I get into my room, close the door, strip off my clothes, and put on an old T-shirt. And after I climb into bed, I stare up at the ceiling in the dark.
“I’ve always loved you,” I whisper in the dark.
And then I take out my phone, click his name, and send Wes one last text. Knowing that I mean it this time.
Good-bye.
PART II
THE COMPLICATION
CHAPTER ONE
I WAKE TO THE SMELL of bacon frying, and when I go downstairs, I find my grandparents in the kitchen. Gram is scraping eggs onto three plates, strips of bacon lined up along the side. She’s already dressed for work, but my grandfather is still wearing his pajamas. He tells me he’s going in later today.
“Did the storm keep you up last night?” Gram asks, giving me a morning kiss on the head as she sets a plate in front of me. “You look exhausted.”
“It was fine,” I say, the first hint of guilt attacking my conscience. I quickly change the subject. “I have an appointment with Dr. Warren after school today,” I add.
My grandparents exchange a glance, and something about it catches on my consciousness.
“Oh?” Pop asks, pretending (badly) that he didn’t know.
“Yep,” I say, stabbing some scrambled eggs. “And she already told me you called her, so maybe just give me a heads-up next time.”
“Sorry, honey,” Pop says. “I was just—”
“Worried,” I finish for him. “I know. Well, I’m going to see her, and we’ll talk about Wes and whatever else it is you’ve been stressing about.” I smile at my grandparents; part of my graciousness is because I snuck out last night and have my own shit to feel bad about.
Even so, they’ve given me yet another reason not to trust them.
“Thanks for letting us know,” Gram says pleasantly, and takes a sip of her coffee.
We continue eating breakfast, completely normal in every way, and after I clean my plate, I grab my bag and head to school.
• • •
Nathan is waiting with coffees when I arrive at school, begrudgingly fulfilling his portion of our coffee-fetching arrangement. Jana doesn’t take part, typically. Most days she arrives at school late. Nathan says she’s late to everything they do, although it doesn’t bother him that much.
I stop at the top of the stone staircase at the entrance of the building, surveying the front yard of the school, and hold out my hand. Nathan places a vanilla latte in it.
“Did you see Miller Ave. was flooded?” he asks casually. “Because I nearly died.”
I look sideways at him. “I noticed it last night,” I say.
“I wondered where you were going,” he says, taking a sip of his steaming coffee. He meets my eyes, acknowledging that he knows I snuck out. “Probably wasn’t wise to go out into a thunderstorm,” he adds.
“It definitely wasn’t,” I agree. “But you know me, queen of bad decisions.” I blow on my latte, testing a sip.
“I’m assuming it had to do with Wes?”
“You assume correctly. We watched a few movies together.”
“Sounds sweet. Was it a date? Did you tell him that you used to date?” Nathan questions me like it’s any other conversation, even though we both know it’s not. I was stupid. But at least I’m acknowledging it, which I’m sure comforts him.
“No,” I say. “We agreed to be friends. Besides, Dr. McKee warned me not to get involved romantically, remember? I’m sure he has my best interests in mind.” We exchange a pointed look, and a cool breeze blows open my jacket. I pull it closed around me.
Nathan takes his time as he drinks his coffee. “In theory,” he says, “I support the doctor’s decision, but, in actuality, he either didn’t know or didn’t tell you about your time in The Program. One makes him incompetent. The other makes him a monster.”
“Wait, are you saying I shouldn’t take his advice?” I ask.
“I’m saying I don’t know,” Nathan responds. “I’m not going to rely on his word. And you know how hard it is for me to admit that you might actually belong with Wes.”
He laughs, but I don’t join him. He turns to see why, and I feel tears sting my eyes. I quickly blink them away. “I remembered,” I say.
“Remembered what?”
“What happened that night,” I say. “After I left your house, I went to Wes’s, and I cussed at his mother.”
Nathan takes a casual sip of his drink, then, as if he misheard: “I’m sorry. What?”
