The Adjustment

by Suzanne Young

  He crinkles his nose. He’s never been a fan of pasta, which is absolutely baffling to me. “I’d better fill up on pizza, then,” Nathan says. “And about the Adjustment, if you change your mind, or when you find the next mystery to solve, let me know.”

  I thank him. Nathan is my best friend—no strings attached. No hidden motives. And our loyalty to each other is fierce. “You’re always the first person I call,” I say.

  Nathan smiles, wide and bright. “Yeah, I know,” he responds. “I just like to remind you sometimes.” And then he takes a monster bite of pizza.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  GRAM IS HOME WHEN I get there, and I help with the sauce that she’s already started. Nathan opts out of dinner altogether.

  At the table, I tell Gram and Pop what I know about the Adjustment. Both what I found online and about Vanessa’s behavior at the coffee shop. They listen, nodding occasionally. It’s my gram who offers the first opinion, a shadow of doubt in her pale-blue eyes.

  “What The Program did was reprehensible,” she says. “They robbed kids of parts of their lives. They stole from all of you. There was a better way, but they didn’t use it. Maybe it’s good to have other treatment options.”

  “I agree, but I’m worried, too, Gram,” I say. “Then again . . . is it wrong to hope? Or at least think it over?” I lean into the table, craving her guidance. My brain is so mixed up. I’m starting to lose perspective. Since leaving Nathan, I’ve turned over the possibilities a million times—what if I could get Wes back but was too scared? What if I fail him again?

  “No, honey,” my gram says. “It’s never wrong to hope. Sometimes it’s all we have.”

  I glance at my grandfather and he presses his lips into a smile. “Your gram’s a brilliant woman,” he says. “We’re here for you, Tatum. If you want, I’ll contact a few doctor friends and gather some information on the Adjustment. No sense relying on a Google search.”

  “Thanks, Pop,” I say, feeling partially relieved. “I just want to know as much as I can. Even if it’s not a real thing, maybe they have some ideas that can help. Therapy or whatever.”

  My grandparents nod, and we finish dinner. After we clean up, I volunteer to take out the trash. I’m just as confused as I was earlier, but at least now I can be patient while my grandfather does research. As a former reporter, he’s good at that.

  It’s not quite sunset when I get outside, but the blue sky fades to orange and pink at the horizon. I’m crossing the driveway toward the trash can on the side of the garage when I notice a figure sitting on the curb. I stop abruptly, the bag bumping against my shin, jabbing me with something sharp.

  Wes’s shaved head is an immediate giveaway, even with his back to me. He’s sitting outside my house, staring at the street. I glance at the trash can and then dump the bag and quietly close the lid. My heart races as I walk down the driveway toward Wes. I have no idea why he’s here. Unless he . . . remembers.

  He must sense me, because Wes turns to look back at me. I stagger under his attention but quickly try to recover. “Hi,” I say, holding up my hand in a wave. I immediately close my fist and lower my arm to my side, self-conscious. I don’t know how to act around him anymore. “I, uh . . . I live here,” I add, and hike my thumb toward the front porch.

  “Yeah,” he says. “I kind of figured it was you.”

  I notice then that his clothes are different. A worn band T-shirt with jeans and sneakers. They’re not his, or at least nothing he would have worn before. But they’re definitely not the typical returner collared shirt, so I appreciate the change.

  “Why would you think it was my house?” I ask, walking carefully in his direction. Wes nods at the curb next to him, inviting me to sit. When I do, it feels strange to be so close to him. I can feel his energy, his heat. “I mean, how did you end up here?” I ask.

  He shrugs, and scans the road in front of us. “I was sitting in my house tonight, at the dinner table, listening to my parents argue. I told them I was going for a walk and left. I didn’t have any place in mind. I just kept walking, and it was like muscle memory—the way I got here. At one point, I looked up and I saw this house. It felt . . . familiar. So I figured it was a place I knew.” He looks over at me, and flashes an embarrassed smile. “That probably sounds weird, I’m sorry.”

  “It’s weird that you walked,” I say. “You don’t live close.” He looks down the street, and chuckles to himself.

