The Remedy Read online

  That’s part of my problem—the lives of my assignments blend together after a while, blend with mine. That uncertainty haunts me on occasion, especially when I’m deep in my role playing and longing for a connection. Then again, they all haunt me, all the girls I’ve portrayed, so I try not to dwell on the reality too much.

  My most recent contract expired when I was fifteen, but somehow my father convinced them (and me) to sign another one. He’s always logical, and it’s hard to argue with him. It’s even harder to disappoint him. In the end I’ll get four times the money, plus a bonus. He says I’ll be able to pay for college outright, be able to buy a house. He tells me I’ll be set for life. Although those things sound nice to him, I think I’d rather go to prom or something frivolous like that.

  Corvallis still has two open high schools, but I don’t attend anymore. Closure kept me away too much. Online high school just doesn’t have the same drama. The biggest scandal I’ve seen was when the servers crashed and the teachers had to reset our passwords. Deacon went to my old school until he dropped out. I never understood why he wanted to quit; I would kill to go back to regular high school.

  Aaron takes the exit for my house, and I groan. I’m angry about my father checking on me, and I don’t want to show up so pissed off. “Want to swing by Deacon’s?” I ask. Aaron shakes his head.

  “Myra’s waiting up for me. I can drop you there, though.”

  “What about your car?” I ask.

  “I’ll park the Caddy and hop in my ride before your dad can even look out the window,” he says. “Let him know the keys will be in the visor.”

  I agree, and settle back against the seat when Aaron passes the turn for my house. My father is probably at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee so he won’t sleep through my arrival home, but I don’t mind making him wait a little longer. That’s what he gets for spying on me. Now that the stress of going home passes, I realize how incredibly tired I am. How drained.

  Like my soul is wearing thin.

  CHAPTER THREE

  DEACON OWNS A LITTLE CRAFTSMAN-STYLE house close to the college. He exited his contract eight months ago, but he still got paid for his first three years. He gets nothing for the extra year he put in because he broke the second contract. He ended up putting the money down on a home, which was way more responsible of him than any of us expected. He also dropped out of high school and got his GED instead. Deacon’s parents died when he was a baby, and my father found him in foster care. An angry fourteen-year-old boy who he thought would make a perfect closer. Deacon was good, too—almost as good as me. His charisma draws people in, even if it’s only a facade.

  Aaron drops me off, still quieter than usual. I know he’s feeling guilty about turning me in for the T-shirt, but I’m too tired to convince him I’m not mad about it. I get out, saying I’ll call him tomorrow, and then watch as he drives away.

  A headache has started, and I rub my eyes with the heels of my palms and then climb the front porch of Deacon’s house. I knock, my backpack weighing me down. I slide it onto one shoulder. Although I’ve only been gone a weekend, I feel like I haven’t seen Deacon in months.

  It’s a weird side effect of returning: It’s like I’m an actor in my own life. Like I’m not the real one. It takes about twenty-four hours to become me again.

  The door partly opens, and Deacon rests his hip on the frame and looks me up and down as if he has no idea who I am. He’s wearing gray sweatpants with CORVALLIS UNION HIGH SCHOOL printed up the leg, his hair all askew. He’s shirtless, whether for effect or for comfort I’m not sure.

  “I wondered if you were coming by,” he says finally, pushing open the door wider to invite me in. I touch his forearm in thanks as I pass and drop my backpack at the bottom of the staircase.

  “I don’t want to go home yet,” I say, turning to him. “My father’s being a dick.”

  “I’m so surprised,” he responds easily.

  For the first time since leaving Marie, I’m overwhelmed by a mixture of anger and sadness. The loneliness hits, the loss. I miss the way Mr. and Mrs. Pinnacle would dote on me and call me their little girl. I miss how badly they wanted to keep me. Or maybe I just miss being part of a regular family.

  Despite everything Deacon and I have been through, we still have a total honesty policy, most of it unspoken. Without a word he holds open his arms, and I step in to him, rest my cheek on his chest. His fingers slide over my arm, stroking my skin and showing me affection to help ease my ache. After a long moment, the comfort sets, and I pull away.

