“There she is,” Deacon announces the minute I appear in the entry. He’s on the couch in the living room, and he holds up an oversize blue plastic cup in cheers. He takes a sip, his eyes trained on me like he can already tell something’s wrong. The girl next to him casts a curious look in my direction and then laughs and touches his thigh to get his attention. Deacon flinches, but turns to her and smiles—charming as ever. A little farther down the wall I find Aaron, his phone in his hand as Myra sits beside him, prattling on about something close to his ear. Aaron hits a button and music starts to play. He notices my shirt and snorts, and I offer him a sarcastic wave. Awesome—guess I’m fifth-wheeling it. Aaron could have told me Deacon had a girl tonight.
Without speaking out loud, I turn and stroll down the hallway toward the kitchen. There’s a pizza box, empty except for two partially devoured crusts. Several two-liters of soda are open, along with a bottle of Jack Daniel’s. I don’t want to risk a hangover, so I don’t bother with the alcohol. I pour some Sprite into a cup and take out my phone, check for any messages. I don’t have any, of course. The only people who would call me are sitting in the other room.
This time last year, Deacon, Aaron, and I were at Deacon’s, hanging out on his back porch. It was unseasonably warm, and Aaron busted out a small camping grill he’d picked up at the convenience store. It could only cook one hamburger and a few hot dogs at a time, but we didn’t mind. There were cold drinks in the cooler, the smoky smell of fire signaling the upcoming summer. Deacon and I were dating then, and he was sitting on the stair below my feet, the side of his head resting on my thigh as we listened to Aaron talk about a new band he’d gone to see. That night seemed to last forever, the three of us hanging out and normal—or as close to normal as we could be. What I wouldn’t give to have that back for even a second.
I take another sip of soda and then rest my hip against the granite counter. Normally I’d be in there with them, but right now I’m feeling a bit abandoned. I haven’t been home twenty-four hours and I’ve already got another assignment. I’m not even fully me again.
“Hey, sad face,” Deacon says from the doorway, startling me. I plan to roll my eyes or do something equally uninterested, but when I turn to him, he reads my misery too quickly. Deacon drains what’s left in his cup and sets it on the counter before starting toward me. Tears sting my eyes, and I turn away so he won’t see. I don’t want to go.
Deacon wraps his arms around me from behind and rests his chin on the top of my head. He sways me to the awful song that Aaron’s playing in the other room, soothing me by distraction. Deacon’s body is warm, strong—a tether to my real life.
“What’s all this about?” he asks, sounding worried. “You’re home now.”
“I wish,” I murmur, putting my hands on his forearms to keep him close. “I have another assignment.”
Deacon stills; both of us know the implications of taking back-to-back cases. He tightens his arms around me. “No,” he says simply. “Your father can’t send you out again. It’s too dangerous. Tell him you need therapy instead.”
“Not a chance,” I respond. Deacon knows I would never volunteer for therapy. Closers covet their privacy, me especially. He also knows I’ve already made up my mind about this assignment or I wouldn’t have told him in the first place. But there’s no point in dwelling on tomorrow—this is my only night home. “Besides,” I tell him in a lighter tone, “only the really screwed-up people go to therapy. Look how you turned out.”
Deacon chuckles and starts to sway me again. “Aw, come on,” he says, leaning down to brush his lips over my temple. “You afraid of what the counselors will find in the steel-trap brain of yours? You keeping secrets, Quinlan?”
The levity eases the heaviness I’ve been carrying since last night. “A few,” I tell him. “But only the really sordid ones.”
“That so?” he asks in a low voice. I close my eyes as his fingers skim over my hip. “Then maybe we should talk about them,” he murmurs. “I’m an excellent listener.”
The music from the other room cuts abruptly, and Aaron announces, “I think Deacon’s in the bathroom, Shelly.”
I open my eyes. Aaron’s voice is a cold splash of water on my desire, sobering me up to reality. Deacon laughs at Aaron’s obvious attempt to warn us that Deacon’s date is looking for him. Not that we needed his cover; we weren’t doing anything wrong. Not really.
