“I usually eat lunch with Nathan and Foster.” I pause. “It’ll just be Nathan tomorrow, though,” I add quietly.
“Ah,” Wes responds. “Nathan. And we hated each other, right?”
I laugh. “Not really. You would sometimes pretend, though.”
“I’ll pretend again,” he jokes, and takes a step back from the Jeep. “And if you decide to eat with me, you know where I’ll be.”
We say good night, and he holds up his hand in a wave, waiting for me to leave before walking back toward his house.
And as I drive alone, I start to cry. Not because of regret or fear. But because without the Adjustment, the Weston I know might never come home.
Even if he finally remembered my name.
• • •
It’s Friday, and I bring Nathan his morning latte. We stand outside the school for a while in the cool air. Yesterday’s tragedy hangs between us, both of us somber, and I turn to him.
“How are you?” I ask. Nathan presses his lips into a sad smile.
“I’ve been better,” he admits. “But I talked to Foster for a while last night. Seems Sebastian had been acting a little strange. Headaches, nightmares. He, uh . . .” Nathan chokes up a little, and in turn, I feel the grief in my chest. “He didn’t say good-bye. Foster said that was the worst part. That he died without saying good-bye.”
I pull Nathan into a hug, wishing I could take away the pain. But for now, all we can do is be here for each other.
“It’s okay,” Nathan says after a moment, and straightens. He sniffles back his tears. “Foster said we could come to the funeral if we wanted, but that it would really be best if we didn’t—for his parents’ sake. They’re not taking it well and they want privacy.”
“We’ll do whatever Foster wants,” I say.
Nathan nods that it’s a good plan, and then he turns to me and sputters out a laugh like he’s embarrassed he just fell apart. “So how was your night?” he asks.
“Fine,” I say. The bell rings behind us, and I take Nathan’s arm to steer him toward the front door of the school. “I saw Wes. We’re friends or . . . whatever.”
Nathan lifts his right eyebrow. “Whatever?” he asks. “Sounds inappropriate.”
“It’s whatever,” I say, not wanting to tell him the details. The rejection I feel. “He asked me to eat lunch with him today,” I add.
“Hell no,” Nathan replies, and takes a sip from his latte as we turn down the hallway toward English class. “You don’t just get to trade out friends. Besides, Foster’s not here. Am I supposed to eat alone?”
“You’re right,” I say immediately. “But just for the record, you sometimes ditch me for Jana. What’s up with her anyway? You two had a moment yesterday. Does that happen often?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” He smiles at me, basically telling me to stay out of his relationship business. I guess he and Jana are more serious than I thought. It could be why Nathan thinks Foster doesn’t like her. He’s probably trying to figure it out too.
“Speaking of Jana, though,” he adds, “she called me last night asking about you—what you were going to do about the Adjustment. She was acting kind of weird yesterday, right?”
“I don’t know her normal setting of weird.”
“She’s not usually. But something’s off about her. Has been since . . .” He stops, but I’m curious.
“Since when?” I ask.
He pulls his eyebrows together. “Since Weston came back.”
We pause just outside our English class. “She might be wondering about him,” I say. “He’s a returner like Vanessa. Or she could be doing a research report like Kyle Mahoney.”
Nathan looks down at his coffee. “Could be it,” he says. “Either way, I just didn’t want her to convince you to go for an Adjustment. Her concern didn’t feel . . . genuine. Does that make sense?”
“I agree she was acting a little sketchy,” I say. “But she also likes you, so she clearly has problems.”
“Ouch.” He laughs and pushes my shoulder.
“And you don’t have to worry,” I add. “Wes and I agreed on the Adjustment. It’s not going to happen.” I don’t let my disappointment show.
Nathan blows out a relieved breath and reaches out his coffee to cheers me. “Finally some good news,” he says. “Your grandparents had me worried.”
“What?” I ask. “They . . . talked to you about it?”
