The Adjustment

by Suzanne Young

  I smile. “Let me clear it with my grandparents first. They’re still a little pissed about last night.” I decide not to tell him about my conversation with Pop and how he asked me to stay away from Wes. “I’ll text you.”

  “I’ll be here,” he says.

  After we hang up, I take a deep breath. I forgot what it was like to have a boyfriend waiting for me. Always choosing to hang out with me, above everyone else. I set the phone aside and grab my things.

  I go downstairs to ask my grandparents a huge favor, worried they’ll actually say no. I find them both sitting on the couch, midconversation. They stop when they notice me.

  “I promised I wouldn’t run off without telling you,” I say, looking at them. “So I’m asking: Wes just invited me over to hang out and have pizza. Can I go?” Although I’m not trying to, there is a bit of hostility in my voice.

  My grandfather turns away, not angry, but conceding. My grandmother watches me a long moment, and then purses her lips.

  “You’re old enough to make your own decisions,” she says, speaking for both of them. “However, after disappearing last night, after scaring us like that, I feel it’s only fair that you have some consequences.”

  My heart sinks, and I open my mouth to argue, but my gram holds up her hand to stop me.

  “You have an hour,” she says. “Consider this your grounding.”

  An hour isn’t much time, but I know she’s right. I do deserve the consequences. More than anything, I’m glad she’s letting me go at all.

  “Thank you,” I tell her. I quickly jog over to the couch, conscious of time, and kiss both her and my grandfather good-bye before grabbing the keys to the Jeep. But just before I walk out the door, Gram calls my name. I look back at her.

  “I’m sorry about Sebastian,” she says. I flinch at his name, and nod—heaviness settling over the room. “We’ll send Foster’s parents our condolences,” she adds.

  “Thank you,” I say in a quiet voice. “I think that’s a good idea.”

  “You be careful out there, honey,” she says, studying me. “Keep us updated.”

  I nod that I will, and then, somberly, I open the door and leave.

  • • •

  The truth is, I’m glad Wes called, not just because I want to hang out with him, but because I want a distraction. An escape from the grief and worry. A chance to live.

  I park down the street from Wes’s house, same place as last night, for good measure. I wait a moment and check my reflection. I practice smiling once, checking to make sure the muscles remember how. There I am. I grab my keys and get out of the Jeep.

  I smooth back my hair and get to the basement entrance on the side of the house. But before I knock, I pause, nervous about seeing him. What if he’s changed his mind again? Just like the kiss.

  The door opens, startling me. Wes smiles broadly, like he can’t even control how happy he is that I’m on his doorstep.

  “I thought I heard someone creeping around out here,” he says.

  I laugh, my guard lowering the minute I see those dimples. “Wasn’t creeping,” I say, and then glance at the second-story windows, worried I was too loud. I’d hate for his parents to catch me sneaking in; I haven’t even seen them since he returned. This isn’t the impression I’d want to make.

  When I look back at Wes, expecting him to tell me to be quiet, I instead find him watching me with an amused expression.

  “No old-man sweater tonight?” he asks. “I’m disappointed.”

  “You’re wearing white basketball shorts,” I say, as if that’s the bigger fashion travesty.

  “Ouch. All right, now get in here before you wake up my parents.”

  I smile and follow him inside.

  Wes lives the good life down here. The basement consists of three different rooms and a large bathroom. He uses the smallest room for his bedroom; another one has a pool table, and the other a couch with a monster TV and video game system. We opt for the couch.

  I sit next to him and see he’s watching some Discovery show about building motorcycles, but he passes me the remote in case I want to change it. I leave the channel where it’s at and set the controller next to the closed pizza box on the coffee table.

  I lean my head back on the couch, and Wes mimics my movement, the two of us gazing at each other. “I probably shouldn’t lead with this,” he says, smiling adorably, “but about that kiss last night . . .”

  He lets the words hang there to gauge my reaction, and heat rushes to my cheeks. “The kiss you pulled away from?” I ask.

