The Remedy (The Program 0.5)(75)

My panic continues to grow as random images flash through my mind, splitting open my head with too much information. Too many people. I find the street near the college, sure I’m going in the right direction. I see the small house with a big porch, and now the pain starts in my chest. It starts in my heart.

I shut off the car, shaking uncontrollably as I wait in the driveway. I’ve lost my identity and I’m not sure how to get it back. What if I’m stuck like this—a collage of other people’s lives? Who am I with other people’s memories?

I open the door, and the sound of rain hitting the car drowns out my staggered breaths. The rain has soaked through my shirt, and I wrap my arms around myself. It doesn’t help.

What if I really am Catalina Barnes and I just ran out of my house? What if Quinlan is the assignment and I’m confused? Or I could be someone else entirely. I look at Deacon’s darkened porch and debate driving back to Lake Oswego, demanding that the woman in the pink pajamas explain everything to me.

I’m so alone. I’m so alone it’s like there’s a hole in my chest and my life is bleeding out. I don’t want to be empty anymore.

I start toward the house, my feet sloshing in my shoes. The soles squeak as I climb the steps, and once under the cover of the porch roof, I ring the doorbell, holding myself up with my palm against the door frame.

The light clicks on above me, and I wipe absently at the rain that’s running off my hair onto my forehead. When the door opens, Deacon is first silhouetted against the light in his hallway. I can’t see his face. What if I don’t know him? What if I’m completely crazy? I cover my mouth, starting to cry because I’m so damn scared.

Deacon springs forward and grabs me, pulling me to him. He’s wearing a thin white cotton T-shirt, and his skin is hot in comparison to mine. I can’t talk because my teeth are chattering so hard. I close my eyes, pressing my sore cheek into his chest, flattening my hand over his heart.

“What happened?” he asks. He runs his palms over my arms to warm me up. “Jesus, Quinn. Are you okay?”

Quinn. Slowly, I pull back and look up at him. He doesn’t hesitate in touching me, brushing away the water running over my forehead, holding my face as his gaze travels over me.

“What is this?” he asks, running his finger delicately over my jaw. His posture hardens and he darts an enraged look into the darkness beyond the porch. “Who did this to you?” he demands.

“I don’t remember,” I say. I stare at him, recognizing his eyes, his mouth. I like all of his pieces, like how they’re put together. “I’m cold,” I say in a small voice. The sound of it seems to weaken him, and he wraps his arm around my shoulders and walks me inside the house.

“I’ve got you,” he says gently. “I’m here.” He turns and scans the porch, and after seeing nothing in the rain, he closes the door and bolts it.

CHAPTER SEVEN

I’M SHAKING—MY WET CLOTHES clinging to my body, my lips quivering.

“You’re freezing,” Deacon murmurs, and brings me into the living room. He sets me down on the couch and grabs the blanket from the cushion behind me, wraps it over my shoulders.

“How long have you been in the rain?” he asks, kneeling in front of me to unlace my shoes. When he removes my sneaker, water pours from the heel. He groans, annoyed that I’d be so careless, and peels off my socks. The minute my skin touches air, my toes feel a little nicer.

“I don’t remember,” I tell him for the second time. “Maybe a while. I was walking in it, I think.”

“God, Quinn,” he snaps, clearly pissed off. “Who’s watching out for you? They can’t just—” He stops and glances up, apologetic for his tone. He motions to my face. “We should put some ice on that before it bruises,” he says more gently.

I reach to touch my jaw, but the pain has started to fade. “Doesn’t matter if it does,” I tell him. “I can’t stand to look at myself. Deacon . . . I don’t know who I am.”

His expression falls, his eyes widening at my statement. “What do you mean?” he asks, sounding terrified.

“I can’t remember who I am,” I say. “I’m not sure what’s real anymore.”

Deacon curses, shaking his head. “I told them it was too soon.” He reaches to take my hands, leveling our gazes. “You’re real,” he says sternly. My mind is swirling, unsure, and I squeeze my fingers between his, testing the feeling. It’s foreign, as if this is the fake life.

I stare down at our hands, unclear of our relationship. Our past. “He loves me, you know,” I say quietly. Deacon flinches. “Isaac told me he loves me.”

Deacon is quiet for a long moment, and I look over to find his face haunted. “And do you love him?” he asks.

“I thought maybe I did.”

Deacon pulls away and drops back into a sitting position on the floor. He bends his knees, rests his elbows on them, and puts his hand over his forehead to block his eyes. “Well, f*ck,” he murmurs.

I feel his reaction in my chest, a bright pain that spreads outward from my heart. He’s devastated at the thought of me loving someone else. “He thinks I’m Catalina,” I say. I’m scared of the next question. “Am I?”

Deacon’s throat clicks as he swallows, and when he drops his arm, I see the skin around his eyes has reddened, his emotions bleeding through. “No,” he says. He crawls back over to pause in front of me, but he doesn’t touch me again. “You are not Catalina.”