“I remember going there,” I say. “I knew about Wes and Kyle, and I went there to beg him . . .” I stop, too embarrassed to explain it. I wish I had been stronger. Braver. But I can’t change the past. Apparently, it can be rewritten, though.
“I went there to talk to him,” I say self-consciously, “but Mrs. Ambrose called The Program on me because I was unwell. She told me to stay away from Wes. And now that I know, now that I’ve relived it . . . I think she’s right about us not belonging together.” I shrug one shoulder, miserable. “So I’ve let him go, Nathan. Wes and I are over.”
Nathan swallows hard. “That’s probably the biggest lie you’ve ever said to my face.”
“Not true,” I say, sniffling. “There was also the Adjustment.”
“Shit, you’re right,” he says with a sad smile, and when the moment goes on too long, he pulls me into a fierce hug. “I’m sorry, honey,” he says, finally acknowledging the gravity of my statement.
“So, that was my night,” I add when I pull back. He whispers again that he’s sorry.
“Will you come with me to the Adjustment office later?” I ask. “I need to confront Dr. McKee.”
I expect Nathan to point out this is a dangerous idea, but he doesn’t. “Yeah,” he says. “Of course I’ll go with you.”
I thank him, and we turn to stare across the front lawn of the school. On the grass, there are a few guys playing Frisbee, flinging it with full force, even this early in the morning. Nathan says he admires their commitment to looking douchey despite the hour.
“Not to change the subject,” Nathan says, drawing my attention. “Did you finish your essay?”
“Essay?”
“Damn,” he says. “I was planning on copying yours.” He hikes his backpack higher up on his shoulder. “First hour. We should get in there and write it before Miss Soto arrives. At least tell me you read the book.”
To this, I smile. “I always read the book.”
“Excellent,” Nathan replies. “And I have a pencil. Together we’re like one full brain.”
I loop my arm through his with a laugh, and we head toward the building to go work on our papers.
• • •
Nathan and I make a plan for later. I’ll go to my appointment with Dr. Warren at two thirty, and then Nathan will meet me at the Adjustment office at four. We’re going to demand answers. I’m glad Nathan’s coming with me. He’s my magic feather—my confidence booster.
Wes isn’t in class when I arrive, so we don’t have the awkward “Hi. I slept in your bed last night, and it was a huge mistake” conversation, but he does show up near the end. He smiles at me before sitting down, and I hear Nathan groan behind me. This isn’t going to be easy to untangle.
There are no class interruptions today, no sign of Dr. Wyatt. There is one kid absent, Robert Rodrigo. I heard a rumor that he’s in the hospital, but when I asked about it, his friend quickly brushed me off.
What’s concerning about that piece of information is that Robert is a returner. And the past few weeks have returners dropping like flies—whether by a meltdown, an aneurysm, or . . . self-inflicted trauma. Two or three just opted out of school altogether. The assessments are dredging up bad memories for all of us.
I realize that I’m part of this high-risk pool now. I’m in danger because I’m a returner too. And I guess that’s something I’ll have to bring up to Dr. McKee, among my other questions. Why exactly are the returners crashing back?
I’m not sure he�
�ll answer. And even if he does, I don’t know if he’ll tell me the truth.
• • •
Wes doesn’t wait for me after class, and I check my messages to see if he replied to my somewhat dramatic good-bye this morning. But he didn’t. I can’t help but wonder what he’s thinking. At some point, he’ll want to talk about it. Then again, he might realize we shouldn’t—not if he wants to keep his blissful ignorance.
The morning passes quickly, and I’m surprised when Foster asks us to stay in for lunch with him, claiming that in just a few weeks, we’ve lost the “purity of recess” by spending half the time driving. He said he wants us to get back to our roots.
We agree to this plan over group text, and Nathan tells us Jana won’t be there. Neither Foster nor I ask why, and Nathan doesn’t offer an explanation.
Wes doesn’t contact me, so either he changed his mind about lunch, or he’s honoring my good-bye text.
