“I’m just saying,” James adds, walking back over to the couch and dropping down next to me. “If I didn’t have this one”—he hikes his thumb at me—“I might be your new stepdad.”
I laugh, slapping his thigh. “Hey!”
James winks at me and turns back to Miller. “I can teach you how to play catch in the backyard, okay, slugger?”
“Fine by me,” Miller says, his normally amused expression at the joke gone. “I’ll take Sloane in exchange. I need a new girlfriend anyway.”
Both James and I pause in our laughing, Miller adding a new twist to the routine. Only . . . he doesn’t say it like he’s joking. He glares at James, at me, and then turns away. “I’m going to make a sandwich,” he adds, and heads into the kitchen.
James’s mouth opens slightly as he stares after Miller, a bit of pink high on his cheeks. “I think he was serious,” he says, sounding confused. “Why would he say something like that?” James glances at me, his brow furrowed. “Does he like you?”
I shake my head, my stomach knotting. “No,” I say honestly. And the reason it’s so alarming is that we know it’s out of character, that it’s a break in Miller’s personality. It’s a sign we were taught to watch out for. “Should we talk to him about it?” I ask.
James puts his hand over his mouth, rubbing it as he thinks. “No,” he says finally. “I don’t want to upset him any more.” We’re quiet for a long minute, the sound of the refrigerator opening and closing in the background. James looks at me. “And by the way, you’re not allowed to hook up with Miller.”
“Shut up.”
“I’ll make you a deal. You don’t hook up with him, and I won’t hook up with his mom.”
“James!” I go to hit him again, but he captures my hand and then pulls me onto his lap, making it impossible for me to get up. James is so good at making everything normal that I start laughing, trying to twist out of his grip. When Miller walks back in, a sandwich in his hand, he pauses in the doorway—no emotion on his face.
I stop squirming, but James doesn’t let me go. He nods his chin at Miller. “We’re clear that Sloane’s mine, right?” he asks, not sounding combative, just curious. “That I love her and won’t let her go, not even to you. You know that?” I wonder what happened to the “let’s not upset him” argument.
Miller takes a bite of his turkey on rye and shrugs. “Maybe,” he says. “But we all know that things change. Whether we want them to or not.” And without betraying any emotion, Miller backs off and leaves, walking slowly up the stairs to his room.
James releases me and I sit next to him, stunned. Miller doesn’t have feelings for me, I know that. He’s just acting out. We’ve seen it before, how someone will piss off their friends or start sleeping around when depression takes hold. My brother acted out, but we denied it. We pretended not to see it. With that thought I turn to James, my face tight with worry. “Should I—”
“No,” James says, holding up his hand. “I will.” He kisses the top of my head before walking to the stairs that lead to Miller’s room. He’s going to try a peer intervention, something we’ve been taught since the seventh grade. “This might take a while,” he says to me.
I nod, and then watch as James goes up to try to bring Miller back.
• • •
In Miller’s small, rooster-themed kitchen, I make some chicken noodle soup and eat it with crackers before washing out the pot. When I get tired of waiting, I move to sit on the stairs, listening for any sounds above as I rest my head against the wall.
It’s forty-five minutes later when James appears on the landing. He smiles at me, a look that’s to tell me everything worked out. Miller walks past him, and I back up into the foyer and watch him as he comes to pause in front of me.
“James says you’d never go for me because he’s a better kisser than I am,” Miller starts. “I told him we should put it to the test, and he punched me in the gut so hard I almost puked.”
I dart an alarmed look at my boyfriend and he shrugs.
“It’s okay,” Miller says, touching my arm. “I deserved it. I was being a dick, and I’m sorry.” His mouth quirks up in a smile. “I’m not really attracted to you, Sloane. I hope you’re not too disappointed.”
I roll my eyes and look back at James as he drops slowly down each stair. “Did you really hit him?”
“That’s my idea of intervention. Worked, right?”
