There was a picture, I remember desperately. I run to the trash, falling to my knees next to the desk. But when I tip it over, the bin is empty.
“No,” I say. “Where is it? There was a picture!”
I pull my knees up to my chest, hugging them to me. I lower my pounding head, trying to piece together my identity. I try to call up the picture, but the image is fuzzy. But where did I get it in the first place? Where is my home?
“Deacon,” I murmur, lifting my head. I have to find Deacon.
I use the desk to pull myself up. I’m unsteady, but gaining purpose. I spy a set of keys on the top of the dresser, and I snatch them up and race for the closet. There’s a backpack on the floor and I grab a couple of items of clothing and shove them inside. I pull the straps over my shoulders and listen for a moment. The hallway has gone quiet, and I imagine the woman is on the phone, calling for help. I don’t want to be here when that help arrives.
I slide open the window and slip outside, dropping onto the ground. Splatters of rain hit my face, and I look up. It’s raining again. Or is it always raining?
The key to the Jetta is marked, and I quickly get inside, tossing my backpack onto the passenger seat. I have the vague idea that Deacon lives in Corvallis, but I don’t have a way to get ahold of him. I don’t remember his number, and I don’t know where a phone is anyway. I step on the gas, back out of the driveway, and race toward the freeway, hoping muscle memory will take me where I need to go. The pain in my head is nearly unbearable—it’s probably dangerous for me to drive. But I need help. I need something familiar.
* * *
The drive is torturous, and no matter what I do, I can’t warm up. I’ve avoided my reflection in the mirror, terrified of what I’ll see. Who I’ll see. My senses tell me I’m Quinlan McKee, but then there’s also Catalina Barnes. No, I think. She was the assignment. At least I think she was the assignment.
Even though an image of Deacon comes to mind, I can’t place him, can’t figure out how I know him. My body is on autopilot and I find the exit for Corvallis. The landmarks start to look vaguely familiar, but I can’t hold on to any specific memory. I think I’m broken.
My panic continues to grow as random images flash through my mind, splitting open my head with too much information. Too many people. I find the street near the college, sure I’m going in the right direction. I see the small house with a big porch, and now the pain starts in my chest. It starts in my heart.
I shut off the car, shaking uncontrollably as I wait in the driveway. I’ve lost my identity and I’m not sure how to get it back. What if I’m stuck like this—a collage of other people’s lives? Who am I with other people’s memories?
I open the door, and the sound of rain hitting the car drowns out my staggered breaths. The rain has soaked through my shirt, and I wrap my arms around myself. It doesn’t help.
What if I really am Catalina Barnes and I just ran out of my house? What if Quinlan is the assignment and I’m confused? Or I could be someone else entirely. I look at Deacon’s darkened porch and debate driving back to Lake Oswego, demanding that the woman in the pink pajamas explain everything to me.
I’m so alone. I’m so alone it’s like there’s a hole in my chest and my life is bleeding out. I don’t want to be empty anymore.
I start toward the house, my feet sloshing in my shoes. The soles squeak as I climb the steps, and once under the cover of the porch roof, I ring the doorbell, holding myself up with my palm against the door frame.
The light clicks on above me, and I wipe absently at the rain that’s running off my hair onto my forehead. When the door opens, Deacon is first silhouetted against the light in his hallway. I can’t see his face. What if I don’t know him? What if I’m completely crazy? I cover my mouth, starting to cry because I’m so damn scared.
Deacon springs forward and grabs me, pulling me to him. He’s wearing a thin white cotton T-shirt, and his skin is hot in comparison to mine. I can’t talk because my teeth are chattering so hard. I close my eyes, pressing my sore cheek into his chest, flattening my hand over his heart.
“What happened?” he asks. He runs his palms over my arms to warm me up. “Jesus, Quinn. Are you okay?”
Quinn. Slowly, I pull back and look up at him. He doesn’t hesitate in touching me, brushing away the water running over my forehead, holding my face as his gaze travels over me.
“What is this?” he asks, running his finger delicately over my jaw. His posture hardens and he darts an enraged look into the darkness beyond the porch. “Who did this to you?” he demands.
