“Well, you little charmer,” James says, “you went to Miller and told him to stop being an asshole. You had no idea I’d talked to him at the campsite. He went back to Lacey and apologized, she gave him a hard time, and then eventually they met up without us and became blissfully happy.” James smiles. “Miller never ratted me out, either. He let you think he was an idiot. But really it was me.”
“I can’t believe I didn’t guess that. I must have been blinded by your good looks.”
“Who isn’t?”
James pulls up to the empty spot near the grass and parks the car. We sit a minute, both of us feeling so much after the memory. “I wish I could remember,” I say, and look over at James. “But I’m glad you do.”
“I won’t stop until you know every second of our lives,” he says simply. “I won’t leave anything out. Not even the bad stuff.”
I nod. James has made that promise every day since we left Evelyn’s house. Sometimes he repeats stories, but I don’t mind. When we visit Lacey, we tell her some of them, and although she smiles, I’m not sure she really gets it. But she was well enough to finish school, take some college classes. Her therapist even thinks she’ll get feelings back one day. So we don’t give up. We never give up.
“I got you something,” James says, trying to fight back a smile.
“Is it shiny?” Really, I just want to taunt him a little.
“Not really.”
I furrow my brow. “Uh . . . is it flesh-colored?”
He laughs. “No, that’s for later.” He reaches into his pants pocket, but pauses, arresting me again with his gorgeous blue stare. “Do you remember the dream-slash-memory you had the day we were taken from the farmhouse? The one about my seed?”
“Ew, no.” I don’t remember anything about the day we left the farmhouse, not anymore. “I hope to God you’re talking about farming.”
James takes out a plastic bubble, the kind you get from a gumball machine. There’s a flash of something pink and sparkly inside. I bite my lip, giddy with the smile trying to break through.
“That looks shiny,” I say.
“I’m a great liar. Anyway”—he pops the top, taking out a ring—“you knew after that memory we loved each other madly—I think you even said I was sweet. Now I remember how I felt that day. Even then, even with everything going on, I knew I’d never let you get away.”
“Don’t you dare make me cry,” I warn, but I can already feel the burn in my eyes.
James takes my hand and slides the ring onto my finger. “I’ve given you a ring twice before,” he says, “and trust me, both times were way more romantic than this. But I’ll keep giving them to you—same Denny’s, same ring.” His smile fades into a look far too serious for a sunny afternoon. I reach to put my palm on his cheek, leaning in to kiss him.
“I’ve lost you too many times, Sloane,” he murmurs between my lips. His hand slides up my thigh, pulling it over his hip as he lays me back on the seat. His kisses are sweet but also a little sad. I try to change the mood entirely, and James quickly pulls back, laughing.
“Hey, now Miss Handsy,” he says, nodding toward the windshield. “Are we going to do this thing or what? You still have all your clothes on.”
“I think I’d rather stay in here,” I say, grabbing his belt. He playfully swats my hand away and then wraps his arm around my waist, pulling me close.
“Let’s go,” he whispers, kissing me in a way so sweet and tender, I can’t help but trust him. James climbs out of the car, and I take a steadying breath and stare out at the river. This is the first place where James kissed me, both times. I take my towel from the backseat, and with my heart thudding, I open the door.
James is standing at the top of the bank, and when he turns, his eyes are crystal blue in the sunlight. “Come on, chicken,” he says. And I smile.
* * *
“I don’t know,” James says, holding my wrist as he draws me farther into the water. “I think the problem is that you still have on far too many clothes.” I roll my eyes, my lips trembling from the ice-cold of the river water.
“You say that every time, and I’m still not convinced that’s the problem. Now shut up and do something impressive before I go to wait in the car,” I say in a shaky voice. As if on a dare he’d love to take, James grins and then dips underwater, coming up to brush back his hair.
“Don’t move,” he says, pointing at me. He begins the swim out to the dock, and I cross my arms over my bikini top as I watch him. His strokes are strong and majestic, and before he even climbs out of the water, I am already duly impressed. I whistle.
James glances over, winks, and then does a backflip into the water. I clap when he surfaces, stopping a moment to admire the new ring he so subtly put on my left hand. James starts swimming in my direction; his mouth occasionally dips below the water.
“That can be you,” he says as he gets closer.
“Baby steps.”