I push through the doors to the courtyard and find Nathan is already at the half wall, our old spot, and he has an array of snacks from the cafeteria laid out for us. None of us had packed a lunch, so he told us he’d take care of it.
I smile when I sit next to him, grabbing an apple first and taking a bite. I scan the courtyard, noting that it’s a lot less busy than it used to be. I don’t mind; it’s kind of peaceful.
“Hello, my dudes,” Foster says as he comes over. He sits on the other side of the food, and we all settle in. Foster isn’t fully recovered from the flu—the tip of his nose is still red, and his eyes are a little puffy—but he’s moving a lot better than he did yesterday. He’s no longer hunched over with body aches, at least.
“If I’d have known about this date sooner, I would have brought you soup,” Nathan says, studying him. “God, you look like shit.”
I slash out my hand and slap Nathan in the chest with a thud. He cough-laughs and pushes my arm away.
“Thank you,” Foster says. “And just in case that doesn’t add to my insecurity, Arturo decided to go have lunch with Jana and company. Why isn’t your girlfriend eating with us?” he asks Nathan.
“Because I didn’t ask her,” Nathan says simply, and opens a snack bag of chips. “Plus, I wanted to eat with you guys.”
“Aw . . . ,” Foster says. “I love when it’s just the three of us.” He beams, his eyes glassy from after-flu, his skin sickly. Regardless, he’s still adorable.
“Love you,” I murmur to him, and pass him a cookie.
“So . . . ,” Foster says, taking a bite of the cookie. “Nathan told me you were with Wes last night. Is he your boyfriend again, or are we trying something less conventional?”
Nathan tsks, annoyed that Foster brought it up.
“We’re friends . . . ish,” I say. “I don’t want his brain to melt down because of me.”
“You do have that effect on men,” Foster jokes, and I laugh.
“Besides,” I tell him, trying not to the let the emotions of the story take over, “I remembered some things.” I recount the crashback calmly, detached, and watch as Foster wilts. Feeling sorry for me, I’m sure.
“How about handlers?” Foster asks, changing the subject. “Notice anything?”
“No,” I say, and Nathan agrees. “I haven’t seen Derek.” I pause. “You really think he’s a handler?” I ask.
“Anyone can be,” Foster says, examining the cookie I gave him. “Even those close to us.”
“I don’t know if I’d say anyone,” Nathan argues. His voice has a hitch in it, and Foster smiles, shaking off the moment.
“Right,” he says. “Only the really creepy people.”
“Well,” I say. “Nathan and I are going to the Adjustment office later today. We’re going to confront Dr. McKee in person. He’ll probably lie, but at least he’ll have to do it to my face. And I’ll be able to tell.”
Nathan scrunches up his nose and looks sideways at me. “Really, though?” he says. “You’re not the best judge of character.”
“What?” I say. “I’m a great judge.”
“I agree with Tatum,” Foster says. “I mean . . . she is here with us.”
Nathan smiles to himself, and then he picks up a can of soda, pops the top, and hands it to me. “She’s making better decisions every day.”
CHAPTER TWO
I SORT OF FLOAT THROUGH the rest of the day, nervous about going to the Adjustment office after school, but comforted by my low-stress lunch. Having friends is powerful—knowing you have people to watch out for you. In the days of The Program, it was the best defense a person could have. Obviously, it didn’t always work (I’m the perfect example of that), but it kept the dark hours at bay. I’m lucky that I have both Nathan and Foster. Right now, it makes me feel a little invincible.
When I get to my last class of the day, the teacher tells us we’re going to the library. A few people boo, not wanting to do any research, but I don’t mind. I grab my stuff and head over there.
The library is quiet today, even with my entire class there. The librarian is hanging in her office, occasionally looking out at us. She seems worried, and I wonder if she’s having personal problems.
