The Recovery (9 page)

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 tonight 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 little 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.

My 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 soon.

“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.”

Suzanne Young is the
New York Times
bestselling author of the Program duology. Originally from Utica, New York, Suzanne moved to Arizona to pursue her dream of not freezing to death. She is a novelist and an English teacher, but not always in that order. Suzanne is the author of
The Program
,
The Treatment
,
The Remedy
, and
A Need So Beautiful
. You can visit her online at
www.suzanne-young.blogspot.com
.

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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.