I untangle myself from Deacon’s arms, and he hums out his protest, holding on a second longer than necessary. When we’re finally apart, he reaches past me to grab a bottle from the counter. Our proximity is still too close. Too connected. I move farther down the granite slab and change the subject.
“So Shelly seems nice,” I tell him. “Been seeing her long?”
Deacon holds up the bottle to offer me a drink, but I shake my head no.
“Just met her tonight.” He studies me for a moment, trying to guess my feelings on the subject. “She’s awful handsy, isn’t she?” he asks. “I feel so objectified.”
I snort a laugh but secretly agree that she did seem to be all over him. In the hallway the echo of his date’s approaching heels is ominous, and Deacon lifts his eyebrow like he’s asking if we should make a run for it instead. I won’t let him off that easy.
“He’s in here, Shelly,” I call, staring straight at him. He’s made his bed. If Deacon doesn’t like his date, that’s his issue. I’m not going to be the excuse for him to get out of it.
“Cold,” he mutters, and sips from his drink.
I pick up my Sprite and turn to leave. The girl appears in the doorway, her huge saucer eyes lighting up the minute she finds Deacon standing at the counter. I take that as my cue to exit the scene. Poor thing. This girl probably has no idea that she’s hooking up with a closer. I doubt she’d be here if she did.
She smiles at me as I pass, unsure but polite out of habit. She’s a bit more aggressive than his usual dates, but they’re all fairly sweet. Deacon honest-to-God likes nice girls—it’s one of his better qualities. Of course, once they learn what he does (or did) for a living, they’re freaked out. The job isn’t glamorous, and most people think we’re terrifying—like we’re somehow to blame for the deaths of the people we play. We make them confront their own mortality, and for the most part people don’t enjoy being around someone who’s great at impersonating the recently deceased.
When I reenter the living room, Aaron grins like he figures I owe him for warning us that Deacon’s girl was looking for him. Just so he’ll drop it, I mutter a “thanks” and take a seat on the couch closest to him and Myra.
Myra’s sitting on the hardwood floor, her shoulders in between Aaron’s knees while he twists tiny braids into her hair. She holds the comb, and with every new row Aaron brushes the teeth along her scalp to smooth down her curls. She flashes her heavily lined eyes in my direction.
“How are you?” she asks with little warmth.
I lower my head, not wanting to betray any emotion. “Fine.”
“Don’t look fine,” she says. The room fills with a heavy silence, and I have to remind myself that I shouldn’t feel this much disappointment. I can’t be so selfish.
“That’s because Quinn’s got another assignment,” Deacon announces, walking into the room. Shelly trails behind, pausing awkwardly when Deacon sits next to me. “Counselors are sending her in tomorrow,” he tells Aaron and Myra.
“What?” Shelly asks from the doorway, looking around the room at all of us. The color drains from her cheeks, and she folds her thin arms over her chest. “You’re closers?” But she spits the word like it’s filthy. Myra groans because she knows what comes next, and Aaron and I exchange expectant looks.
“I’m not a closer,” Deacon says earnestly, pointing to himself. “But she is.” He hikes his thumb in my direction. I quickly slap it away. Deacon continues with his helpful explanation. “He’s a total closer,” he tells Shelly, motioning toward Aaron. He frowns at Myra. “But not her.”
Shelly’s shoulders relax slightly, eased by Deacon’s tongue-in-cheek introductions. But then Deacon winces like he forgot to mention something. “Actually,” he says apologetically, “I used to be a closer too. A really good one. Now I’m just the guy who hangs out with them. I have no other actual life skills.”
Aaron positively busts up, covering his mouth and laying his head on the arm of his chair while his body shakes with laughter. Shelly is wide-eyed, trying to determine if Deacon is serious or not. When her gaze falls on me, my smile fades. All at once her judgment hits me square in the chest, a heavy weight on my already thin conscience.
“You take advantage of people’s suffering,” she says, staring me down like I’m dirt. “You take their money and lie to them, rewrite their lives. You’re disgusting.”
“Hey, hey,” Deacon tells Shelly, holding out his hand. He looks between me and her, but I don’t acknowledge him. I glare at Shelly, all of the humor in the room sucked away by her ignorance.
