The Complication

by Suzanne Young

  I understand what Michael Realm meant now, how remembering can be a curse. Because I remember things that Wes doesn’t. I remember how much he loved me. How much I loved him. The stuff they couldn’t take. The stuff that crashed back. So much history, and now it’s only mine.

  I walk inside his room and close the door behind me. It’s dimly lit, the high-set window not enough on a darkened, stormy day. But Wes doesn’t flip on the lights as he leads us into the living room area.

  I sit on the couch, and Wes comes to the coffee table and turns his laptop in my direction before telling me he’ll be right back. He jogs up the stairs and disappears inside his house.

  I smile at the wallpaper on his computer, a vintage motorcycle, mid-repair. It’s simple, honest. I click open the browser, and his last page pulls up. It’s a board called Survivor Rate, and the quick description says it’s a forum for survivors of the epidemic. It has over ten thousand members.

  I click on the first thread and start to read through, when I hear Wes close the door and lock it before bounding down the stairs. I look up, and he holds out a bag of frozen peas.

  “For your head,” he says. “I tried to find an aspirin, but my mom won’t keep any pills in the house.”

  “Oh,” I say, taking the icy bag from him. “Thank you.” It’s kind of sweet of him to do that without me asking. I move my legs aside as he scoots past me and drops down onto the couch in his usual spot. I gently press the peas to my head, groaning at the pressure.

  “This is the one,” Wes starts, turning the screen so he can see it too, “where the guy had the picture of Michael.”

  “He goes by Realm,” I say, and feel Wes turn to me. I point at the screen to move forward. “Can I see the picture?”

  “Sure,” Wes replies, and clicks into a different thread, scrolling through posts. He double-clicks one. “Here you go. That’s him, right?”

  And it is. There’s a picture of Realm, not looking at the camera. He’s partially turned away, his scar prominent on his neck. He doesn’t seem to know his picture is being taken, and I’m reminded of Melody and how she never wanted to be in any photos. She always found an excuse. It was probably because she was a handler, a closer, and she didn’t want to be recognized. She didn’t want a record of being Jana Simms.

  “That’s definitely him,” I say. Under the picture, the post reads: Anyone know this guy?

  Wes goes into the private messages and shows me his exchange with the original poster. It doesn’t give us any information on locating Realm, so we eventually click out and scan the boards again.

  There’s a notebook, and Wes grabs it and flips back a few pages, reading through some of the information he copied down. I watch him, completely warmed by his dedication to figuring this all out. Knowing that he’d done it while I was ignoring him.

  “It was hard for me to lie to you,” I admit as he reads over a page. He looks sideways at me, setting the notebook down. “It broke my heart,” I add.

  “Then you should have told the truth,” he says. “You could have done that all along.”

  “I wanted you to be happy,” I say. “And I didn’t think you could be with me.” Wes holds my gaze and then sits back against the couch.

  “Don’t I get to decide what makes me happy?” he asks.

  I shrug. “If I really loved you, wouldn’t I make sure you were happy?”

  Wes scrunches up his face, like he doesn’t buy that theory. “As a point of reference,” he says, “aren’t we here, now, to fight back against an entity who claims exactly that? They’re making decisions for us, claiming it’s in our best interest. Why are they deciding what our interests are? Why did you think you could decide mine?”

  “Our track record’s not great,” I say, although I get his point about The Program. How making a relationship decision without his input may not have been entirely fair—not when I still loved him.

  “You told me all about it, remember?” Wes says, smiling with those adorable dimples. “We sound awful,” he adds. “We sound young. But other than nearly dying, the second time didn’t seem so bad.”

  I laugh, enjoying his take on the situation. “It wasn’t awesome, either, although it had its moments.”

  “Seems like our thing,” he says. “Bad timing.”

  I loop my arm behind the sofa and set the bag of frozen peas on the cushion. “What do you mean?”

  “First round, we had the epidemic, you breaking up with me. Me trying to move on halfheartedly. And then the second time, you loved me first, and when I came around, you decided it was wrong. My head exploded, and boom—we’re up to round three.”