  “Thanks,” I say, stepping back. Deacon shrugs like it’s no big deal, and I brush my hair out of my face. “Mind if I crash for a bit?” I ask him.

  He smiles wryly. “Bed or couch?”

  I laugh, and in answer I walk into the living room and pull the blanket off the back of the couch to spread it over the cushions. Deacon comes in and drops into the chair next to me, watching as I lie down and get settled.

  “Are you hungry?” he asks. “I can make you something.”

  “No,” I say, tucking my hand under my cheek. This feeling of abandonment, I don’t think it happens to other closers—it didn’t happen to Deacon. But for me it’s getting harder each time. That’s why I sometimes come here before going home—even when I don’t plan to. I’m afraid for my father to see me like this. I’m afraid of what he’ll do if he does.

  Deacon moves to sit on the floor next to the couch, and lays his head on the cushion next to mine. “You’ve still got red hair,” he whispers. “I like it.”

  “I’m washing it out the minute I get home,” I say, staring back into his warm brown eyes. He smiles.

  “You’re right. I hate it,” he agrees. “You look better as a blonde.” I smile, curling up and moving closer. “Aaron texted me earlier,” he says. “Told me you lifted a T-shirt from the family.”

  Damn it, Aaron. “It wasn’t like that.”

  “Wouldn’t care if it was,” Deacon says. “I was just wondering about the T-shirt. Band?”

  I laugh. “Yeah. Rolling Stones. One with the big tongue.”

  “Nice.”

  We’re quiet for a little bit and my eyes start to get heavy, even though my mind won’t stop racing. Deacon reaches over to slide a strand of hair behind my ear. “Although effective,” he says quietly, “your method of closing isn’t good for you, Quinn. You shouldn’t take it all on like that.”

  “I know,” I tell him. “But what can I say? Sometimes my heart still beats.”

  He smiles. “Then it’s a good thing I ripped mine out. It was a pain in the ass. Much like you. Be right back.” He stands and leaves the room. I hear him moving around in the kitchen, and then he returns with a glass of water. He holds out the drink and a tiny white pill that he says will help me sleep. I sit up and take both appreciatively.

  “You should think about changing your methods,” he continues when I lie back down. “If not for you, then maybe for my peace of mind.” He covers me with the blanket and kisses my forehead. “Yell if you need me, okay? Unless you want me to stay.”

  “No, you get some sleep,” I tell him. We pause for a long moment as he decides whether or not I mean it. I smile softly. “You’re a good friend,” I murmur.

  This makes him chuckle because it’s our new go-to phrase whenever either of us has the inclination to discuss the possibility of hooking up. Keeps us grounded. “It’s too bad, right?” he asks, straightening up. “Bet it’s hell looking at this face all the time.” He models his jawline, narrowing his eyes.

  “I can barely restrain myself most days,” I say. “But, luckily, you talk. And the spell is broken.”

  “Asshole,” he says with a laugh. We say good night, and then Deacon goes upstairs. I listen to the creaking floorboards above me as he walks across his room, silence when he gets into bed.

  Some days I really do wish it would have worked out with us—times like now, when I’m all alone. I could lie to myself—slip into his bed to
night and pretend we’re different. But in the morning Deacon would be cold, act like it was a mistake. I’d rather not tear open that old wound. We’re better off this way, just like I told Aaron.

  I close my eyes, and in the quiet I think about my future: six more months of pretending before I can live my life full-time. But even then, I have to wonder if anyone will ever want me, love me—the real me. Or if they’ll only ever want me as someone else.

  * * *

  “Quinlan,” Deacon says from somewhere close by. “Quinn—your dad’s here.”

  My eyes fly open, and it takes me a minute to recognize my surroundings. The room is dim, but lights from a car in the driveway filter in from behind the blinds. I sit up and stretch. When I didn’t come home, I’m sure my dad knew exactly where to find me. Deacon certainly wouldn’t have told him. My dad kind of hates him, and the feeling is entirely mutual.

