The Treatment (The Program #2)(84)

“Ew, no.” I don’t remember anything about the day we left the farmhouse, not anymore. “I hope to God you’re talking about farming.”

James takes out a plastic bubble, the kind you get from a gumball machine. There’s a flash of something pink and sparkly inside. I bite my lip, giddy with the smile trying to break through.

“That looks shiny,” I say.

“I’m a great liar. Anyway”—he pops the top, taking out a ring—“you knew after that memory we loved each other madly—I think you even said I was sweet. Now I remember how I felt that day. Even then, even with everything going on, I knew I’d never let you get away.”

“Don’t you dare make me cry,” I warn, but I can already feel the burn in my eyes.

James takes my hand and slides the ring onto my finger.

“I’ve given you a ring twice before,” he says, “and trust me, both times were way more romantic than this. But I’ll keep giving them to you—same Denny’s, same ring.” His smile fades into a look far too serious for a sunny afternoon. I reach to put my palm on his cheek, leaning in to kiss him.

“I’ve lost you too many times, Sloane,” he murmurs between my lips. His hand slides up my thigh, pulling it over his hip as he lays me back on the seat. His kisses are sweet but also a little sad. I try to change the mood entirely, and James quickly pulls back, laughing.

“Hey, now Miss Handsy,” he says, nodding toward the windshield. “Are we going to do this thing or what? You still have all your clothes on.”

“I think I’d rather stay in here,” I say, grabbing his belt. He playfully swats my hand away and then wraps his arm around my waist, pulling me close.

“Let’s go,” he whispers, kissing me in a way so sweet and tender, I can’t help but trust him. James climbs out of the car, and I take a steadying breath and stare out at the river. This is the first place where James kissed me, both times. I take my towel from the backseat, and with my heart thudding, I open the door.

James is standing at the top of the bank, and when he turns, his eyes are crystal blue in the sunlight. “Come on, chicken,” he says. And I smile.

“I don’t know,” James says, holding my wrist as he draws me farther into the water. “I think the problem is that you still have on far too many clothes.” I roll my eyes, my lips trembling from the ice-cold of the river water.

“You say that every time, and I’m still not convinced that’s the problem. Now shut up and do something impressive before I go to wait in the car,” I say in a shaky voice. As if on a dare he’d love to take, James grins and then dips under water, coming up to brush back his hair.

“Don’t move,” he says, pointing at me. He begins the swim out to the dock, and I cross my arms over my bikini top as I watch him. His strokes are strong and majestic, and before he even climbs out of the water, I am already duly impressed. I whistle.

James glances over, winks, and then does a backflip into the water. I clap when he surfaces, stopping a moment to admire the new ring he so subtly put on my left hand. James starts swimming in my direction; his mouth occasionally dips below the water.

“That can be you,” he says as he gets closer.

“Baby steps.”

“Toughen up.” When he’s in front of me once again, James wraps his cold arms around me, lifting me half out the water as he kisses me. His lips are slightly cooler than mine, and it takes only a minute before my fingertips dig into the skin of his back, pulling us closer. Making us downright hot.

“Later,” he says between my lips. “I think you’re just trying to distract me.”

I laugh and give him one last peck before he sets me back down into the water. He blows out a dramatic breath, tossing me a look of mock disapproval, and then he reaches out his hand to me.

“Grab on,” he says seriously. I take his hand and let him begin to pull me deeper. “Kick your legs. Scissors, Sloane.

Think of them like scissors.”

I do as he says, both of us patient—and soon my fear begins to melt away. My fear of the water. My fear of drowning. My fear of death—of life. It’s in these quiet moments since The Program that I’ve found the reason to go on. It’s not James. It’s not my parents or my friends.

I’ve found me. After all this time, after all that’s been taken and destroyed, I’ve found my way back home. I haven’t gotten any more flashes of my old life. The stress of The Program or running no longer cracks the surface of my psyche. I’ve accepted that, enjoying James’s stories in place of my memories.

And Realm, for as much as I still distrust him, has restarted his life at his old cabin. The last time he saw Dallas, he told her the truth about them—which I had forgotten from the day at the farmhouse. None of us has seen her since, but she does occasionally send me postcards from Florida. All the last one said was Don’t tell Realm.

Roger is in prison—but not for his attack on me or Dallas. Tabitha, one of the embedded handlers from The Program, pressed charges, admitting that when she was first a patient, Roger had assaulted her, too. Turns out, there were a lot of girls willing to step forward. Roger will be serving fifteen to twenty in an Oregon penitentiary and is awaiting charges relating to his role in The Program.

None of the handlers or nurses has been prosecuted yet. Dr.