain price of three hundred and sixty dollars due to the holidays.Â
paige stared at the necklace with hard, furrowed brows.Â
âpink is like⊠your color.â
âitâs my favorite.âÂ
her accountant would have encourage paige to get the price down to an even three hundred, and she probably could have. but she didnât. she looked john straight in his beady eyes, and asked if they took apple pay.
ââ
paige woke up on thanksgiving with the feeling that she was going to die that day. she had the worst anxiety sheâd had since she was a junior in highschool, and it took her twenty minutes to get out of bed.
she hadnât seen azzi the entire time sheâd been home. it had only been two days, but still. sheâd spent the last five month thinking about this woman. sheâd spent two days with a necklace sheâd bought for her tucked in her top drawer. sheâd waited to hear azziâs voice or smell or hair or see her coat on the rack.
she knew azzi would be at thanksgiving though. she heard her father talking yesterday, telling amy that the reservation was for six, which meant azzi had to be coming.
she got ready for dinner with that in mind. fresh out the shower, she put on deodorant and spritzed her valentino cologne. she looked at herself in mirror, in her calvin briefs and binder, and admired herself.Â
sheâd bulked up like she planned. sheâd never get called olive oil, or string bean again. no more sleeper build, no more low stamina. she worked for this body. carved it herself and she was proud of it. she tried to drill that in her brain before it was scrutinized by her entire family.Â
she wore black denim jeans and a cream button down that was a size too big. paired it with sambas and a silver chain. she slicked her hair into a bun and shoved her glasses on her face with no makeup sheâd tried to give calm, when she felt anything but.Â
she was nervous about her mother, but she was always nervous about her mother. the nausea came with azzi. not knowing why sheâd been away. wondering if sheâd still be on paigeâs side. figuring out how she was going to act like she didnât want her dadâs girlfriend.Â
her dad drove them to the restaurant and paige could smell the food before the door was even open. at least sheâd have this. foodâ real comfort food that sheâd gorge on while holding back tears.
the table was set the way it always was. amy, dan and taylor on one side. paige and her dad on the other. everyone said their helloâs and pretended like they didnât hate paige. azzi wasnât there.
for a while, paige thought she wouldnât come and that comforted her. she could do this by herself. she always had. she ordered plain water the same way everyone else did, and sat with her back straight and elbows off the table.
she was going to be good tonight.
dan was the first person to address her individually.Â
âpaige, howâs the season going.â
he always asked her about basketball. he played when he was in highschool, and he tried to give her advice, as if she wasnât playing at higher level than he ever got to. but he was trying, so paige always let it slide.Â
âuh, weâre good.â she nodded. âwe got this freshmanâ her nameâs sarah. sheâs already a dog.â
she watched dan nod and pretend to know who she was talking about. her team was five games into their season, and she knew her family knew nothing about it.Â
she liked it that way. basketball was hers.
taylor perked up, wide eyed and antsy. âwhat about kk?â
paige watched the way taylor twinkled when she said kkâs name, the way her hand gripped the edge of the table, and she made a mental note to tell kk that her step-sister may or may not have a thing for her.Â
paige smiled and took a sip of her water. âkkâs good. sheâs been in the gym, i think sheâd gonna be a problem this season.â
taylor beamed, and amy spoke.
âkkâŠâ paige braced herself, the way she always did before he mother spoke. âi remember her. sheâs a good girl. iâm glad sheâs progressing.â
paige cracked a little. her mother had never been glad paige was progressing, sheâd never thought of paige and said she was a good girl.
kk was a good girl, and she was progressing, but paige was paige bueckers. she was already legendary.
she dug at a scratch in the wooden table and tried not to be jealous of her best friend. âyeah.âÂ
âand you?â amy looked directly at paige and folded her hands. âwe saw your GQ magazine thing.â
âdid you like it?â
paige knew the answer to that question. she was manspread in a suit on the cover, and dressed like a skater boy by page three. her mom hated it, and paige knew that during the shoot. she liked the way she looked in the mag. she disliked the way they over-lined her lips, but she loved the way the photos turned out.
she knew sheâd leave this table hating the entire thing.
her mom closed her eyes and pressed her palms into the table. âi just donât know why you have to broadcast it, paige.â
she always said that.Â
broadcast. advertise.Â
like paige was supposed to hide the fact that she was gay. sheâd spent fourteen years in the closet and another six pretending to be bisexual. that wasnât enough for amy.Â
âiâm just being me, mom.â
amy shook her head, her bob swaying with every twist. âno, thatâs not you.âÂ
she pointed at paige, âyouââ then she clutched her chest. âmy paige doesnât dress like a boy on magazine cover while talking about how much she loves God.â
paige could have flown across the table then. sheâd only had a few things that were hers. her faith was one of those things, and her mother knew that.
her faith was one of the few things that she kept from her mother. when she was in highschool, sheâd go to church and bible study and youth group because it made her feel close to her mom. it was the one thing they could talk about without causing WWIII. her senior year, paige got deeper into hit. she was going to be leaving home, and she needed something to bring her back when she needed it.Â
now, she was junior in college, and her faith had nothing to do with her mother, or her father or anyone besides her and the God she served. it honestly made sense for amy to try and take that from her.Â
she watched her momâs lip shake. she watched dan hide in his cup of water. she watched taylor bury her face in her arms on the table.Â
she planned on being good. she planned for smooth sailing and calmness.Â
 âme being loving a woman doesnât have anything to do withââ she couldnât even get into her speech before being interrupted by her father.Â
bob put his hand up, pointing in the air. âdonât yell at your mother.â
she screwed her face up and whipped to look at him. she was used to him taking her side, sheâd gotten used to their double teams. but being used to something doesnât make it hurt any less.Â
no matter how much of a tolerance you build to to something, itâll find a way to hurt you eventually.Â
her father shrugged like everything was that simple. âshe wants the best for you.â
paige scoffedâor maybe it was a laugh. she couldnât believe this was still her life. that she signed herself up for this bullshit five time a year.Â
amy kept going, wagging that fucking finger over paigeâs frame. âyou just look ridiculous is allââ
the door to the restaurant chimed, and paige became painfully aware of the fact that they hadnât even ordered yet. she had no food, and she wouldnât for at least another twenty minutes.Â
she heard azzi before she saw her. sheâd been telling hostess that her party was already there, and thanking her for taking her drink.Â
when she got to the table, paige could smell her. she smelled like white diamond and powder fresh deodorant.
âiâm so sorry iâm late,â she slid into her seat and shuffled so she was leaning over the table. âmy shift ran late and i smelled like hospital.â
paige watched as she spoke. she sucked in every word like it was oxygen. azzi was smiling but not really. sheâd grown her hair out and the curls were being held back by a braid secured with a white ribbon. she looked tired, which was probably why she was talking so fast, but despite azziâs tardiness and chaotic entrance, paige felt herself breathe again.Â
she nearly cried at the side of the woman. sheâd waited days months to see her, and there she was.
she almost pissed herself when azzi looked back at her. it was a small glance, but paige would hold onto it until her dying breath. she didnât stop looking. not when azzi started asking taylor about nursing school, or when bob said he liked azziâs jeans, or when dan agreed that azzi looked really nice.Â
everyoneâs attention was on azzi for those moments, but paige⊠she was learning azzi always had her attention, whether she was in the room or not.Â
when azzi looked at her, it felt like a glow had been cast over her head and angels from heaven were singing songs in too high of a pitch to be understood.Â
she looked paige up, down, and up again, and then she smiled.
âi like your shirt, p.â she reached out and ran a hand from paigeâs shoulder down to her elbow. âi think it looks good with your skin tone.â
paige almost laughed. she wanted to. she didnât take her eyes off of azzi, but she knew her mom was about to blow her gasket. azzi hadnât spoken quietly. she wasnât subtle in the way she touched paigeâs arm.Â
they just looked at each other and for some odd reason, paige no longer cared about why azzi hadnât come to see her, nor did she care about how she was going to hide the fact that she wanted this woman more than she wanted to wake up the next morning.Â
but then azzi blinked and turned away, forcing paige to do the same. she looked at bob, who had his head in his hand, and then at taylor who was smiling behind her glass.Â
azzi nudged bob, âbob, whatâs the matter?â
paige felt her chest puff out just little, because finally the joke wasnât on her. she leaned back in her chair and manspread like it was dare.
âmy mom was just telling me how ridiculous i look in my boy clothes.â
azzi turned the corners of her lips down and raised her brows in a way that said interesting but in a condescending way and paige felt herself get tight between the legs.Â
âoh, well.â azzi clasped her hands together and sat back in her seat âitâs a good thing itâs not for her, isnât it?â
there were only a few points in paigeâs life where sheâd been sure of things.
she knew when she picked up a basketball that sheâd never put it down.Â
after her first salon trip, she knew that she was meant to be a blonde, and sheâd spend one day every month making sure she lived in her truth.Â
when she was sixteen, she made out with a cheerleader in the hotel pool at an away game, and paige knew that she had to break up with her boyfriend, because nothing had ever felt like that before.Â
that night, paige became undeniably sure of that fact she was going to get azzi. sheâd make her feel as good. she was going to make her smile so hard she busted her lip. she was going to fill her with warmth and light and joy.
âyes,â she said. âitâs a great thing itâs not."
ââ
paige knew azzi was coming homeâ to bobâs home.
azzi drove a suburu. paige pictured her driving her dogs to the dog park while they messed around in the back of the car. she wondered if azzi kept the AC booming, or if she was a windows down kind of woman.
she wanted to know every minute detail about her. how she drove, how she slept, how she tasted. she suddenly had no interest in pretending she wanted nothing to do with azzi, and sheâd realized how dangerous this feeling truly was.
she watched azzi get out of her car. watched her forearms flex as she pulled herself up on the door. watched her shoulders square while she closed the door. watched her jaw move as she made fun of bobâs slow driving.
she made it a point to not say anything on the way inside the house. she made it a point to not say goodnight before speedwalking to her bedroom. she knew azzi would follow herâ she needed azzi to follow her.
she was pacing her room when she heard the knock on her baseboard. it was azzi, still in her cardigan, smiling the way paige had been hoping.
she took a singular step into the room, and folded her hands in front of her. âi like the bun.â
paige froze and tried not to say thank you. she could see the lace of azziâs bra under her mustard yellow tanktop. she didnât seem like the type for frilly lingerie but paige felt tight all the same.
it dawned on her that the lace wasnât for her. that it was for a man that didnât deserve itâ a man who wouldnât appreciate it the way paige would.
she felt her body be flooded with an anger sheâd never felt before. something strong and envious that sang i can do anything better than you.
for safety reasons, she didnât move. she dug her toes into her rug and put her hands in the pockets of her jeans.
âwhere you been?â she didnât know if she sounded as desperate as she felt, but she couldnât bring herself to care.
azzi furrowed her brows. her head tilted to the side like she was trying to figure something out, and it made paige uneasy.
âworking.â she said. she stepped forward again. âi wanted a little nest egg for the holidays.â
âso it wasnât because ofâŠ.â paige didnât want to say it. saying it would force them to talk about it. if she trailed off, the answer would be yes or no and thereâs be no need for expanding.
azzi chewed at her bottom lip, but paige could see her grin. the tips of her ears grew hot with embarrassment, but she didnât feel ashamed. not anymore.
azzi shook her head. âof course not.â she sounded like she was telling the truth, but she looked like there was something she wasnât saying. âi wanted to see you.â
paige almost came. she scratched at her thigh through her pockets and looked at the ground.
âthought you were avoiding me.â she regretted the words as soon as she said them. she wasnât used to wanting to be this vulnerable. she wasnât used to wanting to see someone. she wasnât used to wanting to be seen by someone.
she felt azziâs hand on her shoulder and lifted her head. she didnât know when sheâd gotten so close, but that seemed to be the running theme.
âi promise you i wasnât.â she leaned up close so paige could see the black speckled in her eyes. âi was working graveyards and sleeping.â
they were inches apart. paige couldnât breath from holding in everything she wasnât supposed to want out loud. it was like a single inhale would cross a boundary. they hadnât done that. yet.
azzi was looking at her like it was the most important thing in the world for paige to know that she wasnât avoiding. it was the most important thing, at least to paige.
again, for safety reasons, she took a step back. âi got you something.â
the necklace. it was in her underwear drawer, in a long back velvet box that cost paige another twenty six dollars.
the space between them felt like a life raft. she could breathe again. she felt azziâs eyes on her as she made her way to her dresser, or maybe that was just wishful thinking. she moved slower just to feel those eyes burning into the back of her head.
she pulled the box out and looked at it. she looked at the way her hands held the box, the way the velvet felt on her fingertips. it was soft but if she pushed even a little, sheâd be met with a hardness. she wondered if she pushed into azzi, would she be met with the same hardness.
she showed azzi the necklace like a presentation. she shoved at her the way a child would while displaying their macaroni art. azzi didnât take the box out of her hand, she just flipped the top open and pushed out a breath.
âpaige,â she touched the diamond at the center and ran her finger around it slowly. paige watched the way her finger trembled, the gentleness she used.
she brought her eyes to azziâs face and studied the vein in her forehead. she looked perplexed. not upset, not happy, but confused. âdâyou like it?â
azzi looked up at her and balled her hand into a fist. she smiled her real smile and nodded, and paige nearly jumped for joy.
she needed that. the validation and the acceptance. she feared she would always need that and she feared she would only need it from azzi.
