The Treatment (The Program #2)(83)

“Hi, honey,” my mother says, her voice distracted. “I can’t remember what you told me—was it mac ’n’ cheese you wanted me to pick up? That stuff is horrible for you.”

“I know, but I’ve been craving it. I haven’t had it in forever.” Not since I was on the run with the rebels, I think. I’m trying to convince myself I can handle memories of that time, even though my subconscious quickly tries to wipe it away.

“Your dad still wants pork chops, so I’ll make that junk as a side dish. Oh, here it is.” The phone rustles, and I tap my nails on the door.

“Anything else?” I ask, wanting to get back to James.

“No, that’s it,” my mother says happily. “Tell James I said hello. Make sure you’re both home by six.” I agree, and as soon as we hang up, I look sideways at James.

“I wish she’d stop trying so hard,” I say, although not unkindly. When I first returned home after the scandal broke, my parents were overwhelmed with the attention from the press and then the horror of the stories broadcast on the news.

It’s taken months of therapy, normal therapy with normal doctors, for me to stop blaming my parents. Then they had to stop blaming themselves. We’re finally in a good place, I guess.

“At least she’s trying,” James says, continuing to stare straight ahead. My parents helped him buy a small stone at the cemetery to keep his father’s remains. Although it alleviated some of his guilt, James is still haunted by the fact his father died alone. But we all have our crosses. Now James is at my house, staying in Brady’s old room. Soon it’ll be just us, because despite how much my parents kind of annoy me, I told them I’d stay a year. I realize I’ve missed them. I missed who they could be.

The sun glitters in the sky, but James stays quiet, maybe thinking about his dad. I don’t like when he falls silent, bothered by things I can’t remember. Sometimes he cries out in his sleep—an aftereffect of The Treatment—as a tragic memory floods back in. He’ll be quiet for a few days, but eventually we talk it out. It’s not always easy to remember—I can see that now.

“Tell me another story about us,” I whisper.

The corner of James’s mouth twitches and he flicks a glance at me. “Clean or dirty?”

I laugh. “Let’s try a clean one.”

James seems to think for a moment, and then the smile fades to something softer, sadder. “There was this one weekend where we went camping with Lacey and Miller.” At hearing the names, I feel a sharp twist of grief. But I need to hear their stories. James checks to see if I’m okay with him going on, and I nod to let him know that I am.

“So Miller, he was crazy about Lacey—I mean, the kid thought she walked on water. So you, being the insistent little matchmaker you are, thought camping would be a perfect double date. Which could have been the case if Lacey wasn’t completely allergic to nature. She was miserable, and Miller was like, ‘Oh, you don’t like mosquitos? Me either! Oh, you think beans are gross? Me too!’ It was painful to watch! So finally I pulled the kid aside and gave him some advice.”

“Uh-oh.”

“I told him he needed to play a little harder to get. Only he didn’t quite understand the concept. He spent the rest of the night ignoring her. The next morning Lacey cornered you, crying, asking what she did wrong.”

“How did it all work out?” I ask. I can’t remember Miller, not the way James does. I never really will. But hearing about him, it makes me feel connected to myself. Miller’s like a favorite character in a childhood story.

“Well, you little charmer,” James says, “you went to Miller and told him to stop being an ass**le. You had no idea I’d talked to him at the campsite. He went back to Lacey and apologized, she gave him a hard time, and then eventually they met up without us and became blissfully happy.” James smiles.

“Miller never ratted me out, either. He let you think he was an idiot. But really it was me.”

“I can’t believe I didn’t guess that. I must have been blinded by your good looks.”

“Who isn’t?”

James pulls up to the empty spot near the grass and parks the car. We sit a minute, both of us feeling so much after the memory. “I wish I could remember,” I say, and look over at James. “But I’m glad you do.”

“I won’t stop until you know every second of our lives,” he says simply. “I won’t leave anything out. Not even the bad stuff.” I nod. James has made that promise every day since we left Evelyn’s house. Sometimes he repeats stories, but I don’t mind.

When we visit Lacey, we tell her some of them, and although she smiles, I’m not sure she really gets it. But she was well enough to finish school, take some college classes. Her therapist even thinks she’ll get feelings back one day. So we don’t give up.

We never give up.

“I got you something,” James says, trying to fight back a smile.

“Is it shiny?” Really, I just want to taunt him a little.

“Not really.”

I furrow my brow. “Uh . . . is it flesh-colored?” He laughs. “No, that’s for later.” He reaches into his pants pocket, but pauses, arresting me again with his gorgeous blue stare. “Do you remember the dream-slash-memory you had the day we were taken from the farmhouse? The one about my seed?”