  “I mean, it didn’t explode,” I say.

  “Do you want my thoughts on all of this?” he asks. “My final thoughts?”

  I shake my leg, nervous. “Yes,” I reply, bracing myself for what he’s about to say.

  “Whatever went wrong between us,” he starts, “I’m sorry. No matter who was at fault, if anyone. And I can’t promise it won’t happen again. But I’m not going to move on this time.” He smiles, kind of miserable. A bit stubborn.

  “I think about you all the time, Tate,” he continues. “I worry about you. I want to live this life.” He motions between us. “And I hope I’m not being too much right now if I say I’m wild about you. Have been since you came to rescue me in the monitor’s office. Since I saw you in class. I knew you”—he puts his hand over his heart—“even if I didn’t know you.

  “Now, I don’t want to talk about the past anymore,” he continues, “or fights we’ve had, or my mother. Can we do that? Because I think I love you. And I want to save the world with you. So . . . I don’t know, can we stop ruining each other’s lives and just love each other at the same time?”

  I stare at him, my heart swelling to the point of bursting. It’s everything I love about him, his pure way of looking at things. Even the faults. He sighs loudly, waiting for me to respond, and I smile.

  “Why did you have to bring your mother into this?” I ask.

  Wes coughs out a laugh, clearly relieved. “That was terrible of me,” he says. “But I’m guessing you’re cool with the other parts?”

  I nod that I am, and he nods back like it’s finalized. We’re loving each other, concurrently. It’s settled.

  Wes turns to the computer, clicking through posts until he gets frustrated and tries another forum. I watch him, finding the first bit of true contentment I’ve had in a while. I’m almost dreamy, setting aside the shambles of my life as I study him, noticing his dimples first, the way they’re always there even when he’s not smiling. The way he licks his lips. The fast clicking of his fingers on the keys.

  And the second he turns to me, noticing that I’m staring, I lean over and kiss him.

  He’s not surprised, not hesitant. Instead, his hand rests on the back of my neck, his lips moving against mine urgently, claiming me. Both of us gasp through our kisses, tongues intertwining. My head spins, and I move to my knees to get closer to him, knocking the bag of peas onto the carpet. Wes moans softly as he pulls me down on top of him, his other hand on my hip.

  I straddle him on the couch, breaking the kiss to gaze down at him for a moment. Admire him as my heart races riotously. Wes’s eyes are glassy, his lips part as he smiles. He reaches for the bottom of my shirt, tugging me into another kiss, wrapping his arms around me. He devours me, and it’s not like before. He doesn’t kiss the same; he’s not touching me the same. This is all new.

  Wes’s mouth is on my neck, his teeth grazing my skin, and I whisper his name, knotting my fingers in his hair.

  “You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs on my skin, our bodies moving against each other. “Fucking perfect.”

  I’m half out of my mind as I yank off his shirt and then mine, and we crash back together. If we’re going to the break the rules by dating, we might as well break them all. His hand slides past my hip and between my thighs, and I melt against him. We’re kissing and smiling and about to get
very naked, when there is a sharp knock at his basement door.

  I sit up, my eyes blurry as I look in the direction of his room. Wes groans and drops his head back against the cushions.

  “Seriously?” he says out loud. I move to the other side of the couch, my body still tingling. I pull my shirt back on, and Wes stands up, grabbing his from the floor and carrying it with him to the door.

  He looks back over his shoulder at me, as if to say he doesn’t have to open the door. I motion for him to do it anyway. He exhales and opens it, resting on the door frame, blocking my view. I sit up straighter, waiting to see who it is.

  “Tate,” Wes calls back. “It’s for you.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  MY HEART LEAPS INTO MY throat, and I quickly jump up, smoothing my hair and avoiding the spot that still hurts. Wes pushes the door open all the way, and I breathe out a sigh of relief when I see it’s Nathan. Standing behind him, Foster waves to me, mouthing hello.

  Nathan flashes a disappointed look at Wes, who’s still shirtless, and walks past him into the basement.

