The Remedy (The Program 0.5)(76)

I don’t know what to think. I run my fingers through my wet hair, noticing the short length. My mind flips back and forth between my memories, a picture of me and Isaac, him staring adoringly at the side of my face. “No,” I say uncertainly. “I am Catalina Barnes.” My voice cracks, and I’m overcome with the heaviest sense of loss. Too heavy to carry. Too dark. Too painful.

“You’re not her,” Deacon says, moving closer. I’m still shivering, but the heat from his body is fire next to me, radiating warmth.

My memories continue to swirl, but then I remember thinking that Deacon is always here for me. But not anymore. Now it’s Isaac. But Isaac can’t help me. I can’t tell him how I feel because I don’t want to make him sad.

“Quinn,” Deacon says in a voice that’s utterly heartbroken. “Come back. Be here with me.” He takes my hand again and brings it against his mouth like he’s pleading with me. “Please,” he murmurs into my skin.

I blink slowly, watching him as he starts to unravel, worried sick that I’ll never come back to reality. Worried that he’s lost me for good. The pain in my head flashes bright white, and I squeeze my eyes shut. In that moment I think of Deacon—a memory that I lost somewhere along the way.

* * *

“I have the perfect place,” Deacon said, propped up on his elbows while we lay in the overgrown grass in my backyard. He had a red pen, and he was drawing a tattoo on my ribs, tickling me with each stroke.

“Don’t say your bedroom,” I said, and laughed.

He flashed me a smile, but then leaned in closer to see his art. “No,” he said. “That’s your perfect place. No, I’m thinking we’ll go to Europe. New identities, espionage, all that shit.”

I smiled, turning my head to watch him as I lay on my back. “That’s the stupidest idea I’ve ever heard. Besides,” I said, “we both have a while on our contracts, so maybe we can pick a place closer to town.”

He stopped drawing, glancing up at me. His eyes holding mine, he leaned in and kissed my skin, right where he was drawing. My eyes fluttered closed and I ran my fingers through his hair. He kissed me again.

“Your dad is never going to let you out of your contract,” he said, slowly kissing his way up my body. “So Europe, fake mustaches, all of that is in our future.” When his mouth got to my neck and he slid his body over mine, I decided I’d go wherever he wanted. He stilled, just short of kissing my lips.

I gazed up at him, completely and totally in love. “Let’s run away together,” I whispered. To that he smiled—broad and handsome. And then he leaned down and kissed me.

* * *

I take in a sharp breath, the world around me slowly coming back into focus, coming alive as the pieces fill in around me. Deacon is still watching me, lost in his concern, murmuring that I’ll be all right, he’s sure of it.

“I’m Quinlan McKee,” I say weakly. Deacon chokes out a relieved cry. “I drive a beat-up old Honda,” I continue, “with the check-engine light on.”

Deacon laughs, wiping away the tears that have streamed down his cheeks. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, your car’s a piece of shit.”

“And I’m here with you,” I tell him, the numbness fading from my skin, my blood circulating again as if I’ve been holding it frozen in my veins. I look around, taking in Deacon’s living room. There are papers and magazines strewn about, like he was in the middle of research. There are embers in the fire although it’s nearly summer. Drawings doodled on the backs of pages, some that look like me. Everything’s different but still the same. But I’m alive. I’m home.

When I turn back to Deacon, he smiles. “Hey,” he says quietly, as if I’ve only just shown up and didn’t come into his house like an emotional tornado.

“Hey.” I take a breath and exhale, deep and cleansing. This was what I needed, who I needed to see to remember. I gave him all of my trust once, and because of that, he holds my identity. He can always remind me of who I am.

“Tell me what you need,” Deacon says. “Do you want another blanket? Are you hungry? Because I can make you something to eat.”

He’s good to me. Despite the hurt in our past, I know he cares deeply. And I loved him madly—I think I still do. Those beautiful brown eyes, his serious expression. The freckles across the bridge of his nose. His is the face I see when I think of home.

I reach to comb my fingers through his hair, brushing it aside and off his forehead, gazing at him. Letting my hand run over his cheek, onto his shoulder, down his arm.

This touch is different and he senses it; his chest rises and falls a little faster. He gets up on his knees to come closer, wanting this as much as I do. Everything about him warms to me, calls to me. I lean in and kiss him.

My lips brush over his, softly at first. He tastes like cinnamon and my heart beats recklessly. I kiss him harder. There’s a light touch as he licks my lower lip, and I moan, aching for him. He deepens our kiss, sending sparks all over my body. I’m wild and careless; I clutch at his shirt to drag him closer. Deacon pauses, breathing fast against me like he’s afraid he’s losing control.

“Don’t stop,” I murmur, wanting to be lost with him. Lost and free.

Without hesitation our mouths crash together again. Deacon yanks off my wet T-shirt, growling his approval when I tug at his. He pushes me back on the couch and pulls at the rest of my clothes, kissing his way down my body. His touch burns my skin and I love it. I love him.