“Toughen up.” When he’s in front of me once again, James wraps his cold arms around me, lifting me half out the water as he kisses me. His lips are slightly cooler than mine, and it takes only a minute before my fingertips dig into the skin of his back, pulling us closer. Making us downright hot.
“Later,” he says between my lips. “I think you’re just trying to distract me.”
I laugh and give him one last peck before he sets me back down into the water. He blows out a dramatic breath, tossing me a look of mock disapproval, and then he reaches out his hand to me.
“Grab on,” he says seriously. I take his hand and let him begin to pull me deeper. “Kick your legs. Scissors, Sloane. Think of them like scissors.”
I do as he says, both of us patient—and soon my fear begins to melt away. My fear of the water. My fear of drowning. My fear of death—of life. It’s in these quiet moments since The Program that I’ve found the reason to go on. It’s not James. It’s not my parents or my friends.
I’ve found me. After all this time, after all that’s been taken and destroyed, I’ve found my way back home. I haven’t gotten any more flashes of my old life. The stress of The Program or running no longer cracks the surface of my psyche. I’ve accepted that, enjoying James’s stories in place of my memories.
And Realm, for as much as I still distrust him, has restarted his life at his old cabin. The last time he saw Dallas, he told her the truth about them—which I had forgotten from the day at the farmhouse. None of us has seen her since, but she does occasionally send me postcards from Florida. All the last one said was Don’t tell Realm.
Roger is in prison—but not for his attack on me or Dallas. Tabitha, one of the embedded handlers from The Program, pressed charges, admitting that when she was first a patient, Roger had assaulted her, too. Turns out, there were a lot of girls willing to step forward. Roger will be serving fifteen to twenty in an Oregon penitentiary and is awaiting charges relating to his role in The Program.
None of the handlers or nurses has been prosecuted yet. Dr. Warren never resurfaced, and Dr. Beckett lawyered up. Nurse Kell didn’t report me for attacking her, although the guilt still eats away at me. I wish I could tell her I’m sorry—but I’ve never had the chance. Maybe one day I will.
I haven’t heard from Cas, but Realm has spoken to him a few times. They’ve both agreed to leave Dallas alone, let her start over. Then again, I never believe anything Realm tells me anymore.
“All right,” James says, his hands supporting my weight as he takes us deeper. “I’m going to let you go, but you’ll be just fine.”
My breathing starts to become erratic, and I’m so terrified I’m not sure I can do it. “James,” I say, about to ready to grab him. He leans forward, his lips near my ear.
“Fight, Sloane,” he whispers.
I swallow hard, measure my breathing, and then give him a quick nod before I start to lap my hands. They’re uneven at first, large splashes of water coming over my face. But then I feel James’s hands leave me, the water rushing
past. James is beside me as we both head for the dock. There are a few moments when I think I won’t make it, that I’ll drown here just like Brady did. But I don’t stop.
When I reach the dock, I grab on, laughing wildly. It’s taken me all this time, all this loss, to realize what really matters is now. Not our memories. Now. And right now I’m here in the river where my brother died. With James. Swimming.
EPILOGUE
THE APARTMENT’S TOO BRIGHT WHEN Dallas walks out of her bedroom, blinking against the sunlight. She runs her palm over her short pixie cut, momentarily missing her long dreads. Her roommate left the coffeemaker full before she took off for work, and Dallas murmurs her appreciation as she fills a cup and drinks it black. Dallas’s shift at Trader Joe’s doesn’t start until noon, and she plans to spend the morning doing absolutely nothing. A plus of no longer being on the run.
She glances at her short nails, which she’s been biting obsessively. It’s a side effect—a way to process the trauma without actually freaking out and murdering anyone. She also goes to counseling—real therapy now that The Program is gone—to deal with some of her anger issues. Of course, she doesn’t always tell the truth—not about the parts that still hurt. And she plans to skip today’s session; she has an actual date later tonight, and frankly, that’s more important.
At the thought, Dallas smiles, sipping again from her coffee as she takes out her phone to scroll through her messages. One of the other cashiers—Wade—asked her out last night. He doesn’t know about Dallas’s past, doesn’t even know she’s been through The Program. It’s sort of a taboo now. No one talks about handlers. No one asks about the past. She’s not sure if keeping secrets is healthy—she suspects her shrink wouldn’t think so—but she likes that she’s able to start over here, in Florida.
