The doctor at the Adjustment said the controlled crashbacks would need follow-up therapy. Vanessa seems confused right now, but Jana said that Dr. McKee was watching her closely, so I assume she’s getting it. They might want to step that up a notch.
Still . . . it feels cruel to rat her out when she’s already dealing with a lot. So after a long pause, I slip my phone back into my pocket and don’t tell anyone about what she said.
• • •
“I’m home,” I announce as I walk in the door after school. I’m surprised when there’s no answer. I can’t remember the last time my grandfather wasn’t waiting for me. I take a few moments to wander the house, looking for my grandparents. When I’m sure they’re gone, I sit on the couch, staring at the blank television screen.
I’d planned to confront Pop about talking to Nathan behind my back, but now that I’m here without him or my gram, I feel suddenly vulnerable. Clearly Pop was just worried about me, and it’s that worry that’s kept me safe. It would be unfair for me to judge him for it now.
I take out my phone, resting back on the couch, and text my grandfather.
Where are you? I write.
A speech bubble surfaces immediately. Research, Pop says. Thought I’d be back by the time you got home. Everything okay?
I hate that I’ve been fighting with him and Gram. It’s just not like us. I’m all good, I write. Turn up anything in your research?
Not yet.
I don’t ask what he’s researching, assuming it’s the Adjustment. But I don’t want to talk about that right now. I just want to pretend that everything’s okay between us.
Your grandmother will be home around six, he adds. I might be later.
I furrow my brow but don’t press the issue. Is it okay if I go out in a little while? I ask, using his distraction to my benefit.
Home by curfew, he writes, without asking where I’m going. It’s strange that he doesn’t ask for details. It makes me think he’s trying to avoid the conversation, same as me. So I tell him that I love him and that I’ll talk to him soon. He says he’ll let my gram know I’m going out.
And with that, I go upstairs to do my homework.
• • •
It’s starting to rain, so I offer to drive. Wes reluctantly agrees—itching to ride his motorcycle—and I go by his street to pick him up at the usual spot around five. It’s earlier than I planned, but I agreed when Wes said he couldn’t stand to be in his house a moment longer. I could hear it in his voice—the scratchiness, the beginning of desperation. It reminded me of the time before The Program. I grabbed my keys and rushed out.
Wes gets in the passenger side of my Jeep, glancing around at the interior. His hair is a little wet from the rain, and he puts his hands in front of the heater for a moment to warm them. Above us, the tree branches hang low enough to touch the top of the Jeep. It’s private here.
I watch him, and when he turns to me, he smiles. “Hi,” Wes says. “You look nice.”
I feel myself blush, even at such a simple compliment. I hadn’t realized how much I missed hearing them. “Thank you,” I say. “You look exactly the same as you did at school.”
He laughs. “Sorry, my white basketball shorts were in the wash; otherwise, I would have worn them for you.”
“Thank God for laundry day.”
“I did bring you something, though,” he says, biting back his smile in the most adorable way. It sends flutters over my skin.
“You did?” I ask. “What?”
Wes takes out his phone and turns it toward me. All I see is a bar code, so I move the screen up. My breath catches. “Tickets?”
“To see Radiohead,” he says, like he hopes I’ll like it. He takes the phone back. “This summer in Seattle. I got two tickets, but if you want to go with—”
“You didn’t have to do this,” I say, smiling widely. “I still would have gone out with you tonight.”
He chuckles. “Yeah, but I promised awesome.”
“This is awesome. Thank you.”
He holds my gaze. “You’re welcome, Tate,” he says in a quiet voice, his eyes searching mine. And I can feel it, him looking for a connection. I don’t know if he finds it before he turns to look out the passenger window.
“So,” he says. “Where should we go tonight?”
“I thought you’d already have a plan,” I say. “You invited me.”
“I did, right? Hmm . . . well, it’s already late, so I’m guessing the coast is out?”
“Plus, it’s raining,” I add, leaning forward to glance up between the branches at the cloudy sky. “The mist will block the view of the water.” I think for a moment. “What about a movie?” I suggest.
