“I don’t want to be here,” I say.
“You tried to kill yourself, Sloane.”
“Because the handlers were there,” I shoot back. “I figured if they were going to take me, they may as well get a show, too.”
The doctor nods with a disappointed expression and glances at the pill. “I think you should take this before we begin.”
“And if I don’t?”
She tilts her head. “Then you don’t. This isn’t a trick, Sloane. I want to help, but you’re really on edge.”
“No, I’m pissed. I want my life back. I want to go home.”
“And you will,” she says, leaning forward. “You will.” She sounds so earnest that my first instinct is to believe her. People can’t fake caring like that. Or at least they shouldn’t be able to. “Please,” she adds, motioning to the medication. “It really will make you feel better. All I want to do is talk.”
I want to go home. I want my bed. I don’t want to give in to the therapy. But if the pill will take away the sadness that is
crushing my chest right now, maybe I’ll take it this one time. Just to get me through. So I nod, and I pick up the little red pill and swallow it.
• • •
Dr. Warren adjusts her glasses and smiles at me. It’s been twenty minutes since I took the medication, and I have to say, my body feels pretty good. My legs are over the side of the chair as I rest my head against the back. My muscles that have been clenched for days are finally relaxed and loose.
“I know that missing James is a main source of pain for you right now,” Dr. Warren starts. “Maybe it would help if we talk about him.”
“And why would I tell you?” I ask dreamily, and look past her to where the sun is shining outside the large windows. “You don’t care about us.”
“Of course I do. I’m here to help you, Sloane. I’ve devoted my life to helping stop this epidemic.”
“Right.”
“I’d love to hear how you and James met,” she pressed again.
“He was best friends with”—I pause, a moment of raw emotion capturing me—“with my brother,” I finish.
“The brother who committed suicide?”
I nod, and slowly the warmth of the medication seeps back in and washes away my pain. I’m so numb it’s almost euphoric.
“Do you blame yourself for Brady’s death?”
I flinch when she uses my brother’s name. The fact that she even knows his name unsettles me. I don’t want to talk about
Brady, and yet I find myself answering anyway. “Of course,” I say.
“Why?” Dr. Warren leans her elbows on the desk.
“I was there,” I say, trying to explain. “If I knew how to swim . . .”
“Does James feel guilty too?”
“Yes.” I remember how many nights I held James’s head in my lap, watching him cry. Listening to him tell me that he’d let Brady down. Let me down. I hate the image and I try to push it away, but it’s stuck on a continuous loop that I can’t stop. Like how I can’t stop myself from telling the doctor this, even though I don’t want to. I’m compelled to spill my guts—my ravaged, emotional guts.
“So you both took the blame,” she says. “Took the loss hard. I bet that built quite a bond between you and James. Is that how you got together?”
“No. We’d started dating before that.”
The doctor leans forward. “Tell me about it.”
Even though something in my head tells me not to talk about him, my emotions overwhelm me. I miss him, and I want to remember what it was like before. For the first time in so long, I’m allowed to cry. I’m allowed to let it out. So I close my eyes and lean my head back into the chair.
And I tell her about the first time I realized I had feelings for James.
“Let me get this straight,” the doctor says when I finish. “James tried to avoid the relationship at first?”
“Passive-aggressively, yes. We both loved my brother and didn’t want to piss him off.”
“Then how did you go from that to a relationship?”
“It took a while,” I say, glancing at her. “Even that first day was confusing. After we’d gotten back to camp, it was awkward. Horrible. I figured it’d pass eventually. Then that night, the three of us got into our tent, Brady on one side of me, James on the other. It was a huge tent, and Brady was curled away from us. But James lay right at my side, his arm nearly, but not quite, touching mine.
“It felt like forever. All I could hear was his breathing, my breathing. I tried to close my eyes, but my body was tingling. I sensed him looking at me, and swallowed hard, wishing I could be asleep already. And just then, his hand brushed mine, so lightly, it was like nothing at all. I hitched in a breath and turned sideways, only to find him staring back.” I smile. “His blue eyes were so confused, and I thought he was going to kiss me.”
“Did he?” Dr. Warren asks.
I shake my head. “Nope. Instead he swore and then climbed up, grabbing his sleeping bag and his backpack. He unzipped the tent flap and went outside. He ended up sleeping in the car that night.”