I take a spot at the table and run my gaze down the assignment sheet. We’re supposed to collect firsthand stories throughout history and write a paper about how historical events were viewed from different perspectives. It’s interesting—and, dare I say, educational.
I leave my backpack at my chair and walk into the stacks, trying to find a nonfiction book from World War II. I locate the section, and when I pull the book off the shelf, I notice someone in the row with me. I look up, surprised when I find it’s Wes.
“Hey,” I say, swallowing hard. “What are you doing here?”
“Apparently, I have four term papers to make up, so they gave me a pass out of my last class to work in here. You?”
“Research report.”
Wes comes to stand next to me, examining the section of books that I’m picking through. “Look at us,” he says. “A couple of smarties.” He glances over and smiles, his dimples flashing adorably.
“Ha. Yeah, I guess.” I put back the first book I grabbed and select another. Wes shifts, and his arm grazes mine.
“What was up with the cryptic good-bye text?” he mentions casually, and runs his finger down the spine of a book on the shelf. “You could have woken me up when you left.”
My heartbeat quickens. “You looked tired,” I say. We’re quiet for a moment, and I’m afraid to turn to him. The silence between us feels intimate, much like it did last night.
“I was worried,” he says, taking a book and flipping through the pages to examine the pictures, fidgeting. “Thought maybe I came on too strong.”
“No,” I say. “It’s not that.”
He clears his throat and puts the book back on the shelf. He moves down a little bit, and the sudden absence of his body heat sends a chill over my arm. “You meant what you said about being friends,” he murmurs. “Is that it?”
Of course that’s not it, but it’s the way it has to be. Anything more is cruel to both of us.
Be better, I tell myself.
“Last night was a mistake,” I say, clutching the book I was holding to my chest. “Friends don’t really . . . share a bed.”
“They probably shouldn’t,” he agrees.
I start to explain that I still think he’s great (not the best answer), when Wes cuts me off, sounding unbothered.
“I want you to like me,” he says.
The sentence catches me completely off guard. “I do like you,” I whisper.
“I’m not stupid, you know,” he says. “You think because you’re not telling me that we were together that I can’t still figure it out? I mean, you should have seen your face when I walked into class yesterday, like I was back from the dead. Not to mention Dr. Wyatt asking you about my life.”
I lean in closer, drawn to him. Drawn to the truth.
“I can tell by the way you talk to me,” Wes adds in
a low voice. “The way you look at me. The way I wanted you to kiss me.”
And I’m gazing at him now, willing myself to not profess my love. To keep my emotions in check before I ruin everything. Ruin us.
“I want you to like me, Tate,” he repeats. “Not because you used to, or whatever went on between us, but because you just do. I want you to be crazy about me.” His mouth flinches with an embarrassed smile.
But it’s not that easy, not with our history. Not with the promise I made to Dr. McKee to stay away from him. And I have to decide if I’m going to lie—boldly lie—despite everything.
I feel sick when I utter, “We weren’t like that.” I force myself to hold Wes’s gaze, see the flash of uncertainty, and then disappointment. “We were just friends, Wes. And it’s all we’ll ever be.”
His throat clicks as he swallows hard, turning to the books. “Then I guess I’m an idiot,” he says. He looks sideways at me and smiles. “I must have been the ‘secretly in love with you’ best friend.”
“I don’t think that was the case,” I say, not wanting him to feel worse than he already does. I’m trying to let him down easy, destroy years of our relationship with lies and smiles. By trying to be better, I’m starting to despise myself.
Neither Wes nor I leaves the stacks, and I help him find a book for his class. At one point, he chews on the inside of his lip like he’s waiting to say something.
“What?” I ask, pushing his shoulder. He laughs.
“I’m just wondering if you want to go out tonight,” he says, checking my reaction.
I tilt my head. “Didn’t we just agree—”
“To not share a bed again,” he finishes the sentence. “And we won’t. But I’m pretty sure friends share meals—especially friends like us. We might even share ice cream.”
“Sorry,” I say. “But I’m lactose intolerant.”
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