The few messages on Dallas’s phone are from Wade. He has a dry sort of humor that she enjoys. He’s not like the other guys she’s dated, but maybe that’s why she likes him. He’s safe, kind of boring. Kind of good. Dallas swallows hard and sets her phone down.
Aside from her hair, there are a few other things that Dallas misses. She misses her friendship with Cas—even though it hurts to remember sometimes. Despite his involvement with The Program, she still believes he was her friend. She has to believe it. She even misses Sloane, who, although annoying, turned out to be tougher than she ever imagined. And one of the best friends she’s ever had. She sends Sloane postcards once in a while, just to let her know she’s alive. But she doesn’t want her to show them to anyone. Especially Realm.
At his name, Dallas quickly stands and drains the rest of her coffee, eager to push the thought of Realm far from her head. She goes about cleaning the kitchen and then slips her arms into a robe to go check the mail from yesterday.
The air outside the duplex is humid, and even the early-morning sunshine is bright. When she first moved here, Dallas loved the sunshine. It made her feel alive, healthy. Now she’s used to it, and it’s beginning to lose its charm. She thinks about Oregon some days—visiting Sloane and James. But she never does.
Resting on the wooden slats in front of the mailbox is a small leather case. Dallas takes a quick glance around her quiet street, her heart thumping, before she picks it up. The mailbox lid is lifted by a few oversize flyers, and she crumples them in her hand and heads back inside.
Her paranoia will never really fade. She knows that much. Dallas drops the junk mail into the trash and then sets the case on the kitchen table. Her fingers shake as she reaches inside, and when she pulls out a picture, she stumbles sideways into the chair. It’s her, a picture of her before The Program. Soft blond hair, a hoodie—a normal girl. And next to her is Realm. Smiling.
There are other pictures, and tears fall over Dallas’s cheeks as her entire past unfolds in front of her. She frantically sorts through all the photos, the notes. She has no idea how any of this stuff was saved, but she figures they’re probably not hers at all. They’re Realm’s.
The last thing Dallas finds in the case is a postcard much like the ones she sends to Sloane. It’s from Florida, from her very town, and has a bright-orange sunset streaked across the sky. Dallas’s breath catches in her throat when she looks down at the message scrawled across the white background. It’s not signed, it’s not addressed. It holds only two words, two words that cut through Dallas and make her dissolve into sobs; heavy, aching sobs that both break her down and build her up. The doubt that’s haunted her, the self-hatred, eases slightly, and she knows now she can heal.
Dallas wipes her cheeks and stands. She’s going to get ready for work and pick out her outfit for her date tonight. She’s going to do everything she wants to do. She’s going to accept that good things can happen to her.
Dallas closes the leather case, set to store it away in her closet. She looks at the message one last time, memorizes it, and then leaves the postcard on the table before she walks away.
You matter.
SUZANNE YOUNG currently lives in Tempe, Arizona, where she teaches high school English. When not writing obsessively, Suzanne can be found searching her own tragic memories for inspiration. She is the author of several books for teens, including A Need So Beautiful and A Want So Wicked. Learn more at www.suzanne-young.blogspot.com.
Simon Pulse
SIMON & SCHUSTER, NEW YORK
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ALSO BY SUZANNE YOUNG
The Program
Just Like Fate
with Cat Patrick
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
SIMON PULSE
An imprint of Simon & Schuster Children’s Publishing Division
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First Simon Pulse hardcover edition April 2014
Text copyright © 2014 by Suzanne Young
Jacket photograph and case photograph of couple copyright © 2014 by Michael Frost
Case photograph of tray and photo-illustration copyright © 2014 by Steve Gardner/PixelWorks Studios
Jacket and case design by Russell Gordon
Author photograph by Dawn Martin
All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Young, Suzanne.
The Treatment / Suzanne Young. — First Simon Pulse hardcover edition.
p. cm.
Sequel to: The Program.
Summary: Working with rebels to bring down The Program, a suicide prevention treatment in which painful memories are erased, Sloane and James consider taking The Treatment to unlock their memories.
[1. Suicide—Fiction. 2. Government, Resistance to—Fiction. 3. Memory—Fiction. 4. Love—Fiction. 5. Science fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.Y887Tr 2014 [Fic]—dc23 2013042326
ISBN 978-1-4424-4583-3
ISBN 978-1-4424-4585-7 (eBook)
Suzanne Young, The Treatment
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