The Complication

by Suzanne Young

  I turn toward the window. I can’t see outside from here, but I hear the wind howl against the glass and the steady beat of rain. The clicking of debris and pebbles. It’s shitty outside.

  “I can stay for a while,” I offer. “Wake up before dawn and drive home. My grandparents can’t think this is a terrible idea if they don’t know about it.”

  Wes looks over at me. “I still think they’d consider it a responsible, mature idea, but whatever you want.”

  What I want isn’t a possibility right now, but I won’t leave him here if he’s feeling lonely like this. If I keep it platonic, there’s no harm. We can be friends. It’s what he wanted the first time he came back, but I kept pressing the issue. Now I know better. Now I know better for both of us.

  “You’ll really sleep on the floor?” I ask.

  “Yep,” he says, putting his hand over his heart like it’s a solemn oath. “But are you tired now? We can watch another movie. I’ll even get us some chips and sodas. I had my mom put a fridge down here.” He grins as if acknowledging he’s outrageously spoiled, and I roll my eyes.

  “Fine,” I say, tossing my clothes onto the closest chair. “But no more aliens.”

  “Romance?” Wes asks with a smile.

  “Thriller,” I suggest instead. He nods that it’s a good plan and goes over to the computer. He clicks through his movies, searching for an appropriately scary one that will allow us to forget the real horrors outside his basement bedroom. And this time, as we watch, his hand gently grazes mine, resting there.

  But he never holds it.

  • • •

  It’s just after midnight when we go into his room, not really talking. My heart is beating fast, like the plan will change somehow. But it doesn’t. Wes takes one of the pillows off his bed and tosses it onto the floor. He opens his closet and takes out a sleeping bag. He unzips it and lays it out, then grabs a folded blanket from the edge of his bed and puts that on top. It doesn’t look too awesome, and I’m about to suggest the couch, when he points to the bed as if he’s telling me not to argue.

  I smile and climb onto his oversize bed, slipping my bare legs under the covers. His bed has always been ridiculously plush and comfortable. I hear Wes’s knee crack as he climbs down, a little groan, and then he takes a deep breath.

  The room is dark with just a small light on his dresser and the clock on his nightstand. Outside the window, the wind still blows—although admittedly not as hard.

  “So . . . ,” Wes says from the floor. “How’s that bed?”

  I smile, knowing Wes can’t see me up here, and I turn on my side. “It’s way too soft,” I tell him. “Like lying on a cloud.”

  “Ugh, I hate that,” Wes says in an equally serious voice. “If you want, you can try out the floor with me. It has the perfect buoyancy.” He reaches over and knocks on the floor, a hollow echo of concrete under the carpet.

  “Wow, that does sound comfy,” I say.

  “You should come down. There’s plenty of room.”

  I peek over the side of the bed to where Wes is lying on his back, staring up at the ceiling. The little bit of light cast perfectly across his face.

  “Okay,” I say, and see him instantly smile.

  I climb down from the bed, taking my pillow with me, and lie next to him on the unfolded sleeping bag. I curl on my side, and my hip and shoulder ache from the pressure of the hard floor. I tuck my hands under my chin, and across from me, Wes mimics the movement. We’re a pillow away, but curved in, our knees nearly touching.

  “I’m curious about something,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. “Have I ever asked you out before?”

  I smile softly, not willing to lie. I like how he flirts with me. I don’t really want him to stop. “Maybe once or twice,” I offer.

  “Twice?” he repeats. “I bet it was more.”

  “And why do you think that?”

  He shrugs one shoulder. “Because I’m persistent. And it helps me understand.”

  “Understand what?”

  “Why I feel this way,” he replies.

  A wave rolls over me, and I’m breathless when I ask, “And how do you feel?”

  “Like I know you,” he whispers. “Know everything about you, but just can’t remember.”

  I realize that I want him to guess our relationship—say it out loud so I can’t deny it. Make me tell the truth. Make me hurt us both with it, but at the same time, set us both free.

  “And I feel . . .” Wes pauses like this is the most important part. “I feel like lying on this hard-ass cement carpet floor is almost bearable because I’m close to you.”