“I don’t remember,” I say. I stare at him, recognizing his eyes, his mouth. I like all of his pieces, like how they’re put together. “I’m cold,” I say in a small voice. The sound of it seems to weaken him, and he wraps his arm around my shoulders and walks me inside the house.
“I’ve got you,” he says gently. “I’m here.” He turns and scans the porch, and after seeing nothing in the rain, he closes the door and bolts it.
CHAPTER SEVEN
I’M SHAKING—MY WET CLOTHES clinging to my body, my lips quivering.
“You’re freezing,” Deacon murmurs, and brings me into the living room. He sets me down on the couch and grabs the blanket from the cushion behind me, wraps it over my shoulders.
“How long have you been in the rain?” he asks, kneeling in front of me to unlace my shoes. When he removes my sneaker, water pours from the heel. He groans, annoyed that I’d be so careless, and peels off my socks. The minute my skin touches air, my toes feel a little nicer.
“I don’t remember,” I tell him for the second time. “Maybe a while. I was walking in it, I think.”
“God, Quinn,” he snaps, clearly pissed off. “Who’s watching out for you? They can’t just—” He stops and glances up, apologetic for his tone. He motions to my face. “We should put some ice on that before it bruises,” he says more gently.
I reach to touch my jaw, but the pain has started to fade. “Doesn’t matter if it does,” I tell him. “I can’t stand to look at myself. Deacon . . . I don’t know who I am.”
His expression falls, his eyes widening at my statement. “What do you mean?” he asks, sounding terrified.
“I can’t remember who I am,” I say. “I’m not sure what’s real anymore.”
Deacon curses, shaking his head. “I told them it was too soon.” He reaches to take my hands, leveling our gazes. “You’re real,” he says sternly. My mind is swirling, unsure, and I squeeze my fingers between his, testing the feeling. It’s foreign, as if this is the fake life.
I stare down at our hands, unclear of our relationship. Our past. “He loves me, you know,” I say quietly. Deacon flinches. “Isaac told me he loves me.”
Deacon is quiet for a long moment, and I look over to find his face haunted. “And do you love him?” he asks.
“I thought maybe I did.”
Deacon pulls away and drops back into a sitting position on the floor. He bends his knees, rests his elbows on them, and puts his hand over his forehead to block his eyes. “Well, fuck,” he murmurs.
I feel his reaction in my chest, a bright pain that spreads outward from my heart. He’s devastated at the thought of me loving someone else. “He thinks I’m Catalina,” I say. I’m scared of the next question. “Am I?”
Deacon’s throat clicks as he swallows, and when he drops his arm, I see the skin around his eyes has reddened, his emotions bleeding through. “No,” he says. He crawls back over to pause in front of me, but he doesn’t touch me again. “You are not Catalina.”
I don’t know what to think. I run my fingers through my wet hair, noticing the short length. My mind flips back and forth between my memories, a picture of me and Isaac, him staring adoringly at the side of my face. “No,” I say uncertainly. “I am Catalina Barnes.” My voice cracks, and I’m overcome with the heaviest sense of loss. Too heavy to carry. Too dark. Too painful.
“You’re not her,” Deacon says, movi
ng closer. I’m still shivering, but the heat from his body is fire next to me, radiating warmth.
My memories continue to swirl, but then I remember thinking that Deacon is always here for me. But not anymore. Now it’s Isaac. But Isaac can’t help me. I can’t tell him how I feel because I don’t want to make him sad.
“Quinn,” Deacon says in a voice that’s utterly heartbroken. “Come back. Be here with me.” He takes my hand again and brings it against his mouth like he’s pleading with me. “Please,” he murmurs into my skin.
I blink slowly, watching him as he starts to unravel, worried sick that I’ll never come back to reality. Worried that he’s lost me for good. The pain in my head flashes bright white, and I squeeze my eyes shut. In that moment I think of Deacon—a memory that I lost somewhere along the way.
* * *
“I have the perfect place,” Deacon said, propped up on his elbows while we lay in the overgrown grass in my backyard. He had a red pen, and he was drawing a tattoo on my ribs, tickling me with each stroke.