“Last night,” he says, seeming surprised I didn’t know. “Pop called and told me to talk you out of it. I informed him that I don’t have the power to talk you out of anything, but I said I’d offer my opinion. Which is a big fat no,” he adds, leaning in to accentuate his point.
“I get it,” I say, turning away. My grandparents didn’t mention talking to Nathan about this. I don’t like that Pop went behind my back.
The final bell rings and a few students jog by us to get to class.
“Listen,” Nathan says, offering a truce. “Have lunch with your man,” he says. “Your absence is excused for today.” He bows cordially, releasing me from today’s lunch date. I feel bad; I really wouldn’t ditch him. But that’s why we’re friends. We don’t hold the other hostage.
“Thank you,” I respond.
He walks into class before me, and when I head in, Weston looks up from his seat. He’s dressed in a vintage-looking T-shirt, and he’s wearing boots—more like himself than ever.
Wes doesn’t say anything, but he smiles. Before I can smile back, I notice the empty desk, like it’s an open wound. Alecia’s desk. I’m scooped out by fear that I’d put off; another returner gone. I walk past Weston without stopping to talk to him.
Nathan pushes his desk to my seat, ready for our usual banter, but he catches me staring at the desk. He looks sideways at it and falls quiet. He sits back in his chair.
Several other people glance at Alecia’s spot, a mixture of guilt and fear in their expressions. Maybe each is wondering if they could have done something different. Or maybe they’re afraid. Afraid it’s happening again.
CHAPTER FIVE
WES GOT CALLED OUT OF class early, and I used the opportunity to walk alone to my next period. I’m not sure how to feel anymore. I almost preferred the time when I was numb. Because this sucks.
By lunch, my nerves have mostly settled. It’s a subdued day; everyone’s quieter than usual. Most have heard about Alecia already, and a few ask me to send love to Foster for his brother.
Nathan texted me earlier to say he’s using his free lunch period to catch up on science, and that he’s not even mad about it.
I’m late getting to lunch, and as I step into the courtyard, I find Wes in the same spot, his lunch and a book in front of him. For a moment, I imagine him the way he was last year, lost in a book while I ate with Nathan and Foster. I take out my phone.
I’m here, I write. I watch when Wes gets the text and immediately looks up and finds me. He doesn’t wave me over or anything dramatic. He leans back against the wall and puts down his book, like he’s content to wait.
I cross the courtyard and take a spot next to him, setting my lunch between us. He looks at me, his dimples deepening when he smiles.
“Thought maybe you decided you hate me,” he says.
“Nope,” I reply, unfolding my paper bag.
“Not even a little bit?” He waits a second. “You sure?”
I pinch my fingers together. “A tiny bit,” I say. “But not more than usual.”
Wes nods seriously, and then picks up his sandwich. “I can handle that,” he says, and I laugh. “So how are you today?” he asks. “You didn’t talk to me this morning and it made me sad.”
“Well, I’m here now, talking to you.” I grab my Tupperware of leftovers and set aside a Baggie with chocolate chip cookies. I don’t like sweets, but Wes does. He eyes them as we eat our food, talking about simple things: movies and books. When we’re done eating, we rest back against the wall.
He adjusts his position so that his shoulder is against mine. I notice a girl glance over at us, and I’m sure she must think I’ve gotten my life back. If only it was that simple to explain.
“Tate, were we happy?” Wes asks in a low voice, as if he expects me to say no. I think about the question, and although there are no easy answers, it’s mostly a yes.
“Kind of, yeah,” I say, turning toward him. He nods to himself and falls quiet. The crowd in the courtyard goes about their business, living their lives. But Wes’s expression grows sullen. He doesn’t look at me.
“Then how did I end up in The Program?” he asks quietly.
His words hit me in the gut, a punch to the stomach. They’re not accusatory, although, honestly, maybe they should be. He doesn’t know if this is my fault. He was quick to trust me.
“I’m not sure how exactly you ended up there,” I say. “But you changed.”
This draws his attention, and when he turns to me, his brown eyes look darker. “Tell me,” he says.