  “I did do that, didn’t I?” he asks. “Past Me is an idiot. If it helps at all, I promise not to stop any future kisses.”

  “If only you could find someone to kiss you,” I reply.

  “If only . . . ,” he repeats. We’re both smiling, drawn to each other in so many ways. I think he’s funny. I think he’s smart. And, yes, I want him to kiss me again. I just don’t know what he wants. Not really.

  “Were you avoiding me today?” he asks, quieter, more self-conscious. “I mean, I don’t blame you if you were. Just curious where you disappeared to.”

  My smile fades; the chance for distraction crumbles. “It’s actually been a super terrible day,” I say, sitting up and breaking our gaze. “My friend Foster—the redhead? His, um . . . his brother died.”

  “Oh, God,” he says. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Thanks,” I say. “Sebastian was older. I haven’t even really seen him since he got back from The Program.” Wes flinches at the word “Program.” I don’t blame him; I’m still scared of handlers and they didn’t even take me. He slowly sits up, lifting his eyes to meet mine.

  “What happened to him?” he asks.

  “He, uh . . . he killed himself. And there was another girl, Alecia, in our first hour? Turns out she died today too.”

  Wes swallows hard. “Was she a returner?”

  I nod, and he looks away from me and rests back against the couch. I can’t imagine how this feels for him, as a returner. A spike of worry he doesn’t want to put into words. Although I planned to tell him about the Adjustment eventually, I didn’t want to do it tonight. Not like this.

  “This girl I know has a friend who’s trying a new therapy to deal with the fallout from The Program. It seems to be working. Jana told Nathan—”

  “He’s the tall one?” Wes asks, his brows pulled together.

  “Yeah. Nathan’s my neighbor, my best friend. Anyway, he asked Jana about the therapy for me. And then Nathan and I went and investigated. It’s called the Adjustment. Have you heard of it?”

  “Of what?”

  “The Adjustment,” I say. “It’s for returners.”

  “No,” he says. “What is it—a drug?”

  “Not really. It’s some sort of trigger for memories.”

  Wes winces suddenly, and rubs his temple. It’s then that I notice the haunted look that his smile hid earlier.

  “You okay?” I ask.

  “Yeah,” he says, waving me off. “Just . . . I get headaches sometimes.” He pauses for a moment, and then, as if the pain has passed, he straightens to look at me, his eyes narrowed. “So what, that was your day?” he asks, his tone colder. “You and your friends searching for a way to cure me?”

  “Hey,” I say. “That’s not fair. And no . . . I’m not looking for a cure. I was looking for help. Do you want to hear about the Adjustment or not?”

  He waits a beat and then shakes his head no. “Sorry. But it sounds like Program two point oh to me,” he says. “I’m fine being just this fucked up.”

  “You’re not fucked up,” I say, reaching for him before I can think about it. He tenses out of my reach, and it’s like a rejection. I pull my hand back into my lap.

  “Sorry,” he whispers. “You catch me off guard. How easy it is for you to touch me. It’s still new for me.”

  But this isn’t new. I’ve never had to think twice about being close to him. Wes watches me for a long moment.<
br />
  “Can we . . . ?” He opens up his arms, inviting me into them. He seems hesitant, even scared.

  There’s a flutter in my chest, and I realize I’m scared too. But slowly I move closer until I’m resting against him, his arms wrapped around me. I close my eyes, seduced by the familiar way he feels. His fingers slide under my hair, cupping the back of my neck, and his cheek rests on the top of my head.

  “This is kinda nice,” he says.

  I laugh softly, and move to put my hand over his heart. “ ‘Kinda’?”

  “It’s nice,” he whispers. He moves his mouth over my hair, like he might have kissed it. “You smell pretty,” he adds.

  His heart is beating fast. I pull my legs under me, and wrap my arm around his waist to snuggle closer. He hums out a relaxing sound and settles in with me.

  “I’m not sure how I’m supposed to act,” he says. “I feel like I know you, but I don’t. I don’t know your favorite color, your favorite band. I don’t even know if you like pizza.”

  “I like pizza,” I murmur.

