The Program (The Program #1)(16)

And here we are, over two years later. Once again I’m watching James build a tent, but this time my brother’s dead. James’s hair isn’t in his eyes, but he brushes at his forehead absently anyway. At one point, he looks sideways at me, but he doesn’t smile like he did that day. Instead his eyes are weary from putting up the tent by himself. He presses his lips together in an “I miss him too” sort of expression and I look away.

The team broke up, but it wasn’t me who did it. It was Brady.

• • •

The fire crackles, the heat licking out toward my boots. The sun set a few hours ago, but neither of us said much throughout the day. It was nice that we didn’t have to.

James taps my leg with a thin stick and I take it from him, looking next to me. “Marshmallow?” he asks, holding one out between his thumb and finger. I watch as the amber light plays off his features: his strong jaw, his golden hair. I smile.

“You’re beautiful,” I say.

“I look good naked too,” he adds. “You didn’t mention that.”

“I forgot.”

“You forgot?” He pretends to be offended, and then takes a bite out of the marshmallow before tossing the rest into the fire. James immediately drops out of his chair, crawling over to mine and grabbing me, pulling me down into the dirt with him.

“James . . . ,” I start to say, laughing. But his lips are on mine, tasting sticky and sweet. He lays me back, his knee nudging my legs apart as he starts kissing my neck. “James,” I murmur again, only this time it’s with longing.

I love this—this moment. Because as we roll on the ground, the fire burning hot as James peels off my clothes, I can block out everything else. I can focus on how good I feel right now. I can pretend that there is nothing else but us.

And when we’re done and James is panting next me, proud of himself as he should be, I stare at the stars in the sky. I lie there for a long time as James pulls his T-shirt back over his head, collecting the wrapper to toss out. When he comes back, he gets down next to me, moving my head onto his lap as we watch the sky together.

“Brady’s a star up there,” he says, “in some distant place where he doesn’t hurt.” James’s voice cracks and he stops talking. He sniffles, the tears rolling down his cheeks. He always lets his guard down enough to talk in moments like this—the only time his feelings are so raw he can’t hide them.

“He loved you,” I say, curling up against him. “No matter what he did, you were the best thing in his life.”

James looks down at me, wiping his tears. “You were.” He stares at me in a way that reminds me that he’s only human. That he’s as fragile as I am.

“I was just his sister. You were more than a brother. You were his other half.”

“Then I sucked at it,” James says. “Because Brady’s dead. And I’m still here.”

I sit up then, turning James’s face to mine. “You’re here for me. I wouldn’t have survived without you, and I couldn’t now. We’re in this together, James. Don’t forget that.”

He exhales heavily and shakes his head, as if trying to clear it. I know that telling him I need him, that I can’t live without him, snaps him out of the depression. It always has.

And when he’s more himself, I kiss him again, before taking his hand and bringing him into the tent to sleep.

• • •

“We should really camp more often,” James says as we’re driving down the freeway. I smile and look sideways at him.

“It was fun.”

“And I think your memory is fully restored now.” He grins.

“Yes, James. It is soundly intact and filled only with images of your naked torso.”

He raises one eyebrow. “Just my torso?”

“Oh my God, shut up.”

“Don’t be shy. I’m an amazing specimen.” James is still grinning ear to ear when my phone vibrates in the pocket of my jeans. I take it out, glancing at the number.

“It’s Miller,” I say, and then click it on. “Hey.”

“Sloane?” Miller sounds like he’s been crying and sickness washes over me. I reach out and grab James’s arm.

“What’s wrong? What happened?” I say into the phone. My heart is racing in my chest.

“They’re coming for me,” he whimpers. “The Program is coming for me.”

No. “Miller, where are you?” I shoot a look at James, and he’s alternating between facing me and facing the road. His speed creeps up past eighty as we race toward town.

“I’m home,” he whispers, sounding desperate. “But it’s too late. I had to see her again.”

“Put it on speaker,” James says, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. I hit the button, and Miller’s sobbing immediately fills the space in the car. I nearly crumble, but I hold up the phone, keeping back my own tears.

In life, I don’t really get to see people cry—not anymore. James does every so often, but it’s rare. And other than that, it’s only when someone has cracked that they’ll let someone see. I never once saw my brother cry, and I was with him when he died.

“Miller,” James calls out. “Don’t do anything stupid, man. We’re on our way.”