I think I’ve made the right choices this time.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
SCHOOL IS WEIRD. AFTER BEING attacked several times and fighting for your life, sitting through science class is a bit anticlimactic. But we made it. We earned this mediocrity.
Foster is next to me, filling in the last questions on our lab report as I stare dreamily out the window.
He made good on his promise to find the handlers. There were thirty-seven in our school. The number is staggering, shocking. I wonder if there was ever a moment when I wasn’t being watched.
The monitor is still around, but there are no more assessments. No more fear. Dr. Angela Wyatt is partnering with Marie and the FDA, administering Adjustments on a voluntary basis. They all agreed that forced treatment isn’t the answer. They voted for transparency, and because of that, returners come to them in droves, hoping to be cured.
A special counsel has been appointed by Congress, investigating the role of The Program in deaths of returners. Throughout the country, nearly three hundred teens died. Numerous doctors and psychiatrists attribute those crashback deaths to procedures used in The Program. The special counsel found The Program criminally and monetarily liable.
Marie was able to keep me anonymous, and it was decided that she would take credit for creating the pattern that destroyed The Program. They didn’t want to tie it in to Arthur Pritchard or the victims of the grief department—Luther’s advice. Gaining back the public trust wouldn’t be easy.
But the pattern worked. People are getting better. The worst of the epidemic, its aftermath, is over.
After all this time, it’s finally over.
The bell rings, and Foster and I grab our bags and head to lunch. We’re staying in today, as we’ve done for the past few weeks. Like Foster said, the purity of recess.
“Holy shit,” Foster says as we walk down the hall, looking down at his phone. “Arturo just sent me this.” He holds it out to me, and I gasp. “Says she was in Colorado,” Foster adds.
It’s a link to a news article about Dr. Warren. She disappeared the night we found the cure. Her office had been cleaned out, the office of Mr. Castle also empty. She disappeared into the wind, and it left us looking over our shoulder. Dr. Warren didn’t have any power, but then again, we’d underestimated her before.
“ ‘Warren was taken into custody at a Chipotle in Denver,’ ” Foster reads, and then laughs. “That’s actually fucking hilarious,” he says.
“Does it say what they’re charging her with?” I ask. Part of me worries I’ll get dragged into a lengthy trial, but Marie already told me I’d be redacted from all records pertaining to Dr. Warren. She said she had plenty on her without bringing up the fact that she sent people to kidnap me.
“Uh . . .” He scans the page. “No,” he says. “It just says she’s been wanted in connection with illegal memory manipulation and crimes against the state.” He looks at me, and a moment passes, acknowledging all she put me through. “She’ll never get out of prison,” he says.
I nod that it’s good; she deserves it. But the terrible truth is they never tracked down the main backers of The Program. They got a few—hell, three senators were indicted. The Program was everywhere and yet under the radar. They could have changed the world—controlled it.
But we stopped them. Us—regular people. And a doctor and the FDA and the CDC, but still—mostly us.
Foster and I get to the doorway to the courtyard and scan the area. I find Nathan and Wes immediately, the two of them laughing as Nathan continues telling whatever story he has. They’ve become pretty decent friends, and Nathan says that he likes this new Wes a whole hell of a lot better than the old one. But really, he’s just given him a chance now. He would have liked the old Wes too.
“There you are,” Arturo says, coming up to Foster. They smile, exchange a quick kiss, and Arturo says hello to me. “I’m guessing you saw the news?” he asks, raising his dark eyebrows.
“I did. Pretty wild, right?” I reply.
“Yeah, well,” Arturo says, pursing his lips and glancing over at Nathan. “Not as wild as Nathan Harmon and Melody Blackstone meeting up last night.”
“What?” I ask, widening my eyes. Arturo gets the best information. He and Melody actually stayed friends, and with his help, he got her and Nathan to speak again.
“He’s going to kill you for telling me,” I say to Arturo, making him laugh.
