The Recovery

For my friend Michael Strother, who was there from the beginning

In loving memory of my grandmother Josephine Parzych

MICHAEL REALM SAT BEHIND THE
wheel of the rented car and watched Dallas Stone pick up the small leather case he’d left on her front porch. Realm ducked down when Dallas turned to check the road, but he was sure she already knew it was from him. After all, he owed her a hell of a lot.

He had to admit that he liked her newly shorn hair, the blond dreads replaced with a sleek cut that she couldn’t hide behind. He didn’t want her to hide anymore. He wanted her to be happy, and so he knew that he had to return what he’d taken: her memories.

Once he thought it was safe, Realm peeked over the dashboard to see that Dallas had gone back inside. He smiled to himself—his guilt lessened only a fraction, but at least he could hate himself a little less today. He had a long list of sins to atone for. This was only his first stop.

After the fall of The Program, Realm had been able to keep a low profile, avoiding criminal charges for his time working for Arthur Pritchard, for Dr. Warren, and for the hospital.
He’d done despicable things in order to fulfill his contract—unforgivable things. Sure, the punishment for breaking the rules would have led to a lobotomy, but the guilt he now lived with was overwhelming. Sometimes he was afraid it was enough to kill him.

The suicide epidemic had started only six years earlier—killing one in three teens at its height. But after The Program ended, the numbers dwindled. Maybe it was never really an epidemic in the first place. It could have been a suicide cluster like the ones before, an unexplained ripple effect on human behavior. But then Arthur Pritchard created The Program, drew worldwide attention, and made things so much worse. Realm often wondered what drove Pritchard to create his therapy in the first place. He thought it had to do with the doctor’s daughter, Virginia—at least that’s what Evelyn Valentine insinuated. But Arthur Pritchard had been lobotomized; the world would never know the truth behind his motives.

Realm wanted to hate Arthur Pritchard for what he’d done, for creating The Program in the first place. But the doctor had died shortly after his lobotomy due to complications from surgery. Realm couldn’t help but to feel sorry for him. The entire situation was a bit like Victor Frankenstein being destroyed by his own monster.

Realm’s phone vibrated in the car’s center console, startling him from his thoughts. He picked it up and saw that his sister was calling him, again. Although he loved Anna dearly, she was driving him nuts. He didn’t feel like convincing her that he was fine, so he declined the call. He would see her soon anyway. He had a flight to catch; he was heading back to Oregon.

With his phone still in hand, Realm scrolled through his contacts and dialed, annoyed to be sent to voice mail for the third time. He didn’t want to make the next leg of his journey alone, but he also knew that
convincing James to come with him wouldn’t be easy. His relationship with James Murphy hadn’t been the most expected friendship. In fact, at one point he and James hated each other—mutually and exclusively. James had gone through The Program and had his entire relationship with Sloane Barstow erased. Realm may have used that to his advantage when he fell for James’s girlfriend, but he had honestly believed he was better for her. Loved her more than James ever could.

Of course, now he knew that Sloane and James were mad for each other. And so he accepted the loss. He was still determined to do right by Sloane, and helped James save her from a near-lobotomy. Turned out that James wasn’t as unbearable as Realm had first thought. In fact, he was the best friend he’d ever had.

Which meant James not answering his call was particularly annoying. Realm had the names of several people he wanted to find—Dallas was only the first. James had offered to track down the addresses of the others. In the meantime, Realm put together a file for each—memories that he could recall from their time in The Program. Stories they would have told him. It would all be in the pages—their depression and loss, their secrets and hopes. For years, he’d been the link between patients’ most hidden thoughts and the doctors who sought to erase them. He betrayed people’s trust. Even . . . mostly . . . the people he cared about. Tucked in his messenger bag, he even had a file for Sloane.

It hurt to think about her sometimes, but unlike the others, it wasn’t just his guilt that affected him. There were few things more painful than unrequited love, but the worst part was that he had been so close. Sloane had cared about him. Trusted him with her life. But he’d ruined it when he injected her with a sedative—handed her and her past over to The Program. And she wasn’t the first, or the last, person he’d done that to.

Realm ran his hand roughly through his messy hair.
He’d stopped dyeing it, returning it to chocolate brown—which he hadn’t worn in years. He liked it. And maybe a part of him knew that Dallas would like it too. Not that she was ever going to see it.

Realm lowered his eyes, reminded of a time before he’d gotten sick. Before he ruined Dallas’s life. He remembered that day, sophomore year, when he was heading to the locker room still wearing his green lacrosse uniform. The team would be disbanded by the end of the season due to fears of overstressing students with competition—one of the many reasons given for the increasing epidemic—but at that time, suicide had barely touched Realm’s world.

He’d just started down the white-tiled corridor toward the locker room, when he noticed a pretty blonde leaning against the wall, texting on her phone. Dallas Stone—he’d seen her before. She cheered for the basketball team, but he’d never spoken to her beyond a simple “What’s up?” at a party or two. She didn’t look at him, so he kept walking, maybe wanting her to notice him a little. He swung his lacrosse stick around his fingers, but instead of coming off as smooth, the stick slipped out of his hand and clattered to the floor near Dallas’s feet. She jumped, and glanced up, her eyes wide as she stared at him.

Realm’s face burned with embarrassment, and he apologized. Dallas watched him a second longer, and then she smiled. That smile, the gap in her teeth, her red lipstick—to this day, Realm was sure he’d never felt that kind of attraction to anyone. She was fucking gorgeous.

