The Remedy (The Program 0.5)(8)

Like my soul is wearing thin.

CHAPTER THREE

DEACON OWNS A LITTLE CRAFTSMAN-STYLE house close to the college. He exited his contract eight months ago, but he still got paid for his first three years. He gets nothing for the extra year he put in because he broke the second contract. He ended up putting the money down on a home, which was way more responsible of him than any of us expected. He also dropped out of high school and got his GED instead. Deacon’s parents died when he was a baby, and my father found him in foster care. An angry fourteen-year-old boy who he thought would make a perfect closer. Deacon was good, too—almost as good as me. His charisma draws people in, even if it’s only a facade.

Aaron drops me off, still quieter than usual. I know he’s feeling guilty about turning me in for the T-shirt, but I’m too tired to convince him I’m not mad about it. I get out, saying I’ll call him tomorrow, and then watch as he drives away.

A headache has started, and I rub my eyes with the heels of my palms and then climb the front porch of Deacon’s house. I knock, my backpack weighing me down. I slide it onto one shoulder. Although I’ve only been gone a weekend, I feel like I haven’t seen Deacon in months.

It’s a weird side effect of returning: It’s like I’m an actor in my own life. Like I’m not the real one. It takes about twenty-four hours to become me again.

The door partly opens, and Deacon rests his hip on the frame and looks me up and down as if he has no idea who I am. He’s wearing gray sweatpants with CORVALLIS UNION HIGH SCHOOL printed up the leg, his hair all askew. He’s shirtless, whether for effect or for comfort I’m not sure.

“I wondered if you were coming by,” he says finally, pushing open the door wider to invite me in. I touch his forearm in thanks as I pass and drop my backpack at the bottom of the staircase.

“I don’t want to go home yet,” I say, turning to him. “My father’s being a dick.”

“I’m so surprised,” he responds easily.

For the first time since leaving Marie, I’m overwhelmed by a mixture of anger and sadness. The loneliness hits, the loss. I miss the way Mr. and Mrs. Pinnacle would dote on me and call me their little girl. I miss how badly they wanted to keep me. Or maybe I just miss being part of a regular family.

Despite everything Deacon and I have been through, we still have a total honesty policy, most of it unspoken. Without a word he holds open his arms, and I step in to him, rest my cheek on his chest. His fingers slide over my arm, stroking my skin and showing me affection to help ease my ache. After a long moment, the comfort sets, and I pull away.

“Thanks,” I say, stepping back. Deacon shrugs like it’s no big deal, and I brush my hair out of my face. “Mind if I crash for a bit?” I ask him.

He smiles wryly. “Bed or couch?”

I laugh, and in answer I walk into the living room and pull the blanket off the back of the couch to spread it over the cushions. Deacon comes in and drops into the chair next to me, watching as I lie down and get settled.

“Are you hungry?” he asks. “I can make you something.”

“No,” I say, tucking my hand under my cheek. This feeling of abandonment, I don’t think it happens to other closers—it didn’t happen to Deacon. But for me it’s getting harder each time. That’s why I sometimes come here before going home—even when I don’t plan to. I’m afraid for my father to see me like this. I’m afraid of what he’ll do if he does.

Deacon moves to sit on the floor next to the couch, and lays his head on the cushion next to mine. “You’ve still got red hair,” he whispers. “I like it.”

“I’m washing it out the minute I get home,” I say, staring back into his warm brown eyes. He smiles.

“You’re right. I hate it,” he agrees. “You look better as a blonde.” I smile, curling up and moving closer. “Aaron texted me earlier,” he says. “Told me you lifted a T-shirt from the family.”

Damn it, Aaron. “It wasn’t like that.”

“Wouldn’t care if it was,” Deacon says. “I was just wondering about the T-shirt. Band?”

I laugh. “Yeah. Rolling Stones. One with the big tongue.”

“Nice.”

We’re quiet for a little bit and my eyes start to get heavy, even though my mind won’t stop racing. Deacon reaches over to slide a strand of hair behind my ear. “Although effective,” he says quietly, “your method of closing isn’t good for you, Quinn. You shouldn’t take it all on like that.”

“I know,” I tell him. “But what can I say? Sometimes my heart still beats.”

He smiles. “Then it’s a good thing I ripped mine out. It was a pain in the ass. Much like you. Be right back.” He stands and leaves the room. I hear him moving around in the kitchen, and then he returns with a glass of water. He holds out the drink and a tiny white pill that he says will help me sleep. I sit up and take both appreciatively.

“You should think about changing your methods,” he continues when I lie back down. “If not for you, then maybe for my peace of mind.” He covers me with the blanket and kisses my forehead. “Yell if you need me, okay? Unless you want me to stay.”

“No, you get some sleep,” I tell him. We pause for a long moment as he decides whether or not I mean it. I smile softly. “You’re a good friend,” I murmur.