  “Yeah,” he says. “I guess I’ve been walking for a while.”

  We sit quietly, and I watch the side of his face, waiting for some hint of intimacy between us that doesn’t come. “Do you want to go inside for a bit?” I ask.

  “No,” he says. “If I’ve been here before . . .” He pauses. “Obviously I’ve been here before. I wouldn’t know what to say to your parents. I wouldn’t be able to answer their questions.”

  “Grandparents,” I correct. “I live with my grandparents.”

  “Oh, that’s interesting.”

  I laugh. “Yeah?”

  “Sure,” he says. “I live with a boring old mom and dad.”

  “Huh,” I say, like he’s making sense. “Well, the good news is my grandparents like you. They wouldn’t pry into your life.”

  “That’s awesome,” he says. “It’s definitely not that way at my house. I wouldn’t be surprised if my mother put a tracking device in my sneakers.”

  I smile and we both look down at his shoes. A gust of wind blows over us, and I cross my arms over my chest. When it gets dark, it’ll be cold, but I don’t want to go inside to get a sweater. I’m afraid he won’t be here when I get back.

  “Your mother kind of hates me,” I confess. “Just so you know.”

  This cracks him up, and I like how his face lights up. “Really?” he asks. “Now, that’s even more interesting. Are you horrible?”

  “No,” I say. “But you were horrible and I got blamed by association.”

  “Shit, I’m sorry,” he says, like he’s not at all. “But I must have been awesome to hang out with.”

  “Most of the time.”

  He nods along, shifting so he’s facing me. “Okay, well, since I’m here,” he says, “I have another question for you. I found a motorcycle. Is it mine?”

  “Yep,” I say. “You like riding everywhere on it.”

  “Do you like riding everywhere on it?”

  I smile. “I did.”

  “That’s cool,” he says. “It sounds fun. It sounds . . .” He furrows his brow and looks down at the road. “It sounds normal,” he adds quietly.

  “We were pretty normal most of the time.”

  He looks up and there’s sadness in his eyes—like he’s missing out on something. Only that something is his life. I hate seeing him this way.

  “We could . . .” I’m scared to finish my statement, but I shore up my courage. “We could go for a ride,” I suggest.

  Wes studies me with a look that is distant and curious, like he doesn’t know me at all.

  “When I asked about the bike, my parents wouldn’t give me the key,” he says quietly. “They treat me as if I’m fucking helpless. I tried to tell them that The Program didn’t erase my motor skills, but they’re not listening.” He sniffs and turns away, pushing his sneaker through the debris against the curb. “Maybe they’re right,” he murmurs.

  I’m not sure what to say to make him feel better; his outrageous confidence has been eroded. It occurs to me that I don’t know him anymore either, but I refuse to let that thought linger.

  “Then we should steal it,” I say. Wes laughs to himself, but I double-down on the statement. “I’m serious. We should steal your motorcycle and go for a ride. That’s what you would have done before.”

  Wes looks at me and sees I’m not joking. “That’s what I would have done?” he asks. I nod.

  It’s true. Wes’s parents took away his bike once before. Wouldn’t tell him where they’d hidden the key. So Wes went down to the dealership and talke
d to a guy he knew there. He got a new key made and stole his motorcycle right out of the garage. I told him he was crazy at the time, but . . . . damn if I don’t miss that bravery now.

  Wes smiles to himself and lowers his guard. “You’re completely reckless,” he says. “I like it. I’m in. But just in case, do you have a grappling hook I can borrow?”

  “In the back of my Jeep,” I respond without missing a beat. “Right next to the fake passports and ski masks.”

  “Perfect,” he says. “We’ll need all of those. So I’ll sneak into my house and grab the key off the top of the fridge. Then we’ll go for a ride, Miss—” He stops dead, his smile faltering.

  He still doesn’t know my name. My heart crumbles.

  “Tatum,” I say, not letting the hurt reflect in my voice. “Tatum Masterson.”

  Wes swallows hard but tries to smile again. “Let’s go steal back my shit, Miss Masterson.”