This seems to appeal to him. “I’m not sure how you feel about blowing shit up,” Wes says, “but there’s a movie at the dollar theater. One with the Rock?”
I laugh. “First, I love a good explosion. But that came out last year. We’ve already seen it.” But when Wes doesn’t return my smile, I realize what I’ve done.
“Oh,” he says, looking down at his lap. “I don’t remember what happened.”
I hate knowing his life when he doesn’t. Knowing the simplest things like what movies he’s seen. I know his secrets better than he does. I’ve known him for so long that he has all my secrets too, even if he can’t remember them. That thought sticks with me—the damn tragedy of it.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, but he’s a million miles away. I reach to touch his hand, and Wes flinches, just like before. His reaction pulls me down, drowning me in rejection. That’s what it feels like even if it’s not his fault. I stare out the windshield as rain taps the glass.
“Kiss me,” Wes says, startling me from my dark thoughts. I turn to him, miserable, and find his eyes have welled up with tears. “Kiss me and make me remember.”
And he’s the one who looks sad and lonely. He looks so sorry. I lean in and he keeps his eyes open, studying me. I rest my hand on his chest, waiting to see if he’ll move away. And when he doesn’t, I kiss softly at his bottom lip, then the top. Wes doesn’t react at all, like he’s testing the feeling. I kiss him again and he breathes heavily, his hand sliding onto my thigh.
“You make me feel so goddamn much,” he murmurs. And just like that, he comes to life; he wakes up.
Wes kisses me hard, using me as a shield against his pain. Despite the problems with that, my body reacts, and I know we’re both using each other. Both blocking out reality with something that feels good. Something that can dull the pain. Before I know it, Wes is pulling me into the backseat and I’m working off his jeans.
Earlier, Vanessa had warned me to know everything before I jump into a relationship with Wes—know how he ended up in The Program in the first place. But he can’t remember, so it’s not like I can ask him.
“Should we go inside?” I gasp out as Wes kisses my neck. I’m half out of my mind, my thoughts blurring together, clouded with desire.
“No,” Wes says, yanking off my shirt. We crash together again, parked along the wooded street, half a block from his house. The windows of my Jeep are fogging up. It’s so irresponsible. We would have never done this before—but maybe that’s why it’s happening. A new memory rather than reliving an old one.
And yet, the idea of sneaking into his house, into his bed, into his arms, is what I miss. It occurs to me that those are the moments I’m chasing. I’m in love with my memories.
The backseat of the Jeep is cramped, but Wes slides over and takes off the rest of my clothes, kissing down my body. My heart is racing so fast.
I’ve never been with anyone other than Wes. We were each other’s first and only. It made things easy. It made us feel connected. But Wes isn’t a virgin. Neither am I. But in another sense, he is. He doesn’t remember doing this before. And it strikes me that I would give anything to have my old Wes back, how easy and casual it would be—like we could or couldn’t and neither mattered. So long as we were together.
W
es comes back over to kiss me, and I close my eyes, squeezing them shut to block out the memories that I want to be here instead. There’s a rustle as Wes reaches for his wallet in his crumpled jeans on the floor. He kisses my hip before straightening, looking down at me.
He murmurs how beautiful I am. I open my eyes and look up at him. He smiles, deep dimples, shiny eyes. I don’t recognize him. I’m cheating on my boyfriend with my boyfriend.
And I miss him. I love him so much that it’s absolute agony. It’s tearing me to pieces. I want my Wes. I want him to come home.
“Tate,” Wes whispers, concern crossing his features. “Holy shit,” he says, tossing his wallet aside. “You’re crying.” He reaches to wipe my cheeks, and moves to crouch on the floor. “I’m so sorry,” he says. “Did I—”
But I wave off his worry. This isn’t his fault. I sniffle hard and reach for my shirt, pulling it on. Wes looks wrecked, guilty.
“We should have gone inside,” he says. “Or, wait. I shouldn’t have asked you to kiss me. Tate,” he says, his voice sounding desperate. “What did I do? I’m sorry.”