James is always thinking like that, that if he can distract us long enough we’ll forget how messed up everything is. He’s right. It does work. But will it always? Will he always be able to make us laugh through our tears? I stare at him then, knowing how much I depend on him, on how he makes me feel. His smile fades as if he’s reading the serious expression on my face. Rather than make a joke, he looks at the wooden floor.
“Do you guys want to watch a movie?” Miller asks, sounding more alive than he has all day. “My mom won’t be back until four.”
“Your mom—” James begins.
“Shut up,” Miller and I say at the same time. James chuckles, finally glancing up, looking flawlessly charming. All is well. All is . . . normal.
We go into the living room, wasting an afternoon as if it were any other. But I can’t help stealing looks out the window, constantly checking for the men in white coats.
CHAPTER SIX
FOR THE NEXT TWO DAYS, MILLER IS HIMSELF—OR A close enough version of himself. When he’s not drawing in his notepad, he’s staring out the window during class. Lacey must not have turned him in because the handlers haven’t approached him yet. But there is one handler still hanging around, the creepy dark-haired one who side-eyes me. I don’t mention him to James or Miller, worried they’ll start a fight and get into trouble. Instead, I just avoid his gaze, trying not to get too freaked out.
“Miller,” James asks as we walk out on Friday. “Are you sure you don’t want to come camping? It’ll be nice out there—quiet.”
“Naw, man,” Miller answers, taking his baseball cap out of his backpack and adjusting the brim. “I’m just gonna chill at home, play some video games. Maybe stop by the Wellness Center.”
“You should come,” I say. “You’re going to be lonely.”
Miller looks at me as he puts his hat on, a smile on his face. “It’s one night, Sloane. It’ll be fine. Besides, I already know how camping goes with you two.” He motions between James and me. “And no offense, but I’m not really in the mood for your public displays of affection.”
James laughs and moves to put his arms around my waist from behind, resting his chin on the top of my head. “Not true,” he says. “We always wait until you’re asleep.”
I laugh and push him off me. But Miller still doesn’t agree to join us, promising that he will next week. I don’t want to leave him behind, but I don’t think I can stay in town, either. I like being out in the woods. I like pretending that there’s no Program.
And so we say good-bye to Miller and climb into James’s dad’s car, heading for the coast.
• • •
When we were younger, Brady and I would go camping together. My brother was an expert outdoorsman, so our parents let us go when I was just twelve and he was thirteen, although they’d come and check on us a few times. And when I was fifteen, they finally let us go on our own, as long as James was there too.
That first night, as I sat next to the fire pit, I watched James put the tent together while Brady was across the site, chopping wood. James had just turned sixteen, and his blond hair had grown out so that he had to swipe at it with the back of his hand. He was such a boy, shirtless and sweating, muscles already cording on his tall frame. And at one point, he looked sideways at me, almost startled to see me sitting there, staring at him.
Then his mouth spread into a grin. “You checking me out, Sloane?”
My face must have gone completely red because he apologized immediately, but I had already gotten up to walk to the spot that overlooked the ocean, unable
to answer. He was right. I had been checking him out. It had never occurred to me before that moment that I thought of James as anything more than a friend, my brother’s friend. I even had a boyfriend, Liam. Sure, I didn’t much like him, just one of those “we have classes together so let’s go out” type of relationships. But still, Lacey told me it’d be weird if I said no to Liam. I hadn’t even let him hold my hand in the two months we were together—and believe me, that counted as pretty weird in everyone’s book. And yet, there I was checking out James Murphy.
I sat on the sand embankment and bent my knees, resting my elbows on them. James had lots of girlfriends, never any serious. And now that I thought about it, James dating other girls twisted my stomach. I groaned out loud, wondering how I could have let myself be so stupid.
“God, Sloane” I heard. “I was only kidding.”
