The Program (The Program #1)(46)

“What changed?”

“After my brother was buried and my house was filled with my mother’s sobs and my father’s drinking, my parents turned their attention to me. They were worried I was depressed too, but they couldn’t see it was just grief. My brother was my best friend and I wanted him back”—I pause then, swallowing hard—“but he was never going to come back. He was never going to take me to the top of the Ferris wheel again. He would never teach me how to swim.”

Dr. Warren hands me a tissue, and I wipe my eyes even though I’m not sure if I’m crying. I can’t feel anything on my cheeks. I’m numb.

“And then one afternoon,” I start again, “I found my mother in Brady’s room, trying to pack up his clothes, and I lost it. I couldn’t stand the thought of his things in a box—in a box like he was in. I told her I hated her.” I lower my head. “I’m not proud of it, but I’d been caught up in my parents’ emotional wake, and I needed my own time to grieve. They wouldn’t let me grieve! The next day I found a pamphlet for The Program near the phone. And I knew I couldn’t ever let them see me cry again. And I knew I had to talk to James because Brady told us to take care of each other.

“At school I was overwhelmed with the interviews, the therapy, the monitoring. I felt so alone I thought that maybe I was becoming ill. But later that week, I walked out of class to find James standing at the lockers—as if he’d been waiting there all along. And I realized how much I’d missed him. He didn’t hesitate when he saw me. He stomped right across the floor and picked me up in a hug, smashing me to him. I wanted to cry—but I couldn’t.”

“There are healthy forms of showing emotion,” Dr. Warren says. “You could have talked to the counselors.”

I stare at her, wondering if she’s serious, if she doesn’t know the extremes the outside world has gone to in order to try to “protect” us. “Believe what you want,” I tell her. “But the handlers were looking for any excuse to flag us. All we could feel was the pressure of it.”

I turn away, thinking again about how relieved I was to see that James was okay. “That day he gave me a ride home. And then the next. It started to feel like the only time we were normal was when we were together. We would tuck ourselves away where we could cry and no one else could see us. As the weeks passed, we started to talk about other things. About leaving town again, just me and him. About being together forever.”

My chest swells as I remember our first time, how scared I was. We were camping, snuggling on a blanket next to the warm fire. I was so in love with him.

I close my eyes now and think about how James kissed my neck, his mouth hot. His hands gentle on my skin. Soon he was kissing me passionately, seeming to want me more than ever before.

His knee moved between my legs, and I pulled his shirt over his head when he stopped, gasping for breath. “Wait,” he said. “We shouldn’t.”

His blue eyes were heavy lidded, filled with desire. Lust. I pulled him down and kissed him again, working at his belt, even when he told me again that we didn’t have to. He’d brought protection, which showed me he’d at least considered it could happen. And we used it, just like we always would after.

I open my eyes and see Dr. Warren waiting for the story. I wish I didn’t have to tell her anything, but I just can’t stop. I hate that I can’t stop because I know what it means. She’s going to steal this moment away from me, and the thought is unbearable.

“The night James and I first had sex,” I say, “it wasn’t about our hormones. It was desperate, sad, even a little painful. And then it was beautiful and hopeful. It was a promise we made to each other, that we would protect each other. Take care of each other.

“James told me he loved me, and that he would never let anything happen to me. I promised the same—” I choke on my words. “But I lied. I didn’t protect him. I tried so hard, but I wasn’t strong enough. They came and they took him. And now he doesn’t love me anymore.”

I cover my face and start sobbing, realizing how much it hurts to be alive. How I don’t want to live with the loss. “I have nothing,” I say through my hands. “I’m all alone now.”

“You’re not,” Dr. Warren asks. “I’m not saying James is a bad guy. Neither is Brady or Miller or Lacey. But they’re the reason you’re really here. They were infected, Sloane. They infected you. And now you have to get better. Just like a cancer, we have to cut out what’s making you sick.”

I look at her, still hating her, but with the pain raging in my chest, maybe a little less so.

“Here.” She offers the yellow pill. “Take it. Empower yourself, sweetheart. It’ll make everything right.”

I consider her offer. Then I think of Roger’s disgusting mouth on mine. I think of how his purple pill will let me hold on to some of my memories. So instead I look at Dr. Warren and say, “Go to hell.”

And then someone grabs me, and I feel a pinch in my arm.

CHAPTER NINE

“SLOANE,” A VOICE WHISPERS.

My eyes flip open, and I start to scream as I see a figure next to my bed.

“Shh . . . shh . . . ,” Realm says, quickly putting his finger to his lips. He shoots a cautious look at the door, and I force myself to quiet down.