But my stray tears begin to turn into a full-on sob. Here, with Wes, I have never felt more alone in my life. Wes curses again, and moves to sit next to me on the seat, close but scared to touch me.
“Please talk to me,” he says, his voice shaking like he might cry. “What can I do? How can I fix this?”
And between gasps, between tears, I look over at him miserably, and I whisper, “I don’t know.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
WES AND I BOTH GET dressed, and when we realize the rain has let up, we climb out of the Jeep and sit on the curb. The night has grown colder, and I wrap my arms around myself. The tears have dried on my cheeks, making my skin feel tight.
Next to me, Wes sniffles every so often, and we both stare down at the pavement near the tire. I tried to explain why I was crying, tried to do it in a way that wouldn’t make him feel bad, feel inadequate. He doesn’t say anything until now.
“You’re in love with him,” he murmurs. Surprised, I turn to him, but he doesn’t meet my gaze. “You’re in love with me. Just not this version.”
“That’s not it exactly,” I say, although it’s closer to right than I want to admit.
“Can you imagine how that feels?” he asks. “To not remember. To feel like he was a better version of me. I see it in the way people at school look at me. The way you look at me.”
“No,” I say, my heart breaking for him. “I didn’t mean—”
“You wish I was somebody else,” he says, like it’s simple. But when he turns to me, tears drip onto his cheeks. His skin is ghostly pale even in the low light. “I see it. And I feel it every time you touch me—how much you wish I were him. I’m not stupid.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I just . . . I miss our life together.”
Wes swallows hard, lowering his head. He wipes roughly at his cheeks, clearing the tears. “I’ve been thinking about that,” he says. “And . . .” He looks over at me, his expression softening. “I’m going to get an Adjustment, Tate,” he says, and my breath catches. “But I’m not just doing it because of you,” he adds. “Or because of the others.”
“Why, then?” I ask.
He rubs his temples. “You remember how you told me about the other returners and how the doctor thought it could be the start of another epidemic?” he asks. When I nod, he continues.
“Well, I understood,” he says. “I didn’t want to admit it then, but there’s something in my head. Sometimes it’s an itch; other times it’s a throbbing pain. It’s like . . . it’s like a memory fighting to get out. And the nightmares, God, the nightmares. Every night I’m trapped in a white room. Trapped in restraints. I stopped sleeping. The Program is still coming for me, even if it’s only in my head.”
“Wes,” I breathe out, horrified. I had no idea this was happening to him. That he wasn’t sleeping, growing more drawn each day. This sounds like what was happening to Sebastian, too. “Why didn’t you tell me?” I ask.
He shrugs, skidding his foot along the concrete. “Because it’s gotten worse. Since I came back to town, since I’ve been seeing you . . . it’s gotten worse.”
His words devastate me, and I rock back. But Wes is quick to look over at me. “I don’t mean it like that. You’re not causing the pain, Tate. Being with you, it’s making me fight. I’m fighting the effects of The Program every day. But I’m not winning. It’s pulling me under; it’s making me sick,” he whispers. “Will you help me?”
I have a million reasons why he shouldn’t get an Adjustment. It’s dangerous. It’s untested. It’s completely scary. But I also had no idea how much he was hurting. He could end up like Sebastian or Alecia. Or any one of the countless others. This is what it’s like to be a returner—never-ending fear. The torture of it is almost incomprehensible.
Wes holds out his hand to me, palm up, his eyes pleading. And even though I don’t know if this is the answer we’re looking for, I won’t turn my back on him. I slide my hand against his and let him pull me closer. Hopeless in my devotion.
“Of course I’ll help you,” I say as I lean against him. “I’d do anything for you, Wes.”
“We won’t let them control us anymore,” he says. “I’m going to control myself.”
“You were never good at self-control,” I murmur, trying to get past my fear by joking.
Wes laughs, and his lips brush my forehead. “I can imagine. And I’m sorry I asked you to kiss me earlier. It wasn’t the right time.”
“It’s okay,” I say. “I really like kissing you.”