I straightened my back, unable to turn to face James. But I knew him, and there was no way he’d leave me without finding out what was going on. Then, sure enough, he was standing over me. “You okay?” he asked. His voice held no hint as to what he was thinking; whether he was embarrassed for me, whether he had even noticed that he was right about the way I’d been looking at him.
I nodded, but he just chuckled. He tossed a tent pole on the sand in front of us and dropped down next me, bumping me as he did. James was big, and I fell to my side, catching myself with my hands. Normally I would have pushed him back, but I didn’t want to touch him. I wanted to figure out how to make my feelings go away. Me, James, and Brady were a team. I didn’t want to mess it up.
“Holy hell,” he said, sounding amused. “You really were checking me out.”
“I wasn’t,” I said quickly, turning to him. But it was too late. James read the truth all over my face. His easy smile slid away from his lips.
“Sloane,” he whined my name. “You don’t get to do that. This can’t . . . We can’t . . .” He stopped, his beautiful eyes holding nothing but pity for me. So I did the only thing I could. I punched him in the chest, making him gasp, and got up and walked away.
And here we are, over two years later. Once again I’m watching James build a tent, but this time my brother’s dead. James’s hair isn’t in his eyes, but he brushes at his forehead absently anyway. At one point, he looks sideways at me, but he doesn’t smile like he did that day. Instead his eyes are weary from putting up the tent by himself. He presses his lips together in an “I miss him too” sort of expression and I look away.
The team broke up, but it wasn’t me who did it. It was Brady.
• • •
The fire crackles, the heat licking out toward my boots. The sun set a few hours ago, but neither of us said much throughout the day. It was nice that we didn’t have to.
James taps my leg with a thin stick and I take it from him, looking next to me. “Marshmallow?” he asks, holding one out between his thumb and finger. I watch as the amber light plays off his features: his strong jaw, his golden hair. I smile.
“You’re beautiful,” I say.
“I look good naked too,” he adds. “You didn’t mention that.”
“I forgot.”
“You forgot?” He pretends to be offended, and then takes a bite out of the marshmallow before tossing the rest into the fire. James immediately drops out of his chair, crawling over to mine and grabbing me, pulling me down into the dirt with him.
“James . . . ,” I start to say, laughing. But his lips are on mine, tasting sticky and sweet. He lays me back, his knee nudging my legs apart as he starts kissing my neck. “James,” I murmur again, only this time it’s with longing.
I love this—this moment. Because as we roll on the ground, the fire burning hot as James peels off my clothes, I can block out everything else. I can focus on how good I feel right now. I can pretend that there is nothing else but us.
And when we’re done and James is panting next me, proud of himself as he should be, I stare at the stars in the sky. I lie there for a long time as James pulls his T-shirt back over his head, collecting the wrapper to toss out. When he comes back, he gets down next to me, moving my head onto his lap as we watch the sky together.
“Brady’s a star up there,” he says, “in some distant place where he doesn’t hurt.” James’s voice cracks and he stops talking. He sniffles, the tears rolling down his cheeks. He always lets his guard down enough to talk in moments like this—the only time his feelings are so raw he can’t hide them.
“He loved you,” I say, curling up against him. “No matter what he did, you were the best thing in his life.”
James looks down at me, wiping his tears. “You were.” He stares at me in a way that reminds me that he’s only human. That he’s as fragile as I am.
“I was just his sister. You were more than a brother. You were his other half.”
“Then I sucked at it,” James says. “Because Brady’s dead. And I’m still here.”
I sit up then, turning James’s face to mine. “You’re here for me. I wouldn’t have survived without you, and I couldn’t now. We’re in this together, James. Don’t forget that.”
He exhales heavily and shakes his head, as if trying to clear it. I know that telling him I need him, that I can’t live without him, snaps him out of the depression. It always has.
And when he’s more himself, I kiss him again, before taking his hand and bringing him into the tent to sleep.
• • •
“We should really camp more often,” James says as we’re driving down the freeway. I smile and look sideways at him.
“It was fun.”