“I don’t exploit people,” I say evenly. “They come to me for comfort, for peace. I help them with their grief.”
She scoffs. “Think what you want,” she says. “But around here we know the truth. You’re pariahs, a bunch of—”
“Okay,” Myra calls out, her temper flared. “Enough of you, Little Miss Sunshine.” Myra yanks the comb out of Aaron’s hand and scrambles to her feet. Aaron quickly jumps up and wraps his arm around her waist to hold her back. Myra jabs the comb in Shelly’s direction. “I suggest you take your noisy-ass shoes and walk them out my door before I let Quinlan beat the hell out of you.”
I turn quickly to Myra, sure she knows I’ve never been in a fight in my life. Her braids are unfinished, springing up at the ends and making her look unhinged. Her bluff works, though; Shelly takes a step back.
“Go to hell,” she tells all of us in a shaky voice. She stomps out the door and slams it shut behind her. The pictures on the wall rattle from the force, and Myra slowly works herself back down to the floor, holding up the comb to Aaron so he can finish her hair.
We’re quiet. Deacon’s staring straight ahead, looking sorry that he let the situation get out of hand. He’s apologetic when he turns to me, but it’s not his fault. We’re used to people hating us.
“Well, she was a bitch,” I say.
It takes a second, but then Deacon laughs. “Yeah, I think I missed the warning signs there,” he says, rubbing his jaw.
“Bet she knew one of the assignments,” Aaron comments, sitting back in the chair. “Friend from school, cousin, or something.” He nods, agreeing with himself. “That was some visceral hatred.”
He’s right—she’s probably lost someone in the past and it’s colored her perception. People who aren’t directly involved in the therapy have a different opinion of us, but it’s because they don’t understand. Her words leave a sting on my skin, though, but soon they’re drowned out by my other worries.
Myra taps her braids and then pulls the rubber band from around her wrist. “Here,” she tells Aaron, passing it up to him. “We’ll finish later.” Aaron ties off the ends, and Myra moves to sit next to him in the oversize chair. She looks at me, and when I meet her eyes, her expression softens.
“You’ve really got another assignment?” she asks. “I thought that wasn’t allowed.” She turns to Aaron with concern, maybe afraid he’ll be sent away too. Aaron’s face has gone ashen, his jaw tight as the reality hits him.
“It isn’t really allowed,” he says quietly to Myra. His dark eyes meet mine. “Who is the girl?”
I shrug. “Just a girl,” I say. “There’s nothing in her file that makes her special—it’s a little more in-depth, sure, but not special.” I think on it for a second. “Her death certificate was in there, but it said ‘undetermined.’ ”
Deacon moves to the edge of the couch, his hands folded between his knees as he leans forward. “Her death certificate was in her file? What did your dad say about it?”
“Nothing. Said they were still waiting for the autopsy results. The girl’s parents are his patients and he’s afraid he can’t help them. He said this is an emergency. They’re sending me in for two weeks.” Myra gasps and I hear Aaron curse under his breath.
“They should be in therapy,” Deacon responds. “This breaks every protocol. I can’t believe your father is seriously considering this. He shouldn’t put you at risk to help them.”
“The assignment’s coming from Arthur Pritchard,” I say, and his eyes widen. “Besides, I’ve already agreed. It’s the right thing to do.”
Deacon scoffs and sits back on the couch, grabbing his drink from the side table to take a long sip. He’s only looking out for me, but my job is to provide closure. My dad’s right—I save people.
A heavy silence fills the room, no one sure what to say next, especially when Deacon is clearly pissed off. But I haven’t told them everything yet.
“I’ll have a boyfriend,” I say quietly, and take a sip from my Sprite. They all turn to me.
“What?” Aaron asks, exchanging a look with Deacon.
“Catalina has a boyfriend named Isaac,” I say. “My dad wants him to be part of the closure.”
“Tell him to fuck off,” Deacon responds. “That’s not allowed.”
I shoot him a pointed look to remind him that he’s talking about my dad. Deacon closes his eyes and I can actually see him try to gather his thoughts before speaking again.
