The Remedy (24 page)

I look at Isaac and find him staring out the window, his arms hanging at his sides listlessly. Seeing Kyle affected him, made reality crash back down. He remembers that I’m supposed to be dead, that he’s supposed to be missing me. But how can he miss me when I’m still right here?

“You okay?” I ask, my head clearing slightly from concern. My training tries to flood back, but it’s still foggy and hard to grasp in this moment.

Isaac swallows hard. “I didn’t know Kyle would be there tonight,” he says. “She hasn’t been around much since you . . .” He doesn’t finish the sentence. “She introduced us,” he continues, sounding a bit nostalgic. “I’ve known her since I was a kid; our parents are friends. After you guys started hanging out, she’d drop subtle hints. And the minute I was single, she did everything she could to pair us up.”

I twist my leg underneath me and turn to him completely, wanting to hear more of his story. Hear more about us. He looks at me, his eyes weakening as he studies me.

“You’re so perfect tonight,” he says, his voice low and sad. “I didn’t want it to end.”

There’s a flutter in my chest, and the moment deepens—the energy between us pulling us closer. “Neither did I,” I murmur.

He shifts his body, leaning his shoulder into his seat like I’m taking up all of his attention. “Do you remember,” he starts hesitantly, “the first time I kissed you?” My stomach flips, and I can actually feel my hands start to shake. Isaac’s words are filled with pain, though, pain and resolve. Like he knows he shouldn’t bring it up but can’t help himself.

“Yes,” I answer. It’s not a lie, really. It was in the journal. It was detailed; I know every thought that went through my mind, every smile, every butterfly. “You were supposed to be at practice,” I tell him, recalling the entry word for word. “But you showed up at Off Campus, right when I was fighting with Kyle. You sat across the room.”

Isaac’s forehead creases as he tries to hold back the emotions. The memory is coated in pain, but he wants it. He wants to feel it.

“You and I had gone to the movies the night before,” I say. “Kyle’s idea. But I hate the movies. To make matters worse, you hardly spoke a word to me. I was convinced you didn’t like me, and I told Kyle she was a jerk for embarrassing me like that.”

I smile softly, feeling the memory as if it’s my own. “Turns out you’re just shy,” I say. “Shy and sweet. You told me later that you couldn’t get me out of your head, but you didn’t call because you can’t stand talking on the phone. You decided to find me instead.”

“And what did you think about that?” he asks, able to ask the questions he thought he’d never get the answers to. “What did you think about me?”

“That I would never let you get away,” I tell him. “In that moment, seeing you sitting awkwardly as you waited for Kyle to leave, smiling madly at me, I knew that I would fall hopelessly in love with you, Isaac. I’m not sure what it was about you, but I wanted you from that moment on.”

Isaac stares at me, tears brimming in his eyes. “But you did let me go,” he says in barely a whisper. I’ve never seen anything lonelier than how Isaac looks in this moment. I can’t stand it.

“I’ll never do it again,” I say without thinking. Say to make his hurt go away. Say because I almost mean it.

So when Isaac reaches for me, clumsy and desperate as he leans over the center console, puts his hand on my cheek, and pulls me into a kiss, I don’t stop him. His mouth presses against mine, pausing for a long moment before his lips part and he kisses me again. Again. Warmth flows over my skin, and my fingers clasp the edge of his jacket. My body is electric. My lips move with his, my eyes fluttering shut.

I kiss him passionately, recklessly. And I let Isaac Perez fall in love with me all over again.

IT WAS ONLY A KISS,
I tell myself, trying not to let the guilt eat me alive. Isaac and I stopped almost immediately after we’d started, preventing ourselves from making a huge mistake. But I let him hold my hand on the drive home. We kissed once more before I snuck back into my house.

I did all of that. I knew exactly what I was doing.

Staring up at the ceiling from my bed, I can still taste Isaac on my lips. I let myself fall into the illusion, imagine a world where Isaac still loves me. Imagine this is my real life.

I’m curious then about who I used to be, this girl who seemed to have everything. I slide my hand under the pillow and find the diary pages. I click on the light and bend my legs to rest the papers against my thighs, tracing the handwriting with my index finger. I have a great family, perfect boyfriend. But yesterday my mother said I’d been withdrawn before my death, and that even Isaac had noticed. Something had changed.