âi do.â azzi grabbed paigeâs wrist. she didnât squeeze, but her touch was enough for the hairs there to stand up. âput it on me.â
she turned and held her braid over her shoulder. paigeâs first instinct was to step into her. to press her front to azziâs back and pop every personal bubble. she didnât do that, obviously. she was a gentlewoman.
kinda.
azziâs hair smelled like hibiscus and honey. she had a tattoo on the back of her neck. paige traced the infinity symbol without touching it. what was infinite for azzi fudd?
she watched azziâs shoulders rise and fall from behind her. watched her take the smallest step back. felt her ass press into paigeâs thighs.
she put the necklace on azzi, letting her hands rest on her shoulders after. she wanted to push the cardigan off and feel the heat of azziâs skin. she wanted her hands on azziâs hips instead of her shoulders. she wantedâ she just wanted.
azzi turned around, and paige used the guise of adjusting the necklace as a reason to keep touching her. she started at the clasp and dragged her fingers all the way down past the dips of azziâs collarbones to the center of her chest. she tapped the pendant, then rubbed circles on the skin around it, all while not allowing herself eye contact.
she was right though. pink was azzi's color.
she felt azzi breath under her finger. she felt her chest rise and fall and rise and stay.
paige brought her eyes up to meet azziâs and she knew then that she felt it too. it was the kind of intensity that had to be reciprocated in order to be felt.
azzi was breathing through her mouth, paige could feel it on her neck. she felt everything and she planned on feeling so much more.
azzi spoke but not really. it was more of a rasp than anything, but she let out a low. âpaige.â
âhm?â
she didnât know that that was supposed to do. if it was a warning, it hadnât been heeded. it only made paige close her eyes and picture her name tumbling from those pouty lips again and again and again.
âi donât thiââ
paige swallowed the rest of that sentence. whatever azzi didnât think wasnât necessary.Â
azziâs lips were as soft as they looked. soft and smooth but firm in the way they wrapped around paigeâs. she didnât kiss back immediately, but when she did, paige all but fell to her knees at the feeling.
she wrapped her arms around azziâs waist, tugging the woman into her. she groaned into the kiss, her whole body languid. she felt azziâs hands at the back of her head, fingers sliding beneath her bun.Â
without pulling away, paige guided azziâs cardigan off of her shoulders. she pushed the bottom of her tanktop up just enough for her thumbs to be touching skin. azzi was hot and panting and paige wanted to keep her that way.Â
azzi pulled away and said paigeâs name. she didnât say it with much merit. didnât push her away. she just said paige and tugged the sides of her button down. paige looked her pretty face for half a second before dipping into the womanâs neck.Â
azzi sucked in a breath and fisted paigeâs shirt. âmaybe weâ hm,âÂ
paige worked at her neck; kissing and sucking and licking and biting at the skin until azziâs whole body shook in her hands.
âmaybe we what?â
azzi moaned again, pulling paige further into her. âi just thinkââ
paige kissed her lips because there was no way the sentence was going to be productive.Â
âwe can think later.â she kissed her again, longer this time. âwe can think all day tomorrow.â
she didnât plan on thinking the next day either, but that wasnât the point. the point was that she could feel azzi and she felt too good for distractions.Â
âlemme have you tonight.â she kissed her again, unbuttoning and unzipping her jeans. âjust wanna make you feel good.â
she didnât touch azzi, at least not the way she do desperately wanted to. no, she was going to drag this out, make it last.Â
she tugged at the trim of azziâs panties and smiled when the woman curled over, resting her head on paigeâs shoulder with the quietest moan.Â
âwanna make you happy, az.â she tugged again, and this time, azziâs hips bucked into paige.Â
she edged her fingers into azziâs pants, cupping her pussy over her underwear. âmake you cum,â Â
azzi shuddered and paige pulled her hand away. she stepped back entirely, looking azzi in the eyes, so she could see the severity of the situation.Â
âlemme have you.â she pleaded, kissing the center of azziâs chest, right under her necklace. âplease.â
azzi nodded, stepping up at the same time paige did. the two crashed into each other holding one another as tightly as they could while simultaneously fucking each otherâs mouths.Â
paige felt azziâs nails drag against her skin as she pulled her shirt off. she tugged back into place by the waist and kissed her again, leading them to the bed.Â
azzi sat, fully clothed on the bed, looking up at paige with those big brown eyes. pupil blown out, lip combo smeared, braid halfway undone. she was so perfect, it was impossible to make a mess of her. paige was nearly foaming at the mouth. she stood over azzi trying to catch her breath, which was pointless because every time azzi blinked, paige choked again.Â
azzi broke the silence. âp?â
still staring in her daze, paige raised a brow. âhm?â
azzi grabbed paigeâs hips, splaying her hands over the skin. she was grinning like she hadnât tried to shut this down two minutes ago. she pressed a kiss to one of paigeâs hips, then to the other, sucking on the muscle there.
âi said yes, sweetheart.â
paige fell to her knees, tugging the neckline of azziâs tanktop down and wrapping her lips around the swell of her breast. she placed her free hand on azziâs back and pushed her further into her mouth.Â
aazzi pushed her pussy into paigeâs belly, though paige couldnât imagine it was doing much for her. it was doing wonders for paige though. she was two seconds away from fucking the woman into the ground. she was so needy, panting and searching for something to get her off.
now she gets it. paige thought. she feels the desperation iâve felt since we met, and she'll never get rid of it.
she put her fingers in azziâs belt loop, tugging the denim down and off her legs, leaving her underwear soaked and clinging to her pussy. she ran a finger down and watched azzi arch.Â
âi wanna taste.â she pushed the fabric to the side and pushed her palm to azziâs clit and they moaned together. âeat you so good you canât see straight.â
azzi, with her scrunched face and sopping pussy and skin, rolled her hips. she was chasing itâ chasing paige. she was so fucked.Â
âyes.â azzi moaned, still fucking into paigeâs palm. âyou can. you can taste p, you canâ oh fuck.â
paige fell into it, digging her hands into the flesh of azziâs thighs and taking everything she had into her mouth. paige moaned into azziâs pussy because she had to.Â
she was enveloped by it all. the taste of azzi. the smell of azzi. the feel of azziâs thighs shaking in her hands. the sound of azzi falling apart above her.Â
she could do this all day. she wasnât thinking of anything besides the fact that she wanted to stay here. in this bed. feasting on azzi.Â
she pulled away, smiling when azziâs hips chased after her mouth. she snatched azziâs panties off, brought her hand down and slid in her middle finger. azzi keened, arching so that the only part of her body that touched the bed was her head.Â
paige fucked into her slowly at firstâ again, trying to drag it out, to make it last. but then azzi started fucking her back, rolling her hips to meet paige.
all paige wanted was to give azzi what she wanted and it seemed like azzi wanted more. paige was just as greedy, so she added her index finger and rolled over azziâs clit with her thumb.
it was like azziâs whole body stuttered. her eyes fell closed at the same time that her mouth fell open with an oh my god.
paige watched azzi as her face scrambled into something that could only be described as wanton. she wanted azzi to scream.
she curled her fingers, âdoes it feel good?âÂ
she knew it felt good. she knew what she was doing to her but she wanted to hear it. she wanted to hear azzi tell her it was goodâ that she was good.Â
azzi nodded from above, sliding a hand onto paigeâs shoulder and squeezing. âyesâ yes,â paige kissed under her belly button, sucking at the skin. âyouâre making mommy feel so good, sweetheart.â
paige felt her ears physically perk up. they hadnât talked about itâ what sheâd called azzi on the fourth of july. sheâd been embarrassed but hearing azzi say it made her feel nothing but hungry.Â
she stuck her tongue out and licked at azziâs skin, trailing until she was at her clit again. she licked at her until she felt azzi dripping down her wrist and then she used her whole mouth to suck until azziâs blunt nails dug into her shoulders.Â
paige hoped sheâd bruise, she wanted this engraved on her forever. her hips dug into the mattress without her permission. she just needed to feel somethingâ anything to relieve the tension between her legs.Â
she kept fucking and eating and grinding until she thought she wasnât breathing, and even then, she kept going.Â
azzi was writhing above her, one hand playing with her tits, the other clutching paigeâs shoulder. she was spread so wide, taking it so good and paige was lost. she nodded into azziâs pussy, breathing through her nose, eyes rolling back at the scent.
âso good,â azzi cried, tightening her legs around paigeâs head and grinding. âyouâre doing so good.â
paige wondered if the cumming untouched thing actually happened. she was sure she was almost there, still fucking into the mattress like it could fuck back. the humping wasnât enough, but azzi telling her she was doing good was all she needed.Â
âplease azâ i wanna make you cum.â she spat onto her pussy âi need you to cum.â
she dove back in, eating her pussy and fucking her all at once. she was so close to coming herself and the feel of azzi spazzing around her was only pushing her further.Â
âpaige,â azzi gasped, nearly sitting all the way up. âyouâre so fuckingââÂ
âi want it,â paige begged. âwant you to cum on my face. in my mouthâ fuck please, mommyâ
azzi sucked in a big breath before her whole body locked up and her leg started twitched around paigeâs head. she came quietly, letting out harsh, quiet breaths as she gradually fell back on the bed.Â
paige kept going because one wasnât enough. she wanted the taste of azziâs cum on her tongue forever. azzi was so sensitive, though. so she took her mouth off of her and instead blew lightly on her swollen clit. she added a third finger and watched as her pussy contracted.Â
azzi locked up again, this time gripping at paigeâs disheveled bun. âpaigepaigepaigepaigepaiâSHITâ she snatched at the girls hair and arched so that her entire neck was on display. âoh shiit, fuck yes, sweetheart, just like that.â
she came on paigeâs fingers and paige couldnât help but to lick at her hand as she was fucking azzi through her orgasm.Â
she was on a high. the taste of azziâs cum in her mouth and the sight of it on her fingers and the sound of her gasping for air and the feeling of her hands in paigeâs hairâ it was all so good.Â
she came untouched with a shaky groan into azziâs thigh. she literally came in her pants and she couldnât care less. she climbed over the womanâs body kissing her lips until she noticed that azzi was still trying to catch her breath, so she kissed down her neck and stopped at the valley between her breasts.
she laid there, breathing azzi in, resting her forehead on the womanâs solar plexus. she matched her breath to azziâs. she felt that hand in her hair, letting her bun down and rubbing the base of her skull.Â
paige could have fallen asleep there. but she has so much to say, and so little time to say it. azzi would have to leave her before the night was over. that realization curdled like milk in her chest.
face in azziâs chest, paige whispered, âiâve never wanted anyone like i want you.â
azziâs hand froze in her head, but she corrected quickly stroking again while saying nothing.
âlike,â paige laughed a little, âwhen we first met, all i wanted to do was talk to you. ask you a million questions.â
she felt azziâs heart pound against her cheek, but she didn't show that she was effected by anything paige had said.Â
in a raspy, tired voice all azzi said was, âi wanted you to.â
paige thought back to the day they met. when azzi was preparing to butcher the duck they never got to eat. sheâd been enamored from the jump, but sheâd been callous.
she brought her head up, looking at azzi, whoâd already been looking at her.Â
âiâm sorry i was a dick to you.â she mumbled.Â
azzi smiled and shook her head like it was the ridiculous thing to say. she brushed a thumb across paigeâs chin and pressed it into her bottom lip. âitâs okay, baby.â
paige slept alone that night, wrapped in azziâs cardigan. she lied when she told azzi theyâd think all day the next day. she had a plane to catch and a game to play. sheâd be going back to storrs knowing nothing but azzi fudd.Â
Fuck.
CHRISTMAS BREAK
paige wasnât the biggest fan of christmas. winter in minnesota wasnât her favorite thing in the world, and neither was exchanging gifts with her family. but the thing she looked forward to the least was the christmas photo.Â
every year, her family met at JCPenny in pre-planned outfits. the christmas photo was amyâs chance to show everyone and their grandmothers that sheâd done divorce correctly. to flaunt her perfectly blended family.Â
and paige wanted to give her that. so every year, she put on that stupid red dress and let her mom curl her hair. she wore the heels and the ugly pearl earrings and the pink lip gloss. sheâd only tried to do it differently once and that taught paige that obedience was best in regards to her mother.Â
she promised herself this year would be different. that sheâd wear the clothes azzi got her because azzi wanted her to be comfortableâ because azzi said she deserved to be comfortable. but her hands were shaking as she looked at the slacks sheâd just ironed.Â
all she could think about was her motherâs face. the disgust and shame.Â
there was only so much pride you could have in yourself when your mother was disgusted by you. only so much confidence you could walk with when your mother made it her mission to break you.Â
paige had known how her life would go for a while. sheâd never be able to bring a girl home. her mother wouldnât give her away, and her father wouldnât walk her down the aisle. her children would never know her family, theyâd never look through her baby books or be spoiled by grandma.Â
sheâd been single because she knew the minute she met a girl worth keeping, sheâd never see her family again. so she was careful with who she went out with, careful with how she went about relationships.
since sheâd been home for christmas, she was sure sheâd found that girlâ that woman. of course, it just had to be her fatherâs girlfriend. not only was it a woman paigeâs mom liked, but a woman her father had already claimed.Â
paige slammed her head into her hands and pulled at her hair. she cursed herself for fucking up the routine sheâd mastered. she should have stayed away. she should have left the fucking clothes. returned them. burned them. something.Â
her door opened without a knock.Â
it was azzi in the dress paige had fucked her in the day before. only now, she had her hair pressed into big curls. âyour dad sent me toââ she took one look at paige and lost her sly smirk. âwhatâs wrong?â
paige crumbled again, shaking her head in her hands. âi canât do it, az.â she choked out.Â
azzi put a hand on paigeâs shoulder and crouched down in front of her. paige thought her dress was too tight for that to be comfortable. âdo what, sweetheart?â
she waved at the outfit spread the mattress beside her. âthe c-clothes. i was gonna wear the clothes you got me but iâ i canât.â
she cried some more, not looking at azzi but resting her head on the womanâs forearm.