  Silence falls over the room, and I see the first twitch of a smile on his lips.

  “You want to move to the bed, don’t you?” I ask.

  “Definitely,” he responds immediately, like that was the point all along.

  “Fine. But only because this floor sucks.”

  Wes laughs, and we grab our pillows. We head to opposite sides of the mattress. I watch him, unsure of how serious he was about knowing me. Where does his joking end? Where do my lies end?

  We climb onto the bed, me under the covers, him above. I murmur good night, and he says it back. But the lightness is gone from his voice, and I wish we hadn’t moved from the floor. There we could play off the conversation. We could pretend.

  I turn on my side, facing the door. I feel Wes do the same in the opposite direction.

  We’re quiet, and I may have dozed off at one point. It’s still dark outside, and Wes’s breathing is calm. I can’t believe he’s next to me. I can’t believe I’m in his bed again. The way I’ve missed him is torturous. I shouldn’t have come here. I should have known it would be too difficult.

  I can’t live in this constant state of dishonesty. I can’t keep things from him, not if I love him.

  “Do you want to know the truth?” I whisper softly, and turn to look at the back of his head.

  I don’t expect him to answer, but almost like he was waiting, he whispers back, “Yes.”

  Wes turns over in the bed, facing me. His eyes are questioning, a little unsure. I’m beginning to shake, scared of what I’ll say. Scared of what it will do to him, to us.

  “But I’m more interested in now,” he adds. “If I asked you how you felt about me right now, would you answer?”

  My senses try to flood in, keep me from making a mistake. The past is one thing, but Wes wants now. And it’s the one thing I can’t give him. I’m trying to be a better person. I’m trying fucking really hard.

  “No,” I reply.

  “If I asked you to kiss me anyway, would you?” he whispers.

  I watch the openness in his expression. That simple way Wes always had about him—this raw honesty. His fearlessness.

  And despite how my heart aches for him, the word sounds like it comes from someone else when I whisper, “No.”

  Wes seems shocked by my answer, but he quickly recovers and smiles.

  “I bet I asked you out at least three times,” he says.

  “Maybe even four,” I answer immediately, wishing I was the person who could make him happy. But knowing that I’m not.

  Wes’s smile softens, and he sighs heavily, gazing at me. “Just friends, then,” he whispers.

  “Just friends,” I reply.

  The little bit of light reflects in his eyes. “Good night, Tate,” he says.

  “Night.” We watch each other a moment longer, never touching, even though I can feel the heat from his body being so close to mine.

  And when I close my eyes, I focus on being next to him. Just as I drift off, a tunnel opens into my memory, and I fall in.

  • • •

  “Don’t make me go home,” I whimpered, standing on my doorstep with Nathan. He stared down at me—worried, a little scared. I needed someone to love me, especially now that Wes didn’t. And I couldn’t tell Nathan the truth. I wouldn’t acknowledge it.

  “Go in and sleep this off, Tatu
m,” Nathan said. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

  He was scared of The Program, and it overruled his worry for me. He turned and went to his house. The minute he disappeared inside, I jogged to my Jeep and got in.

  My body shook, cold running up and down my arms. It was summer, but I was so cold. I was so fucking empty. For weeks I’ve been slowly draining away.

  Tonight I saw Wes with another girl. I saw him smile at her, touch her arm. I couldn’t wrap my brain around the kind of hurt that created. I wasn’t just losing Wes—I was losing me. The person I was with him. The person I’d been for the past few years. Since meeting, we’d grown so much together, had so many firsts—and even more than that, we’d been surviving The Program together. I depended on him. I needed him. And, yes, I loved him.

  But he didn’t love me anymore. Not in that way. And to me, it felt the same as if he hated me. As if he wished I were dead. As if he wished I would evaporate and leave him alone.

  I was nothing anymore. I was no one.

  I sputtered out a cry and put my fingers to my lips. I shoved my keys in the ignition and started the engine. I had to see him. Beg him to come back, work this out. He had to forgive me. He couldn’t just leave me like this. He never could before.

  Tonight felt different, though. It felt final.

  I wish I were dead.

