The Remedy (The Program 0.5)(86)

This is it, I tell myself. The true test of your abilities. I look at the doorbell, fear making my hands shake, and then I press the button. I curse immediately and spin around, watch the street. The wind is cold, but it’s nothing compared to the cold reality of this situation.

The door opens, and I straighten my expression before I turn around. Isaac’s lips part when he sees me, surprised. He’s a mess, though. Pale and drawn. I wonder what he’s been doing since I left him last night.

“Can I come in?” I ask. The sound of my voice, my regular voice, makes his eyes widen with a flash of confusion. But then he nods and steps aside so I can walk past him. I glance up when I do, and find him watching me intently. Trying to figure me out.

He closes the door, and stands awkwardly like he doesn’t know how to greet me. Everything must look new to him, the way I stand and my expressions, the blue of my eyes and my freckles. I’m not trying to be Catalina anymore.

“I . . . um . . .” I look around the house, nervousness growing in my gut. “I wanted to talk to you. About Catalina.”

He sways slightly and then motions to the couch. “Okay,” he says, sounding distant. He walks ahead of me and takes a seat, blinking quickly as if his eyes are already starting to sting with tears. I sit next to him, wondering if he’ll open up at all while I’m Quinn.

“I’m sorry,” I say, guilt gnawing away any clinical thoughts that try to rise up. “I f*cked up.” Isaac watches me, and he’s an open book. I can read all of the emotions as they play across his face. It’s always been so easy with him. “I got attached, Isaac,” I explain. “I let it go too far, and then last night . . . it was my fault. I’m sorry your friends had to step in. I’m sorry I didn’t—”

“Stop,” he says, shaking his head. “Stop apologizing.” I wait a beat to see where this conversation is heading. I wipe under my eyes, feeling tears about to brim over. “I was there too,” Isaac says. He lowers his head to stare into his lap. “And I’m not sorry.”

My heart skips, and there’s a small sense of validation. My default is to take the blame because I should have known better. I’m the professional. But part of me wants to believe the relationship was mutual, at least partly.

“Being with you,” Isaac says quietly, “it took away the pain. I wasn’t ready to be reminded of it—not like that. And now it’s back.” He looks up at me with the saddest eyes I’ve ever seen. “But you’re not going to fix it this time, are you?” he asks.

I press my lips together to keep from crying, and slowly shake my head no.

“The counselor called and told me you were leaving,” he continues. “But what if I’m not ready for you to go? Would you stay?”

His emotions bleed over to mine, and everything I felt for him over the last week floods in. Without thinking, I reach to take his hand, needing to comfort him. Needing to stop his pain. He closes his eyes when I do, maybe hurting more because of my touch.

“You deserve better than this,” I tell him. “You deserve something real.”

“Maybe,” he says, meeting my eyes. “But it was a lot easier to pretend. Especially with you.” There’s a flutter of attraction still there, but now that I’m thinking clearly, I know it’s just that—attraction. Isaac doesn’t even know me.

I take my hand from his, fold my fingers together in my lap. My training tells me that Isaac’s avoiding Catalina’s memory, filling up her space with anything he can. He’s afraid. But if he wants true closure, he has to be honest. And he has to let her go.

“You need to talk about her, Isaac,” I say. “The real her. No one’s going to replace her—no one can. But I know something went wrong with your relationship. What secrets are you keeping for her? What happened to Catalina?”

He winces like he’s going to refuse to answer. But then, slowly, I watch him turn it over in his head. Work through the things he wants to share, but doesn’t because it feels like betrayal.

“You can tell me,” I assure him. “I’m here so that you can tell me. I’m here for you.” My words seem to comfort him slightly, and he sits back, staring straight ahead as if looking into his memories.

“Catalina and I were in love,” he says, as if I’d argue. “Madly in love. We wanted to go to college, get a place. Shit. We even talked about our kids’ names. I wanted that, even if other people thought it was stupid. Said I had too much to experience. But why? If I loved her, why should I end it to screw around with people I didn’t care about? I . . . never understood it.

“Then one day,” he says, “Catalina told me about a couple she met, found them on some forum. They wrote dark shit, poems about death and stuff, and she would tell me to read it. See how good it was. I’m a not a big reader,” he explains. “Things started to change. After a few weeks, I asked Angie if she’d noticed Catalina’s mood shifts at home. When Catalina found out, she accused me of spying on her. Said I’d been watching her, and what was I, some kind of handler? I didn’t know what the hell she was talking about. I told her that she needed to drop those new friends. That they were messing with her head,” he says, sounding defiant.

“We didn’t break up, but she’d stare at me sometimes, like she stopped trusting me.” Isaac squeezes his eyes tightly shut. He’s quiet for a moment before continuing. “I’d find these pages,” he says. “Lying around her room and in my car. Black spirals. I hid them.” He looks at me. “That’s the thing—I didn’t mention her darkening mood to anybody, even though she was getting worse. But I didn’t want her to be upset with me.” His voice cracks, and he cries the last few words. “I knew she was suffering; I saw it. I thought I could make it better, so I didn’t tell anybody. I kept her secret. I kept her f*cking secret and then she killed herself. It’s my fault, my fault for not getting help. Tell me,” he begs, staring at me with tears dripping from his eyes, “tell me how she could ever forgive me for that.”