  Okay, “hate” is too strong a word for their relationship. When Deacon was younger, my dad held him up as the example for all of us. But toward the end, Deacon became defiant, and ended up spending almost every return in therapy. My father thought he was becoming a liability, and then boom—Deacon had a meeting and was out of his contract early, a fact I didn’t learn until after we broke up. My father asked me to stop hanging out with him, but neither Deacon nor I liked that idea.

  “Did he come to the door?” I ask, standing and folding the blanket to lay it over the back of the sofa.

  “No,” Deacon responds. “But he called my phone a few times and then showed up. He beeped the horn, which I’m sure my neighbors loved.”

  “You were always his favorite.”

  Deacon snorts a laugh and then leaves to grab my backpack from the bottom of the stairs. I slip on my shoes, readying myself for an explanation. Although I’ve come to Deacon’s upon return before, tonight was later than usual. It’s probably two in the morning. There’s a slight twinge of guilt as I think about my father worrying. I may be angry that he was checking up on me, but I didn’t mean to hurt him. He’s my dad. I love him despite his fatherly instincts.

  I walk to the front, my head still foggy from the sleeping pill, and Deacon slides my backpack over my shoulders, hugging me once from behind. “Call me tomorrow,” he says before opening the door. “Tell Dad I said hi.”

  “Night,” I say, and thank him before walking out the door.

  When I get on the front porch, I hold up my palm to deflect the light from the car. My dad switches to the orange glow of the parking lights and I start toward him. I can just make out his silhouette behind the wheel. I might be imagining it, but his posture looks pissed.

  I have to remind myself that I’m the wronged party here—he was spying on me. But by the time I get to the car, my resolve has faded and I apologize the minute I climb into the passenger seat.

  “I fell asleep,” I tell him. “I didn’t mean to stay this late.”

  “I don’t think I want the details, Quinn,” he says shortly, and flicks on his lights. “Not to mention your partner left a bunch of trail mix in my car.”

  I snort a laugh, but quickly cover my mouth when my father glares at me. He puts his arm around my headrest and turns to back us out of the driveway. He cuts the wheel hard before spinning around and jetting forward, squealing the tires of the car. Yeah, I’d say he’s a little pissed. And it has nothing to do with Aaron’s lack of consideration.

  He doesn’t speak again right away, but I watch him, waiting for the lecture. His powder-blue sweater is wrinkled like he pulled it on as an afterthought while storming out the door. I wonder if he’s still wearing a pajama top underneath. His thinning hair is just the same, and his wire glasses catch the glow of the streetlights as we pass under them. His tight expression and forced silence give away his mood.

  “I apologized,” I say after another agonizing moment of quiet. “Is there something you’d like to say to me, Father?”

  He glances over, looking annoyed that I’d even joke around. I lift my eyebrow, letting him know I’m being entirely serious—well, except for the Father bit.

  “Yes,” he says, turning away. “Stop hanging out with Deacon.”

  “No deal,” I say, slapping my palm on the dashboard like I’m a game show contestant. He doesn’t laugh, but the corner of his mouth does hitch up before he purposefully straightens it. I pause, the betrayal starting to thicken in my veins.

  “You do owe me an apology,” I say more quietly, and lean back in the seat, turning to look out the window. “For spying on me.”

  He doesn’t deny it immediately, and an ache develops in my chest, spiraling down to open a hole in my gut. I clench my teeth and wait for an explanation.

  “I’m protecting you,” he admits. “You’ve stopped talking to me about the assignments; I needed another safeguard.”

  “You could ask,” I say. “You could just ask, Dad.”

  He exhales, and looks over. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I’ll let Marie know she can stop the questions. I was just . . . worried.”

  “Well, I’m home now. So you can put your cape back in the drawer.” He chuckles, and the mood in the car warms. “And you don’t have to be so mean to Deacon,” I tell him. “He’s not a terrible influence. A bad one, sure. But not terrible.”