  “Oh, good,” he says. “We might have had a serious problem otherwise. But I also don’t know how you feel about me—this me,” he continues. “Because I don’t remember us. I don’t remember how to kiss you. Don’t remember how you like to be touched. I’m not the same person anymore. And I’m not sure I can be.”

  I squeeze my eyes shut, the pain in his voice cutting straight through me. I can’t imagine what I’d do in his place: if I’d embrace or run from my past.

  “I like you even more than pizza,” I say, making him sniff a laugh. I can’t tell him that I don’t know the answer. If he really is different . . . I don’t know if I love him anymore. I guess I just don’t believe he’s actually different.

  We sit quietly for a while and Wes trails his fingers down my back and up again. There’s a shiver that goes along with his touch, and I shift to look up at him. His hand pauses on my hip as he gazes down at me, his eyes heavy lidded.

  “I know I said some bullshit about us just being friends . . . ,” he says.

  Maybe it’s just physical. Maybe it’s muscle memory, like him walking to my house. But I put my palm on his chest and lean toward him. And this time, when we kiss, he keeps his eyes open.

  Wes is slow at first, careful. But each time our tongues meet, our breathing becomes faster, more frantic. So when the intensity grows, when he eases me back on the couch and kisses me harder, I want it to be real. I want it all.

  And as he kisses my neck, his hands touching me over my clothes, I’m sure this is him—it’s Wes, the real one. It could be denial, but I believe it. I love him. I love him and I’ve missed him too much. My mind is spinning as I slip my hand inside his shorts. He moans, his kisses hungry, his body burning hot.

  “You don’t have to,” he murmurs, his teeth grazing the skin of my neck. But there’s little conviction behind his words.

  “I know,” I say. I think we both just want to feel and forget everything else. Forget it all.

  And so we do this until Wes is slumped against me, his forehead resting on my jaw. I wait for a sign, that moment where he says that he loves me. That he’s back for good.

  But that moment doesn’t come.

  Wes kisses me quickly on the lips, and says he’ll be right back. He runs to use the bathroom at the top of the stairs. I watch him leave, and then walk to the other bathroom with a dull ache in my chest—a familiar pain that I can’t quite place.

  I stand at the sink, washing my hands, and look up at my reflection. I see the redness around my mouth from kissing, the tangles in my hair. The despair in my expression. I stare at myself, my eyes welling up with tears, the water of the faucet ice-cold over my fingers.

  Although he didn’t mean to, Wes hurt my feelings. I feel stupid and embarrassed. I turn off the faucet and dry my hands on the hanging towel. I smooth down my hair.

  What the hell am I doing?

  I lean my back against the sink, knowing that I made a mistake coming here, hooking up with the guy I want to be my boyfriend rather than the guy who actually is. I can’t make him real. I don’t have that kind of power.

  I take a moment to pull myself together, and then I walk out of the bathroom, ready to leave for home. But I find Wes standing at the bottom of the stairs, staring at me wide eyed. My stomach drops and I’m scared something’s wrong, but suddenly he laughs.

  “What?” I ask, breathless.

  Wes licks his lips and smiles widely. “I think I just had a memory.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  I NEARLY TRIP OVER MY feet trying to get across the room to Wes. “What do you mean?” I ask. “What did you remember?”

  He looks proud, and places his hands on my upper arms. “I remember you and me,” he says. “It was just a snippet—no context—but we were here, and you told me if you had to watch one more motorcycle reality show, you’d kick in my TV. That’s it.” He laughs. “That happened, right?”

  I smile, a reaction to his, but I can’t call up that specific memory. It would be so small in our vast history, but I don’t doubt it. “I’m sure it did,” I tell him. “It definitely sounds like us.”

  “It’s you,” he says. “It’s because of you that I remembered.” He gazes down before wrapping his arms around me and leaning in to kiss me softly on the lips. “Thank you,” he whispers.

  “You’re welcome.”

  He kisses me again. “And thank you,” he repeats with innuendo. I smile, but I’m embarrassed that our hookup went further than I intended. Because looking at him now, he’s not changed by it. It didn’t mean the same thing to him.