âhey,â azzi cooed.Â
paige didnât respond, she kept crying.Â
then, firmer this time, azzi said, âlook at me, paige.â
paige opened her eyes instantly, popping her head up and trying to pull it together.Â
azzi held paigeâs face in her hands and kissed just beside her nose.Â
âyou can wear whatever you want to.â rubbed at paigeâs tears, keeping her brown saucers on paigeâs blue ones. âamy doesnât get a say in what you wear. she doesnât get a say in who you love. itâs your lifeâ your happiness. not hers. do you understand?â
more tears poured from paigeâs eyes. no one had ever said that to her. no one had ever made her feel the way azzi did. security was new to her, as was feeling validated for anything other than throwing a ball in a hoop.Â
but there azzi was. holding paige and wiping her tears and ruining her lip combo by kissing paigeâs face.Â
paige nodded and tried not to fall apart completely.Â
âgood.â azzi smiled. ânow put your clothes on and iâll see you at the mall. okay?â
paige nodded again and with a wobbly voice said, âokay.â
azzi stood up and peered down at paige before bending and pressing a closed mouth but world shattering kiss to her lips.Â
âgood girl.â she whispered, wiping her makeup off of paigeâs lips.Â
ââ
paige sat in her dadâs car for fifteen minutes. the mall was packed with children wanting pictures with santa and parents forgetting gifts for family they didnât really care about. she didnât need to go inside to know that the people of edina, minnesota were in a frenzy.Â
the sweater fit her perfectly. the slacks fit her perfectly. the loafers she bought complimented the outfit perfectly. her accessories matched perfectly.Â
paige looked good. she looked perfect.Â
she wanted to remember that. she kept saying it.Â
you look good. this is a good outfit.Â
this is christmas and festive and azzi knew what she was doing when she bought it.Â
there is nothing wrong. with your fucking. clothes.Â
she hadnât fully convinced herself, but taylor had texted her saying that amy was losing her shit, which meant paige had approximately five minutes before she was disowned and the family photo was taken without her.
she hadnât fully convinced herself, but taylor had texted her saying that amy was losing her shit, which meant paige had approximately five minutes before she was disowned and the family photo was taken without her.
when she got to the photography section of the JCPenny, paige saw azzi first. she was talking to taylor and playing with the pink diamond laying on her chest.Â
her dress was black and tight with a black fur trim around the top and the wrists. you wouldnât know it was a christmas photoshoot if she didnât have a ridiculously large red bow at the top of her ponytail. her shoulders were out and dusted with body glitter that paige wanted nothing more than to lick off of her. her had paigeâs christmas gift to her on her feet, and small but chunky silver hoops to match her necklace.Â
looking at azzi laugh, paige thought i can do this.Â
she stepped in and everyone looked at her. azzi smiled so wide, paige could see her gums. taylorâs eyes bugged out of her head. bob face palmed. dan looked at amy. amy turned fire hydrant red.Â
âpaige.â her mom seethed.Â
paige sighed and squared her shoulders. âmom.â
âwe donât have time for this,â her mom approached her and pushed at her bicep. she pointed to the door. âgo change.â
she shrugged her mother off of her. âthis is what iâm wearing, mom.âÂ
she was standing on it. she looked to azzi, who nodded in solidarity. taylor was holding azziâs hand, squeezing so hard her veins were popping out.Â
âno it isnât,â amy shook her head.âgo put on the dress i bought you. did you even bring it?â
paige didnât even take the dress out of itâs box.Â
âno, i didnât bring it because this is what iâm wearing.â
shaking her head again, amy pointed at paigeâs body. âthatâs not appropriate.â
paige deadpanned and tilted her head in danâs direction. âitâs almost the exact same thing your husband is wearing.â
âpaige,â dan sighed, stepping up to the two women. âyour mother just wants things to go smoothly. why do you always have to provoke her?â
paige gawked âiâm no-â
 âpaigeâs outfit is perfectly fine.âÂ
she was interrupted by that same firm voice from earlier. azzi stepped up, dragging taylor with her.
âi think you look beautiful,â she smiled at paige before turning to taylor. âdoesnât she look beautiful?â
taylor looked between azzi and her dad with wide eyes. âiâ yeah.â
paige nearly dropped her jaw. taylor was a few years younger than paige, but the two had grown up together. theyâd never been close. taylor had never been kind to p, but sheâd never been rude. she was just always there.
azzi let taylor go and approached amy. âsince i met your family, youâve done nothing but berate your child and make her feel small. for her clothes, for the way she sits, the way she talks.â she counted on her fingers. âitâs pathetic, the way you canât open your small mind and show compassion to this girl.â
paige couldnât help but gape at the only person in the history of the universe to defend her. azzi fudd was standing up for her. she was in her motherâs face, lording over her in the heels paige bought her.Â
the heat in her eyes was fascinating.
âif youâre provoked by your daughter in sweater, thatâs a you issue.â she pointed at amyâs head. âall she wants is to make you happy and be herself. i watch her bite her tongue every time you speak because she doesnât want to provoke you.âÂ
paige could have kissed her and blew shit up even more. she wanted to cry and smile and scream all at once.Â
âand you.â azzi turned to bob, whoâd been scratching his neck this whole time. âyou never have her back. you roll over for your ex-wife like a yorkie but tell me how bad you feel for your daughter.âÂ
paige looked at her father, who seemed like he wanted to crawl in a hole.Â
doesnât feel good, does it bitch?
azzi looked at bob, then dan, then dead at amy. âyouâre all so sick and so sad and iâm tired of watching it.âÂ
she headed to door, but paigeâs dad grabbed at her. âazzi waitââ
she shrugged him off, shaking her head. âtalk to your kid, robert.â
he turned to paige, who was trying to figure out what the fuck had just happened. âpaige?â
not right now, pops.â she shook her head, too, before walking out the door.Â
she found azzi sitting in the waiting area. she sat beside her, not looking at her.
âthanks.â she mumbled. âi could have defended myself, but thank you.â
azzi shook her head. âthey wouldnât let you.â she cut her eyes like she was still looking at paigeâs mom. â i hate when she doesnât let you speak.â
paige shrugged. and turned to azzi who still looked homicidal. she rubbed at the womanâs back. âitâs okay.âÂ
sheâd been through this a million times. sheâd cry about it later. once she was alone and had no choice but to think, paige would cry about this whole thing. sheâd imagine comebacks and scream into her pillow and punch her mattress until kingdom came. but for now, she was okay.Â
âno, itâs not.â azzi insisted, whipping her head to paige. her eyes were red and glossy.Â
 âwhat gives her the fucking right to talk to you that way?â her voice cracked and she rolled her eyes as she wiped them. âgod, and your father is so spineless.â
paige knew she was in love right then. it didnât matter that azzi wasnât hers, or that she was eight years older. the logistics were out the window because paige was in love.Â
âaz.â she grabbed both of azziâs shoulders. âiâm okay for now.â
azzi looked over her face and sniffled. âare you sure?âÂ
paige smiled and nodded. âyes.â
azzi reached across the armrest and took paige in her arms. paige nearly melted. she hugged her back and nuzzled her face into the womanâs neck, inhaling her scent.Â
she felt peace there. like nothing would hurt ever again. the feeling made her want to do crazy shit, like kiss azzi in the JCPenny photography waiting room. Â
âi really like you, azzi.â paige blurted out, pulling out the hug but still holding azziâs elbows.Â
 âlike this isnât just sex for me. i know youâre with my dad right now but we both know you donât wanna be. you could be with meâ i wanna be with you. and i know iâm at school right now but i graduate next year and iâll be home more often because iâm pretty sure my parents never wanna see me again andâ and we can be together, az.â
she sucked in a breath and searched azziâs face for an answer. the woman was still holding paigeâs arms, but she looked so far away. dread took over paigeâs entire being.Â
âwhat?â she let go of azzi. âyouââ her voice broke, âyou donât wanna be with me?â
just the thought had paige nauseous. sheâd misread this whole thing. how fucking stupid could she be?
she never got what she wanted and she knew that. sheâd known that her whole life. sheâd clawed her way through life with scraps of approval and enough false confidence to fill a well. she had a routine. she had a systematic way of going about things and she let this womanâ her dadâs fucking girlfriendâ give her hope.Â
sheâd fallen for azziâs whole you deserve it bullshit and let herself get excited. that was the worst part. she knew better. she should have expected this.Â
she should have expected azzi to stay with bob. paige knew heâd never deserve azzi. that he didnât have what it took to make her happy. sheâd seen azzi happy. she knew azziâs real smile well, and sheâd never seen it directed at bob.Â
azzi reached for her, âthatâs not itââ
paige pulled away from her, causing azzi to stop her sentence. her breath trembled with betrayal.Â
azziâs lips parted, whatever she was about to say stuck in her mouth. she went to speak again but the door to the waiting area slammed open.Â
bob stood at the threshold, eyes bouncing from paige to azzi with a low brows and that stupid, clueless twinkle in his eyes.
and suddenly, time was frozen.
paige looked at her father. her father looked at his girlfriend. his girlfriend looked at paige.Â
paige felt her heart pounding in her throat. she watched azziâd face flash with confusion, then guilt, then something softer. and then bob opened his mouth.Â
âp, can we talk?â her asked, painfully unaware of the clusterfuck heâd just interrupted.Â
paige opened her mouth. nothing came out.
azzi shifted in her seat, just enough for her knee to brush paigeâs. it was like a tether. a small, wordless one, but a tether nonetheless. paigeâs heart clenched.Â
paige looked at her father.Â
her father looked at his girlfriend.Â
his girlfriend looked at paige.
đ·ïž @kehlaniscript @thaatdigitaldiary @hcneymooners @summer3walker
maybe im just gay but why did i find this so hot? azzi hello? đ„”
is it dramatic to say this photo changed my life
good night
I'D RATHER PRETEND
South Carolina was on an undefeated streak in the 2022-2023 season until Tess Kennedy suffered an ACL tear in the third quarter and Iowa upset South Carolina in the Final Four. The tournament loss combined with the fact she may never get to play basketball again (recovery depending) is enough to send Tess into a deep, weeks-long depression spiral. Tess's alcohol dependence, Twitter brawls, and general out-of-control behavior forces the South Carolina womenâs basketball staff and counselors to make changes before Tess loses her basketball scholarship â or worse, herself. It will take months of damage control and image repair along with Tessâs counseling and physical therapy, but what better way to fix her tarnished reputation than to match up two basketball dynasties and make Tess fake date Paige Bueckers? This agreement was supposed to be mutually beneficial, but soon enough, it starts feeling a little too real, and Tess and Paige must figure out if their public images are truly worth these complicated emotions.
MASTERLIST
prologue one two three four five six seven eight nine
extra 1 extra 2 extra 3 extra 4 extra 5
PLAYLIST
american wedding - frank ocean 'M-R-S dot kennedy, she signed her name in pen'
transform - daniel caesar, charlotte day wilson 'it's never over until life ends'
i'd rather pretend - bryant barnes 'tell me, is this real to you?'
dispose of me - omar apollo 'it don't matter if it's 25 days, it was real love'
feel like home - foushee 'let's bite the bullet, fight this war together'
like real people do - hozier 'why were you digging? what did you bury?'
sierra leone - frank ocean 'this shit feelin' different, shit feelin' too good to me'
delicate - taylor swift 'my reputation's never been worse, so you must like me for me'
halley's comet - billie eilish 'silly me to fall in love with you'
nobody gets me - sza 'how am i supposed to let you go? only like myself when i'm with you'
sorry - halsey 'i failed to see it from the start, and tore you open til the end'
peace - taylor swift 'all these people think love's for show, but i would die for you in secret'
general content warnings: language, injury, mental health, alcohol not really warnings but: angst, trope-typical fake dating miscommunication, tess might be kinda unlikeable for a minute, author makes a mockery of modern medicine, abuse of redshirting rules, time is a concept and i refuse to be restricted by a calendar, journalistic integrity is sacrificed for the greater good
ౚৠreliquary. | ao3 link here.
vampire!azzi x vampire hunter!paige. men & minors dni.
wc: 14.9k
synopsis: at sixteen, azzi fudd is brutally murdered, and at sixteen paige is consumed with grief. eleven years later, paige is reborn through vengeance and finds that azzi has come back from the dead.
cw: vampire/human dynamics, childhood friends to enemies (kind of) to lovers, religious imagery & biblical references, grief as a love language, vampire hunters in a modern age, blood drinking, family trauma, violence & gore, paige vs not playing about azzi in any universe, body horror, choosing your long time lesbianism over your entire bloodline lmao, non-linear narrative, love as the ultimate religion, hurt/comfort, implied substance abuse, angst with a happy ending.
notes: i had so much fun with this, even though it took me a while to find the root of it. i hope you enjoy this as much as i did, and i love you. let me know what you think. x
everyone had a marker, a signal that they would either go old or young. azzi knew she was not meant for a full life, even before the onset of the end.Â
there had always been a feeling, a deep unease that had found her body in infancy and then spidered through her blood until she was nothing more than a prophetess of her own death.Â
for weeks before it happened, azzi could smell it. the air had gone dulcet and thick, a mangled memory of gardenias left to rot in the swelter of summer heat. every swell of her lungs came in sugar-burnt, almost like candied lilies left too long unattended, sweet to the point of sickness. it stained her, caked on and under her tongue like a pill half taken, found itself a place to nest in the dark spill of her curls. it was worse at night, an inescapable signal to some terrible departure.
sheâd been feeling watched for months now, pursued by a crawling sensation between her shoulder blades, the sense of eyes tracking her movement regardless of circumstance. azzi was never alone, always a lamb: across parking lots, through school hallways, in the humid haze of her bathroom post-shower. there was always something in the mirror, something under the bed, someone against the window.
it was slowly, methodically, driving her insane.
she hadnât dared speak of it, at least to no one other than her small leather-bound diary she kept soft between her stomach and mattress in the dead of night. sheâd scribble madly, freezing at every creak of the floorboards, diamond â5â pendant spinning fraily along its dainty silver chain.
it had been a gift for azziâs thirteenth, the jersey number of the one person she usually told everything to.
paige bueckers.
paige, with her skin like snow stretched over a pool of hot blood. paige with her golden hair and golden throat and legs with no end. paige, who had chosen azzi when they were younger, who chose her always, even now with her erratic behavior and trembling in the dark. paige, whom azzi was terrified of telling about this persistence of feeling. paige, whom she loved in a way that went without articulation because there was no languageâdead or aliveâthat could ever articulate azziâs adoration.
