The Remedy (The Program 0.5)(54)

My parents are talking, laughing, occasionally looking back at me to grin out an Isn’t this fun? I nod encouragingly, a little rattled from Deacon’s message, but glad to hear that Aaron should have more information for me later this week.

The house phone rings, startling me. I have this irrational thought that it’s Deacon, and when my mother clicks the button and says hello, my heart is in my throat. She smiles, and touches my father’s arm to get his attention.

“Hi, Angie,” she says, tears gathering in her eyes. Both of my parents hover around the phone, turned away from me as they ask how she is, tell her they’re doing well and missing her. I’m cut out of the family circle then, a stranger in their house. Without a word I slip away, back to my bedroom, my heart feeling heavy and a bit left out.

When I get into my room, I lie on my stomach across the middle of my bed. I think about what my mother said, about how I could stay here while I go to college. Although I know that was only her grief talking, I imagine for a moment it could be true. What it would be like to have a family like this. To eat dinner together and laugh and even garden. To feel safe.

At this moment, if anyone asked me what I wanted . . . I think this would be it. I would want to be part of this family, this life. I close my eyes, feeling guilty for betraying my real father. I do love him; I would never abandon him. Besides, people like me aren’t meant to have normal lives. But . . . if I had started this way, I wouldn’t have ended up a closer.

I dwell a bit longer on the family, happy that my sister seems to be coming around. It may be caused by my presence, or maybe she always would have; either way, it’s good for the recovery. I get up and go to my desk, open up my laptop to write an e-mail. I get my sister’s address and type out a short message.

THANK YOU FOR CONTACTING YOUR PARENTS. YOU’VE MADE THEM VERY HAPPY.

I leave it short and sweet, not wanting to give her much to argue with if the message finds her when she’s feeling particularly murderous. I click around on the Internet for another minute when the e-mail pings back to me. My heart stops.

GO TO HELL.

I stare at the words until my eyes go blurry, and then shut the laptop without exiting the program. I’m tired—I’m tired of being feared, hated. Right now, all I want is some comfort, but I can’t find it with the strangers in the kitchen.

My shoulders slumped, I head back to bed and lie down. I retreat into my memories, finding one that I can wrap around myself. This time I come back to one of me and Deacon, sitting on the back porch of his house shortly after he bought it. We were broken up, but there we were on the steps, me leaning against him as we watched the rain fall over the trees. A cold breeze blew my hair across my face, and Deacon reached to brush it back, leaning his temple on the top of my head.

“Christ, it never stops raining,” he says. We had planned to go hiking; the forecast swore it would be clear skies. Of course, we all know never to trust the Oregon weather forecast. Now we were stuck on the porch in hiking boots with a backpack full of bottled water and trail mix.

I sighed. “I’m leaving on Wednesday,” I said quietly. “Assignment down near Grants Pass. Drowning, I think. Anyway, mother and stepfather—Dad says they’re a wreck.”

Deacon was quiet for a long moment, and then moved to wrap his arms around me like a jacket. We settled in together, absorbing each other.

“One more year, Quinlan,” he said. “One more year of someone else’s life, and then you’re done.” He looked at me. “And you will be done.”

“That’s the plan,” I said. “But we both know how persuasive my father can be.”

“Funny,” Deacon said, “I told him to f*ck off easily enough.”

I slapped his leg and he laughed, admitting that he didn’t really cuss my father out, just imagined it in full detail. We fell into a comfortable silence, broken only by the clap of thunder above us that made the windows rattle. I jumped in Deacon’s arms, and he held me closer, his fingers trailing over my skin in a way that brought me to a new realization. A sudden awareness of his body against mine.

“We should go inside,” Deacon said in a quiet voice, the rain falling harder around us. I hummed out agreement, but didn’t move. Didn’t want to break the spell. Deacon brushed his lips over my cheek. My jaw. “I miss you,” he murmured as his mouth touched my neck. “It’s f*cking killing me how much I miss you.”

I was lost then—lost in my desire for him. I ended up staying the night, and we were romantic and sad at the same time. Our passion was reckless and panicked, but it felt good. It felt like love. Like everything had been set right again.

When I woke up the next morning, Deacon was gone. No text. No note. I left his house and I didn’t see him again until my assignment was over. It was like our night together had never happened. He didn’t mention it, didn’t act any differently. But I wanted things to be different. I wanted commitment. I swore I wouldn’t give him another chance to hurt me after that.

In all of our time together, Deacon’s never said the one thing I needed to hear. He has never, ever said he loved me. And yet if he were here now, Deacon would be wrapped around me, telling me that even if the entire world hated me, he’d still be on my side. He’d threaten to kick all of their asses. He’d promise to do anything for me. But I guess promises only go so far.