I begin to wring my hands in my lap; the thought of dredging up the terrible moments, having to relive them, is daunting. But I remind myself again that this is Wes’s recovery. I promised I’d always be there for him, and that means through the bad stuff.
“There was a bridge,” I say. “Crescent Bridge, out on the coast. We only went there twice, but we went there with heightened emotions. We went there to escape our lives, to escape what was happening around us. We went there to escape The Program.”
“We failed,” he says.
“I guess.” My eyes tear up, and I gaze at the school, trying not to let the sadness overwhelm me. We did fail and I lost him because of it. “The second time we went there, you were different.”
“How?” Wes asks.
“Devon Winston had just been taken. You two were friends. Do you remember?”
“No, of course I don’t.”
“Sorry.” It’s a bad habit to assume he remembers anything, especially anything that The Program might have taken. “Devon had gotten picked up by handlers that day,” I tell Wes. “And you were feeling down about it. You . . . you busted up your knuckles punching a mirror in the bathroom.”
Wes starts at the comment, seeming surprised that he would do something like that, regardless of cause. He’s not wrong. Wes is a pretty passive guy. He looks down at his knuckles and there’s a small sliver of a scar still there.
“We left school early and I bandaged you up,” I continue. “We went to the bridge because you said you felt helpless. Hopeless. I understood, and I wanted us to be free so I took us to the bridge. There’s a little area beneath it and we laid out a blanket and stayed together, quiet and content. Except you started to flinch at your thoughts. You said your mind was going too fast. You told me you weren’t sure how to make it stop.”
I pause, a deep ache in my heart as I remember the moment. Wes looked so terrified that night. He was sorry, as if every bad thing that had ever happened was his fault. His guilt was painful to watch.
“You said that you loved me too much,” I continue. “Then you promised that we’d run away together.”
“I’m guessing we didn’t run away?” Wes asks.
“You ran,” I say. “But not with me.”
His lips part in surprise, and he sits up. “I did? Where’d I go?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “It was in the summer, and when you didn’t call me, I knew something was wrong. You were gone for an entire week. The Program was waiting for you when you got back. You never got the chance to tell me where you’d been.”
I cringe at my own words, that feeling of someone walking over my grave. I shiver and wrap my arms around myself.
“I’m sorry I left you,” Wes whispers, and I turn to look at him. “I’m sorry that I didn’t take you with me. I’m sure I had a good reason, or at least thought I did.”
“I’m sure you did too,” I say. But the truth is that no reason would have been good enough. He abandoned me and left me to think the worst. That grief alone could have killed me. It could have brought the handlers down on me. But, of course, when Wes came back, the slate was wiped clean. He came home; he was alive. That was all that mattered in the end.
I don’t tell him the rest, how under the bridge he grew eerily quiet, lying with me and stroking my hair. He muttered, flinched. He wasn’t himself. He kept saying he was sorry. And maybe that was the last bit of him; he drained away right then.
He let himself get taken into The Program. He didn’t fight it. He didn’t fight for me. And I’m not going to tell him that.
“I’ve been thinking a lot,” Wes says, quiet and introspective. “About what you said.”
“What did I say?”
“The Adjustment. After you left last night, I kept thinking about that moment I remembered. That one small memory felt more real than anything I’ve done since being back—like that’s my real life. So I looked up the Adjustment and I read all night. Rather do that than sleep anyway. . . .” He lowers his eyes, and his expression holds all his heaviness. His doubt. His loneliness.
My heart quickens its pace. “But you said it was Program two point oh.”
“Every day,” he says, “I walk around like a visitor in my own life. I avoid people’s eyes because I’m scared I’ll see recognition there, that they’ll know me when I don’t know them. I’m completely lost here. Haven’t you noticed that you’re the only person who talks to me?”
He’s right—I haven’t seen Wes talk to anyone else. Not since he’s been back. He used to have friends, but none of them talk to either of us now. People don’t associate with returners.