“I’m not worried,” he replies, and takes Foster’s hand to lead him to our lunch spot. I hang back a moment and watch Wes.
His hair has grown longer since that night at Marie’s, a little unruly and adorable. He didn’t need surgery on his shoulder but had physical therapy for weeks. The injury left a small bump, a permanent reminder of what his mother was responsible for.
Wes and I are both eighteen now, and he never went back to his house. My grandfather collected his stuff for him and moved him into our spare bedroom until we leave for college. Graduation is only a week away, and after the summer, we’re going to Arizona, of all places.
Wes isn’t giving up on the possibility of becoming a lawyer in the future, but for now he’s been accepted into the journalism school, and I’ll be there in the creative writing department. My grandparents joke that they look forward to us moving back in after we graduate with our shiny English degrees.
My phone buzzes, and I take it out. A smile spreads across my lips.
You’ve probably seen this, but . . . , Michael Realm writes, attaching the article about Dr. Warren.
I did, I reply. Still feels just as good to read it again.
He sends a picture this time, and it’s Dallas in the front seat of his car, her eyes closed, her tongue out, as she holds up a set of keys. Got a new place if you guys want to come visit.
There’s a soft tug on my heart, mostly happiness. Realm and Dallas moved to Eugene, and before he left, Realm told Marie that he truly hoped he’d never see her again, before hugging her good-bye.
I’m glad that Realm finally sees he’s good enough to be loved. I’m a little sad that he moved away, especially now that I remember our friendship. I blink back the start of tears.
Tell Dallas to plan a party and I’m there, I write. I don’t really know her; she’s kind of intimidating, if I’m honest. But she and Realm have been doing this together for a long time. He told me once that he always hoped he’d make it back to her. I’m happy that he did.
I put the phone away and start toward my friends. Nathan notices me first and nods to me. I’m glad he’s finding closure with Melody, even if it doesn’t lead to anything more.
Wes never looks up at me, eating his sandwich and listening to Foster and Arturo tell a story, but when I sit next to him, he passes over his bag of cookies without a word.
“And then what happened?” he asks Foster, totally invested in the conversation. His dimples flash, and I watch him—enjoying his curiosity. When the story’s done, Wes turns to me and looks me up and down.
“Hi,” he says simply.
“Hi,” I respond, fighting back a smile. And then, in a swift movement, he wraps his arms around me and tips me back into the shrubbery, kissing me passionately. I laugh, hand on his cheek, and let him help me back up.
“Disgusting,” Nathan says under his breath, and Wes blows him a kiss.
We all have lunch together, and it’s the purest thing I can remember. After years of being scared all the time, of living in constant fear and worry—we’ve all found our peace, much like Wes.
He is the love of my life, but he’s not my life. I have that back now—no more threats, no more secrets. A bit of research proved I had no biological family left, but I have my name—Cynthia Wilds.
I’ve never used it. I let her rest with her mother and father. She was someone in another life, but she died the day I was created.
Wes slips his hand around mine, leaning in to murmur that he loves me because I’m so fucking cute, and I smile to myself. It’s all so s
imple now that it’s shocking sometimes.
But I accept our fate, accept this new world. I know we deserve it.
Because we’re all better people now.
EPILOGUE
SLOANE BARSTOW LIES ON THE bank of the river, her forearm over her face to block the summer sun. It was getting too hot, and James promised to take her somewhere to escape the weekend heat. Realm and Dallas were off on another secret mission, so they were out of town.
But even though Sloane’s at the river, the same river where her brother died, she still doesn’t entirely love swimming. She opted to roast on the blanket instead.
As if she conjured him up, she hears James approach from where he’s been in the river. Sloane lowers her arm and looks at him, one eye squinted against the sun. James stands at the edge of the blanket, staring at the water as he drags a towel over his bare chest, his hair golden in the sunlight. He senses her watching him, and he glances down at her with those arresting blue eyes.