I sift through the pages to where I left off in the journal. Earlier I was eager to find out about my love life, reading it like a torrid romance novel. But now, as I skim the words, a different emotion takes over.

We were at the lake house, in one of the loft bedrooms because we thought it was tacky to use the large bed in his parents’ room. Losing it on a bunk bed—there’s some comedy in that that I think we both enjoyed. Despite the cramped space on the mattress, it was exactly what I thought. We laughed and then we didn’t. Then we got really serious. It didn’t feel good—not like everyone always says it will. But that was the thing . . . it kind of hurt, but Isaac was there, in tune to every movement, watching and careful. Just like always. I think that’s what everyone likes about it—the closeness. It’s the only time you can ever share yourself so completely, be so completely vulnerable. In that moment, Isaac was mine. And there

I crumple the pages in my hand, my heart racing and sickness in my stomach. My face is hot and I want to cry. I tighten my fist into a ball, crushing the words. I shouldn’t have read that. I didn’t want to know, not really. The girl I’ve been playing loved Isaac Perez, and she’s right—he is hers. He still is.

I throw the pages across the room, abandoning the words forever. I squeeze my eyes shut, hating how I feel. I have no right, no right to feel this way. Betrayed. Heartsick. I roll over, facing the ceiling again, my mind starting to spin.
This isn’t me,
I think.
I can’t be jealous of a dead girl.

But pain continues to gather in my chest, and I reach over to grab my phone—desperate. I stare at the blank screen and finally break down. Who can I call? Not Isaac, not on this phone. A name comes to mind, the person who’s always there for me. But thinking about Deacon leads me to a different memory. The one I try not to think about.

Deacon is the only guy I’ve been with, the only guy I’ve ever kissed until tonight. We always say that closers don’t love, that we can’t. But I thought I loved Deacon. We held each other’s identities in our hands. I gave him everything of myself, and for a while I thought he did the same. We were a tangle of passion and intensity; we were a blazing fire. But he ended it. With no explanation, he shredded my heart.

“I don’t understand,” I’d said, standing at the door of the apartment Marie had been renting for him. I’d asked if I could come in and Deacon told me it wasn’t a good idea. He’d been avoiding my calls for three days. “Deacon,” I pleaded, my skin raw from the cold, wet weather outside. “What’s going on?”

I’d always considered Deacon to be the perfect assembly of parts, his every feature my favorite thing. But he was flawed; he seemed different. He wouldn’t look at me, and finally I pushed open the door and put my hands on his cheeks, forcing him to meet my eyes.

He closed them, not letting me see. Hiding. But I knew him too well, could feel his pain. And his pain was my pain.

I got on my tiptoes and pressed my lips to his, my fingers sliding into his hair, my body against his. Deacon went completely still, letting me move my mouth over his without any response. There was a flutter of a touch at my hip, but just as my heart began to beat again, he turned his face away, breaking our kiss. He put his fingers over his lips like they hurt.

I fell back a step, wholly rejected. When Deacon finally looked at me again, the mischief was gone from his eyes. Instead his expression was deadened. Cold and uncaring. I’d never, ever seen him look at anything the way he stared back at me. Like I was a stranger, invisible. Like I meant absolutely nothing to him. “Quinlan,” he said, “I’ve moved on. I want you to do the same.”

A sharp pain broke across my chest, and my lips started to quiver. I sniffled hard, but the tears brimmed over and streaked down my cheeks anyway. I took another step back, putting my hand over my heart. Feeling it break into a million pieces.

“You should go,” Deacon said simply. “This isn’t good for you. It’s over. It never should have started.”

I tried to read the lie in his expression, I
begged
for it, but it wasn’t there. No hints of hidden truths—blotchy skin, shifty eyes—nothing. He looked straight at me, reducing me to ash. Not even a week ago we’d been in his bed and he’d been drawing a tattoo in black pen across my bare back, kissing my neck at every pause. If I looked in the mirror, the faded design would still be there. And I didn’t mean to ask; I don’t even know why it came out.

“Don’t you love me?” I murmured, warm tears rushing over my lips. Deacon didn’t flinch or show any emotion at all. He held my gaze.

“No.”

I stilled, my face and extremities going numb. My broken and betrayed heart stopped beating. We had never said those words before, but I did love him—thought I did, at least. But you can’t be in love with someone who doesn’t feel the same way. That’s not real love.