“Don’t say your bedroom,” I said, and laughed.
He flashed me a smile, but then leaned in closer to see his art. “No,” he said. “That’s your perfect place. No, I’m thinking we’ll go to Europe. New identities, espionage, all that shit.”
I smiled, turning my head to watch him as I lay on my back. “That’s the stupidest idea I’ve ever heard. Besides,” I said, “we both have a while on our contracts, so maybe we can pick a place closer to town.”
He stopped drawing, glancing up at me. His eyes holding mine, he leaned in and kissed my skin, right where he was drawing. My eyes fluttered closed and I ran my fingers through his hair. He kissed me again.
“Your dad is never going to let you out of your contract,” he said, slowly kissing his way up my body. “So Europe, fake mustaches, all of that is in our future.” When his mouth got to my neck and he slid his body over mine, I decided I’d go wherever he wanted. He stilled, just short of kissing my lips.
I gazed up at him, completely and totally in love. “Let’s run away together,” I whispered. To that he smiled—broad and handsome. And then he leaned down and kissed me.
* * *
I take in a sharp breath, the world around me slowly coming back into focus, coming alive as the pieces fill in around me. Deacon is still watching me, lost in his concern, murmuring that I’ll be all right, he’s sure of it.
“I’m Quinlan McKee,” I say weakly. Deacon chokes out a relieved cry. “I drive a beat-up old Honda,” I continue, “with the check-engine light on.”
Deacon laughs, wiping away the tears that have streamed down his cheeks. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, your car’s a piece of shit.”
“And I’m here with you,” I tell him, the numbness fading from my skin, my blood circulating again as if I’ve been holding it frozen in my veins. I look around, taking in Deacon’s living room. There are papers and magazines strewn about, like he was in the middle of research. There are embers in the fire although it’s nearly summer. Drawings doodled on the backs of pages, some that look like me. Everything’s different but still the same. But I’m alive. I’m home.
When I turn back to Deacon, he smiles. “Hey,” he says quietly, as if I’ve only just shown up and didn’t come into his house like an emotional tornado.
“Hey.” I take a breath and exhale, deep and cleansing. This was what I needed, who I needed to see to remember. I gave him all of my trust once, and because of that, he holds my identity. He can always remind me of who I am.
“Tell me what you need,” Deacon says. “Do you want another blanket? Are you hungry? Because I can make you something to eat.”
He’s good to me. Despite the hurt in our past, I know he cares deeply. And I loved him madly—I think I still do. Those beautiful brown eyes, his serious expression. The freckles across the bridge of his nose. His is the face I see when I think of home.
I reach to comb my fingers through his hair, brushing it aside and off his forehead, gazing at him. Letting my hand run over his cheek, onto his shoulder, down his arm.
This touch is different and he senses it; his chest rises and falls a little faster. He gets up on his knees to come closer, wanting this as much as I do. Everything about him warms to me, calls to me. I lean in and kiss him.
My lips brush over his, softly at first. He tastes like cinnamon and my heart beats recklessly. I kiss him harder. There’s a light touch as he licks my lower lip, and I moan, aching for him. He deepens our kiss, sending sparks all over my body. I’m wild and careless; I clutch at his shirt to drag him closer. Deacon pauses, breathing fast against me like he’s afraid he’s losing control.
“Don’t stop,” I murmur, wanting to be lost with him. Lost and free.
Without hesitation our mouths crash together again. Deacon yanks off my wet T-shirt, growling his approval when I tug at his. He pushes me back on the couch and pulls at the rest of my clothes, kissing his way down my body. His touch burns my skin and I love it. I love him.
I close my eyes, reminded of our every moment, our every feeling. And it isn’t until later, when we’re pressed together on this small, cushioned space, that he holds himself above me, breathless and shaky.
“What are we doing, Quinn?” he asks.
“Being more than friends,” I tell him.
He doesn’t laugh, doesn’t say anything else. Instead he looks down at me, completely and utterly defenseless. He’s mine, I think.