“And I think your memory is fully restored now.” He grins.
“Yes, James. It is soundly intact and filled only with images of your naked torso.”
He raises one eyebrow. “Just my torso?”
“Oh my God, shut up.”
“Don’t be shy. I’m an amazing specimen.” James is still grinning ear to ear when my phone vibrates in the pocket of my jeans. I take it out, glancing at the number.
“It’s Miller,” I say, and then click it on. “Hey.”
“Sloane?” Miller sounds like he’s been crying and sickness washes over me. I reach out and grab James’s arm.
“What’s wrong? What happened?” I say into the phone. My heart is racing in my chest.
“They’re coming for me,” he whimpers. “The Program is coming for me.”
No. “Miller, where are you?” I shoot a look at James, and he’s alternating between facing me and facing the road. His speed creeps up past eighty as we race toward town.
“I’m home,” he whispers, sounding desperate. “But it’s too late. I had to see her again.”
“Put it on speaker,” James says, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. I hit the button, and Miller’s sobbing immediately fills the space in the car. I nearly crumble, but I hold up the phone, keeping back my own tears.
In life, I don’t really get to see people cry—not anymore. James does every so often, but it’s rare. And other than that, it’s only when someone has cracked that they’ll let someone see. I never once saw my brother cry, and I was with him when he died.
“Miller,” James calls out. “Don’t do anything stupid, man. We’re on our way.”
“I just can’t . . . ,” Miller mumbles. “I can’t do it anymore. I followed Lacey to the Wellness Center and I tried to kiss her, to remind her. But she slapped me and reported me before I took off. My mom let it slip tonight that The Program is coming. They’re coming right now. But I won’t wait for them. I won’t let them take me.”
“Miller!” James shouts so loud I flinch. “What do you have?” Tears start streaming down James’s cheeks and he presses down on the accelerator, sending us over a hundred miles an hour.
“QuikDeath,” Miller mumbles. “I wish Lacey would have told me and we could have gone together. She wouldn’t have gotten hollowed out. We’d be together.”
“You can’t be together if you’re dead,” James
says. He punches his fist hard on the steering wheel, and I’m crying, looking for James to fix this. To stop it. “Miller,” he says. “Don’t do this, man. Please?”
Miller sniffles. “It’s too late,” he says, sounding far away. “I took it ten minutes ago. But I couldn’t leave without saying good-bye.” He pauses. “I love you, guys.” Then the phone goes dead.
I gag, the emotion too strong for me to contain, and James slams on the brakes, guiding us to the shoulder. He grabs the phone from where it fell on the seat, immediately dialing 911.
He’s covering his face, his body racking in sobs. “My friend,” he yells into the phone. “He took QuikDeath. . . .”
I think I pass out then, because I don’t hear anything else.
CHAPTER SEVEN
THE AMBULANCE IS GONE BY THE TIME WE GET TO Miller’s house. There’s no flurry of activity or sirens, so we know it’s too late. We sit for a long time, staring at his white house with its black shutters. James doesn’t hold my hand, and I don’t reach for his. We’re just quiet.
The sun sets behind the house and the living room light switches on. We can see Miller’s mother in the picture window, curled up on the couch. There’s another woman with her, talking and wandering around. James and I have been in houses after a death before, and it’s not a good place to be—not when we’re already so compromised.
“Miller was going to be eighteen in three months,” James says, his voice strangled, but he doesn’t bother to clear his throat. “He wouldn’t have been scared of The Program anymore. He wouldn’t have done this.”
It’s a question we often ask ourselves: Would we commit suicide without The Program, or does it help drive us there?
“I guess it doesn’t matter now,” I say, chills running over me as I continue to stare at Miller’s house. My Miller—my friend. The first day I met him he was playing with the Bunsen burner and my homework caught on fire. Instead of yelling and dropping it, he grabbed my Diet Coke and doused it. Then he looked over and asked if he could buy me another one.