paige, who went pink and soft and flaky under the sun, like a cherry danish. paige, who knew azzi like the back of her hand. paige with her odd, suffocating family. paige, with her vast talent and her future wide and undefined, like saltwater spread blue against the horizon.
azziâs best friend.
so, she said nothing of how she felt, let it maroon her further and further from those she loved until she reached sixteen, and therefore, the end.
the day had begun with a spread of dark, heavy clouds that threatened rain but never released it. it was windy, cooler than any end of august had a right to be, but azzi had blamed it on the turbulent spirit of minnesota. the midwest was always unsure of itself, always confused with its twist of seasons and flat, blank body that could swallow you if you didnât know your own.
this land knew a predatorâs urge, and its earth would always signal the hunt.
that morning, as azzi left her house, she could feel the spirit of the soil. it hungered without restriction, its pulse beating in the way the undergrowth seemed to lean inward as she slipped free of her childhood home, creating corridors where there shouldâve been a straight, even path. the tracks only led deeper when she needed to find her way out.
the shortcut to practice had never felt this long; the trees had never seemed this malignant. here, the bark wept dark sap like infected wounds, and the branches grew at abnormal angles, reaching out to grasp one another across the path, forming a canopy so dense that late afternoon felt already like twilight.
the forestâs floor was carpeted with leaves that seemed never to decay. they just accumulated in thick, wet layers that muffled sound and released a putrid, treacly breath with every step.
no insects hummed. no birds called. the flora seemed to curve desperately away from certain spots, firm in their avoidance and forming clearings where the earth was too dark, too rich, as if it had been fed.
the toe of azziâs sneakers caught on roots that she wasnât sure had been there yesterday. but maybeâmaybe they had always been here, in the way her death had always been there. shadowy, slippery, suddenly so present. maybe she just never walked this way alone, in the dark, with fury still rooted warm and immovable behind her ribs, seeded from a rough argument the evening before with paige.
it had been over the phone and over something stupid, but important enough to derail her in the way most things did when you were only sixteen. it had held enough weight to discourage azzi from riding with paige to practice, to choose this laborious walk through these woods over that hot press of limb to limb in the back of the car with her favorite person since grade school.
absentmindedly, azzi touched her pendant as it spun fraily in the breeze, stilling its spin on its noose of thin, silver chain.
yes, something was wrong.
she touched it again, and in between the space of her fingersâ upward reach and her footâs snapping of a stick, azzi fudd was forever severed from her humanity. slaughtered and gone in less than a second.
she never felt the full impact, only the soft brush of something behind her, and then a scarlet explosion of pain behind her eyelids. it was oddly near a migraine, an utterly destabilizing burst of agony that rendered her blind and without an axis of balance.
somewhere in the haze, a laughâlow, close, and lazyâsplit the silence.
âshh,â it said. âitâs only beginning.â
she began to fall, and in the white-hot hush that followed, azzi floated. her mind was clearer than it had ever been. she felt young, uncoupled from her body, as if her bones had been stripped bare to show the pale of them. a beginning again.Â
she could begin again.Â
and somewhere in that strange space between going and gone, she thought of the last time she had felt this warm:
she and paige, young and close, eleven and twelve, pressed together on court, gazing out across the ballroom, eyes sharp with judgment, watching players glide across lacquered floors. she and paige, twelve and thirteen, flushed with the noise of adolescence, always grazing, always watching, with no name for the wanting. she and paige, fourteen and fifteen, azziâs ankle shattering and her team flying on without her, teeth shining in the frost as they headed to nationals. the roses paige made her mother buy, pink like brain matter, that weaved a web of comfort in the cocoon of her room.
paigeâs mouth had hovered over the thin bones, eyes pressed tightly as if she was praying for the pain to be hers and only hers, suffering never to touch azzi.
she remembered now. and to think azzi had been cross with her before all this.
time folded inward. maybe her mother was reaching for her. she thought she could hear her name, spoken oddlyâstiltedlyâby someone else. maybeâ
maybe the only real thing was the way her heart opened like a tulip smashed and stayed that way.
azzi landed hard, back in her body, air sharp and damp, her limbs splayed like a chalk outline. her curls pooled dark and dense underneath her head, a nimbus of blood stuck between matting and clotting. she lay in the middle of that forest floor, paralyzed in a hug of earth made rougher by the littering of wood and stone.
for a moment, she thought she was still falling. her breath came thin and reedy, snagging with every exhale on the peak of her throat. she coughed up chunks of soil and blood, body folding incorrectly, poured back into herself too quickly, chest cracking open for air like a coffin lid forced apart. she could feel the split of every vein, this new line drawn along her neck by a strangerâs intentional violence.
pain fluttered through her in fragments, butterflies of brutality: a violin string snapped, a shoulder struck stone, ribs pulled wide to make room for something that wasnât quite her. the world blurred, waterlogged, sound and color smeared against glass. beneath her spine and skull, the earth still hummed, low and endless, a horrible droning hymn that asked her to forget the shape of her body. her old body.
time stilled; silence expanded and seemed to collect along her thighs and stomach. it was then she realized she was not alone. someone? something? leaned close, patient, waiting.
azzi glanced up, eyes jerking from side to side with panic as she realized someone was standing over her. she couldnât focus on them. all her mind could conjure was recognition that it was a silhouette. from there, it fractured into a fantasy, told her that this was a face she may have once known.
her father. no. her grandmother. no. both at once. now, a stranger.
there was warmth dripping past her collarbones, and she understood its origin point was a product of the shadow above her. teeth, white and pointed. a prayer whispered: youâre beautiful, you know that?
azzi tried to scream. the void above her laughed, then settled into an answering smile that was sharp enough to sting. again, that smell. so sick and soft and confectionery.
she wanted to breathe it in forever.
they kept grinning, the line widening and blurring madly through her skewed vision. she could focus on nothing except the ache in her jaw. red beat against her brow.
red teeth, red mouth, red rebirth.
the creature bent, cool mouth meeting her skin, kissing their infection into her, and azziâs life split open for a second time, a paper cut widening into forever. she screamed audibly this time, a high, haunting howl that amplified itself over and over until it covered her from bone to blood.
âhelp me,â she shrieked. âpaige!â
paige, whoâd driven this route a hundred times to pick her up from practice. paige, who would be driving past right now, windows down, probably still upset with her, but always the first to start feeling guilt when they fought.
the wrong answer: no one's coming, little bird. youâre just like me.
another bite down. azzi wailed.
âpaige!â
hunger folded into blessing, then back again. she could no longer speak. it was nothing but an endless slur of suffering, her hips twitching and bucking beneath her as she was twisted into something new.
the transformation began in earnest then, as if it had been waiting for refusal.
her spine arched impossibly, vertebrae popping like knuckles as her bones began to eat and regurgitate themselves. the sound was wet and wrong: cartilage tearing, marrow remolding itself to accommodate this parasitic spill. azziâs ribcage cracked outward, white fingers jutting out from her chest to welcome better lungs. lungs that would no longer need the same rhythm as before.
but it was her mouth that ravaged the most. her teethâthat white stretch that had spread beatifically for school photos, that had smiled at paige a thousand times, that had bitten her lip into slits when she was wracked by nervesâbegan to loosen in her gums. she could taste metal as they shifted, roots pulling free with tender, bilious pops.
her incisors fell first, dropping onto her tongue like lozenges, and she almost choked on them before her body lurched to the side and forced their deposit into the bloodied silt by her side, where they looked small and useless. two new rows pushed up and out through her gums, sharp and predatory and relentless, tearing her gums into a pink pulp that began to mend itself moments afterâtop and bottom.
the pain was exquisite, like her jaw was being reconstructed by a sculptorâs hands, forcefully perfected from the inside out. her senses expanded, extended, exploded. suddenly, she could hear heartbeats thundering from miles off, could smell every bit of animal flesh that had passed through these woods in the last week, could see every detail of her sire's face with perfect, terrible clarity even in the darkness.
urine trickled down her inner thigh, but azzi could not find the space to feel humiliated.
a leg kicked out as her neck snapped back, all of her veins straining for escape. she was unsure if she was still sobbing, but she knew that it mattered not. it was like this for days, maybe years.
in truth, it only took under twelve hours for her body to mangle itself under the mutation of the bite. and then finally, it was done. by the full bloom of the early morning, azzi had grown back.Â
she lay there, body aching inside and out, her mouth full of new teeth that felt foreign against her tongue. then there was movement. she could smell it before she saw the source, copper-sweet, trembling. her head snapped sharply to the side, the angle unnatural.
there, drinking languidly, was a herd of deer.
she tracked them, vision warped and spun upside down. the hunger swelled hot and impossible in her chest as she watched. it was a voice of flame, a ceaseless plea. azzi crawled, turning her body until it felt right again, until she could walk.
it took one glide to cross the forest, and eight bites until she was finished. her jaw stretched long and wide, fitting easily over the first neck and cutting through the last without protest. in the distance, she could hear a car engineâpaige's car?âgrowing fainter as it drove away from her.
azzi knew on a level that she was whole but wrong. she was so hungry. and stillâshe touched her neck.
her necklace was gone.
oh no.
oh no, oh no, oh no, oh no.
the forest settled around her, satisfied with the outcome of this chase. it had needed this offering to its diseased heart; it had needed something new to bury beneath roots that had grown fat on similar violence.
azzi stumbled backward, spinning in a loose circle, trying to retrace, to find at least the pendant, to salvage something. as she shakily twisted away from the carcasses of her meal, she felt her foot sink into the wet grasp of a puddle. she looked down and found her eyes dark, lit from within with a crimson light like a felineâs.
a vibration began to travel the length of her throat. her mouth fell open before she could stop it, and from its depth came a long and arduous scream. she could not look away from herself, could not stop her shriek of terror at the sight of her own face.
oh, god, she thought, looking down at the crimson of her palms, the bit of neck beneath her nails. oh, god. oh, god. oh, god.Â
paige is going to kill me.
ACT I. LAMENTATION.
in the aftermath of the disappearance, paige could not go a single hour without intervention. they had to sedate her.
at first, she was fine. she could handle âmissing.â missing meant that there was a chance azzi could be found, could be located, and returned to her. she dreamed vividly of it from the moment the diagnosis was delivered to the case, illustrations of a rescue that soured quickly into a nightmare.
azzi with her skin colored cinnamon, the way it wept pear and iris after she drizzled her pulse points with perfumed oil. azzi, with her stomach hot against paigeâs back. azzi, with her mouth like a rose, darkened and drained into a lush, dried pink. azzi, with her forehead against the nape of paigeâs neck in the locker room shower, body shaking so that everyone else would see her grief instead, because she knew that paige hated crying in front of other people. azzi, whose early-bought christmas gifts were shoved underneath the chest of paigeâs queen-sized bed, because who else would paige give them to?
but dead? presumed dead?
the words hit first like a slow poison, seeping through her consciousness until they reached something vital and began to corrode it. when they settled, it hit like a gunshot. paige jerked in place, bile rising in her throat, coming hot and fast against her back molars, then landing acidic on her tongue. the police station was suddenly nothing more than a place of altered physics.
the lights hummed, fluorescent, their frequency making her teeth ache in place, a tilt coming to her brain and seizing it. the air was thicker than before, and paige could feel the drag and drop of her lungs as her body worked overtime to keep her from imploding with grief.
she felt the passage of time in a way she hadnât before, minutes moving over her arms and legs with stuttering rhythm like a film reel catching on its sprockets. detective desmondâs mouth was moving, yes, forming sounds, but her mind refused to interpret them as language.
paige could not learn these words, know these words.
blood spatter, evidence, remains.
azzi did not remain anywhere. she was whole and scared and waiting for her. she was waiting for paige. why didnât they all understand that? it all floated past her, debris from a strike she couldn't quite comprehend.
âiâm sorry?â she asked, and everyone turned to her as if she were forgettable despite being so bright and blonde in this beige clinical space.
her hands began to tremble, and she watched them idly as if they belonged to someone else. such delicate things, these fingers that had braided azzi's hair into two neat plaits on game days and mapped the spread of her veins across her shoulder on the bus home. these fingers that had smeared their oils across the hummingbird flutter of azziâs pulse, forcing her to calm down when she was possessed by an anxiety attack that wouldâve taken out someone weaker. these fingers on this hand that had once clutched azziâs now missing hand within it, bringing it up and spreading it wide so that paigeâs chapped lips could scrape across the sweaty palm.
the detective watched her for a moment, then spoke again. "we're updating the caseâs status to presumed homicide."
a tremor began to spread from paigeâs hands to her arms, then deeper, until her entire skeleton felt unstable. she was aware, with the peculiar clarity that comes with shock, that something fundamental in her architecture was collapsing. not her bodyâher body continued to sway and sit in the plastic chair, continued to breathe and blink and maintain the pretense of being a living personâbut the thing inside her that had been paige bueckers was folding inward like a dying star.
âno.â
her mother turned to her then, but paige ignored her.
âno?â an officer echoed.
"no,â paige agreed. she shifted in place, blue eyes unblinking and suddenly so hard to close. âyou're not looking hard enough." her voice cracked here, veered high and desperate before she regrouped. "not one of you is looking hard enough. she's sixteen. sixteen-year-old girls donât just disappear in a town like this."
âms. bueckers, we understand this is difficult, butââ
âno,â she said again, but this time it fell from her mouth as a sob rather than a statement. âno, you don't understand," she told them, and her voice sounded far away, as if it were coming from the bottom of a well. "she's not gone. i would know if she were gone."
but even as she spoke, she could feel the knowledge creeping in through the cracks in her denial. azzi, who had been the other half of every conversation paige had ever had with herself. azzi, whose absence left a silence so profound it had its own gravity, its own terrible presence.
