The Remedy Read Online Free PDF

thing I ripped mine out. It was a pain in the ass. Much like you. Be right back.” He stands and leaves the room. I hear him moving around in the kitchen, and then he returns with a glass of water. He holds out the drink and a tiny white pill that he says will help me sleep. I sit up and take both appreciatively.
    “You should think about changing your methods,” he continues when I lie back down. “If not for you, then maybe for my peace of mind.” He covers me with the blanket and kisses my forehead. “Yell if you need me, okay? Unless you want me to stay.”
    “No, you get some sleep,” I tell him. We pause for a long moment as he decides whether or not I mean it. I smile softly. “You’re a good friend,” I murmur.
    This makes him chuckle because it’s our new go-to phrase whenever either of us has the inclination to discuss the possibility of hooking up. Keeps us grounded. “It’s too bad, right?” he asks, straightening up. “Bet it’s hell looking at this face all the time.” He models his jawline, narrowing his eyes.
    “I can barely restrain myself most days,” I say. “But, luckily, you talk. And the spell is broken.”
    “Asshole,” he says with a laugh. We say good night, and then Deacon goes upstairs. I listen to the creaking floorboards above me as he walks across his room, silence when he gets into bed.
    Some days I really do wish it would have worked out with us—times like now, when I’m all alone. I could lie to myself—slip into his bed tonight and pretend we’re different. But in the morning Deacon would be cold, act like it was a mistake. I’d rather not tear open that old wound. We’re better off this way, just like I told Aaron.
    I close my eyes, and in the quiet I think about my future: six more months of pretending before I can live my life full-time. But even then, I have to wonder if anyone will ever want me, love me—the real me. Or if they’ll only ever want me as someone else.
    *  *  *
    “Quinlan,” Deacon says from somewhere close by. “Quinn—your dad’s here.”
    My eyes fly open, and it takes me a minute to recognize my surroundings. The room is dim, but lights from a car in the driveway filter in from behind the blinds. I sit up and stretch. When I didn’t come home, I’m sure my dad knew exactly where to find me. Deacon certainly wouldn’t have told him. My dad kind of hates him, and the feeling is entirely mutual.
    Okay, “hate” is too strong a word for their relationship. When Deacon was younger, my dad held him up as the example for all of us. But toward the end, Deacon became defiant, and ended up spending almost every return in therapy. My father thought he was becoming a liability, and then boom—Deacon had a meeting and was out of his contract early, a fact I didn’t learn until after we broke up. My father asked me to stop hanging out with him, but neither Deacon nor I liked that idea.
    “Did he come to the door?” I ask, standing and folding the blanket to lay it over the back of the sofa.
    “No,” Deacon responds. “But he called my phone a few times and then showed up. He beeped the horn, which I’m sure my neighbors loved.”
    “You were always his favorite.”
    Deacon snorts a laugh and then leaves to grab my backpack from the bottom of the stairs. I slip on my shoes, readying myself for an explanation. Although I’ve come to Deacon’s upon return before, tonight was later than usual. It’s probably two in the morning. There’s a slight twinge of guilt as I think about my father worrying. I may be angry that he was checking up on me, but I didn’t mean to hurt him. He’s my dad. I love him despite his fatherly instincts.
    I walk to the front, my head still foggy from the sleeping pill, and Deacon slides my backpack over my shoulders, hugging me once from behind. “Call me tomorrow,” he says before opening the door. “Tell Dad I said hi.”
    “Night,” I say, and thank him before walking out the door.
    When I get