The Program (The Program #1)(86)

His face clouds over, and he reaches absently, tugging at a string hanging down from the bottom of my collared shirt. “Really?”

I nod. “I bet . . . I bet you played with us.”

James doesn’t meet my eyes, but pulls slowly on the string, unraveling the hem as if he’s lost in a thought. “I can’t remember who taught me,” he says.

“My brother did.”

“Possibly.”

When the string finally breaks, James seems startled by the now uneven hem of my shirt. “Damn, I’m sorry.” But when he looks up, I don’t respond. I can feel the puffiness of my face, and I’m sure that, up close, still half-leaning on him, I don’t look great. But I’m trying to find something in his eyes—a feeling that I can identify. There are so many emotions raging inside of me: guilt, sadness, attraction.

“Why are you staring at me again?” he asks, although this time he doesn’t sound like he’s teasing me.

“Realm said something to me before I left.”

James rolls his eyes. “Oh, yeah? What was that?”

“He said . . .” I pause, not sure I should even tell him. But it seems wrong to keep it from him. To keep anything from him. “He said that he loved me,” I say.

James lowers his head, twirling the piece of string around his finger. “And how do you feel?” he asks.

“Not the same.”

“Probably shouldn’t lead him on by kissing him then, huh?” His tone is harsh, judgmental. I’m frozen for a second. I’d confided in him only to have him throw it back in my face.

I move away from James then, pulling my seat belt on and making it lock a few times in the process. “Just forget it,” I say. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“You’re right.” He switches the car into gear. “I don’t understand. And you don’t owe me an explanation.”

“Thanks,” I say bitterly. “Glad you cleared that up.” We don’t speak again, and I wonder how James can confess to me about his mother, only to turn cold in the next second. I wonder if he used to do this to Brady when they were friends. To me.

I wonder if it was always this difficult to be around him.

• • •

When I get home, I slip through the back door, hoping my parents didn’t notice that I was gone for the last hour. I can hear the sound of the TV in the living room as I climb the stairs, pausing at Brady’s room.

I go inside and lie across my brother’s bed, staring up at the ceiling and hoping it will reveal secrets. Stolen memories.

“What happened to you?” I ask, meaning it for both my brother and for myself. I’d searched my room, hoping to find something else, but there was nothing there. Hardly any pictures outside of family ones. There was no obituary for Brady, cut out and laminated with a prayer on the back. No newspaper article immortalized in a scrapbook.

I know better than to ask my mother, her lies seeming to mount. I’m not sure what happened to me and her, but I don’t trust her anymore. She called Kevin to report me. I bet she had something to do with me getting sent to The Program in the first place.

In my pocket, my cell phone vibrates, and I quickly take it out, hoping it’s Realm, even though we didn’t exchange numbers. I pause when I see James’s name flashing on the screen.

I click it off and put the phone back in my pocket. Being around him is so confusing. We share a past, but every time we get closer to finding out what it is, he backs away. He hurts me. I don’t think I can take any more hurt right now.

I curl up on my side, thinking things over, when a knock on the door startles me. I look up to see my father. “Hey, honey,” he says. “I was just coming up to say good night, but you weren’t in your room. What are you doing in here?”

Blinking quickly, I sit up. “I miss Brady,” I say, trying to gauge his reaction. His face falters, his brown eyes weary as he rubs at them.

“Me too,” he answers. His khakis are wrinkled, and the faint smell of alcohol clings to him. I wonder when he started drinking.

We’re quiet for a long moment, and I bite my lip, trying to decide if I should ask. “Dad,” I start, “did Brady commit suicide?”

My father takes in a harsh breath. He doesn’t respond right away as he lowers himself onto the bed next to me. And then, to my absolute horror, he covers his eyes with his hand; his shoulders are shaking.

“Yes,” he chokes out. “Brady killed himself.”

My body stills as my emotions click together, even though there are no memories attached. But it’s like my feelings—my grief—finally make sense. As my father tries to pull himself together, I try not to fall apart. Realm told me the truth. What else does he know?

“And what about us?” I ask my father. “Were we okay after? Me, you, and Mom?”

My dad looks at me, his dark eyes unfocused and red-rimmed. “No, sweetheart,” he whispers. “We really weren’t.”

I nod, knowing somewhere inside that it’s true. That this idea of our family moving on so easily after losing Brady was absurd. “I hate that I can’t remember what happened to him,” I say.

“Why?” he asks seriously. “It’s a gift. I would give anything to take away the pain. The time when he was sick . . . that wasn’t the real Brady. Not the real us. We’ve gotten the chance to reset, Sloane. We’ve gotten the chance to be happy again.”