  “I should go,” I say, untangling myself from him. “My hour’s almost up.”

  Wes slips his feet into a black pair of sandals, and grabs a baseball hat off the coffee table and puts it on backward. He sighs, his hands on his hips, clearly disappointed that I’m leaving. “Let me walk you to your car,” he says.

  I agree and together we walk out. We’re side by side, not touching. He may not think that’s strange, but to me, it’s like a river has opened between us, ready to wash us away if we get too close.

  “My favorite color is red,” I offer, drawing his attention. “And my favorite band is Radiohead.”

  He smiles. “My favorite color is—”

  “Green,” I say for him. But Wes furrows his brow.

  “No,” he says. “It’s black. I think it’s dark and sophisticated.”

  “Oh.” We walk quietly for a bit, the mood between us off.

  “So about earlier,” he says, looking sideways at me. “You okay with us?” And I see a touch of insecurity in his eyes. “With everything?”

  “Are you?” I ask.

  “Yeah. I mean . . . I still think we should take it slow. . . .” He waits to see if that offends me. What can I say? He’s not trying to be cruel, not trying to use me. I knew he was confused before coming here, so he isn’t lying to me. We’ve gotten too far ahead of ourselves.

  So I swallow down the hurt, and I tell him I agree. I’m the one who’s lying.

  When we get to my Jeep, I climb onto the driver’s seat and leave the door open while Wes hangs there to talk to me. He seems more confident than he was when I arrived.

  I rest my head against the seat, wishing he could remember me. Wishing the old Wes would just swoop in and tell me he’s sorry for making me wait and that he loves me. That he always did.

  Wes perches his arm on the bar above my door, stirring me out of the fantasy, and looks down the darkened street. “So how about you explain this Adjustment to me,” he says.

  The request surprises me. “I don’t really know a ton about it yet,” I say honestly. “I went by their offices and met with the doctor. He seems to have good intentions. Of course, we know that doesn’t always mean anything.”

  “Exactly,” Wes says.

  “But he said the Adjustment doesn’t take memories; it implants them.”

  Wes listens as I tell him all
about Dr. McKee and his new procedure. I explain to him about visiting Jana, and how she thinks keeping memories from people is just another form of manipulation.

  “I don’t agree with her,” he says. “I think of it more like gambling. You keep trying to better yourself but end up further in debt. Losing more of yourself each time.”

  “There’s something else,” I say, worried about how he’ll react to this part. “The doctor’s worried about returners. He, uh . . . he said he thought there may be another epidemic among them.”

  Wes’s expression tightens. “Meaning?”

  “He said the long-term effects of The Program are still unknown, but that there’s a strong possibility that some—many—won’t be able to handle them. He thinks there will be a spike of deaths in returners. He said the Adjustment can help.”

  “Do you believe that?” he asks. “That returners are . . . what, defective somehow?”

  “No.” I shake my head. “Not like that. And my grandfather—he used to be a reporter—he’s looking into it. He won’t have any ulterior motives to cloud his judgment. But on the plus side,” I add with a shrug, “Jana said her friend Vanessa got some of her own memories back. She said she’s doing really well.”

  Wes stares at me, and I can see how this tortures him. The possibility hanging there. “Tate,” he says, tilting his head. “I’m sorry. I can’t.”

  He called me Tate. Despite this, my heart still sinks. “I understand,” I say.

  “I don’t know how much you know about The Program,” Wes explains, and his voice cracks. “Hell, I don’t know how much I know, but there’s a wound in my heart. A deep cut from something I can’t remember. And it hurts. I’m scared they’ll only make it worse. And I’m scared that pain will kill me.”

  “Then we don’t do it,” I say. “It’s not about me, Wes. I’ll always be here to tell you anything you need. We won’t do it, okay?”

  He closes his eyes as if this doesn’t make him happy either. But after a moment, he looks at me again. “Will you eat lunch with me tomorrow?” he asks suddenly, changing the mood entirely.