"i need to go look for her," she said, standing with the careful precision of someone walking on ice. "i will. there are places you haven't searched."
she went dizzy, and there was her mother's hand on her arm, a shackle that sent a wave of relief through the other adults in the room. but paige was bueckersâ blood, and her bloodline and its determination would never die. she twisted out from under her motherâs grasp and lurched forward.
âpaigeââ her mother began, but paige heeded nothing. she clutched at her head, suddenly swollen with pain, swollen with misery.
âtheyâre giving up on her! youâre all just giving up on her!â
with the accusation loosened and tossed into the fray, something inside of paige snapped. the sound that came out of her throat was neither a scream nor a sob, simply noise. a terrible, malevolent, animalic call made when one is caught in a trap. raw and primal and endless.
a chair scraped against the floor as she lunged forward, hands slamming against the detective's chest hard enough to send her backward with a shocked cry. her mother was fully on her then, pinning her daughterâs arms to her sides and kicking her feet out from underneath her so that she was felled like a skyscraper under the nose of a plane.
paige fought against the grip, nails raking against a desk's surface as she teetered, leaving white scratches in the fake wood grain. the room spun, her vision tunneling down to pinpricks of light. she couldn't breathe. her lungs felt crushed, compressed, like an anvil had caved her chest in with one fell swoop.
it took three men to get her into the back of her motherâs car.
the drive home was a coffin of silence broken only by the click of her motherâs rosary beads and punctuated by a series of static images. traffic lights bled their green-red-yellow switch into the rain on the windshield. her fatherâs knuckles were bone-white on the wheel. paige pressed her forehead to the glass until her breath fogged it over, whispering to herselfâhalf-prayer, half-denialâsheâs not dead. sheâs not dead.
the familiar streets of their neighborhood transformed into hostile terrain: each darkened yard, each closed garage, a possible tomb.
was azzi a body hidden in a neighborâs trash can? buried beneath a flowerbed, flesh rotting and maggotted under a family of white hyacinths? a squirrel shoving seed after seed into the hollows of her skull? would the soil give her away, the change in ph altering the petals, produce an oddity in color? reveal the truth years from now?
when they pulled into the driveway, the house lights were glowing, too warm and domestic with no sensitivity to the apocalypse hemorrhaging paige inside her chest. she stepped out of the car, moving toward the backyard with the single-minded purpose of the sleepwalking.
she would find azzi. she would bring her home.
these had become not just intentions but physical laws, as immutable as gravity.
"paige, you need to rest."
"no," she said, and it was as if she knew no other answer. "youâre all giving up on her. i am not giving up on her."
she tried to push forward, past her motherâwho had moved far more quickly than paige thought her capable ofâbut her body betrayed her. her legs were suddenly unsteady, her hands shaking so violently she couldn't properly grip the delicate bone of her motherâs elbow to force her to the side. when her mother again blocked her path, paige found herself violently external, beating against the obstacle with the methodical persistence of waves against rocks.
"get out of my fucking way. she's waiting for me," she said, each word accompanied by a blow that set bruise after bruise into the woman who had heaved her into this world. "she's scared and she's waiting and everyone's giving up, but i won't. i won't give up on her."
it was useless, and they both knew it, and so they stood there for minutes more as paige struck every soft part of this body in front of her, every single wound-worthy sliver she found. it was only when she went to strike her motherâs face that her mother struck her first, sending her reeling backward and into the open arms of her father, who refused to let her go.
they guided her upstairs, her limbs writhing as she screamed, and eventually paige allowed it because walking had become difficult. after all, the floor seemed to tilt and sway beneath her feet. it wasn't until she heard the lock click that she understood what had happened.
she scrambled to her knees, crawled, pressed her palms against the door, and spoke to the wood in a voice that sounded reasonable, almost conversational.
"please open the door. i need to find her." silence. "she's alone out there. she's alone, and she needs me."
more silence, broken only by the sound of her mother weeping on the other side.
paige threw reason aside.
âopen the door, mom. open the fucking door.â she was shrieking now, beating her fists purple and bloody. âopen the fucking door! you canât keep me in here. open it! open it!â
her throat tore with the effort. paige slid down until she was sitting on the floor, back against the door, throwing her shoulders into the wood in the hopes that it would give. it didnât.
she pressed her cheek against the wood, listening to the silence on the other side until her own breath became unbearable. then she turned, slow as a feral thing, and crawled across the room. the window latch gave under her hands.
paige dropped into the yard barefoot, knees splattering with mud. she didnât remember taking her shoes off, but she didnât mind. sheâd move quicker this way, and what she needed most was time. the night was dismal and cruel, overtaken by a sudden drop in temperature. somewhere in the dark, she expected azziâs laugh, azziâs voice, azziâs arms. there was nothing.
paige moved on hands and knees at first, then stood, stumbling, letting her mind and body guide her. there was only one direction: into the woods.
she had told them about the shortcut. the hidden path azzi had shared with paige, with a sly smile, pulling her by the wrist and laughing when the branches snapped across her arms. even riddled by grief, paigeâs muscles remembered where to duck, where to push aside a burst of firs, where the path would curve abnormally in the dark, lead her toward a clearing.
the trees closed in, dense and unforgiving. branches scraped her face, dirt wedging underneath her nails as paige worked her way in with unhinged determination. the deeper she went, the quieter it became, until even her breathing felt like trespass. she was nearing prayer when she broke through a hanging of dry, thin branches and into the clearing.
the silence roared, and she carefully gazed around, shoving traces of blonde hair away from her face. she could not allow anything to distract her from clues.
and then she saw it.
at first, it was only a glint, a shard of light that paige thought she was hallucinating, so unnaturally beautiful against the dull, wet earth. but when she crouched, knees pressing into the soil, fingers trembling in the dark, she knew at once it was not an illusion. it was nauseatingly real. the chain was halved, clasp broken. the small diamante â5â that had swung from it lay crooked on the forest floor, spattered scarlet-brown across the face where blood had dried into its grooves.
azziâs pendant. azziâs promise. paigeâs jersey number, pressed into silver, worn against azziâs chest every day since paige had gifted it to her.
she had never taken it off.
not for sleep. not for showers. not for anything.
paige sank to her knees, the caps hitting the rot-soft dirt, her fists carving furrows into the leaves. the clearing swam before her, and she gagged dryly on nothing, oxygen suddenly cloying and scented with gardenia. once she noticed the odor, it reared in its full repugnance, until it felt ground into the marrow of her teeth.
the pendant bit into her palm, sharp and merciless, and she understood in one obliterating rush: azzi was gone.
gone in a way that left no answer behind. gone in a way that meant paige could not follow.
paige felt her mouth unanchor, but what left was not speech. she could only scream until her throat seemed to rupture with the strength, her pain so encapsulating that she could see nothing before or after it.
she was nothing more than a confession of anguish; a low, animal keen.
paige drew her knees to her chest and began to rock, a motion that seemed to originate somewhere deeper than conscious thought. her hands found her throat, fingers tracing the hollow where azzi used to rest her chin when they watched films late into the night together. she fell into sobbing, into soft hiccups in the flat of the woods with the fat of her cheeks pressed hard into the errant sticks, leaving imprints across the blotch of her skin.
by the time her father found her, flashlight beam jittering across the trees, she was catatonic on her side in the dirt, breath thin and reedy, body trembling as though a possession had taken hold of her.
he said nothing, only lifted her, her arms flailing about before giving way to dead weight. it was like this that he carried her back through the black mouth of the trees. the house loomed into view, windows staring, her siblings black silhouettes pressed anxiously to the curtained glass.
paige did not remember the walk upstairs. only the familiar shut of her bedroom door, the lock catching, the sound of her motherâs prayer beads clattering against the banister as she whispered on the other side. that was the last sound of the world before misery rose to meet her cheek.
there was no halting of salt, no way to stop the leagues of tears that threatened to permanently sour her cheeks. paige could only fold herself into one of a million oversized hoodies owned by her, meant to be stolen by azzi, and vanish into bed. she tightened her arms around herself and curled into a blistering, wet ball of agony, holding her body closer, stiller, fighting against memory and the realization that this would be the rest of her life.
the realization came not as a sudden blow but as a slow, inexorable understanding: she would never hear the catch of azziâs breath again. never know the shiver of her body against hers after a dip into the massive, black lake behind her house. there would be nothing.
no more companionship, but this: half of her always gone and worm-eaten. half of her would always be suspended in heartbreak.
the nightmares came, brutish and barbaric, and paige never realized she was screaming until her mother woke her, clutching a hand hard and hot around her mouth and jaw, voice low and urgent as she tried to get her daughter to look at her.
hours passed. perhaps months. time had become elastic, meaningless. when the doctor came with his needle and his promises of an empty, easy sleep, paige watched the sedative enter her bloodstream with the detached interest of someone observing a scientific experiment.
as consciousness dissolved around the edges, she wondered if they had enough to finance this kind of life forever. if her parents would be able to keep paige comatose for the entire span of her life, if it would then fall to her siblings to keep her lucid enough to shit and eat and sob until she injured her throat and was tortured into silence.
when the doctorâs visits slowed and eventually stopped, paige took it upon herself to continue her treatments. pill after pill, sleep after dreamless sleep. a perfect, vast grief that required nothing from her except for her to stay underneath it. her body shrank with its mutilations from hunger, her legs too thin, and her collarbones protruding. her face was nothing but angles, sharp lines drawn together to form the rough etching of a human face.
there was nothing before azzi, and there would be nothing after.
if we don't do something, her father told her mother, this town will suffer another girl.
if we give her something to hunt, she will never stop hunting, her mother answered. she will never stop killing. everyone will have wronged her. everyone will have been the one who killed that girl.
if we don't give her something to kill, her father said, his shadow blanketing the strain of his daughterâs bones through her back, she's going to kill herself.
they were both right.
SEPTEMBER.
OCTOBER.
NOVEMBER.
DECEMBER.
JANUARY.
ACT II. HOLY WORK.
it began with her father sitting on the edge of her bed, the mattress dipping under his weight as paige lay curled on her side, staringâfor yet another dayâat nothing.
she hadn't moved in months, pale hands clutched tightly into bloodless fists, azziâs pendant as close to her chest as she could get without swallowing it whole. her blue eyes were too light and too blank, pupils dilated by the gentle tend of self-administered morphine. there was a slight rim of blood dried at the corner of her mouth, a remnant of a particularly bad nightmare this week that sheâd only woken from when sheâd bitten a hole through her cheek.
she hadnât spoken since the clearing. the room smelled stale and of an unwashed body, but paige could not find it in her to care. everything in this space was collecting dust, including her own life. grease caked over what was left of her dye, her roots coming in with a dark, steady blue under the platinumâs full surrender.
âhey, sweetheart,â her dad murmured. âhow are we doing?â
nothing. paigeâs lashes twitched, flickering up then down before falling back into stillness. her father sighed, then shifted in place.
âi know itâs hard, baby, to do anything other than sit here and sink into what youâre feeling. thereâs nothingâyou canâtâthis is unimaginable for anyone, let alone a seventeen-year-old. but you canât just sit here and waste your life, sweetheart. your potential. you know she wouldâve hated that.â
as expected, that procured a stronger reaction. this time, paigeâs entire body jerked in place, her fingers twitching free from their curl angrily. it was good to see her briefly free from that horrible, constant rigor of sorrow.
âi know i didnât know azzi like you did, but i know that. she loved you,â he said quietly, voice careful as a bodyâs weight on ice. "and she was a good girl, paige, so good to you. what happened to her was so deeply undeserved."
paige's eyes didn't move from their position on the wall, but something in her breathing changed. shallower. more fragile.
âi want toâi want to tell you what happened to her. what really happened to her."
âi know what happened to her.â
the creak of his daughterâs voice almost sent robert to his knees, and he pressed his palms to his thighs with great strength, his eyes welling with tears of relief. he turned away, gathering himself. in the silence, paige continued.
âwe fought the night before about something i donât even remember. it was so fucking stupid, but i kept pushing. so, she told me she wasnât going to ride with me to practice the next day, and i told her she could do whatever the fuck she wanted.â
âbabyââ
âi hurt her feelings, dad, âcause we never curse at each other, but i did that day. ând she walked herself to practice and got fucking murdered. my best friend was murdered, taken from me, and itâs all my fault.â
the words seemed to stick to her throat at first, but then they slithered free, and with them came a terrible dry heave of anguish that shook paige from head to toe. her father came closer, sliding a hand down her back and quieting her as she sobbed into the stiff material of her pillowcase for the thousandth time since azziâs slaughter.
"even if that were true, even if it had been a coincidence, that is not your fault, paige. god, this is not and never will be your fault. no one blames you, sweetheart, and you cannot blame yourself. the guilt will do nothing but eat you alive.â paige shook beneath his hand, small and childlike and heedless. âthere was nothing you couldâve done to change the outcome, paige. this was always what was going to happen, the devilâs weavings.â
nothing. he continued.
âwhen i found you that night, you kept mumbling about a smell in the clearing. i didnâtâi couldnât focus on anything but you, so i didnât heed it in the moment. but you were so adamant that you could smell something rotting. âsomethingâs wrong, â you said, over and over.â he paused, hands folded between his knees. âso, i went back, and it was still there. this sickening sweet rot; it almost made me sick. you couldn't place it, but i could. i knew what it was."
maybe there was something in the way his voice shuddered or the crack that came on the last phrase, but whatever it was was enough for paige to roll half-heartedly, eyes less dead than before. her father watched her for a long moment, then started to speak again.
âthat smell? it's what they leave behind when they feed. when they drain someone completely.â
her fatherâs face twisted, his disgust full-bodied, his mouth captured in a snarl. a sound escaped paige then, more curious than pained. her fingers tightened around the pendant until her knuckles went white as snow.
âthere are things in these woods, paige. there always has been. since the sins of adam and eve in that garden. they must hunt; their nature demands it. itâs why azzi is gone, why the police couldn't find her.â his voice hardened. "they wouldnât begin to know where to start, or how, and that's why our family exists. our lineage. we are the worldâs last home, god-given to stop them from taking anyone else.â
silence stretched between them, thick and expectant. finally, paige's voice came, barely above a whisper.
