The Remedy (21 page)

It’s enough for her to go back to gardening, humming a tune that sounds like a lullaby, one I’m sure I enjoyed when I was a baby. We dig in the dirt in front of a big white house, letting the sun warm our faces, happy in the idea of being together just a little longer.

*  *  *

I’ve forgotten most of my worries when we come back in the house, slightly achy but in that rewarding hard-work sort of way. My dad is in the kitchen, adding pieces of bread to the toaster. Sliced tomatoes and lettuce are on the table next to the leftover bacon from this morning.

“Thought we’d have some BLTs,” he says, smiling beneath his bushy mustache.

“Barrett,” my mother scolds, although it’s more playful than scoldy. “You’ll ruin dinner.”

“We’ll be hungry again in a few hours,” he says. When she sighs, he comes over and kisses her cheek as an apology. My mother laughs, shooing him away. I feel my cheeks blush; their flirting is a little embarrassing, but also completely adorable at the same time. I can honestly say that I don’t think any of my other parents liked each other this much.

My phone vibrates in my pocket, startling me. While my parents work together to make sandwiches for us, I glance down and see it’s a message from Deacon.

FOR ALL YOU KNOW I COULD HAVE DIED FROM EXPOSURE IN THE PARKING LOT OF THAT BAR LAST NIGHT. THIS IS TO ASSURE YOU THAT I DIDN’T.

I wince. I forgot to call him today and apologize. Before I can send a pathetic
I’M SORRY,
another message pops up.

AARON WANTED ME TO TELL YOU THAT HE WOULDN’T KNOW MORE ABOUT THE VIRGINIA SITUATION FOR A FEW DAYS, BUT TO HANG TIGHT. HE ALSO TOLD ME HE SAW YOU TODAY. HOPE IT WAS A NICE LUNCH.

I glance at my parents, and when I see they’re still busy, I quickly type out:
I’M ON ASSIGNMENT. THAT’S IT.

He waits a painfully long time to answer.
YOU’RE QUINLAN MCKEE,
he writes simply. There’s a sting on my face, a cold slap of reality. I slip my phone back into my pocket and begin to gnaw on my lip.

I know who I am, Deacon,
I think, unnerved by his text.
I do still know that.

My parents are talking, laughing, occasionally looking back at me to grin out an
I
sn’t this fun?
I nod encouragingly, a little rattled from Deacon’s message, but glad to hear that Aaron should have more information for me later this week.

The house phone rings, startling me. I have this irrational thought that it’s Deacon, and when my mother clicks the button and says hello, my heart is in my throat. She smiles, and touches my father’s arm to get his attention.

“Hi, Angie,” she says, tears gathering in her eyes. Both of my parents hover around the phone, turned away from me as they ask how she is, tell her they’re doing well and missing her. I’m cut out of the family circle then, a stranger in their house. Without a word I slip away, back to my bedroom, my heart feeling heavy and a bit left out.

When I get into my room, I lie on my stomach across the middle of my bed. I think about what my mother said, about how I could stay here while I go to college. Although I know that was only her grief talking, I imagine for a moment it could be true. What it would be like to have a family like this. To eat dinner together and laugh and even garden. To feel safe.

At this moment, if anyone asked me what I wanted . . . I think this would be it. I would want to be part of this family, this life. I close my eyes, feeling guilty for betraying my real father. I do love him; I would never abandon him. Besides, people like me aren’t meant to have normal lives. But . . . if I had started this way, I wouldn’t have ended up a closer.

I dwell a bit longer on the family, happy that my sister seems to be coming around. It may be caused by my presence, or maybe she always would have; either way, it’s good for the recovery. I get up and go to my desk, open up my laptop to write an e-mail. I get my sister’s address and type out a short message.

THANK YOU FOR CONTACTING YOUR PARENTS. YOU’VE MADE THEM VERY HAPPY.

I leave it short and sweet, not wanting to give her much to argue with if the message finds her when she’s feeling particularly murderous. I click around on the Internet for another minute when the e-mail pings back to me. My heart stops.

GO TO HELL.

I stare at the words until my eyes go blurry, and then shut the laptop without exiting the program. I’m tired—I’m tired of being feared, hated. Right now, all I want is some comfort, but I can’t find it with the strangers in the kitchen.