“You checking me out, Sloane?” he asks, exactly the same way he asked her years before when she first realized she liked him.
“No,” she replies easily, trying not to smile.
James nods like he believes her and goes back to watching the water. He tosses the towel aside and lowers himself onto the blanket next to her.
Sloane’s face is turned in his direction, waiting. She can feel the coolness coming off his skin from the river water. James looks sideways at her, his eyes impossibly blue, as he runs his gaze over her swimsuit.
They’re quiet for a long moment, Sloane’s heart speeding up, a smile creeping over her lips.
James curses at his lack of self-control and turns to wrap his leg over Sloane’s hip, rolling her against him and making her laugh.
“It’s so wet,” she says with a quick shiver from his damp suit on her skin.
James snorts a laugh, and Sloane smacks his leg. “Not what I meant,” she says, laughing anyway.
They both chuckle for a few moments, and then they settle on the blanket. James stays wrapped around her, their faces close as they watch each other.
Sloane can’t stand to look at him sometimes, especially this close up. It seems ridiculous . . . but she loves him too much. She loves everything about him, and she knows he feels exactly the same way. They’re both helpless in that love. She leans in and kisses him softly.
James hums out his approval, his hand sliding up her back and under her hair, resting on her neck as his tongue glides against hers. He moves his leg to bring it between hers, and the kissing leads to more, his fingers under her swimsuit, her hand inside his.
“Car or tent?” James murmurs at Sloane’s lips. “I don’t want sand getting—”
“Car,” Sloane says, but doesn’t stop. James breaks the kiss, burying his face in her hair as she brings him close, and then, when she’s finished, he stays against her, once again helpless in his love.
“Still car?” he asks, out of breath. Sloane laughs.
“No, I’d prefer the tent,” she says. She isn’t in such a hurry to get naked, though; she just likes being near him. She almost lost him this time. She never wants to feel that again.
“Now?” James asks, getting up on one elbow, his eyes heavy lidded. He looks so sweet and happy that Sloane sits up to give him a quick kiss before tossing him the towel.
“Later,” she says, looking at the river to check the current. “And for a lot longer.”
“Don’t you worry,” he says, and smiles broadly.
“I never have to,” she replies. That certainly is never one of their problems.
“But I was thinking,” he adds, reaching to trace his finger down her back as she stares at the water. “Now that things are normal, or at least normal for now . . . I have ideas.”
“Yikes,” Sloane says jokingly, flashing him a smile.
“I know, right? But anyway, these ideas . . .” He pauses, and his expression grows serious. “They’re not in Oregon,” he finishes.
Sloane turns around on the blanket and sits cross-legged, facing him. “What are these ideas?” she asks.
“You, me, California. Some super-cute beach. Maybe formal wear.”
Sloane stares at him, heat creeping onto her chest. “Anything else I should know about this idea?” she asks.
James licks his lips, lowering his eyes like he’s self-conscious, and reaches to play with her fingers.
“Not really,” he says. “Just a couple of friends, a man of God.” He lifts his blue eyes. “A ring that’s not made of plastic.”
Sloane and James have been through so much, and Sloane always knew they’d end up here. She knew it when they first started dating years ago. She even knew it when she didn’t remember him at all. And yet . . . and yet . . . she’s not prepared for how her heart aches at this idea. How all of the misery somehow got them here, and that means she can let it go. She’s not prepared for that.
Sloane’s eyes well up, and she looks down to where James is pressing his fingers between hers, opening and closing his hand. “What if I like the plastic ring?” she asks, not meeting his gaze.
“We could upgrade to platinum,” he suggests. “One that has, I don’t know, our initials or something. Maybe some kind of rock.”
Sloane tries to bite back her smile.
“River rock?” she asks, just to mess with him.
James laughs and tugs her hand so she’ll look at him. She’s surprised to see the glassiness in his eyes, the red high on his cheeks.