  “Okay,” I say, and stand up from the curb. Wes gets to his feet, brushing off the back of his jeans. “But this,” I say, motioning between the two of us, “is why your mom hates me. She thinks I encourage your bad behavior.”

  Wes leans in, and his sudden closeness makes my breath catch. “You do realize this is your idea, right?” he says, grinning. “So she might be on to something there.”

  We stare at each other, and I bite back my smile. He’s totally right. “I’ll go grab my keys,” I say quickly, making him laugh.

  “I’ll wait here,” he replies, and turns back to the street.

  I hurry toward the house, afraid he’ll be gone when I get back. Afraid he’s just an apparition, a flashback. I slip inside the kitchen door, and when I don’t see my grandparents, I opt not to call out to them. They’ll want an explanation. They’ll want to check on Wes to make sure he’s okay.

  But this is mine—I can’t let this moment slip away.

  I grab the keys off the counter and take my grandfather’s sweater from where it’s folded over the back of the kitchen chair. I quietly close the door and run out into the driveway to meet Wes.

  I wave him toward my Jeep, and he ducks dramatically like we’re sneaking out. In a way, I guess we are. He seemed absolutely thrilled at the idea, and in his grand gestures, I catch a glimpse of the person I’ve missed.

  Wes circles to the passenger side, and when I unlock the doors, he quickly gets in and crouches down in the seat.

  “You’re being a little dramatic,” I say, and start the engine.

  “I can promise you,” he says, lifting his gaze to meet mine, “I’m only going to get so much worse.”

  “Yeah, I know. So you should start at a lower point.”

  He laughs and slowly sits up. We back out of the driveway, and with one more glance at my house, I start down the street. I feel guilty for not involving my grandparents, but at the same time, I know they’ll understand. At least I hope they will. By this time tomorrow, Wes might be able to explain it to them with me.

  Wes and I drive toward his house. The streetlights turn on, and the small houses fade into expanses of woods. Wes’s house is tucked among the trees.

  “What if your parents are in the kitchen with the key?” I ask.

  “They’re not,” he says. “They’ll be watching TV, pretending not to wait up for me.”

  “They’ll hear you come in.”

  “That’s why we’re sneaking, Tatum.”

  “You know this will never work, right?” I ask.

  “Yes, it will,” he says just as easily. When we pull onto his street, he makes me park near the stop sign at the end of the street. Tree branches hang low, obscuring us from view.

  And I think we both realize how weird this is—us together in my Jeep, about to steal his motorcycle. How strange it is that we’re not talking about the obvious. Not talking about us. But maybe we’re both doing it on purpose.

  “Okay,” Wes says. “If I’m not back in five minutes, leave without me.”

  “Five?” I ask. “You sure you don’t want to give yourself ten?”

  He looks sideways at me. “You think I’ll need ten?”

  “You might.”

  “Okay, seven and a half. But if I make in it five . . .” He stops himself and then shakes his head like he was about to bargain for something inappropriate. “I’ll be back.” He grabs the door handle and gets out. I watch him in the rearview mirror as he jogs toward his house and then turns down the walkway to his back door.

  I glance at my reflection and see the flush in my cheeks. Feel the electricity on my skin. I smile. Wes may not have done so consciously, but he came to find me tonight. Like he’s drawn to me. Like his heart remembers even if his brain doesn’t.

  I settle back against the seat, and a sudden panic strikes me when I realize that I left my phone back at the house.

  “Shit,” I mutter. My grandparents will definitely call, looking for me. I hate to worry them; I just didn’t think through this plan entirely. When Wes gets back, I’ll borrow his phone and text them. I’ll let them know I’m with Wes, and that I’ll explain more later. At least that way they won’t think I was kidnapped while taking out the trash.

  There’s a flash of movement, and I turn around to look out the back window. I see Wes at his old wooden garage door, lifting it gingerly as if trying not to make the hinges squeak. When he gets it open, he looks in the direction of my car and gives me a thumbs-up.

  Wes disappears inside, and moments later he wheels his motorcycle out. He walks it down the road toward me, and although I want to feel light and fun, seeing it brings an unexpected wave of emotion. It’s a part of him. Part of his past. Part of our shared past.