My shoulders slumped, I head back to bed and lie down. I retreat into my memories, finding one that I can wrap around myself. This time I come back to one of me and Deacon, sitting on the back porch of his house shortly after he bought it. We were broken up, but there we were on the steps, me leaning against him as we watched the rain fall over the trees. A cold breeze blew my hair across my face, and Deacon reached to brush it back, leaning his temple on the top of my head.

“Christ, it never stops raining,” he says. We had planned to go hiking; the forecast swore it would be clear skies. Of course, we all know never to trust the Oregon weather forecast. Now we were stuck on the porch in hiking boots with a backpack full of bottled water and trail mix.

I sighed. “I’m leaving on Wednesday,” I said quietly. “Assignment down near Grants Pass. Drowning, I think. Anyway, mother and stepfather—Dad says they’re a wreck.”

Deacon was quiet for a long moment, and then moved to wrap his arms around me like a jacket. We settled in together, absorbing each other.

“One more year, Quinlan,” he said. “One more year of someone else’s life, and then you’re done.” He looked at me. “And you will be done.”

“That’s the plan,” I said. “But we both know how persuasive my father can be.”

“Funny,” Deacon said, “I told him to fuck off easily enough.”

I slapped his leg and he laughed, admitting that he didn’t really cuss my father out, just imagined it in full detail. We fell into a comfortable silence, broken only by the clap of thunder above us that made the windows rattle. I jumped in Deacon’s arms, and he held me closer, his fingers trailing over my skin in a way that brought me to a new realization. A sudden awareness of his body against mine.

“We should go inside,” Deacon said in a quiet voice, the rain falling harder around us. I hummed out agreement, but didn’t move. Didn’t want to break the spell. Deacon brushed his lips over my cheek. My jaw. “I miss you,” he murmured as his mouth touched my neck. “It’s fucking killing me how much I miss you.”

I was lost then—lost in my desire for him. I ended up staying the night, and we were romantic and sad at the same time. Our passion was reckless and panicked, but it felt good. It felt like love. Like everything had been set right again.

When I woke up the next morning, Deacon was gone. No text. No note. I left his house and I didn’t see him again until my assignment was over. It was like our night together had never happened. He didn’t mention it, didn’t act any differently. But I wanted things to be different. I wanted commitment. I swore I wouldn’t give him another chance to hurt me after that.

In all of our time together, Deacon’s never said the one thing I needed to hear. He has never, ever said he loved me. And yet if he were here now, Deacon would be wrapped around me, telling me that even if the entire world hated me, he’d still be on my side. He’d threaten to kick all of their asses. He’d promise to do anything for me. But I guess promises only go so far.

I roll over in bed and take out my phone. I scroll through to see if I have any other messages, but there’s nothing. Disappointment burrows itself into my consciousness, and I wish I’d talked to Deacon sooner. Apologized for ditching him at the bar. I wish I could be on his back porch right now, letting him whisper into my hair about how shitty the rain is.

I allow myself another moment of dwelling, and then make the decision to put away all thoughts of my life to focus on my assignment. Boredom soon follows, but it’s not entirely unusual. When I’m working, I can’t go out with friends or do my normal activities—I’m quarantined in a life with as little of my own as possible. I’m sick of the Internet, of depressing news. I’m sick of feeling bad about everything.

I remember the journal pages. Of course.

The crumpled pages are just where I left them between the mattress and the box spring, and I’m all nerves and anticipation when I pull them onto my lap. I turn toward the doorway, trying to gauge the position of my family members, and hear my mother still talking on the phone with my sister. That should keep her distracted for a while. I wouldn’t want her to walk in on me reading them, especially if she didn’t know they existed. A better person would have turned the pages over, or at least alerted Marie. Luckily, I’m only average in the good-person department.

I begin, skimming and finding that all of the pages are about Isaac—like a love letter, a retelling of our relationship. I’m riveted, completely invested in learning everything. I read about how we met, our first kiss, and then I stop and go back to the start so I can absorb more.

Kyle first told me she wanted me to date Isaac at the end of homeroom. I laughed, because, yuck—he was a total jock. But mostly because he’d just dumped Alexis Culverson. That was a serious douche alarm. Alexis was awesome.

I stifle a laugh, and turn the page, beginning to chew on my thumbnail.