âwhat are they?â
her father studied her face, searching for something. readiness, or perhaps the beginning strings of the calling he knew she would soon heed. whatever he found must have satisfied him, because he stood slowly and moved to her desk, pulling a leather-bound journal from beneath a stack of her untouched schoolwork, its spine cracking under the sheer volume of pages and artifacts within.
paige wondered how long ago he had placed it there.
âeverything we know,â he answered, placing the tome in her lap. the leather was worn smooth by generations of hands, the pages yellowed and dense with careful blue script. âfour hundred years of family knowledge. names, weaknesses, hunting grounds. how to track them, how to kill them, how to make sure they stay dead.â
paige's fingers traced the cover, feeling the weight of it. âhow long have we been doing this?â
âsince the first of our blood set foot on this land. we keep it clean.â his hand found her cheek, thumb circling firmly but gently against its hollowness. âit's what we are, paige. what we were made for. the work chose us long before we chose it.â
âdo i have to do this?â
his thumb slowed, then stopped. he cupped her chin and forced her to meet his gaze, eyes as dark as a burial.
she knew whatever came next in the conversation would shift something fundamental in the architecture of her grief. where there was only shapeless anguish, there would be purpose. terrible and sickly and sharp-edged, but purpose nonetheless.
âyou will.â
she took to the work like an infection to a wound.
three days after her father had reasoned through her depressive spiral, paige pulled herself from bed with a great effort for the first time in months and found her father in the basement with her mother, idly cleaning the length of a silver-tipped crossbolt.
after a lengthy, weighted silence, she finally spoke.
âshow me.â
next to her father, her brothers grinned.
her training began not a week later, and her father had expected resistance, even disgust. this was how most initiates reacted, recoiling when shown their first leech corpse, black blood pooling thick as motor oil around the boltsâs body.
but no, not paige.
instead, she studied the entry wound with the objectivity of a coroner, fingers tracing the char marks where blessed silver had met undead flesh. she gazed down at the leech, wondering if the pain it had felt measured anywhere close to the amount azzi mustâve endured before it all finally stopped.
"clean shot," she said, voice flat as winter water. "through the third rib?"
âfourth," her father corrected, and he felt slightly ill at how readily she absorbed the lesson, how easily she nodded.
he was unsure if she had what it took, if she would be able to execute past the clear grief he saw still stained over her. but the concern was quickly reconciled.
her first hunt was in february. paige could feel her fatherâs eyes on her like concrete held to a belly in order to drown. she focused on nothing but the placement of her hands on her rifle, handled the stock like it was bone, loaded shells one after the otherâa robotic, calcified angel.
she wasnât meant to kill so soon, so quickly, but a fledgling had torn through a chicken yard seven miles out and left the snow in ribbons. the family had been called to slaughter.
paige followed her father and brothers into the trees, crossbow slung across her back, pistol heavy on her thigh. her lungs heaved with effort as they waded through snowbanks almost as tall as she was, the black and grey speckled fur along her coat collar feeling far too ornamental for their cause.
the fledgling was waiting for their arrival, skin stretched too thinly, veins like black rivulets under the flesh, ears twitching with every crunch of human feet. its teeth still red with feed.
theyâre hardest to put down, her father had warned, all hunger and no discipline. sometimes the bite doesnât take for them, making them nothing more than animal instinct. we try to make it quick for them, being so new and ruined.
paige wasnât interested in the business of making it quick for any of them.
the fledgling stank of marrow and wet soil. it stumbled out of the treeline, the sun nothing but a thin crimson line across the horizon, body jerking like a marionette. it was clearly mutated by a bite untaken, its veins highly swollen and distended under the eyes and ribs. as soon as it registered them, it shrieked, mouth gaping and leaking long strings of yellowed spit that steamed in the cold.
her father began to raise his gun, her mother too, but paige stilled them with the smallest tilt of her hand.
she did not raise her weapon. closer and closer it came.
she let it come.
snow broke under its feet as it closed the space, thundering across the distance, a smear of hunger and speed. its breath hit her cheek, rank and animal, and still she stoodâshoulders low, knife hidden against her thigh. her brothers swore, one tried to shove forward, but their fatherâs hand gripped his collar like an iron yoke.
she let it come. she let it come. sheâ
she waited until its fingers brushed the fabric of her coat, moved only when it lunged, when its fingers curled for her throat. then, with no more emotion than if she were folding laundry, the blade came up smooth, inevitable, parting the chest in one deep, single pull. the fledgling screamed, but paige did not flinch.
she stepped inside its collapse, carving upward through the sternum, twisting once to split the bone. its heart was blackened meat. she cut until it stopped. there was nothing, not even when its unnatural blood sprayed hot across her face. she did not blink.
her face was clean of expression. clean of rage, clean of relief, clean of rapture. when the body went still at her boots, she only wiped the blade once on its thigh and looked past her brother, past her father, at nothing at all.
and there, in the quiet afterward, as her familyâs shock polluted the air, paige heard it for the first time. low and tender, pressed against her ear like a secret.
âgood girl.â
her voice. azzi.
azziazziazzi.
paige swayed in place, begging for it to sound again. she needed it to come again. her fingers spasmed on the hilt of her blade. she nearly sobbed, but the sound caught sharp in her throat, forcing itself down until her chest ached with it.
there were no new words.
the silence after was worse than the killing.
âshe waited,â ryan whispered hoarsely, as if naming a sin. âwe donâtâshe waited untilââ
âshe knows what sheâs doing, son,â their father cut in, though his eyes never left her. watching her as if she were a stranger in his daughterâs skin. âwe all have our technique.â
paige only stood, knife steady in her grip, blood drying down her jaw. she said nothing. but her ears rang with azziâs phantom voice, soft and close, speaking to her alone. she met her fatherâs gaze head-on, then her mother's.
bueckersâ blood was one thing, but paige was entirely another. this was a new split of the genetics, a heralding of a new chapter of the dynasty.
she held her hand out, and in her palm was placed a small crystal catheter. paige inserted it into the corpse, then slowly fed a shallow stream of holy water into the tube. as the water met the body, it began to smoke.
the others turned their faces away, coughing against the stench. paige did not.
she closed her eyes and breathed in it.
this was baptism.
[1] gardenia. â purity, refinement, innocence, harmony, and gentleness.
an omen of the holy undone. if its scent gathers thick in the air without source, beware: the leech has nested here. the blossom is the devilâs perfume, cloying, deceptive, covering rot.
use as a signal between brethren to mark where the unclean have passed. a warning and a promise: to cleanse, to cut, to return the ground to god.
paige was inducted after that.
the tattoo came after her second kill.
sheâd tracked the leech for three days through the bitter forests outside duluth, following the trail of exsanguinated deer it left like breadcrumbs. when she finally cornered it in an abandoned grain elevator, the thing had looked both old and young, still clinging to the ripped remains of a flapper dress, its skin perfect save for the mark of its bite.
paige put two bolts through its neck before it could speak.
that night, in a minneapolis tattoo parlor that smelled strongly of antiseptic and hand-rolled cigarettes, she had the numbers etched behind her left ear: 11.11.02. neat and tight, black ink that would never fade. the needleâs buzz reminded her of flies on carrion, but she sat still as stone until it was finished.
my girl, the voice crooned. paige smiled in the seat.
so brave for me.
for azzi. always for azzi.
the arsenal became her scripture. crossbows disassembled and reassembled until her fingers moved like prayer beads. springs, triggers, bowstringâall mapped into the bodyâs litany, a ritual she could perform blind. her hands, once soft with tragedy, grew callused and scarred, bearing stigmata in the shape of grip tape and holy metal.
blessed silver burned her palms the first dozen times she loaded stock. after that, her skin adapted, thickened to its kiss. just another small death in service of the larger work.
her father taught her to mix the compounds: garlic distilled into a caustic liquor, holy water boiled down to acid, sanctified by three priests until it hissed like the devilâs serpentry itself. the first time, the fumes made her retch, a confection of chemical burn that left her eyes streaming, her sinuses weeping. by winter, she could bottle it bare-handed, face pale and serene, breath steady, as if tending medicine instead of the seeds of assassination.
âyouâre getting good at this,â ryan said once, watching her strip a rifle down to its bones.
paige did not look up. she could taste his envy coming hard, peaky and crowded at the back of her throat.
âhave to be.â
yes, the voice whispered. for me.
the years folded into ritual. morning prayers at breakfast. weapons oiled at noon. patrol routes memorized like a catechism. paige learned to read the signs:
an absence of birdsong would follow wherever a leeche nested.
wildflowers would wither in perfect spheres around their feasting grounds.
they usually went after deer, rabbits, and foxes. anything larger signified the existence of a coven.
she studied their undoings with scholarly devotion: the angle of a clean beheading, the burn of silver, the verses that kept them bound just long enough for a killing strike.
by twenty-seven, she had become something her younger self would not have recognized. lean muscle strung tight over a body that had forgotten the definition of affection. hair freshly flaxen, pulled back severely in a plait that ran to the middle of her back, never to come undone. hands steady and aim true.
her brethren christened her blessed, said she moved through nests like an archangel, leaving only ash and silence.
paige heard a different call in the quiet after slaughter, when blood steamed on her skin.
mine, azzi murmured. my girl. my avenging light.
she was the sword in her familyâs hand, the answer to their calling. reborn and baptized in black blood and righteous fire.
she was exactly what they had made her to be.
my angel, azzi said.
seraphim.
ACT III. REVELATOR.
spring was coming in, and with it, more leeching.
the field bled itself empty as twilight settled fat and purple over the grass. paige watched herds of wildlife flock back to their shelters, knowing a few would be picked off by the morning.
she scraped a thick patch of intestine from her dagger, the organs caked into unholy abnormality, patiently scouring the treeline while ryan first checked the number of bolts left in his quiver, then his phone. their most recent hunt had been clean. efficient. another nest purged from the earth like a rotten tooth pulled whole.
"fuck me, bro," ryan swore, voice low and irate. " dadâs saying we didn't get all of them. that another clan confirmed there may still be one or two left from the nest."
paige closed her eyes and pressed two fingers to the center of her brow, the beginning threads of headache webbing along her temples. âyou have got to be fucking kidding me. are you serious?â
ryan nodded, eyes dim. âdead.â
âfuck!â
her brother laughed in disbelief, his body slacking with exhaustion. âi was really hoping weâd call it a night and head home.â
âme and you both,â paige muttered. she wiped her hands on the hem of her hoodie, a bulletproof vest tucked beneath to lend her full protection. her eyes tracked the shadows that began to pool thickly between the bushes. "i just donât fucking get it. after almost a month of tracking? what could be left?"
âdo they breed or some shit?â ryan asked, and paige shrugged.
âmaybe theyâre evolving.â
they both laughed, and the sound sent a fresh surge of pain pulsing through her skull. paige turned to the side as it crested, mind throbbing. her ambition for finding stragglers was less than substantial, and she was just about to suggest they head home regardless, when she promptly froze.
there, thirty feet away at the treeline's edge, stood a figure that unmade her entirely.
the body was familiar in ways that bypassed conscious thought: the slope of shoulders she had traced placidly in sleep, the curve of hips she had memorized in locker room glimpses, had wanted to press her lips toâthin and pink. the particular tilt of the head that signaled listening, always listening. but the flesh had been remade, stretched taut over an improved blueprint.
the silhouette wasnât quite right. it was taller now, limbs elongated, skin uncomfortably luminous and golden-brown in the dying light as if some internal fire burned just beneath the surface.
naked. completely, devastatingly naked, and paige's mind stuttered over the sight. desire was latent, though that flickered treacherously and familiarly, but what emerged most urgently was the terrible intimacy of it. she could not dehumanize this any longer, could not remove herself from its monstrousness because it was well, it looked nothing but every inch of human.
there was no longer any doubt: this was a body she knew, had always known, now exposed and vulnerable in ways that made her chest fracture with fury.
blood painted abstract patterns across the familiar canvas, curving over the full soft meat of the breasts, suckling tenderly at the cold-hardened nipples. claw marks were scored deep into the left shoulder, still weeping crimson. a crossbow bolt jutted from the meat of her thigh, copper-tipped for prolonged torture, the flesh around it already beginning to spoil.
the work of other hunters, of another family; other righteous hands had marked this skin with their holy work.
but the eyesâchrist, the eyes, her eyes, were what truly destroyed paige. burgundy and gleaming like coals, pupils slit for better vision in descending night and filled with such desperate, overwhelming relief that paige felt her knees threaten to buckle. those eyes held over a decade of anguish, of searching, of hoping against hope, and they were looking at her like salvation itself had finally arrived.
and paige could do nothing but disappoint.
the creature'sâno. her mouth opened, and paige caught on the separation of those lips. god, those lips she had dreamed of kissing for years, now parting to reveal the white, malevolent glisten of lengthy canines. a sound escaped from over the tongue, barely audible. it might have been a call of paige's name, a pulse of memory.
behind her, her brother was speaking, his voice crescendoing with alarm, but it sounded distant. it was irrelevant. the world had narrowed to this: the impossible sight before her, this resurrection gripped in the jaws of an orange moon.
then the creature'sâno. no.
her gaze dropped to paige's hands, to her crossbow, and the peek of silver. the holy water looped into her belt, the slight bulge of the vest underneath her sweatshirt. understanding dawned like a new morning, and that beautiful, terrible face crumpled with betrayal so pure it was almost sacred.
the next cry that tore from her throat was animal grief, raw and endless. she stumbled backward, movements suddenly graceless, no longer seeking, only prey-afraid.
