The Remedy (34 page)

When Isaac returns, he’s carrying a rectangular jewelry box. He sits on the coffee table, facing me, and holds it out. He seems nervous as he waits for my reaction.

“You shouldn’t have,” I say, but he motions for me to open it. I click open the box and find a thin silver bracelet—delicate and beautiful. Modest and romantic. “It’s lovely,” I say, running my finger over it. I’ve never been given jewelry before, I realize. Closers don’t typically own any of their own.

“Do you like it?” he asks impatiently. I lift my eyes to his and smile.

“I love it,” I tell him. “I really love it.” My voice is threatening tears, and I quickly have to look away. I miss him. I miss Isaac already. “Will you help me put it on?” I ask in a choked voice.

He takes the box from my hand and unhooks the bracelet before laying it over my wrist. His fingers are gentle on my skin, maybe lingering a little longer than necessary, but I don’t mind. I don’t mind at all.

When it’s clasped, I hold out my arm to admire the bracelet. I bite down on my lip, making eye contact with Isaac. And I can see that he’s going to be okay. No, he’ll never really get over Catalina. But he was carrying the guilt of her suicide with him. It wasn’t his to bear.

A few minutes later, Isaac walks me to the door. We pause for a long moment, and I think we both consider leaning in for one last kiss. But that would be unethical. And I won’t lead him on again. So I smile, and tell him good-bye, and wish him the best life possible.

*  *  *

I park the Jetta at the Barnes residence twenty minutes later. Sitting in the front seat, I grab an old receipt and a pen from the console and tearfully scribble out a good-bye note. When I’m done, I climb out of the car. The rain has stopped completely, and I slip the key into the mail slot, along with the note. Angie will be home soon, and together the family can continue to heal. A family I wanted to be a part of. I pause, looking over the house. Maybe I did—for a little while, maybe I did belong to them. The idea of it is agony and comfort at the same time, and I hold it to my heart and walk away.

I SIT ON THE OUTSIDE
patio of the coffee shop, my hood popped up so people in town don’t immediately recognize me. I used my own money last night to crash at a motel, unwilling to intrude on the Barnes family anymore, but not ready to return home, either. When I called Aaron for extraction, he sounded better than he has in a while. I guess it really was the assignment that was bringing him down.

There’s still ten minutes before Aaron is supposed to arrive, so I take the time to observe. A mother sits with a little girl in a stroller next to her. The mom is talking on her phone, while the toddler stares up at her, waiting for any sign that she’s paying attention. My eyes shift to an older couple, the man in a wheelchair, and a server stops to take their order, impatient as they ask questions. Toward the outer edge, near the railing, is a young guy, his laptop open, his expression faraway while he stares out at the street, his fingers poised on the keys. Daydreamer.

A girl around my age walks in, takes stock of the place, and then goes to sit in the corner. She’s impatient, glancing around for the server. Her eyes fall on me and I quickly look away. When I notice the server leave the old couple and head in her direction, I glance up again. The girl has long brown hair and deep-set dark eyes. She points her finger at the menu, asking a question. Without thinking, I mimic the movement, tilting my head and tightening my jaw. The server nods after taking her order and quickly closes the menu, fanning the girl’s hair.

“Casing someone?”

I jump, and turn to find Aaron standing at my table. I quickly get up and hug him, smiling ear to ear. He’s wearing too much cologne, but I don’t care. He holds me tight as if saying that we’ve been through some shit here in Lake Oswego. Before I can start tearing up with relief at seeing him, I pull back. Hide those emotions because I’m a closer and I shouldn’t be so easy to read.

We sit down at the table, and Aaron reaches for my water, drinks it until he drains the glass empty. I laugh, missing his selfish charms. Still, I notice that he’s different, even though I can’t quite place what’s changed about him.

Aaron sets down the glass with a clink and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. He leans toward me, his elbows on the table. “So what’s with that girl?” he asks, nodding his head at the other table.

“Nothing,” I say. “Just killing time.”

“You were mimicking her,” he says, clicking his tongue. “That’s weird.”

I press my lips into a smile. “Yeah,” I say. “I know.”

“So long as you know,” he sings out. He studies me, taking inventory of my mental state, and when he’s sure I’m me again, he flashes me that all-knowing smile and whistles low under his breath. “That poor bastard,” he says.