Kyle was a total idiot. If I didn’t love her, I would have killed her to death and then killed her again. After school we went to eat at Off Campus, like we do every day. While I was mid-bite into my cheeseburger, Kyle called for Isaac and Nando to come sit with us. I gave her the death glare, which she completely ignored, and slid over for Nando to sit next to me. He and Kyle laughed about some stupid test, and it was painfully obvious to me and Isaac that we were supposed to talk too.

He looked up. I looked down. And thankfully the entire awkward exchange only lasted long enough for Kyle to get an invite to Nando’s party the next weekend. The guys got up, and I halfheartedly waved, thinking that was the end of it. But then, right next to my seat, Isaac looked sideways at me. He smiled, sort of sweet. Sort of shy. And then he left.

I didn’t admit it to Kyle—screw her—but once I looked at him, I realized Isaac Perez was kind of smoking hot. Even if he probably sucked as a person.

I lay the pages across my chest and stare out the window, smiling to myself. How much fun it must have been, being so carefree. Going to school and hanging out with friends. Meeting boys and making plans. I’ve never had that. I never will.

What I wouldn’t give to be Catalina Barnes.

I CONTINUE READING, HEARING ALL
about how I connected with Isaac, unsure at first, or maybe he was. Either way, I’m at the part where I was debating whether I should have sex with him or wait longer, when my phone buzzes. I glance at it impatiently, not wanting to stop reading, but I see it’s Aaron. I look between the phone and the pages, and then set the writing aside and click on the phone.

“Hey,” I say. “Deacon said you’d need a few days to find out info on Virginia.”

Aaron laughs. “I do. I’m not calling about her. I just needed someone to talk to. Things around here are . . . heavy.”

I sit up, concerned by the tone of his voice. “Are you all right?” I ask.

“Yeah,” he says. “I’m fine. It’s just . . . this case. Dude was messed up.”

“How so?”

“I was going through his profiles and everything was peachy, you know? Unrealistically happy. But then I found these notebooks in his closet. Three of them with words scribbled across the pages, and then a bunch of large black spirals. I felt like I was in a horror movie or something.”

My heart stops. “I know exactly you’re talking about,” I say. “I . . . I found something similar in Catalina’s things.”

“You’ve seen them?” he says. “That’s strange. And they’re unsettling, right?” he asks, as if needing affirmation for being creeped out.

“Very,” I agree. “What . . . what do you think they mean?”

“I have no idea,” Aaron says. “But to be honest, those spirals tripped me out. For a minute it was like I was slipping away. Don’t worry,” he says firmly. “I’m fine now. I just needed to hear a familiar voice, but Deacon was bringing me down.”

“Yeah,” I say. “He’s not too happy with me.”

“He’ll get over it,” Aaron says. “But dang, girl. He was all torn up this morning, telling me how you left with your boyfriend—”

“First of all,” I say, “it’s an assignment—not my actual boyfriend. Second of all, if I
did
have a boyfriend, he still wouldn’t have a right to complain.”

“But he—”

“You know Deacon dates other girls, right?” I ask, maybe sounding a little jealous myself.

“I know Deacon
pretends
to date other girls,” he corrects. “He hasn’t hooked up with any of them. And believe me, he’d tell me.”

I scoff. “What, then?” I ask. “Are they off playing Scrabble all night?”

“Doubtful,” he says with a laugh. “But he likes their attention; he likes your attention to their attention. Then he drives them away, long before his tongue ever touches theirs.”

“Gross.”

“But accurate,” he says. “So rationalize all you want, little closer, but your not-so-ex-boyfriend is saving himself for you, even if he doesn’t tell you. But I think you already know.
And
I think that’s why you feel so guilty for playing house with Isaac Perez.”

“Oh, shut up,” I say. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“I saw you with him. We’ve been at this a long time. I’m just worried what you’ll take away from this assignment, life klepto. I hope it’s not his virginity.”

“I doubt that’s still intact, but I assure you I won’t find out.” We get quiet for a moment, the reality of our situations sinking in. “I do think about it sometimes, though,” I say quietly. “What it would be like to live like this—to have a family. Regular life.”

“Isn’t that the biggest danger?” Aaron asks. “The fact that we get to see what normal is like. Only to realize it’s not normal at all. These people hired us to fill in their grief. Never forget the truth, Quinn. They don’t love you. They love who you used to be.”