The Remedy (The Program 0.5)(65)

She leaves soon after, and I make myself scrambled eggs and clean the pan. I shower and get dressed, and by the time I check my phone again, Isaac has messaged to say he left school early and wants to hang out. I smile, and think about my empty house. I haven’t seen him since the movies, although our texts have taken a turn for the affectionate. He tells me how he thinks about me all the time. How much he wants to kiss me again. I get butterflies just thinking about it.

In a streak of rebellion, I ask him to come over to my parentless household. When he agrees, I’m a mess of nerves. I’ve never done anything like this in my real life, had a boyfriend skip school and come over when my parents weren’t home. I never had to. Deacon didn’t have any parents, so we always had a place to go. I clench my jaw, annoyed with my thoughts. I don’t want to think about Deacon right now.

I grab the house phone and call my mother, settled on the idea of sneaking around with my boyfriend. I smile slightly; Isaac is my boyfriend. My mother answers the phone, and I straighten up as if she can see me.

“Hey,” I say casually.

“Hi, honey,” she responds, sounding a bit frazzled. I have a small twinge of guilt, but I quickly suppress it. I need to know how long she’ll be out.

“Are you going by the grocery store later?” I ask. “I was thinking of baking some cupcakes together after dinner tonight.”

“Oh,” she says, like it’s a fun idea. “I’d love that. I’ll be tied up at the dress shop for a while. I might not be back before your father gets home at three. That okay?”

I grin. “No rush, Mom. See you then.”

I set down the phone and spin around to look over my room. My body is tingling with nerves and possibilities. I smooth out my blankets, but my fingernail catches on a loose thread, and the tip snaps off.

“Ow,” I say, checking my finger. It broke short, leaving a sting on the skin. I look down at the sheet, and the sight of my bed sends me in a different direction of realization.

Maybe this is a bad idea, I think, nervously biting the edge of my nail to smooth it out. What if I . . . if we . . .

The doorbell rings. I furrow my brow, looking at my bedroom door. Isaac must have texted when he was already on his way. I try to squash down the nervousness building up, the out-and-out giddiness I feel about seeing him. Jason called Isaac a total sap, but that’s how I feel. Completely and stupidly into him.

I leave my room, brushing back my hair and rubbing my lips together, wishing I’d had time to put on gloss. Excitement flutters through my stomach as I walk into the living room. When I get to the front door, I swing it open, smiling broadly.

My world shatters, falling around me in sharp, jagged pieces that reflect back different images. Different lives.

“Quinlan,” Marie says, pronouncing my name carefully as her dark eyes take in my appearance. “I’d like to come in and speak with you.”

My mouth opens, but no words come out. I’m shocked, fearful. I glance behind me into the house, and when I turn to Marie again, she presses her lips into a polite smile.

“I know your parents aren’t home,” she says. “So may I please come in?”

I swallow hard, looking over her shoulder toward the street, worried that Isaac’s truck will pull up at any moment. But without another choice, I nod and open the door wider, motioning for Marie to come inside.

* * *

Marie’s wearing a deep purple pantsuit; her braids are undone at the bottom to leave the ends curly. She’s a vision, professional and yet approachable, a complete package designed for the manipulation of trust. I remember her telling me once that every detail is used to bring about an intended feeling in others, planned down to the shade of lipstick she wears. Despite her attempt, her appearance offers me little comfort right now. I’m scared as hell.

Marie takes a seat on the couch and motions for me to sit across from her. When I do, she rests back and crosses her legs. “Would you like to explain to me why I’m getting a panicked phone call from Aaron, claiming you’re losing touch?” she asks.

My stomach twists anxiously. “He called you?”

“That’s not an explanation,” she says.

I have to regroup quickly, portray confidence. “Look,” I say, opening up my expression to show honesty. “I’m avoiding him, but it has nothing to do with this assignment,” I explain. “He’s harassing me about Deacon, total everyday stuff. I’m sorry he dragged you into this.” I feel bad for stretching the truth, making Aaron look unprofessional. But he had no right to contact our advisor.

“Say I believe that,” Marie says, eyeing me carefully. “Now I’m asking you personally: Do you need an extraction?”

“No.”

“Quinlan,” she persists. “Are you compromised?”

“No, Marie,” I say. “In fact, things are going very well. Exactly as planned. This case will be closed by next Friday.”

That may be true, but it doesn’t guarantee that I’ll leave. And if the department tries to force me to, I’ll come back when I’m eighteen. There’s nothing that says I can’t. No matter what, my career as a closer is over. I don’t care about the money, about any of it. I have everything I need right here.

“And to be honest,” I add, “Isaac is on his way over right now. He’s made huge strides in his recovery. Ask my parents.”