The world went fuzzy around me, and before I could break completely, I turned and started down the hall, my boots echoing loudly on the floor. I heard Deacon’s door shut, and my legs weakened. He didn’t try to come after me. I flattened my palm against the cracked plaster wall, steadying myself. Trying to hold back the sobs that would wreck me. Somehow I made it down the stairs and out the front door.

There was no way I could drive my car in that state. I took out my phone, my arm wrapped around my stomach, holding myself up as I hunched over. I dialed, and when my father answered, I cracked at the sound of his voice.

“Dad,” I said in a choking voice, “can you come get me?”

He did. Seeing me that broken down is why my father doesn’t want me around Deacon anymore. He’s afraid he’ll keep hurting me. He’s right. That’s why Deacon and I can’t be together. Because even if he wanted to, Deacon would never let himself love me. And I deserve better than that.

*  *  *

I set my phone on the side table, Deacon’s betrayal sticking to my skin. At this point, my jealousy over the journal entry has faded to a dull irritation. But I don’t want these feelings anymore. I get out of bed and grab the pages from the floor on my way to the closet. I stash them up on a high shelf so I won’t be tempted to read them again.
Your life is over, Catalina,
I think, turning away.
It’s my turn now.

My backpack is on the floor, and I kneel next to it and rummage through until I find the picture of me that Deacon drew. I don’t unfold it. I crumple the paper into a tight ball. I stand, walk over, and drop it into the wastebasket under my desk. There is an instant of regret, but I block it out. I go to the side table and grab my phone. I click my settings and delete all of my apps, not knowing which is used to track me. I just get rid of all of them.

No one will follow me anymore. I drop the phone onto the table and climb back into bed and under the sheets. I shut off the light and close my eyes, waiting a minute for my old emotions to fade, and then let the night settle over me. I touch my lips, imagining Isaac’s on mine. Imagining him at my ear, telling me he loves me. I beg him to say it again. And again. He whispers it against my skin until I fall asleep.

*  *  *

I sleep in, missing breakfast entirely. I wake up feeling refreshed, though, excited for the day. My skin is alive, and I note the glow it seems to have when I look in the mirror. I cover my freckles and put on a new outfit that my mother picked out and head to the kitchen to find my parents.

Both of them are there, content in my presence, and they ask if I’d like to do anything fun today—as if I’m on an extended vacation while everyone else is at school. My father even took time off. I walk over to the patio doors and glance at the sky—not a cloud in sight. I smile and tell them it’s going to be a perfect day.

We decide to pack up some hot dogs and burgers and head to the river to cook out for lunch. My father asks if he should hitch up the boat, but I tell him he doesn’t have to. We’ll just hang out by the water and soak up the rays of the sun.

I pack a bag with my swimsuit and a change of clothes. I grab sunscreen and a book I’ve never seen before off the shelf. I take a quick moment to open my computer and send Isaac a message of where I’ll be. I tell him I got a new phone, and I give him the old number. Now that it’s not traceable, I can take it with me. I walk over to grab it and immediately a message pops up. I smile.

HELLO, BEAUTIFUL,
it says.

I drop down on the edge of my bed, my cheeks burning from the flattery.
DO YOU WANT TO SEE A MOVIE TONIGHT?
I ask. In reality,
I
don’t hate movies. I kind of love them.

DEFINITELY,
he writes.
I HAVE PRACTICE UNTIL SEVEN. I’LL PICK YOU UP AFTER.

I tell him to have a great day, and then slip the phone into my backpack and go outside to meet my parents at the car. None of us mentions anything to break the illusion. Not one word.

“You love the river,” my mother tells me from the front seat, beaming as we drive toward the park.

“I can’t wait,” I say, watching the trees pass outside the window. The sky is a gorgeous blue. It’s a new day. A new life. I smile and settle back against my seat.

The afternoon glides by, easy and calm. My father grills wearing a button-down shirt with bold patterns, and a wide-brimmed hat. He looks like he’s on vacation in Florida. My mother sits at a picnic table, reading a book and drinking soda out of a can with a straw. I’m lying on a towel in the grass with my chin on my folded hands, watching the water rush by. It’s still a little too cold to swim, but in this spot the wind doesn’t touch us.