Dr. Warren pulls her eyebrows together. “Why would he do that? Were you upset?”
“Well, I definitely didn’t sleep well. I felt guilty and embarrassed. Later James told me that when he touched me, when I looked at him, he got a hard-on.” I laugh.
“So he’s a romantic?” Dr. Warren grins.
“That’s just James. He actually meant it as a compliment. But he was set on not liking me. So he went to sleep in the car. He was hoping I hadn’t noticed—which I didn’t. I wish I had, though, because I spent the next few weeks feeling miserable. Like I’d done something wrong.”
The timer on her desk goes off, and Dr. Warren smiles at me again. “Fascinating story, Sloane. I hope tomorrow I can hear more.”
I nod, feeling decent for the first time in weeks. Talking about James helped, as if he were here with me—the old James. The one I’ve missed so desperately. Although it might be naive, for a second I think it’ll be okay. That maybe Dr. Warren really does want to help me.
“Wait,” she says, handing me a Dixie cup. I glance inside and see a yellow pill. “Take this, Sloane.”
“But—”
“It’ll help the feeling last longer,” she says, and smiles. I don’t want to go back to the misery I felt when I walked in here, so I swallow it and leave.
As I’m walking down the hallway, heading back to my room, I feel a wave of dizziness. I rest my palm on the cool tile of the wall to balance myself. A streak of fear races through me.
Oh, no. What was in that pill?
I touch my forehead, thinking back on the session. But as I search my memories, I become disoriented and the world seems to tip sideways.
A hand touches my elbow. “Let’s get you back to your room, Miss Barstow.”
I look over to see the dark-haired handler, a sinister smile on his lips. I yank my arm out of his grip. “Leave me alone.”
“Now, now,” he says, teasingly. “Let’s not be difficult. I can restrain you again.”
But I’m not going to let him intimidate me. Threaten me. The Program can’t have me. So I swing out my arm, punching the left side of his jaw. He immediately recovers and twists my hand up behind my back, cursing under his breath as he slams me against the wall. When there’s a sudden pinch in my arm, the sedative, I laugh. “I don’t care how many drugs you and the doctors give me,” I say. “I’ll never let you take my memories.”
The handler leans in, his breath warm on my ear. “You stupid girl,” he whispers. “We already have.”
And then I sleep.
I’M IN MY CHAIR BY THE WINDOW AGAIN, THE SAME
one I’ve sat in for three days. The sky is overcast and I’m glad. It’s a bitter feeling, something like “if I can’t be happy, no one should.” I wonder what James is doing, but then I push the thought away, remembering that he doesn’t know me anymore.
“I’m guessing another kicked-dog joke would be in bad taste, right?”
I don’t turn toward the guy’s voice, and instead continue to stare outside. I might even appear catatonic.
“Are you always so mean?” he asks.
“Yes,” I answer automatically. I wish he would go away. I wish they all would go away.
“Charming. So anyway, I brought you this and wanted to
invite you to our card game tonight if you’re up for it. But leave your horns and pitchfork behind.” He sets a large pretzel stick on the table next to me and I look at it, but not at him. “Very exclusive card game, I might add.” I can hear the smile in his voice.
I lean over and pick up the pretzel stick, examining it for a second before taking a bite. I say nothing and go back to watching the darkening clouds outside of the window. I hope it rains soon.
“You’re welcome,” the guy says, sounding defeated. “Maybe I’ll see you later.”
I wait until he’s gone before looking up. He’s on the couch with a red-headed girl, laughing hysterically, as if we weren’t in The Program. As if this was a party in someone’s parents’ basement.
The pretzel becomes dry in my mouth and I think I might choke on it. And just then, the guy glances over his shoulder at me, his dark eyes concerned, and I turn away again.
• • •
“When did you and James start dating?” Dr. Warren asks. I sit back, looking her over as the medication makes the edges of my vision hazy. The doctor has her hair pulled up into a bun, her makeup and pantsuit paired nicely. She’s perfect. She’s fake.
I’ve been in The Program for close to a week now. I take the pills when they’re offered, opting to sleep rather than live an actual life. Even though I don’t trust Dr. Warren—not even
a little—I took the pill sitting on her desk when I walked in. In therapy, it’s like my past is more attainable, as if the medication can help me zero in with clarity. And when I’m with James in my head, I’m not so lonely anymore.
