The Remedy (The Program 0.5)(9)

This makes him chuckle because it’s our new go-to phrase whenever either of us has the inclination to discuss the possibility of hooking up. Keeps us grounded. “It’s too bad, right?” he asks, straightening up. “Bet it’s hell looking at this face all the time.” He models his jawline, narrowing his eyes.

“I can barely restrain myself most days,” I say. “But, luckily, you talk. And the spell is broken.”

“Asshole,” he says with a laugh. We say good night, and then Deacon goes upstairs. I listen to the creaking floorboards above me as he walks across his room, silence when he gets into bed.

Some days I really do wish it would have worked out with us—times like now, when I’m all alone. I could lie to myself—slip into his bed tonight and pretend we’re different. But in the morning Deacon would be cold, act like it was a mistake. I’d rather not tear open that old wound. We’re better off this way, just like I told Aaron.

I close my eyes, and in the quiet I think about my future: six more months of pretending before I can live my life full-time. But even then, I have to wonder if anyone will ever want me, love me—the real me. Or if they’ll only ever want me as someone else.

* * *

“Quinlan,” Deacon says from somewhere close by. “Quinn—your dad’s here.”

My eyes fly open, and it takes me a minute to recognize my surroundings. The room is dim, but lights from a car in the driveway filter in from behind the blinds. I sit up and stretch. When I didn’t come home, I’m sure my dad knew exactly where to find me. Deacon certainly wouldn’t have told him. My dad kind of hates him, and the feeling is entirely mutual.

Okay, “hate” is too strong a word for their relationship. When Deacon was younger, my dad held him up as the example for all of us. But toward the end, Deacon became defiant, and ended up spending almost every return in therapy. My father thought he was becoming a liability, and then boom—Deacon had a meeting and was out of his contract early, a fact I didn’t learn until after we broke up. My father asked me to stop hanging out with him, but neither Deacon nor I liked that idea.

“Did he come to the door?” I ask, standing and folding the blanket to lay it over the back of the sofa.

“No,” Deacon responds. “But he called my phone a few times and then showed up. He beeped the horn, which I’m sure my neighbors loved.”

“You were always his favorite.”

Deacon snorts a laugh and then leaves to grab my backpack from the bottom of the stairs. I slip on my shoes, readying myself for an explanation. Although I’ve come to Deacon’s upon return before, tonight was later than usual. It’s probably two in the morning. There’s a slight twinge of guilt as I think about my father worrying. I may be angry that he was checking up on me, but I didn’t mean to hurt him. He’s my dad. I love him despite his fatherly instincts.

I walk to the front, my head still foggy from the sleeping pill, and Deacon slides my backpack over my shoulders, hugging me once from behind. “Call me tomorrow,” he says before opening the door. “Tell Dad I said hi.”

“Night,” I say, and thank him before walking out the door.

When I get on the front porch, I hold up my palm to deflect the light from the car. My dad switches to the orange glow of the parking lights and I start toward him. I can just make out his silhouette behind the wheel. I might be imagining it, but his posture looks pissed.

I have to remind myself that I’m the wronged party here—he was spying on me. But by the time I get to the car, my resolve has faded and I apologize the minute I climb into the passenger seat.

“I fell asleep,” I tell him. “I didn’t mean to stay this late.”

“I don’t think I want the details, Quinn,” he says shortly, and flicks on his lights. “Not to mention your partner left a bunch of trail mix in my car.”

I snort a laugh, but quickly cover my mouth when my father glares at me. He puts his arm around my headrest and turns to back us out of the driveway. He cuts the wheel hard before spinning around and jetting forward, squealing the tires of the car. Yeah, I’d say he’s a little pissed. And it has nothing to do with Aaron’s lack of consideration.

He doesn’t speak again right away, but I watch him, waiting for the lecture. His powder-blue sweater is wrinkled like he pulled it on as an afterthought while storming out the door. I wonder if he’s still wearing a pajama top underneath. His thinning hair is just the same, and his wire glasses catch the glow of the streetlights as we pass under them. His tight expression and forced silence give away his mood.

“I apologized,” I say after another agonizing moment of quiet. “Is there something you’d like to say to me, Father?”

He glances over, looking annoyed that I’d even joke around. I lift my eyebrow, letting him know I’m being entirely serious—well, except for the Father bit.

“Yes,” he says, turning away. “Stop hanging out with Deacon.”

“No deal,” I say, slapping my palm on the dashboard like I’m a game show contestant. He doesn’t laugh, but the corner of his mouth does hitch up before he purposefully straightens it. I pause, the betrayal starting to thicken in my veins.

“You do owe me an apology,” I say more quietly, and lean back in the seat, turning to look out the window. “For spying on me.”