"paige, get the fuck back!" ryan roared, desperate now in the face of death. but paige felt deathless. "thatâs a fucking leech!"
she saw the word hit like a physical blow. the creatureâno, azziâflinched, features contorting with agony and rage and the death of faith in coming home, and for the smallest heartbeat paige could see what her family saw: predator, unholy thing, abomination requiring cleansing.
but then it fell away, and there was only what she could see: the way those perfect shoulders shook with sobs sheâd recognize in the dark. the particular way that head turned when shame threatened to drown everything else. that cervine gaze creased with terror.
paige let her weapon fall. it clattered against the earth like teeth rocked by force in a jaw.
azziâs wet eyes widened, confusion bleeding through the fright. hope, dangerous and desperate, began to rekindle in that strange gaze. for a moment, the two were suspended and connected, and then the second severed.
azzi sharply pivoted and, in a blur of motion, she was running, melting into the trees with a speed that defied every law of physics, leaving only the echo of decade-old sorrow and the mutated scent of gardenias in her wake. it was then that paige remembered language, how to speak. her mouth fell open, and she screamed after her,
âazzi!â
her body was moving before her mind could catch up, muscles coiling for pursuit, but ryan's hand clamped around her arm like a manacle.
âwhat the fuckâthat thing could have killed you!â
something in his voice, the casual dismissal, the way he reduced her early life of mourning to a thingâit flipped a switch in paige's chest. the same cold precision that had made her legendary among their brethren, the calculated butcher her family had crafted, crystallized into perfect, self-protective wrath.
the knife was against his throat before he could blink. the vein is so full here, she thought.
âlet it go."
ryan went very still, eyes wide, phone halfway to his ear. the blade pressed just deep enough to dimple skin, blessed silver singing against his pulse.
âpaigeââ
âi said. let. it. go.â
still, foolishly, he balked at the order. she pressed the blade in harder, blue eyes like flint.
âdrop it.â her voice was winter water, flat and merciless. he seemed to get it then, and the phone clattered to the ground. "good. you're not calling anyone."
âwhatâwhy the fuck not?â ryan sputtered, and paige stepped back, running a hand raggedly through her hair. she clenched her eyes shut, desperate to center herself. eventually, she answered him.
âbecause i know her. knew her. iââ she breathed out carefully, an archaic squeeze settling around her throat. she suddenly felt ill, near retching, and her voice cracked on her next words. âthat was azzi.â
silence. then,
âpaige, sheâs been dead for years,â her brother whispered, and there was something almost pleading in it. paige could understand. she felt unmoored enough as it was.
she covered her mouth with a hand, swallowing down the chunky slide of rising bile.
âthey never confirmed that,â she said, and her brother sighed.
âlook, whatever that thing mightâve appeared to be, it's not azzi anymore.â
at that, paige was up, madness surging with vigor, and her dagger renewed its position against his throat. it pressed deeper, and a thin line of blood welled against the steel. ryan's breath hitched.
âtwenty-four hours,â paige said, and her tone held that same terrible certainty she'd used on dying leeches. âyou and every member of our family are going to give me twenty-four hours.â
âfor what exactly?â
she looked toward the treeline where azzi had vanished, where the sounds of crashing brush were growing fainter and fainter still. when she spoke again, her voice carried the weight of damnation, of a choice made and consequences accepted.
âcall it closure.â
sheâd said what she needed to, and with it, gained all that she had ever wanted: time.
azzi sprinted until her lungs burned, until the trees blurred into a lunatic smear of green and shadow, until the sound of paige's voice and its taunting echoâazzi!azzi!azzi!âfaded into nothing but wind through heavy leaves.
only then did she allow herself to collapse against the rough bark of an aspen, chest heaving, the bolt in her thigh screaming with every movement. she pressed her palms against her eyes, attempting to repress the tears, the memory, the way anticipation had built itself to a height in her chest only to be felled by the sight of those golden crosses intersected at the apex of paigeâs neck.
paige. her paige. her golden girl, armed and vengeful andâ
stop.
she couldn't think about it, couldn't let herself shatter in this moment, not when she was bleeding and exposed and miles from proper shelter. survival first. always survival first. that's what the years had taught her.
eleven years, to be exact, of learning what she was by enduring a thousand small deaths.
the first months had been the worst of it, spent hiding in abandoned buildings and storm drains, the deep places where humans didn't venture. she'd been so sick those first weeks, her body rejecting everythingâfood, water, even airâas the bite pushed it to its peak. she had been rushed from sixteen to twenty-five in the span of hours, accelerated and then frozen at an age she still struggled to feel set in, even as the years passed.
she'd tried to eat, tried to be normal, tried to pretend that nothing had changed.
bread had turned to ash in her mouth. milk had made her vomit violently, white foam, and then eventually nothing at all, only the act of it. even the grace of water was robbed of her, its taste mangled into nothing but pennies and rot.
the hunger had been a living thing inside her and still was, clawing incessantly at her ribs, provoking urges she always misunderstood. azzi fought against it until she was nothing but bone and fevered skin, broken into collapse in an alley behind a diner and woken to find a stray dog bleeding out beneath her teeth.
that first taste of blood had been a revelation first, damnation second. the cravings quieted, her body had sung with strengthâno longer diseasedâand she'd had the vitality to sob over the small corpse until dawn broke peach and dire over the horizon.
vampyre. that's what she was now.
monster.
this was what her sire had made her that day in the woods, without ever asking azzi if she wanted to be.
sheâd learned to hunt the way children learn to walk: clumsily, with many falls. rats at first, then pigeons, then larger prey when the hunger overpowered. she'd taught herself to be quick, to be quiet, to take only what she needed. never humans. that was the line she would not cross, no matter how the hunger screamed.
but animals weren't enough. not ever.
she grew thin and weak on rabbit blood and bird hearts, her body begging for richer, more decadent. something that pulsed with human warmth and feeling. the famine was never fully satisfied, only temporarily soothed, like putting paste and a bandage over a severed artery.
she'd tried to go home once, early on. had stood outside her parents' house in the dark, watching the tepid light of the kitchen windows radiate delicately at her, listening to the familiar sounds of dinner being prepared to the dull hum of television static. it requested her return; it knew this lost daughter.
her courage had swelled, and sheâd stepped forward when she heard the door creak open, but when her mother slipped out to dispose of the trash, she'd taken one look at azzi and screamed.
the mirrors had shown her why. the crimson eyes, the too-sharp teeth, the way her skin seemed to glisten with eerie brilliance. she looked nightmarish, as if she had crawled from a grave, straight out of hellâs hands.
her mother's scream echoed in her head for months afterward, shrill and unforgiving. so unwanting.
so, azzi learned to infiltrate the spaces between, the corners where society didn't nor wanted to search. she began to understand this body, born of violation; she learned that certain smells made her teeth ache and her vision blur.
she'd learned to steal clothes from laundromats, to avoid any sort of reflection and the flash of cameras, to move through the world like a wraith. she'd learned that hunters existedâmen and women and person alikeâwith their silver weaponry and homemade holy water. sheâd learned not to underestimate their militarization, the precision of their movements through the woods, or the level of that same deadly purpose she'd seen in paige's stance tonight.
some had found her over the years.
most hadn't lived to regret it.
the first time she'd killed a hunter, she'd vomited for hours afterward. sheâd seen the human first, the danger second. the time after that, she'd only cried. by the seventh, she felt nothing at all. just the mechanical efficiency of survival, the same cold calculation that kept her alive another day, another year.
she'd never let herself linger over her history during those years, especially her family. especially paige. it was unfathomably unbearable. better to bury that part of herself, to forget the young girl who used to spin basketballs on her fingertips and steal azzi's books from her hands when she wanted more attention.
but sometimes, in the deep quiet of winter nights, she'd touch her throat where her beloved pendant used to rest and try her best to remember what it felt like to be loved completely by another person.
and nowânow paige was here. had been here, with ordnance and righteous purpose, looking at azzi like she was something to be studied, catalogued, and destroyed. the recognition in those arctic eyes had been worse than any wound.
recognition, and then belated horror.
then disgust, maybe pity. then an emotion too unreadable.
she could still hear the boyâs cry.
thatâs a fucking leech!
the recollection of the slur made azzi tremble in place, and she pulled her hands away from her face to look down at herself, naked and bloody and monstrous.
this was what paige had seen. not the sixteen-year-old girl who used to hug her tightly after the loss of a game, but this thing. this predator.
leech.
her thigh pulsed with poison, and she knew she had to move, had to remove the copper. had to find shelter and treat the lesion before infection set. then it was an execution of another vanishing because her only solution was to disappear again, before the rest of the clan came looking.
azzi could not handle pursuit at the hands of the bueckers. sheâd rather die. in some ways, to be killed at the hands of those whoâd once loved her as is, was all that she wanted. a return home.
for just a moment longer, she let herself remember the sound of her name in paige's voice. let herself remember what it felt like to be seen, to be known, even if it was only as something to be destroyed.
then she pushed herself up from the treeâs base where sheâd sunk and began to sprint again, deeper into the darkness where she belonged.
âi hear you, sometimes. your voice.â
paige cast out her voice as she followed azziâs scent. maybe she was only out of her mind, but she felt that the odor was different, influenced by azziâs preferred notes. the gardenia was there, yes, and the copper, too. but there was a hint of hedione through the dense undergrowth, pear and plum threaded within.
no answer, as expected. to survive this long in land like this requires never giving oneself up.
her boots were silent against the loam. sheâd stripped herself of armor: vest discarded, weapons abandoned, reduced to nothing but a black sports bra underneath her thermal longsleeve and matching shorts that clung to her muddied thighs like a second skin.
the air nipped mercilessly at her exposed flesh, as if the very earth was protective over the woman she was attempting to find, but she needed to shed every marker of what she had become. it was a necessity.
she needed to be just paige.
the trail was not difficult in the slightest; it was easy enough to follow. branches shatttered and bloodied marked azzi's passage, moonlight rolling over a scatter of dark carmine droplets along the forest floor. far too much blood. the bolt was doing its work, spreading its poison through her system with methodical cruelty.
paige picked up her pace.
âitâs usually when iâwhen i kill,â she continued, stepping neatly over a fallen log. "in the quiet after. when the work is done and i'm cleaning my blade, you tell me i'm a good girl. that i'm your angel."
her throat tightened and she swallowed once, twice. it was a punishing act every time. "thought i was losing my mind. maybe i was. maybe i am."
the trail curved left, following the natural contours of the hillside. paige adjusted her direction, feeling the familiar weight of her butterfly knife against her thigh, its blade engraved. the only weapon she hadn't abandoned. old habits.
hunterâs instinct.
âmy family thinks you're dead. we have this whole ceremony, you know? lighting candles every year on the anniversary. mom still cries." she ducked under a low branch, feeling bark scrape against her shoulder blade. the pain was welcome. "but i never believed it. couldn't. âcause you kept talking to me."
a sound ahead. paige's pulse quickened, her head snapping to the side. labored breathing, maybe. or just the windâs breath through the foliage. regardless, she followed, her internal clock ticking. every second, she was losing time.
"the first time i heard you was after my first hunt. this fledgling had been killing chickens and livestock. got practically on top of me. i gutted it, and i was so angry, you know? all i could see was you and i justâi was brutal. when it went still, i heard you whisper âgood girlâ so clearly i almost lost it, expected to see you standing there right next to me."
she was climbing now, following the slope of the hill where the trees grew sparse and moonlight filtered through in yellow streaks. the trail was more frequent here, fresher. azzi was slowing.
âbut i knew i was full of shit âcause you hate blood, hate gore. you never could make it through a horror movie without hiding inside of me.â
paige heaved herself over an unexpected ledge with a grunt.
"dad thinks it's some kind of calling. divine inspiration or some shit. says the work chooses us, that itâs god speaking through us." paige laughed, a bitter sound, seared along the edge. "i believe in him and everything, always have, but that ainât my calling. i know it's just you. it's always been you."
the stench of gardenias suddenly swelled, almost overwhelming in its cloying sweetness, strong enough to revive paigeâs headache from earlier. her steps slowed, instincts warring with something deeper, more primitive. love, maybe. or recognition of something that had been carved out of her and was now impossibly close to being whole again.
but wasnât it all the same?
âi've killed plenty of them, az. more than the years iâve lived. all those leeâvampires, and every single time i hear your voice telling me i'm good, i'm brave, i'm yours." her voice cracked. "but i never felt good. i never felt brave. never felt like anything except made for you. i just felt empty.
movement ahead. a flash of bare brown skin against shaded earth.
"and now you're here, and you're real, and iâ" paige came to a standstill, words running dry.
there, curled on her side in a small, lush clearing, was azzi. the copper bolt protruded from her thigh, a grotesque flower, a stark oddity against the flesh blackening and weeping around it. her breathing was a mere suggestion, shallow, labored; each exhale a small sound of pain.
in the moonlight, stripped of the otherworldly luminescence that had made her seem so mythic before, she looked achingly mortal. young. vulnerable. stripped to nothing but the girl who used to press against her on the bus ride home from away games, lashes fanned delicately as she drifted off in the crook of paige's neck.
"oh god," paige breathed, and the last eleven years collapsed into nothing. "oh, az. fuck."
she approached slowly, hands visible, the way she'd been trained to approach wounded animals. but this wasn't an animal. this wasn't even a monster. this was azzi, and she was hurt, and paige felt something fundamental fall away, something calcified and toxic and self-preserving. a tumor that had been inside her, eating away.
"hey," she said softly, kneeling just outside arm's reach. azzi tensed, and the stiff nature of her muscles exacerbated her pain. paige fought back the sob bubbling in her chest. "i can help. i have an antidote. standard issue because the new kids always manage to nick themselves during training."
she tried to smile, failed.
"classic drew move, actually. heâs just started his path. kidâs gone through three vials this month alone."
azzi's eyes openedâthose impossible beseeching eyesâand fixed on her with an expression of pure fright.
"no," she whispered, trying to push herself upright and failing. "no, please."
the plea hit paige with the inertia of a car crash, condensed and unforeseen. no, please. as if paige were the beast here, as if mercy were a luxury azzi couldn't afford to hope for.
she had never once stopped to think if any of them had been afraid of her, if they felt anything at all. it had been easier, so much easier to believe the opposite.