  I drove fast, speeding toward Wes’s house. He should be home by now, and if I could just talk to him—

  “I love you,” I said out loud in the small space of my Jeep. “I love you, so you can’t do this to me.” My voice cracked, but I believed it was true. I could convince him to stay. I didn’t care why.

  There were cars in the driveway of Wes’s house, so I pulled in behind them and rushed ahead to his basement entrance. I knocked, shivering.

  Was I acting erratic? Was this how lives were ended, how The Program flagged people? My eyes began to tear up, and I thought about Suzie McColm, who was pulled from math class. She had been crying, but she didn’t fight. She let them lift her out of her seat, lead her to the door. Before she left, I heard her whisper: “Just let me die already.”

  The Program was our collective nightmare. Our bogeyman. Our death sentence.

  I knocked again on Wes’s door, harder. It occurred to me then that he wasn’t here. He was still out with her.

  I put my hand over my eyes and leaned against the frame. I didn’t want to picture them together, but my mind went there anyway. Wes holding her cheek, kissing her with his eyes open. She was prettier than me—I knew that. He probably enjoyed looking at her. Touching her.

  My cries intensified, and I slumped against the door. I pictured them in bed together. I pictured him murmuring her name. It was a spiral, a dark black spiral spinning me deeper and deeper into my grief.

  I screamed and hit the door with my closed fist. There was a sharp sting as a cut opened across my knuckles, a bloody smear on his door. The shaking in my limbs grew, but my eyes were wide, my lips tight around my bared teeth. Maybe they were inside.

  “Open the door,” I called. There was no answer, and I punched it again. “Open the door!” I screamed, and heard my voice echo three times down the road.

  I was out of control—out of body, almost. I was mad—this was what it felt like to lose yourself. I sobbed and wrapped my arms around my waist.

  I couldn’t stop it. I couldn’t stop the shadow taking me over. The darkness. I just wanted to talk to him, and then I would be fine. I told myself I would be fine. I didn’t really believe it, though.

  It was like I’d just stepped off a cliff. My heart in my throat, falling toward an impact I couldn’t stop.

  “Tatum?” a groggy female voice called, and I spun to find Mr. and Mrs. Ambrose coming down the walkway from the front door. “What are you doing?” Mrs. Ambrose added, tightening her robe around her.

  But as she saw me under the lights, her mouth fell open. Her husband took her by the arm, and both of them stared at me.

  “Tatum,” she said softly, like I was about to jump off a building. She had no idea how close she was to the truth. “Come inside, honey. We’ll call your grandmother.”

  “Is he in there?” I asked. And my voice was different, hoarse. Raw. My throat burned, and I wondered if I’d been screaming the entire time.

  Mrs. Ambrose gave a quick shake of her head to let me know her son wasn’t home. I flinched, and then groaned like I’d been punched in the chest. It felt like it.

  I wanted the spiral to take me. Death was scary, but the pain—the pain was a distraction. It pulled me deeper, and I squeezed my eyes shut, and I ground my teeth, my fists clenched.

  “Tatum?” Mrs. Ambrose called, and she sounded scared. “Please, you’re bleeding.”

  He did this to me, I thought wildly. Wes did this by continuing to hook up with me. Giving me hope when there was none. I was a pathetic creature he felt sorry for. One he used. I was worthless. I was a joke.

  I hate myself.

  “You’re scaring me,” Mrs. Ambrose said, and took a step closer to me. “I think you should go now.”

  I looked at her fiercely. She was the second person to turn me away tonight. First Nathan, now her. No one wanted me. Only The Program wanted me, and they couldn’t have me.

  “Don’t tell me what to do,” I growled.

  Mrs. Ambrose shot a concerned glance at her husband, then turned back to me. “Go home, Tatum. You’re not well.”

  Her words struck me like a slap. A warning. “A threat.” I said the last part of my thoughts out loud. “You’re going to call them?” I asked. I flinched again, this time half of my face scrunching up. I couldn’t control it.

  “You need help,” she whispered, almost desperately. “Now go. I don’t want Wes seeing you. Stay away from him.”

  “Fuck you,” I said instantly. She was worried I’d taint her son, ruin him. Maybe I would. Maybe he deserved it.