  I still remember the first time I rode on that bike. God, Wes nearly killed me. Or at least it felt that way. He offered me a ride home from school, and completely and utterly smitten, I said yes, even though I wanted nothing to do with his bike.

  But riding with him, close to him, I think I fell in love that day. There’s something so vulnerable about being on a motorcycle—so adventurous. The world around us was suffocating, but on his bike we felt free. He opened up a different part of my soul.

  I check the time and turn off my Jeep. I climb out and lock the doors, tightening my grandfather’s sweater around me. I wait until Wes is within shouting distance before starting in his direction.

  “Six minutes,” I tell him.

  “Fuck,” he says. “Took too long in the garage.”

  “Your parents didn’t see you inside?”

  “Nope.” He stops just in front of me and pulls a helmet from the back and holds it out to me. It’s not the one I usually wear, but I don’t mention it.

  “How’d you avoid them?” I ask.

  “Well, metaphysically speaking—”

  “I’m going to stop you right there,” I say, holding up my hand. Wes laughs, and slips on the second helmet. I wait while he climbs on the bike, testing out where he’s comfortable sitting. With anyone else, it might have looked unnatural, but Wes looks perfectly at home there. When he’s settled, he turns to look at me, confidence shimmering in his eyes under the streetlights. I swear it’s really him.

  “You coming or not?” he asks.

  And I’m breathless when I answer, “Yes.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  I CAN’T LIE. WES’S DRIVING is a little shaky at first. He takes the turns slow, sliding his sneakers along the pavement. He may look natural, but it takes him a few miles before he gets the hang of riding again. I’m not sure where we’re going—we just . . . left. The engine’s too loud to speak over, so I keep my arms around him, and before I even realize I’m doing it, I rest my chin on his shoulder.

  Wes slows as we wind up through a neighborhood thick with trees and bushes. I’ve never gone up this hill before, but it’s beautiful. When we get to the top, there’s a clearing, and Wes pulls his bike into the small lot and parks.

  “Do you mind if we stop?” he asks. He rubs his palms and I wonder if the vibration has hurt his h
ands. Wes used to wear gloves when riding.

  I tell him I don’t mind, and I climb off the bike. It smells like pine trees and earth, like camping and freedom. I can’t believe I’ve never been here before.

  “I love this place,” Wes says, mostly to himself. I turn to him as he gets off the bike. He reaches up to take off his helmet, but it takes him a few tries to find the button on his chinstrap. When he gets it off, he smiles sheepishly, and then takes both our helmets and sets them on the seat.

  “I’ve never been here,” I say. “It’s beautiful.”

  “I agree,” he says. “Here, I want to show you something.” He motions me forward and together we start across the lawn, the grass slightly lit up from the streetlights. The farther we get into the park, the darker the world becomes. But when we get to the edge of the clearing, my eyes widen.

  The top of the hill overlooks the city, lights twinkling in the distance. It’s straight out of a movie. “Wow,” I say. I turn to Wes and find him staring over the edge, his hands on his hips like he’s admiring the hell out of it. “How long have you known about this place?” I ask.

  “Not sure. Just knew I’d come here all the time.”

  “Really? Since you’ve been back?”

  “Not much. From before, I think. Us?” He turns to me.

  “No, I’ve never been here,” I say.

  “Then maybe I stopped coming here,” he says quietly. His expression darkens and he looks out over the cliff again.

  Wes had never taken me here before, but there’s a chance it was special to him. Maybe to him and his sister. I see the reflection of the light in his eyes, and I long to reach for him. But as much as I want to, something holds me back. Something unfamiliar in his posture.

  “I drove my mom’s car here last night,” he says. “Early, before it was dark. And when the sun went down and the lights came up, goddamn if it wasn’t the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. Apart from the world, but on top of it. I felt like I had control for once.”

  This is Wes—so deep and introspective. So casual in his brilliance.

  There’s a boulder nestled in the grass near the edge and I ask if he wants to sit for a while. He glances back at the bike, but we don’t have anywhere else to be. We walk over and sit next to each other, not too close. The cold surface of the stone cuts through my jeans and chills my thighs. I wrap my arms tighter around myself.