Suzanne Young - The Treatment

“But how do we know?” I ask, hitching in a breath. “How do we know what’s real anymore?”

James puts his hand over his heart, anguish on his face that nearly kills me. “Because I can feel it here, and I could read it in my words. I was protecting you. I would have died to protect you had they not stopped me. We’re fucking mental for each other—but maybe that’s how we survive from here. We just have to be crazier than The Program.”

I choke out a small laugh, and James hugs me once again. “I’m tired of running,” I whisper.

“Me too,” he says. “But this is when we have to fight the hardest. This is all that’s left of us—this right now. We have to make it count.” James brushes my hair behind my ear. No matter what the file says, lies or not, who we are now matters.

“I still love you madly,” I whisper.

“I love you too.” He says it so honestly that I can’t believe there’s any other way for him to feel. My doubt begins to fade, and James buries his face in my hair. Gliding my hand up his arm, I stop over his scars—his tattoos—tracing patterns until I feel him kiss softly at my neck.

A soft sound escapes my throat, and I turn my face to kiss him. He professes his love again, his hands gripping my hips. I back us toward the bed, kissing, whispering. I’m quickly losing layers of clothing, but James is still dressed as we lie on the bed. When I try to undo his belt, he stops me.

“Don’t,” he says. He looks down at me and laughs. “I can’t handle the temptation.”

“Then stop resisting.” I lift my head to kiss him again. He returns the kiss, but then quickly flops over onto his back.

“I can’t, Sloane,” he says. “I forgot the condoms back in Phoenix.”

I freeze for a moment, and he turns to me, smiling sheepishly. “Are you kidding?” I ask.

“No. But believe me—I’m pretty pissed about it.”

I groan, but then I realize I’m better. The distraction worked, and my head doesn’t hurt as much—although there’s still a tiny ache behind my eyes. But James made me forget the pain. I throw my leg over his, and put my head on his chest. “At least we’re building some anticipation,” I say with a smile, content to feel well again.

“At the very least,” he mutters.

I slide my hand under James’s shirt to rest it over his heart, feeling its rapid beats. They say stress brings on the meltdowns, so I block out the thoughts of Brady, Miller, and Lacey. If there’s one thing The Program made us experts at, it’s repression.

“I mean it, you know,” James says quietly. “I love you like crazy, and I don’t give a goddamn about anything else.”

We’re quiet for a long while until James has to sit up because his arm fell asleep. “Should we check out the rest of that file?” he asks tentatively. “You’ll have to take it easy, but this could be our only chance to find out what happened. Pretty sure The Program isn’t handing them out like greeting cards.”

I’m worried, but I agree, letting him take the investigative lead. This was a fluke—I’m not breaking down. There’s nothing wrong with a few memories, so long as I don’t let them control me. I can handle this. I’m strong enough.

Dallas is in the kitchen, pouring water into the back of the coffeemaker while Cas sits at the table, looking exhausted. When we come down, he presses his lips into a smile, seeming relieved that we’re joining them. Dallas tosses a curious glance over her shoulder but doesn’t say anything as James and I each take a seat.

“So what happened to my file?” I ask as the coffee begins to percolate.

Cas shrugs, answering only after Dallas stays silent. “I’ve called every contact I have,” he says, “but your file is gone, or at least, not accessible. They tried to pull James’s, too—probably after you ran—but I got to it in time. I think they’re trying to cover their asses in case you turn up dead or on an Oprah special.”

“That’s the next stop on our publicity tour,” James says with a grin. Dallas turns, flashing him a smile before grabbing two coffee mugs and setting one in front of James. He thanks her, then starts going through his file again. I can’t look at Dallas. She read the notes from James’s session, and whatever doubts I had are probably magnified by a thousand in her mind. Luckily, I don’t have to dwell on her possible thoughts before James holds up another paper.

“Look at this,” he announces. “Says here I assaulted a handler.” The paper is an incident report and apparently, after his blackout session, James attacked a handler in the hallway. It reminds me of when Realm took down Roger, and I turn to James, thinking for the first time that he and Realm have a lot in common—more than just me.

Dallas tops off James’s coffee, her hand shaking. She asks Cas if he wants a cup, but he passes. She never offers one to me. She clinks the pot back in place just as James calls my name.

“Here it is,” he says. He looks to me immediately and then points to a page clipped to the file. It’s an entrance form, and in the bottom box is a handwritten note in blue ink. The first word I recognize is my brother’s name, and I prepare myself for what comes next.

Patient 486 was first infected after the self-termination of Brady Barstow (drowning), and was later triggered by the self-termination of Miller Andrews (QuikDeath). Under the influence of his medication, Patient 486 admitted to witnessing Brady Barstow’s death at the river, where his attempts to rescue him failed. He has since been struggling with depression, kept hidden with the help of Sloane Barstow, the deceased’s sister.

“You tried to save him,” I whisper. Then, before James can reply, I lean over and kiss him, my hands on his cheeks. My brother wasn’t alone when he died, that I knew, but the idea of James trying to save him fills me with a comfort I can’t explain.

I pull back, smiling at how brave James must have been. Across the room, I notice a figure standing in the doorway. His shoulders are slumped, his head downcast. I hitch in a breath when he lifts his dark eyes to mine. It can’t be. . . .

“Realm?” My voice cracks and I scramble to my feet. Realm is thinner, his clothes hang on his tall frame. His dark hair is now a brassy shade of orange, as if he’d dyed it blond not too long ago. The shadows under his eyes are deep and dark, and I think he’s been through something. I step toward him. “You’re back?”

A small smile pulls at Realm’s lips, and I’m absolutely overcome with relief. Dallas chuckles, standing at the sink, but nothing else matters as I rush over to Realm and throw myself against him, wrapping my arms around his neck. He’s alive. “I’ve missed you,” I whisper into his shirt.

“Ah, Michael Realm,” James calls out, still sitting at the kitchen table. “What a surprise. I’d give you a hug too, but I think I’d rather punch you in the face.”

I don’t bother reacting; I just hold on to Realm. I didn’t think I’d ever see him again. He touches gingerly at my shoulders and then glances past me to James. “You’re not really my type, James,” he says. “So I think I’d prefer the punch anyway.”

“Good to know.” James darts a look between me and Realm, smiling but obviously tense by our proximity. It wasn’t that long ago that he saw me kiss Realm, back before we got together. And he knows about the time I went to Realm’s house in the middle of the night. He knows we’ve been more than friends.

I feel a touch on my cheek and turn to Realm as he glides his finger over my skin. “You look good,” he says softly. “I was worried.”

“ You were worried? I haven’t heard from you. I thought you were . . .” I stop, not wanting to finish the thought.