“I don’t feel like talking today,” I say, wanting to keep the thoughts to myself.
She sighs. “That’s understandable. But I’m just really curious about you two. He’s such a source of anger.”
“No, he’s not,” I say instantly. “He’s the only thing I care about anymore.”
“But you’re angry.”
“Because you took him. You changed him.”
“
I
didn’t do those things. James was at another facility. But I’ve had a chance to look through his file.” She lowers her voice. “It says that James attempted suicide in The Program. Would you rather he was dead?”
Her words cut through me and I touch my chest, startled.
James tried to kill himself ?
Oh my God, the thought of it, just the thought makes tears stream from my eyes. “No,” I whisper. “I wouldn’t want him dead.”
“That’s good, Sloane,” she says, like it answers a question. “That how you’re supposed to react when someone wants to kill himself. Now, tell me more about James. It’ll make you feel better, I promise.”
I sniffle, putting my forearm over my face as I think back on my and James’s life together. “I used to avoid him,” I start, relaxing into the medication. “He’d be at the house with Brady,
and I would duck out of the room, or just pretend he wasn’t there. A few times he asked if I was okay, but I couldn’t look him in the eyes after the camping thing. Brady told me I was acting weird.” I laugh softly and lower my arm, remembering the face my brother would make when he said it.
“After a few weeks,” I continue, “James got annoyed. He even paid Brady five bucks to get him to call me into the room with them. I thought he was making fun of me, but when I stormed off, things changed.”
“How so?” Dr. Warren asks.
“James followed me upstairs, telling my brother he was coming to apologize. When he knocked on my door, I didn’t want to let him in at first. But he said please.” I smile, still able to hear his voice in head. Hear the soft, desperate way his words struck my heart. I was helpless to resist him, even then.
I wait before telling Dr. Warren the rest, wait as the drugs course through my veins, enveloping me in calm. I want to tell her everything. But first, I relive the moment for myself, seeking my own safe place in The Program.
• • •
When I opened my bedroom door, I found James leaning against the frame, looking utterly miserable.
“You hate me,” he said.
“No.”
“Then why are you ignoring me?”
I was thrown off, and looked past him into the hall to make sure no one was around. “What do you care?” I asked. “You
already told me I wasn’t allowed to . . .” I motioned between the two of us, my face burning with embarrassment.
“Yeah, I say a lot of stupid things, Sloane. Why did you listen to that one?”
I stepped back then, confused. Was he . . . ? Did he . . . ?
James pushed my door open wider and walked in, closing it behind him. I stared at him, not sure what he was going to do.
“Here’s the thing,” he said. “I don’t want to like you.” My heart sunk. “I don’t even want to notice you’re pretty. I want to tackle you in the dirt and make fun of your hair. I shouldn’t be thinking about putting my arms around you. And I sure as hell shouldn’t be thinking about kissing you right now.”
I tiny gasp escaped my lips, and my entire body warmed at his confession. But I was terrified of what would happen next, what it would mean. “You can’t kiss me,” I said, taking another step back. “You’ll ruin everything.”
“I know!” he agreed. He looked around my room, clearly annoyed, and then back at me. “What have you done?” he asked me.
“Me?”
“God,” he said, ignoring my question. “Do you know how many girls I
don’t
like? And then the one I do . . . It’s my best friend’s little sister?”
Butterflies went crazy in my stomach. “You like me?”
His eyes met mine, and then he furrowed his brow like he thought I was stupid. “Yes, Sloane.”
“And you’re being mean to me because . . .”
Then suddenly, James’s face cleared and he laughed. “I don’t know exactly. But I’ve been trying to not like you since you gave me a hard-on in the tent so—”
“What?”
“Don’t worry about it. Okay, so listen. We’re not going to kiss or anything,” he said, as if I’d propositioned him. “Maybe . . . I don’t know, maybe if we hang out—just the two of us—we’ll realize that we don’t really like each other. You could end up hating me. I can be a total shithead.”
My mouth twitched with a smile. “James, I’ve known you since I was in second grade. I’m not sure spending
more
time together is a great idea.”