“They will in time,” I say, trying to sound encouraging. “People are just afraid—”
“That’s the thing,” he says, leaning toward me, his eyes blazing. “I don’t want people to be afraid of me. And if I knew the truth about myself, about all of you—” He runs his palm over his face, and I feel slighted at how he included me with the masses. Like I’m not nearly as special as I thought.
“It was just something I was thinking about,” he says, his tone clipped. His face flinches, and he quickly shakes it off. “Forget it,” he says.
“Wes, if you want to talk about it, we can—”
“What are you doing tonight?” he asks, glancing over at me. “Will you come out with me? I promise to be super fun and awesome.”
It’s then that I notice how pale and drawn he’s become. His freckles are darker on his white skin, the purple and blue shadows under his eyes more pronounced. It worries me.
I reach to touch his forearm, and he pulls back from my touch. Wes curses and closes his eyes, obviously upset with his reaction—like he can’t control it. I don’t let my hurt show, and bring my hand into my lap.
“I’m sorry,” Wes whispers.
“Don’t be,” I say, trying to sound light. “But, hey, you’d better deliver on fun and awesome tonight or I’m definitely never stealing a bike with you again.”
The corners of his lips turn up, and I love the sight of it. “So, yeah?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I say. “I just have to go home and see my grandparents first. Then we can meet up.”
Before he can think about it, Wes leans in and kisses the side of my head. It’s a casual movement—muscle memory. Then he leans back against the wall, ignoring the cookies that I saved just for him. He pulls his knees in front of him and looks sideways at me.
“Do you have any aspirin with you?” he asks. “I have a headache.”
CHAPTER SIX
AFTER LUNCH, I WALK ALONE down the hall toward my class. I mean to stop by my locker before next period, and I’m surprised to see Vanessa waiting there for me. She lifts her head just as I arrive. She smiles, but the effect distorts her features. It’s too false.
“Hey, Tatum,” she says.
I fold my arms over my chest. “Uh . . . hi,” I say. “What’s up?” Vanessa steps aside, opening a path to my locker. I spin my combination a
nd grab my history book from inside. When I close it, I turn to her.
“I heard you and Wes are together again,” she says. Her tone isn’t judgmental, mostly just curious.
“We’re figuring things out,” I say, noncommittal. “Why?”
She brushes her hair away from her face, stalling, it seems. Then she exhales like she doesn’t want to go on but will. “Just be careful, okay?” she says. “I don’t know either of you, but you’re cool. I wouldn’t want to see you get hurt.”
“What does that mean?” I ask.
“There’s a reason we ended up in The Program,” she says. The side of her lip hitches up on her molar, almost like a snarl, as she talks. “Just make sure you know that reason before you jump in again.”
“You mean the Adjustment?” I ask.
“They promise to bring it all back,” she says, tapping her temple. “But how can you tell the difference between a lie and a memory if they feel the same?”
Vanessa steps closer to me and I hadn’t realized how much taller she was. “And here’s the secret,” she says. “We’re surrounded by lies every day. Surrounded by people who lie. Have been for a long time. So be careful whom you trust. Not everyone’s who they seem.”
“Jesus, Vanessa,” I say, pushing her back when she gets too close. “You’re freaking me out.”
She stares at me a moment, like she’s just seeing me for the first time. She blinks quickly, her lips twitch. She runs her fingers through her bangs, and laughs. “Just kidding,” she says breathlessly. “Sorry. Tremor.”
I stare at her, shocked. A thin line of bright red blood begins to trickle from her nose.
“You’re bleeding,” I say, pointing.
“Oh, shit,” she says, touching under her nose and checking the blood herself. “Not again.” Without a good-bye or an explanation, she spins on her heels and heads for the bathroom.
I watch after her, alarmed, but mostly worried. I take out my phone to text Nathan. Jana might have an idea what Vanessa is talking about. I plan to type out the text, but then I see Vanessa come out of the bathroom a moment later, all cleaned up. She doesn’t even glance in my direction again, walking away like nothing’s wrong at all.
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