I roll my eyes and sit back in the seat, folding my arms over my chest. Of course our conversation would turn immediately to Deacon. “He told you?” I ask.

Aaron raises his hands in a
What did you expect?
motion. “Deacon’s my boy. And damn, girl. You blew his mind.”

“Don’t be gross.”

“I’m not. It’s about time. I thought the sexual tension would last forever.”

“Shut up.” But I laugh again and take back my glass as punishment, even though it’s empty. Aaron looks elated, like he has something to do with my and Deacon’s rekindling relationship. Obviously, Deacon didn’t tell him the entire story, though. I didn’t go to him blinded by passion and lust. I’d lost my mind, myself. He brought me back. And then I left him sitting on his staircase.

“How is he?” I ask, lowering my eyes to the table. “I . . . haven’t talked to him since yesterday morning.”

“You mean before you went back to your fake boyfriend?” he says conversationally. I shoot him a dirty look, but he continues. “Uh . . . I wouldn’t say he took that well,” Aaron adds. “But you know Deacon. He hates the system, but he’ll eventually understand. You had to finish the job.”

I pull my hands into my lap, picking at my fingers in order to look casual. “Have you seen him?”

“Yeah. He came over this morning, asking about you. Myra called him out immediately, and Deacon broke down and told us about your night together. I mean, he was vague on the details, but knowing the two of you it was pretty obvious what happened. Myra wasn’t pleased, mostly because Deacon looked miserable. But after talking for a bit we realized he was probably just worried.” He smiles at me thoughtfully. “He didn’t want you to leave.”

“Yeah,” I say with a touch of regret. “He made that part clear.”

“You should give him another chance.”

“How many?” I ask. “He’s already broken my heart twice. How many tries does he get?”

“You’re the one who left this time,” he points out. “And I understand. I do. But Deacon’s changed, Quinn. He’s always loved you—everyone could see that. I think this assignment made him realize it too.”

I don’t answer, turning over the words in my head. My heart. “It’s almost funny,” I say after a moment. “I make a living sorting out other people’s lives when I have no handle on my own.”

Aaron smiles. “That’s why you’re such a good-ass closer,” he says. “You’re too kindhearted. You give your clients everything.” Only this time he says it as a compliment and not as a criticism he’d point out to Marie.

“I am pretty awesome, huh?” I say, grinning. “Like, the best . . . ever?”

“Relax over there, egomaniac.” He laughs, and then pushes back his chair to get up from the table. “It’s late,” he says. “We should head home. You ready?”

I take a moment, looking around the restaurant patio, around at the trees. The air is crisp but comfortable. Wind is blowing and swaying the trees. I’ll miss Lake Oswego. I’ll miss a lot of things. I say my final good-bye before nodding to Aaron, and follow him to the Cadillac.

*  *  *

In the quiet of the car, my thoughts turn back to my assignment. I check my phone and see there are no messages or missed calls. Nothing from Isaac or the Barnes family. For a moment nostalgia takes over, and I wonder if I really could have stepped into Catalina’s shoes and lived her life forever. Run off to college with Isaac.

Tears sting my eyes, and one drips onto my cheek. I’m jolted back into reality and quickly turn toward the window to discreetly wipe it away before Aaron notices.

I know better, of course. It wouldn’t have worked. But the buildup of grief can be overwhelming this soon after an assignment. That’s what Marie’s going to help alleviate.

Aaron checks his phone, and his posture stiffens. He clicks off the screen and stares at the road, seeming troubled. “Can we take a detour?” he suggests, his voice deepened.

“Now?” I ask.

“Marie hasn’t returned my calls,” he says, tossing his phone into the center console. “I’ll keep trying her, but I don’t know where she’s at. She set up the extraction, so she knows we’re on the way.” His expression clouds over, and then he looks at me, realizing how much of himself he’s revealing. “It’s nothing,” he says with a quick smile. “Let’s stop off at Deacon’s until I get ahold of her.”

“Aaron,” I say, shaking my head. “Is that was this is about? Getting me back with Deacon? Because—”

“No,” he says so seriously that I know he’s telling the truth. “But it’s a safe place,” he adds, turning away from me to face the road. The words hang in the air between us, cold and haunting. The assertion being that the other places we’d go, like home . . . may not be safe anymore.

*  *  *

We pull into Deacon’s driveway a half hour later, and Aaron cuts the engine. He picks up his phone, checking it again, and nods toward the house. “You go ahead,” he says. “I want to call Myra and let her know we’ll be back soon.”