I feel him smile. “Yeah, I mean, before you started crying, I thought things were going pretty well.”
I laugh, and straighten to look over at him. The tears still fill his eyes, even as he smiles. “I always knew your mouth was my favorite part,” I say.
“I bet.” We wait a moment, and then Wes takes a deep breath and focuses on me. “I’m ready,” he says. “No more taking it slow. I’m ready to dive into this with you. So what do you say we stop feeling sorry for ourselves? Have one normal night in our completely abnormal lives? Just this once.”
And I decide that I’m ready too. No more longing for a memory—I’m ready for the real moments. The real us. I’m ready to bring Wes home.
“How about that movie?” he asks. “Can you stand to see it twice?”
“No spoilers,” I say, crossing my heart.
Wes stands, helping me up. And then a subtler version of us climbs back into the Jeep. We talk about nothing, laugh and smile. Neither of us mentions the Adjustment again until I drop him off later that night, and Wes asks me to make an appointment. And so I do just that.
• • •
Wes and I climb out of my Jeep in the strip mall parking lot Saturday morning. Our appointment is at ten a.m., but my grandparents think that Wes and I are going to brunch. They seemed slightly uncomfortable with the idea, but I told them we’re just friends for now. It was easier to lie.
Wes looks at me over the hood. “When life is finally falling back into place,” he says, “the only thing to do is try to fuck it up, right? At least, that’s what we might be doing.”
“Uh . . . your confidence is encouraging.”
Wes comes to stand next to me in front of the office door. We’ve tried to joke since I picked him up this morning, mostly to relieve the anxiety. But nothing helps right now. We’re a bundle of nerves.
Wes twists his baseball hat around backward, and stares at the building, unimpressed. He glances over. “Tell me this isn’t a mistake,” he says.
“I can’t,” I admit.
“Perfect,” he says, like we’re completely screwed. “So, should we go see what they have to say?” We both look at the door, but neither of us moves.
We have an appointment—I can’t say we’ve thought about the implications beyond that. The decision was made, and from there, we’ve drifted along. We also decided to keep it a secret
for now. I made the appointment online, but Wes didn’t tell his parents.
We’re conspiring. If that’s not a huge red flag, then I don’t know what is. And yet—here we are.
Wes and I stand outside the frosted-glass door, and I look at him. He’s still pale, and I notice how sharp the angle of his jaw has become. How thin he looks. Maybe this is how we fix everything.
“You sure you’re sure?” I ask.
He smiles and lifts one shoulder in a shrug. “Sure,” he says.
I go over and ring the bell next to the door. There’s a loud clink as the door unlocks, and Wes and I walk into the waiting room. The same girl sits behind the desk, and she smiles pleasantly as we enter, not seeming at all surprised to see me again.
“Dr. McKee will be with you shortly,” she says to us. She doesn’t ask us to fill out paperwork, and I’m reminded how unlike a doctor’s office this really is. I don’t know if that should reassure us or not.
Wes taps the toe of his boot on the floor. There’s music playing softly in the background—a song from the Cure, ironically. Although we decided to come here, we have the stipulation that if either of us changes our mind at any point, we’ll walk right back out the door. I’m already close to doing this when the office door opens.
“Tatum,” Dr. McKee says like we’re old friends. He outstretches his hand and I shake it more out of uncomfortableness than actually wanting to interact.
“And you must be Weston,” he says, turning to him. Wes doesn’t shake his hand, and the doctor slips his hands into his coat pockets like he doesn’t notice the slight. “Please,” Dr. McKee says, holding open the door to let us pass through. “Megan,” he tells the girl behind the desk, “clear my schedule for the day.”
She smiles. “Absolutely.”
Wes and I exchange a look, and walk into the back hall. Dr. McKee motions us into his office. I notice that the picture from the lobby, the framed one of himself, has been moved into his private office. I wonder if Nathan embarrassed him by bringing it up. I stare at the image for a moment, and then take a seat next to Wes while the doctor rounds the desk to his leather chair.
The Adjustment Page 14