“Maybe one like this?” he asks, and then leans over to grab his backpack. He pulls out a clear plastic bubble with a yellow top, the kind that comes out of a quarter machine. The same kind he’s given her before with sparkly rings in them.
She holds the plastic in her hands, and when she looks at James, he shrugs like she should open it.
“I love you,” she says first, straight and to the point. “You know I love you madly, right?”
“Yeah,” he says, one corner of his mouth lifting in a smile. “Yeah, I know you do.”
Sloane slides her thumb under the lid of the plastic bubble and pops off the top. Inside is a silver ring with a princess cut diamond set in the middle. She stares at its sparkle in the sunlight. She looks up at James and sees him impatient for her response.
“It’s bigger than I thought,” she says, taking it out of the plastic.
“I get that a lot,” James returns, eyes still impatient. Sloane laughs and studies the ring, finding their initials connected with a heart. James reaches for the ring and then takes her hand.
Sloane and James stare at each other as James waits for permission to put it on, his confidence only waning when it comes to the possibility of Sloane not feeling the same.
“Well?” Sloane whispers. “I think this is your part.”
James’s lips flinch with a smile, and then he shifts to get one knee down on the blanket in front of her. Sloane gets to her knees in return.
They’re both in damp bathing suits with sand sticking to their skin, but Sloane can’t imagine a better place. A more important place than next to the river.
“Will you marry me?” James asks suddenly, his voice tight with emotion. Sloane watches as tears slip onto his cheeks, his chest rising and falling rapidly.
It’s all come to this. The pain and grief are over; they’re free.
Sloane blinks and feels her own tears drip down. James slides the ring onto her finger, but she doesn’t want to look down. Doesn’t want to look away from him.
And the weight of the ring feels natural; it feels right.
Sloane brings her arms over James’s shoulders, threading her fingers through the back of his hair.
“Yes,” she says simply. “The answer was always yes, even when you were just joking.”
“I was never joking,” James says. “Because it’s always been about us.” He leans in and kisses her, laying her back on the blanket. Their tears fade away, evaporating from the heat of their skin pressed tog
ether.
“It’s us forever, Sloane,” he murmurs. “Just like I promised.” It’s a promise he’s never broken.
• • •
And so later, when Sloane stares at the top of their tent, James between her legs as her fingernails dig into his back, she knows he was right.
It has always been about them. And it always will be.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I first want to thank my agent, Jim McCarthy, and everyone at DG&B. Your guidance and determination has made this all possible, and I’ll forever be grateful.
I also want to thank my amazing editor, Liesa Abrams, for understanding the depths of the characters and the world I created. Your point of view has made me a better writer and has brought this series to life. I’m lucky to have you in my corner.
Thank you to the entire team at Simon Pulse for your support of this series. A special thank-you to cover designer Russell Gordon (seriously, what great covers), the fantastic Mara Anastas, the Riveted Lit team, and everyone in the education department.
Thank you to my tireless friends who have read drafts of my books, sometimes multiple times: Trish Doller, Amanda Morgan, Bethany Griffin, and Michael Strother. I also want to thank Mindi Johnson, Hannah Johnson, and Abe Tinkham for your support (and acting skills) over the years.
And mostly, I want to thank my readers. Thank you for inhabiting the world of The Program for six years, for rooting for these characters, for believing in hope. This last book was for you.
As always, thank you to my family. My husband, Jesse, and my kids, Joseph and Sophia. Also thanks to my dogs Jasper, Marlowe, and Teddy for chewing up everything I own with the exception of this computer.
Finally, this book—just like every book I’ve written—is in memory of my grandmother Josephine Parzych. She passed away shortly before my books were published, but she always believed I’d be a writer. And it was her belief in me that pushed me to continue. If she were alive today, I know she’d be in the front row of every signing; she’d interrupt people on the street to tell them about my books. She’d be proud of me. And honestly, it’s all I could ever strive for—to make her proud.