“Sorry,” he says in a controlled voice. “Politely tell your father no, Quinn. You’re not a relationship counselor. If this dude needs closure, it’s because he’s still in love with his dead girlfriend. What if he transfers that to you? What if he falls in love with you instead? That’s why this shit isn’t allowed. And you’re not going to be yourself—you’ll be her.” He says her like it annoys him, like she’s already betrayed him. “What if you . . .” He stops and shakes his head out of aggravation.
“She’s not going to hook up with him, Deacon,” Myra says. “She knows the rules.” I thank her for her vote of confidence and she nods to me. See—she’s not always horrible. “Now,” Myra continues, “it’s been a long night already. Are we going to keep obsessing about Quinn’s imaginary love life, or are we going to have fun? I spent ten dollars at the damn Redbox renting crappy movies with explosions. Yeah?” She looks around at us, and Aaron laughs—the sound deep and hearty in the sad little room.
“Yeah,” he says, leaning over to kiss her. Deacon doesn’t agree, but his hand brushes my hair as he wraps his arm around the back of the sofa and settles in. We don’t mention Isaac again. We don’t mention Shelly or assignments. We spend the next few hours watching mindless entertainment and pretending our lives are normal. We’re always pretending.
* * *
Deacon yawns loudly from behind me while the credits roll across the screen. Aaron is braiding Myra’s hair again, but they both look like they’re about to fall asleep. I guess it’s time to call it a night. Reluctantly (because I don’t want to rush tomorrow), I climb up and stretch. When I turn, Deacon is smiling at me.
“What?” I ask.
“Can I have a lift home?” he asks sweetly. “My ride ran out of here in a blind rage, wishing me dead.” Myra glances over curiously for my response.
“Yeah, fine. Grab your stuff,” I tell him, waving my hand. He jumps up, grinning madly, and goes over to bump fists with Aaron and pick up his backpack in the corner. Myra lifts her eyebrows and I shake my head. “What?” I ask her. “He doesn’t have a ride.”
“Please, girl,” she says with a laugh. “He was planning on leaving with you all along.”
I look behind me and watch as Deacon slips on his sneakers, standing on one foot with surprising dexterity. “Either way,” I tell Myra, “I still would have given him a ride home.”
“I know.” She comes over and pulls me into a lilac-scented hug. We stay like that a long second, both knowing this a real good-bye, at least for now. That’s the thing ab
out Myra—she may not be a closer, but she understands what the job takes and how it affects us. “We’ll see you in a few weeks, okay?” she says quietly. She pulls back and I have to press my lips together to keep from blubbering like an idiot. I nod, and then hold up my hand in a wave to Aaron. He can barely even look at me but tries to smile anyway. I say good night, and then Deacon and I leave.
* * *
I pull into Deacon’s driveway and he sets down the empty to-go cup we got from the drive-through. He caps the pen he grabbed from my console and then turns the cup in the holder so I can see his drawing. He draws on everything. “Look,” he says. “It’s us.” I glance at the new school–style figures and respective . . . positions before lifting my gaze to Deacon’s.
“Oh, yeah?” I ask. “And what exactly are we doing?”
Deacon chuckles and tosses the pen into the console before unclicking his seat belt. “Don’t be gross—we’re playing cricket, obviously.” I tilt my head and realize that with a lot of creative license, that could be true. “So . . . ,” he says with a devilish little smile. “Want to come in for a while?” Pinpricks race up my arms; there’s a flutter in my stomach under his attention. This would be so much easier if I didn’t find him completely adorable.
“Uh, no. I don’t think so,” I respond with a laugh, and look away.
“Come on,” he says playfully. “Before you have a boyfriend.”
“You sound jealous.”
“I am,” he says immediately. “I most definitely am.”
“Oh, stop,” I tell him. “He won’t really be my boyfriend, you know.”
“Yeah, I know,” he says, and looks out the windshield toward his house. When he turns back to me, his smile softens. “We’ll stay downstairs,” he offers quietly. “Clothes on.”
There’s a pang in my chest, an impending loneliness. “And then what?” I ask. I’m making a point, but part of me wants an answer I know he can’t give.