I curl my lip, letting him know that he’s acting crazy. “Seriously?” I ask.

He exhales impatiently, pursing his lips as if I’m the one being difficult. “I’m pretty sure you and Deacon have drama to sort out,” he says. “All I want is a few minutes to let my girlfriend know that we’re running late and that I’m okay.” He pauses, maybe realizing his rude tone. “Go kiss and make up with him,” he says with the hint of a smile.

Although I love the optimism, I don’t share it. Instead there’s a wave of sickness, regret, and I get out of the car and start toward Deacon’s front porch. We haven’t spoken; he hasn’t tried to call. I’m suddenly devastated at the thought. Maybe he thinks he made a mistake. That
I’m
his biggest mistake.

My heart thumps against my ribs, and I pause at the steps, unable to move forward, until I notice the shadow move in the window and I know Deacon has seen me. I can’t stand in front of his house like a stalker. I have to talk to him.

I climb the stairs with a mix of dread and longing. I shoot a panicked look back at Aaron, but he has the phone to his ear, talking. He doesn’t notice me. By the time I get to the top step, the front door opens and Deacon’s there, waiting.

Although I’m not sure Deacon can ever look bad, this is easily the most disheveled I’ve ever seen him. He’s wearing shorts and a faded T-shirt that he won at the Oregon State Fair two years ago. His expression is completely unreadable as he watches me approach, his eyes studying me in that careful way.

I pause at the door, staring back at him, and when I can think of nothing to say, I lift one shoulder in a shrug. Deacon rolls his gaze to the sky like it’s painful to see me; his jaw tightens as he tries to keep control of his appearance. A downfall of being around closers so much, I guess. We’re always conscious of being read.

“I saw how happy you were there,” he says, “that day at the batting cages. So when you walked out my door, I didn’t think you’d ever come back.” This time when he looks at me, it’s an arrow through both of our hearts. A sharp, piercing pain, a fatal wound. I screwed it up—even if it was morally right, I screwed
us
up. “I asked you not to leave,” he says. “I fucking begged.”

“It’s not just about us, though,” I tell him, even though I’m not sure he can understand. “I couldn’t abandon them, Deacon. Not even for you.”

“Him,” he corrects. “You couldn’t abandon him.”

“No.” I shake my head and take a step closer.
“Them.”
Deacon’s posture weakens, his resolve to be angry with me already fading. I’m his only insecurity, the only person who could ever hurt him. Maybe that’s the real reason he’s kept his distance.

Deacon stills, vulnerability painting his features. “And is it over?” he asks.

I nod. But I hate the thought of Catalina’s life being over. I hate how it ended, who she left behind. There’s so much that still hurts, and I don’t know where I fit into the world. But I look around, and I’m sure it’s not here. Not anymore.

Deacon lowers his eyes, unable to hold my gaze any longer. He pinches his lower lip with his fingers, like he’s thinking. “And if I . . . if I told you I was sorry?” he asks, darting a look up at me. “If I say that I’m a total shithead for not believing you earlier, would that matter?”

I know he’s sorry. He’s always sorry when he shuts me out. But deep down I know he’ll do it again. He’ll break my heart every time.

My body is worn down from the past few weeks, and my feelings are too jumbled to sort out right now. There’s a wave of exhaustion, the start of another headache, and I close my eyes and rub my temples. For the first time in probably forever, I’m looking forward to a debriefing.

Deacon asks if I’m okay, and there’s a light touch on my arm as he reaches for me. Just as everything comes back into focus, Aaron calls my name from the car. “Quinn, we gotta go,” he yells, holding up his phone to signal he’s talked to Marie. He shifts his glance to Deacon. “Sorry, man.” Obviously, he can tell from our stances that this reunion isn’t what he’d hoped it would be.

When I turn back, Deacon’s watching me with a solemn expression, and I wonder if he’s come to the same sad conclusion that I have. That this is terrible—the thought of not being together feels . . . terrible. But it’s right.

Deacon lifts his chin; the light reflects the film of tears in his eyes. “I’ll see you around,” he says quietly. He doesn’t move, as if he’s waiting for me to stop him from going back inside. I could. I see that Aaron is right—Deacon’s changed. With a word I could have him. Even if he’s bad for me. But mostly because I’m bad for him.