“Hope you’re better than that on the field,” she said, leaning down to pick up the stick. She held it out to him.

“Only a little,” he said, taking it from her hand. “Have you seen a game?”

Dallas shook her head, her long blond hair falling over her shoulders. “Not my sport,” she said, scanning his uniform. She turned back
to her phone, and Realm felt his heart dip at her disinterest. He held up the stick, gesturing good-bye, and walked away.

Dallas Stone was at the next game. And the next. By the third time, Realm couldn’t stop thinking about her. He found her waiting for him in the corridor on the way to the locker room. That night they hooked up in the backseat of his dad’s Jeep Cherokee, and in the months that followed, they grew closer. They were serious.

Nothing that good could last, though—not when Realm was involved.

Realm swallowed hard, shame darkening his spirit as he sat behind the steering wheel of his rental car, staring at Dallas’s house. He turned over the ignition, starting the car. He had time to kill before his flight back to Oregon, so he decided to head to a local coffee shop where he could at least wallow with a hazelnut latte. He was glad he was facing his problems, but there was one person he could never
escape—himself.

THE SMALL CAFÉ WAS CROWDED
with college students and Realm had to find a table near the back once he picked up his order. He watched the people, surprised by the carefree way they were behaving. Some of them even wore black. Just last year, this wouldn’t have happened. Everyone was terrified of The Program—new facilities opening up all over the country, and internationally. The threat of being picked up for behavior modification was always looming. Everyone had to lie—to the world and to themselves.

Realm sipped from his latte. There was a shift of fabric, an army-green blur, and then someone sat in the chair next to him. Realm stilled, staring at her. Dallas didn’t smile or look happy to see him.

“Almost didn’t recognize you,” she said in her raspy voice, studying him and making Realm uncomfortable under her scrutiny. “Brown has always looked better on you.” She motioned to his hair and Realm ran his fingers through it self-consciously. He didn’t know what to say.

“Where’d you get those photos you left me?”
Dallas asked. “Were they yours?”

Realm swallowed hard, and sipped again from his drink to cover his nervousness. “Yeah,” he said. “Valentine had been keeping them for me—memories I didn’t want to get rid of.” He paused. “Memories of you.”

Dallas’s eyes flashed, and she sat back in the chair and looked away, laughing to herself. “Sure, Realm,” she said. “And so why give them to me now? Why open that wound?”

“I was trying to stitch it closed,” he replied quietly.

Dallas flinched, but she didn’t look at him.

“And the note on the postcard?” she asked carefully.

Realm couldn’t stand the bit of hope in her voice—the hope about the two of them. Dallas knew they had been a couple before The Program. She knew that he’d turned her in because he was cruel and absorbed in his own self-hatred. And, of course, she could remember their time after—the push and pull. The harsh words he would say to keep her from falling in love with him again. But Dallas’s heart wouldn’t let her forget how much she loved him, though. She would always feel it. Realm should have let that keep him away, but he didn’t. Now he knew better.
He
had to be better.

“I wanted you to realize that you mattered,” Realm said, feeling his cheeks warm with humiliation, confrontation. “I’ve done some fucked-up things, Dallas,” he said. “Especially to you. I’ve said terrible things because I was selfish. I hurt you.” He looked over at her, finally catching her eyes. “I hurt you on purpose. And for that, I can’t tell you how sorry I am. You deserved better than me. You always have.”

Dallas’s bottom lip quivered, but she quickly bit down on it, hoping to hide her emotion. Realm wanted to reach for her then, hold her like he used to. When they were both well, and then later, when they were
both scared.

He wanted Dallas to run her fingers through his hair, whispering that he’d be okay. His parents had died in a car accident, one that left him in the care of his sister. An accident that started his spiral. He had Dallas, though. She was kind and loving; she took care of him. But he was drowning and he pulled her down with him. He destroyed that loving girl and broke her into a million pieces. That shame would never go away.

Dallas began to tug on her lower lip with her fingers, thinking things over. She lowered her hand, tilting her head as she held his gaze. “I could forgive you, you know,” she said quietly. “I could forgive everything.”

It hurt. It hurt to hear her, see her. Know that she meant it. Realm took in a shaky breath, trying to stay composed. “I know you could,” he said. “Because you’re a good person, Dal. But you shouldn’t. Some things are unforgivable.”

“And what if I want to forgive you?” she asked. She laid her hand on the table in front of him, fingers spread. Realm wasn’t sure if she remembered or if it was in the notes he’d left for her, but when they dated, Dallas would hold out her hand just like that before they did anything scary. When they needed to be brave.

Realm’s eyes burned with tears, guilt—but also nostalgia. Longing. He would give anything to go back and do it all differently.

He reached to slide his palm against Dallas’s, hearing her breath catch when he did. The warmth and softness of her skin drawing him closer. He squeezed his fingers between hers, and for a moment—it was like they’d both found peace. A connection. Intimacy.

Realm had almost loved Dallas once. Almost. And because of that, he would never let her love him again. He closed his eyes.

“Good-bye, Dallas,” he whispered. Next to him, she sniffled, and
then she took her hand from his and pulled him into a hug, burying her face in his neck as she clung to him. Realm didn’t hug her back. He couldn’t. But he sat there, noting the sweet smell of her hair. The familiar way she felt against him.

“Thank you,” she murmured. She was gone in an instant, hurrying away with her head down. Realm swayed and put his hand over his heart, watching after her. A sharp pain from knowing that you want something you don’t deserve. That you can never have again.