"i'm not going to hurt you," paige finally said, and her voice came out strangled. "i swear. az, i would never hurt you."
but azzi was shaking her head, twitching in an awkward scramble to get away, tears streaming down her cheeks. "you don't understand. i'm notâi can'tâ"
"it's just me," paige said desperately, and her hands moved to the tight ash-blonde plait at the base of her skull. she tugged harshly, pulling at the elastic until it snapped and let her hair fall loose around her shoulders the way azzi had always liked it: soft, waved, and unguarded. "look at me, baby. look, itâs just me."
the pet name shouldâve surprised them both, but it didnât, because paige had always known what the basis of her self-condemnation had been.
azzi tried to crawl away, and the movement sent fresh blood seeping from the wound. the poison was spreading, turning her skin grey at the edges. then azziâs strength gave out entirely, and she collapsed against the earth with a sound of defeat so complete it made paige's chest cave in.
"paige," azzi whispered, and there was surrender in it.
paige felt sick. sheâd seen it all by now, but this was the most brutal yet. the realization that azzi was more terrified of her than she was of dying.
slowly, carefully, paige moved closer. when azzi didn't flinch awayâcouldn't, anymoreâshe reached out and cupped her face with trembling hands. the skin beneath her hands was fever-hot, slick with sweat and tears.
"shh, i've got you," paige whispered, and she maneuvered azzi's body with gentle precision, turning her so she could cradle her head in her lap. she shrugged out of her thermal top, leaving herself in just the sports bra, and draped the fabric over azzi's naked form. it wasn't much, but it was something. âcâmon. youâre okay.â
comfort. coverage. the illusion of safety.
they had probably confiscated her clothing to maximize her humiliation.
"please," azzi murmured, pleading again, but this time it sounded different. less like begging and more like prayer. "it hurts."
âi know, baby. iâ.â
paige cut herself off. she had no idea if the antidote would work when administered directly. azzi was something different now.
her hands shook as she uncapped the vial, the liquid viscous and violet. she knew she didnât have the time to argue, to explain, to soothe. not without further risking this moment between them. azziâs life was already collapsing into fragments, her eyes dull and deader by the second.
so, she did what instinct demanded. she tipped the vial back and drank.
it burned. a metallic, acrid bite clawed down her throat and set her stomach alight. paige gagged once, twice, then forced herself to swallow it all. by the time her head cleared, she was already biting down on the pad of her palm, slicing herself open with the practiced snap of her knife. blood welled, hot and dark, pooling fast.
âazzi,â paige urged, voice steeled by determination. she slapped twice at azziâs cheek, demanding her return. âyou have to drink.â
azzi recoiled, as though the very offer was abhorrent. her lips pulled back, canines bared, but paige could see no hunger, only fear. âno, no. i canâtââ
âplease.â paige forced her bleeding hand against azziâs mouth, pressed it straight to the fang. âitâs me. itâs safe. youâll live if youâjust please.â
and something gave.
maybe it was azzi, maybe it was paige; perhaps it was the thread of time that finally eroded, disintegrating all at once. azziâs lips parted further, hesitant, and then her mouth closed over the wound.
the world shifted.
agony lanced through paige as her blood was drawn, almost sending her reeling, but underneath the pain bloomed a terrible, incandescent sweetness. she felt herself unraveling into azzi, threads of memory pulled loose, rewoven.
the smell of wet reeds in childhood summers. the weight of palm atop palm, hand upon hand. the harsh chemical phantom of hairspray the night before team photos. azziâs laugh was warm and dizzying across her knees as they lay for hours by the lake. loss, blinding and irredeemable, half of paige amputated without permission.
SEPTEMBER.
OCTOBER.
NOVEMBER.
DECEMBER.
JANUARY.
and in return, she saw it. azziâs turning: the sharp invasion, the press of an unknown body against hers, the violation of teeth inserted into muscle, slashed across her soft brown neck. the horror of waking to a hunger she never asked for. the loneliness. her limbs, diseased. the way she held on to paigeâs name by the vein while she starved, shivered, hid.
paige sobbed, half-choked and borderline delirious. she could feel azziâs tears against her palm, warm as she fed.
the wound in azziâs leg began to knit, the decay fading. her breathing steadied, ragged but stronger. and still she drank, her throat bobbing as she coaxed and sucked life from paigeâs veins, her voice spilling silent and endless through the river of shared thought. for the first time in years, paige heard it again.
good girl. my girl.
she tilted her head back and sobbed aloud this time.
she heard it again! so grateful. so grateful.
angel, angel, angel.
eventually, paigeâs grip on azziâs jaw slackened, and in turn, azziâs became iron.
she rolled from paigeâs lap and what began as tentative sips blossomed into hunger, her mouth sealing tighter against paigeâs palm as her nature was called to action, throat working in frantic swallows. paigeâs vision blurred at the edges, her shoulders buckling.
âazââ her voice broke, dazed. ââm a little dizzy. think thatâs enough.â
it took both hands to pry azzi from her self-inflicted injury, wrenching her free with a wet gasp. azziâs fangs slide free with a disturbing schleck. blood slicked down paigeâs wrist, dripping into the dirt, but it wasnât the bite that unsettled her. it was azziâs face, flushed now, eyes wide with sudden clarity.
and horror.
âno.â azziâs voice was raw, almost childlike in its shriek of regret. she recoiled as if paigeâs very skin might burn her. âwhat have you done? youâreâyouâre bleeding out, youâllââ
paige laughed, unsteady and wild, shaking her head as if the sound could expel the fear from azziâs voice alone. âdonât care. i donât fucking care. youâre here. youâre alive. you didnât leave me.â
âpaige, iâve hurt you!â
paige grinned, swaying in place, practically incoherent.
âyou want me. thatâs all that matters.â
azzi crawled back, trembling, clutching her neck as though to stop the taste from lingering. âyou donât understand. i said no humans, onlyâonly hunters. those who were trying to kill me. what youâve given meâi couldâve killed you! you should be terrified of me.â
âmmm, iâve always been a lilâ terrified of you,â paige admitted, dragging herself closer despite the weakness flooding the length of her arms and legs. ââs how i knew it was real when i saw you again.â
azzi froze, mouth agape with disbelief, staring at her.
paige reached out, brushing her bloody fingers against azziâs cheek, smearing the crimson there like a tribal mark of belonging. her voice softened to something intimate, undeniable.
âworth it. always been worth it. shouldâve told you.â
for a long moment, silence swallowed them. only the woods sang, thrumming with their olden language, cicadas humming their dirge.
then azzi shifted, slow, agonized. she pulled on paigeâs shirt, which was large enough to cover her to the tops of her thighs, and then bent until she was helping paige upright, looping one arm carefully around her waist. paige let her, sagging against the emerging coolness of her body.
the trees seemed to lean inward, oaks and aspens closing them off, funneling them along a narrow trail neither had to name.
they moved together, half-merged and stumbling, until the forest yawned open into stone. a cavern mouth, jagged and low, waiting with quiet expectance. the air that exhaled from it was damp, mineral, protective.
the air of a womb.
paige pressed closer into azziâs side, her eyes fluttering shut with exhaustion.
âhome?â she murmured, and azzi paused as if considering the question.
âno,â she answered.
then, azzi guided her inside.
ACT V. MISERERE.
the cave held them in its belly.
stone wet with the relic of water, the humidity solid and close as skin. paige could taste the salt of her own blood in azziâs mouth, feel the shiver of life returning beneath her hands. for a moment, she thought the earth itself might close over them, burying them in its dark heart, mother and tomb alike.
she pressed her forehead anxiously to azziâs, saying nothing, engaging urgently in the rhythm of breath, of please, of stay. outside, the world strained at the seams.
azzi held her, cooing softly as she fed bits of blood back to her, forcing her to swallow. it was like this for what seemed like an eternity, paige limp as she allowed her best friend to nurse her, return her to a more lucid reality.
maybe after twenty-four hours, this could still sustain. maybe she would be allowed this, could be given this version of life after every bit of cleaning sheâd done.
she knew better. therefore, she was unsurprised at what followed.
paige felt it first in the shift of her body, the sudden alertness. azzi stiffened beside her, then turned, pushing paige up. paige watched as azziâs lashes fluttered, the vampireâs head tilting like a deer catching the wind.
her head lifted higher, eyes gone distant, the fine-boned listening of something beyond human imagination.
âsomeoneâs coming,â azzi said, the words pulling tight with dread.
paige felt her stomach bottom out, her heart dropping into the cavern. she wanted to deny it, press back into azzi, press them both harder into the stone, make this earthly cavity their entire world. but then she heard it too: the low churn, the weight of boots breaking ground, the steady chorus of movement that didnât belong to either of them.
her throat spasmed, fingers quivering with slow fury. she knew that cadence. she had marched to it her entire life.
her fatherâs cadence. her motherâs. her brothersâ.
âfuck,â she hissed.
the air in her chest curdled cold.
ryan had made the call. she had never been given the hours sheâd almost bled him for, not once. he had only been waiting for her to falter, to lead them to the thing she could not kill.
ryan and his weak constitution.
drew adored her, idolized her. he wouldâve held. but not ryan. never him. he was always the first to spring into action, no matter how damning.
âFUCK!â she roared.
azzi belatedly tried to silence her, but it was too late. the noise echoed. paige no longer cared. she staggered upright, yanking avidly at azzi until she, too, rose.
âcâmon. we gotta move, az. gotta go, baby. gottaââ
âpaige.â
azziâs call of her name was quiet, final.
the woods seethed with voices. paige could hear them breaking through the treeline, the bible-bound language of family, the hymn she had always known by heart:
hold your ground. keep the land clean. finish the work, finish the work.
they didnât have time for this. again, her name.
âpaige.â
she knew azzi. through death and after.
âno,â paige answered. âiâm not going to let them kill you. and they will kill you, and i just got you back.â
closer, and closer. the mouth of the cave was thrumming with voices, now. a terrible choir of them: her fatherâs barked orders, her motherâs sharp breath, ryanâs panicked cries.
paige turned to azzi, desperate. âyou donât matter to anyone the way that you matter to me.â
all the years of discipline and blood-work, every vigil and purging, had culminated in this single refrainâfinish the work. and yes, maybe that had been paigeâs refrain, too.
but then the forest had opened its throat and offered her azzi.
sheâd come out of the dark like the final stanza of a song half-forgotten: a blood-streaked half-moon, body stripped and bled, remade by intimate violence into something ruinous and divine. from the moment paige had found her, the ground had tilted beneath her feet, the world sluicing toward a single point of gravity.
paige shuddered in place, finally terrified. âazzi, we donât have any other choice. we have to get you out.â
azziâs voice was raw when it found her. âpaige, there is another choice.â
the words cracked open a thousand doors inside her. paigeâs hand twitched toward her weapon, then fell useless to her side. she turned to the mouth of the cave.
azzi stood trembling, mouth wet with craving, eyes wide with something far greater. terror and love braided together, indistinguishable. her hands lifted like supplication.
âlook back,â she whispered, hoarse and breaking. âplease, paige. just once. look back at me.â
the truth was: paige had never been devout in the way they wanted. her devotion was azziâs mouth against the straw of their shared water bottle, azziâs soft, sweet laugh echoing among the bleachers, azziâs hand brushing her hip as if by accident, and then winking when paige went pink.
her faith was a girl in a wetland, blood-wet and deer-eyed, who had haunted every shadow of paigeâs waking. had kept her living past the expectations of her immense grief.
and now, that faith was calling.
behind her, azziâs voice rose above the approaching commands, above the slur that was hurled at their feet. neither plea nor demand. just the pulse of her name, stretched long into a rosary.
paige.
my angel.
my girl.
her family rose before her, her immediate lineage coming into crystal focus before her. she could see the whites of her motherâs eyes.
paigeâs whole body was ice and fire. the years of training, of âholy workâ, of killing and burning nests to cinders? none of it had ever filled the wound azzi left. and now here she was, brought back, begging her not to look away.
and if paige looked away, she would not survive a second mourning.
she met her fatherâs gaze.
she thought of the nights she had buried herself in sleep because love had nowhere else to go. she thought of azzi at sixteen, alive and unargued with. she thought of azzi now, eyes like snakes, body marked by other hands of righteous cruelty, how sheâd still looked at paige like she was salvation when she stumbled from the trees into the field.
this town will suffer another girl, her father had said so long ago. heâd always known.
there had never been another choice.
she knew what waited if she turned. the glisten of those garnet eyes. the crush of a throat. a vow written in hunger and eternity. she knew she would be devoured, remade. she knew she would fall.
drew understood first, his face so little as it crumpled. ryan was next. he bellowed:
âdonât you dare do it, paige. donât you listen to her! donât you let her take youââ
she drowned him out. she was already lost. always had been.
her family kept screaming. donât. donât. donât.
but her motherâher mother kept still. lowered her rifle. she unfurled her hand, long and limber and pale, and clutched it around drewâs eyes. turned him into her. she watched him burrow into her side, arms encircling her waist.
paige softened.
thank you, she mouthed.
her mother nodded, smiled faintly.
the voice again returned.
good girl.
paige inhaled like it was her first breath. she had always known it would end this way. hunting had never been about cleanliness, about sacred duty.
it had always been about her. the loss of her, the ache of her.
she was not called to destroy azzi.
she was called to answer her.
good girl.
one last call from her father, sharpened into horror, always too slow:
âshe will end you! paige. PAIGE!â
paige turned.
the world slowed, shutter-flash clear. she saw azzi hurtling toward her, faster than air, faster than benediction. leaping, flying, her body stretched and terrible, jaw unhinged in the revelation of teeth.
and beneath the monstrousness, that same face paige had always known: the face of her beloved.
in her eyes, pride.
and thenâ
his mouth is most sweet, yes, he is altogether lovely. this is my beloved, and this is my friend. â song of solomon 5:16
â±.
© hcneymooners.
ally you are unreal
Azzi's Thighs (that's the post)
im sorry. but. good god.