I reach for him, let him consume me. We block out the entire world, and we’re left with just us. There’s no more pretending or protecting—I give in. We both do. And this time we try to give each other what we’ve both always wanted most: love, the kind we don’t have to say.
* * *
I slept in Deacon’s bed last night, not in Catalina’s, where her parents have probably been up waiting. Maybe they’ve called Marie, called my father. Instead of worrying about it, I snuggle against Deacon, my thigh over his while he plays with my hair. He was here when I woke up late this morning, long past my internal alarm. He was with me all night. He’s different now—I can feel it. He’s no longer scared of getting too close to me.
With my fingernail, I trace a heart shape into his skin just above where his heart would be. I draw a little arrow stabbing through it, and hear him laugh.
“That’s you,” he says. “The arrow in my heart.”
“So I’m a wound?”
“Definitely. Deep one too. Lots of scar tissue.”
I slap his chest, and he rolls me over, pinning me beneath him. He kisses me on the nose, and then stares down at me. He looks thoughtful for a moment, and then uses his thumb to scrub my cheek, like he’s rubbing off makeup. He smiles, does it again to the other side. “There you are,” he whispers. He leans down to kiss my lips and then smiles at me again. “Missed this face,” he says. “Missed kissing it.”
I laugh and push him off, but like magnets we’re snuggling close again. The room is warm, and outside, a bit of light filters in through the gauzy curtains. Shining right on us. My headache is gone; my heart is contented. I told Deacon everything about my time as Catalina Barnes, even the parts where I totally screwed up.
“Still can’t believe that girl sucker punched you,” Deacon says, not even the slightest bit amused. “What a bitch.”
I exhale, relieved it didn’t bruise beyond a slight red mark. “She was grieving,” I say, although I shouldn’t make an excuse for her violence. But in truth, I understand it. Isaac and I were living in a fantasy world—we needed to be stopped.
“I think I’ve made things worse for that entire family,” I tell Deacon. He shifts beneath me, and I know he doesn’t really want to talk about it. Mentioning that I thought I might love Isaac was a bit of a dagger, I’m sure, especially after how hurt Deacon had looked at the batting cages. Of course, I understand now that I really didn’t love Isaac. I mean, yes, I was attracted to him, but more than anything, I liked the way he felt about Catalina. I
liked having a normal life where we could be together and do normal couple things. I liked how easy it was with him. At least for a while.
“What should I do?” I ask Deacon.
He’s quiet, thinking it over. “We leave,” he says. “I’ll get us tickets to wherever you want to go. We don’t tell Marie or Aaron. We definitely don’t tell your dad.” He tightens his arms around me. “We just go.”
I sit up and look at him, my eyebrows pulled together. “And leave that family to suffer?” I ask, incredulous. “I made them worse, Deacon. How can I live with that?”
“It’s not your fault,” he says, adjusting the blanket as he moves to rest against the headboard. “This is all on your father.”
“Stop,” I say, exhausted with him always heaping the blame on my dad. Yes, my father shouldn’t have sent me, but I’m the one who failed.
Deacon sighs and stares up at the ceiling, trying to compose himself. “Fine,” he concedes. “Do you want help finding another closer to go in and finish it?”
I lower my eyes, a small twinge of jealousy hitting me at the idea of another person taking my place, even if it’s my place as a replacement. I begin to chew on my thumbnail, trying to imagine how I could adjust the family’s therapy, redirect them in time for the party on Friday. I shake my head, looking at Deacon and knowing he’s not going to like my answer. “It has to be me,” I tell him.
He tightens his jaw. “You almost lost yourself,” he says in a controlled voice. “You can’t go back there. No.”
“I have to,” I say. “I owe it to her parents. And to Isaac.”
“You don’t,” he disagrees. “You really don’t owe anyone anything, Quinn. You can walk away. We can walk away.”
“I have to put this right. After that, I’ll talk to my dad. See what can be done about the contract. But I won’t turn my back on the Barnes family. It’s not right.”
Deacon stares at me like he can’t believe what I’m saying. “What else do I need to do?” he asks. “I’ll give you anything, Quinn. But what else can I possibly do to make you stay?”