  I closed my eyes for a moment, sudden clarity coming through. I’d scared myself. I understood that this wasn’t me; this wasn’t how I really felt. I loved Wes, and I would never hurt him. I wouldn’t hurt myself.

  I looked at Mrs. Ambrose again, swaying on my feet. I was ready to apologize, but her face was a growing storm of rage. “I think I need help,” I murmured.

  She scoffed, clearly not forgiving my outburst. “Leave,” she said coldly. “Before I call the police.”

  The police would haul me off to The Program without hesitation. She might call them anyway. I wanted to plead with her to forget I was here, and fear crawled over me, replacing my misery. I looked at Mr. Ambrose, and his brows were pulled together sympathetically. He nodded his chin as if telling me to leave.

  I started to back up, my steps unsteady. My lips parted to tell her I was sorry, but Mrs. Ambrose turned her back on me and took a step toward the house.

  She was going to turn me in. She was going to send me away and have them destroy me. She was going to kill me.

  “Pop,” I whispered, running my hand roughly through my hair as I rushed toward my Jeep. I needed my grandparents to save me.

  I ruined everything.

  • • •

  The alarm on my phone goes off, and I sit up with a gasp. I stare straight ahead in the darkness of Wes’s room, sweat on my skin, heart banging against my chest. I click off my phone alarm, momentarily disoriented as the fear that I felt in the memory begins to slowly dissipate.

  I know why Wes’s mother called The Program on me. I don’t even really blame her. I was out of control. I needed help.

  The wind is quiet outside, and even though I was quick to cut the ringing on my phone, Wes groans and turns over, slapping the pillow on his head.

  I stare at his back, stunned that I’m here. The memory is still with me, and I can feel the devastating loss of him. What it did to me. How it hurt me.

  Wes hurt me, I think weakly. He may not have meant to, but it was wrong. And how I reacted to it was wrong. And sitting here in his bed, I’m truly convin
ced for the first time . . . that we’re wrong. We are wrong together.

  I get up from the bed, quiet as I slip off his shorts and pull on my jeans, change my top, and stuff my bra into my pocket. Once my shoes are on, I grab my car keys and go to the door. I pause there a moment and look back at the bed, Wes sleeping soundly. I’ll be gone when he wakes up, and he’ll wonder why I didn’t say good-bye.

  We never were good with good-byes.

  I open the door and go outside; the smell of rain—damp earth and grass—is thick in the air. It’s cold, and I wrap my arms around myself. The wind and rain are gone, leaving the street a mess. Branches on the road, a buzzing powerline above me. I open and close my fist, as if my knuckles are still injured from the memory.

  I get to my Jeep, relieved to see there’s no note or anything to say that I’ve been found out. As if I’m under surveillance. Which doesn’t feel that far off, if I’m honest.

  Once inside the Jeep, I pump the heat, shivering all over. When I start toward home, I go over the memory in my head, tears dripping onto my cheeks as I see the girl I used to be. See that version of me so broken. It’s horrific—humiliating, devastating, and ugly. My thoughts were so skewed, my emotions twisted. I don’t even know her. And I don’t ever want to be her again.

  I turn up the radio to drown out my thoughts. I know what I have to do, but I allow myself one more moment with him.

  I can still smell his sheets. Feel his warmth.

  Wes said he didn’t want to be alone, and I get that. Lately, I feel more alone than ever. Part of me wishes we could just pack up and run away from all of this. Start over where no one knows us, or our pasts. No one to judge or warn us.

  No one to protect us.

  I click off the Jeep’s lights as I pull into the driveway of my house. The street is completely desolate, and none of the houses are lit up. I’m careful with how loudly I close my door now that the rain has stopped, and then I make my way inside the kitchen, half expecting my grandparents to jump out and scare me.

  The house is soundless. I slip off my wet shoes and walk through the living room and up the stairs toward the bedrooms, carefully avoiding the creaky floorboards.

  When I go past my grandparents’ room, I pause and listen. It’s silent, and I know I’ve gotten away with it. I should feel guilty, but instead it feels kind of justified. Like it was meant to happen. I was meant to remember the truth of what happened with me and Wes. Why I ended up in The Program.