  He glances at the time lit up on the dash. “It’s two forty-seven in the morning, Quinn. Please don’t give me indigestion before bed.”

  “Gross.” We both laugh, our fight ended. By the time we get home, after an obligatory ride through the drive-through, we’re joking about Aaron’s facial hair and how my father should send him an official letter to cease and desist its growth before the next assignment.

  The front porch light is blazing, the sky above us a midnight blue because of the overcast sky. I have a moment of assimilation as I pause in my foyer—the entire layout perfectly planned for reentry into my life. There are pictures of me growing up, baby blond braids and a gap-toothed smile. My mother, who I can’t remember, blows out birthday candles next to me. There’s a coat hanging on the rack above the shoe bench. It’s dark blue with flannel trim, hung there year-round even though I haven’t worn it in years. It’s always there to ground me. Mirrors on both sides of the room so I can check my reflection. I walk toward the kitchen through a tunnel of Quinlan McKees.

  I kick off my shoes and then step over them, hearing my father tsk as he leans down to pick them up behind me. Now that I’m home, I can’t wait to get back to our boring old routines—the kind that remind me that I’m real. Three nights in a row of delivery pizza. Bad made-for-TV movies together on a Saturday night. The discussions of where to go on the family vacation we never have time to take. Those are the things I miss when I’m gone—the mundane. The only time we both forget that I’m a closer. I toss my crumpled white takeout bag on the kitchen table and sit down, ravenously hungry. I’m only one bite into my burrito when I notice the cup of coffee, half drunk, across from me at my father’s seat. The closed file with a pen next to it. My stomach sinks.

  I spin around just as my father enters the room. His expression is solemn and he slips his hands into his pockets. I’m completely stunned. This is why he wanted me home so quickly.

  “No,” I say, disbelieving. “I can’t go. It’s too soon.”

  He nods in agreement, but there’s no change in his resolve. “I’m sorry, but they need you,” he responds. “You leave the day after tomorrow.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  ABOUT FIFTEEN YEARS AGO, RENOWNED physician Arthur Pritchard built on the idea of role playing in trauma counseling by embedding therapists in people’s lives. He figured out that grief sometimes led to depression and thought that if he could eradicate one, he could lessen the other. Working under Dr. Pritchard, my father used the initial theories and expanded on the research. Closers were established and sold as a remedy for the brokenhearted, the cure for grief. Of course, grief isn’t curable, but it can be treated. Controlled. Eventually, my father and Marie, who was his assistant, t
ook over the grief department entirely, selling their services to those who could afford the peace of mind. My dad set up safeguards to protect the closers, to protect me. And one of the strictest rules of all is that closers never have back-to-back assignments.

  When the department was first created, closers were paid per assignment rather than on contract. As a result, many took on multiple roles to make extra cash. But then Alexander Kell happened. He leaped off the fifth-floor roof of the hospital where his mother worked. He’d recently finished three long-term jobs back-to-back, and his advisor had stuck him in therapy indefinitely to control his erratic behavior. Just before he jumped, Alexander told his mother he’d rather be dead than start over again.

  The next month, Felicia Ross disappeared from her dorm room while on assignment at college. She was playing the part of an incoming freshman—the parents wanting her to attend the first day of school since their real daughter never got the chance. Felicia had only been home from her last assignment for a week when my father offered her this one. She was gone four days later, and no one has heard from her since.

  As more and more closers ran off, the effect was devastating to both my father and the others in the grief department. Contracts with strict guidelines were created to keep closers from overworking. Those rules were established for our well-being, and I can’t imagine why my father would want to break them now.

  I drop my burrito on its wrapper, my appetite thoroughly stomped out. He wouldn’t ask this of me if it wasn’t important, but I’m still jarred by the request. At the same time, the closer part of me is curious. I’ve been on too many assignments to count, but I’ve rarely been sent out in the same month, let alone the same week. Why now? Why her?

  My father sits across from me at the table and slides the file in my direction. He takes a swig of his cold coffee without wincing. I drag the folder in front of me and scan the name on the tab.