  Foster takes his time, chatting with Wes at the door to introduce himself, and then they both come into the living room. Foster heads in my direction and slyly holds his hand in a low five behind his back for me to slap. I do so with a laugh, and he takes a seat on the arm of the sofa.

  “Sorry to interrupt,” Nathan says flatly. “But I thought I should follow up on the ‘attacked by handlers’ situation.” He looks from me to Wes. “Who would like to start?”

  Wes grins, amused by Nathan’s attitude. He comes to stand next to me, still not wearing his damn shirt, and I falter a bit in my explanation.

  “We should sit down,” I tell Nathan, motioning to the card table on the other side of the room. “It’s kind of a long story.”

  Begrudgingly, Nathan makes his way to a seat, and Foster and I join him. Wes pulls on his T-shirt and flashes me a private smile before taking out his phone.

  “I’m ordering a pizza,” he says. “Before the storm gets too bad. Everyone good with pineapple?”

  “Absolutely not,” Nathan says immediately. Foster laughs and says he’s fine with whatever.

  Wes gives us space, going into his bedroom to call in the pizza, and when he’s gone, Nathan stretches his arms out on the table in front of him and collapses on them dramatically. “Do I even want to know what’s going here?” he asks.

  “I do,” Foster says encouragingly.

  “I wish this was the height of my problems,” I say, drawing Nathan’s gaze. “I know Gram told you some of what happened today, but . . .” I shake my head as the fear crawls back in. My temporary distraction with Wes is gone, and my body begins to ache with the truth of my reality.

  “The Program is coming for me,” I say in a quiet voice. “It almost got me.”

  Nathan’s expression hardens, and he reaches to pull me into a hug. When he accidently touches my head, I wince. He gets to see the damage firsthand, and his body is tense as he listens to the details my gram left out.

  I tell him about Melody saving me, her bravery. “She was different, Nathan,” I say, smiling softly even as his jaw tightens. “I got to see the real her. I think you’d like this version. She’s kind of badass.”

  “I guess I’ll never know,” he says, avoiding my eyes.

  “She wanted me to tell you that she loved you,” I add a little quieter. “She wanted you to know that part was real.”

  Nathan flinches, swaying slightly like he’s pained by the words. Foster pushes back in his chair and comes to wrap his arms around Nathan from behind. He tells him he’s a good dude, and the three of us sit together, acknowledging that Nathan got pretty screwed over in this deal. It’s hard to see all the moving parts sometimes, smaller tragedies pushed aside for bigger ones. I hate that Nathan got hurt.

  But Nathan doesn’t break down. He pats Foster’s arm to let him know he’s okay. He sniffs once, regaining his composure, and then he faces me with a new determination.

  “How do we end them?” he asks. “How do we beat The Program?”

  “I have an idea,” Wes says, coming back into the room. We all look up at him, and he’s so . . . cool about everything. Like none of this surprises him. It makes Foster grin, and I understand that feeling. It’s unusual to know someone without baggage. It’s refreshing, honestly.

  Wes grabs a chair and turns it around to sit backward on it. He sets his phone on the table in front of him. “In my research,” he says, diving into the conversation, “I saw that Realm went to Corvallis quite a bit. There was a passing mention of someone named Anna Realm. What if I track her down?”

  “Who is she?” I ask. “His mother?”

  “I don’t know,” Wes replies. “I didn’t think much of it at first, especially since it was only a quick mention. But now I’m thinking this guy Realm knows how to stay off the radar. Is his whole family like that? Maybe, or maybe they’re like, fucking accountants—just living their lives while he runs around stirring up shit.”

  Nathan laughs and covers his mouth. Wes picks up his phone to scroll through the Internet. “Just a thought I had.”

  “It’s a good thought,” I say, earning a smile.

  Wes goes to grab his laptop, and when he returns, I tell Nathan and Foster everything else I can think of about today, everything we learned. Even the part about being friends with Realm. I leave out the stuff about me and Wes since we’re at his house and that would be weird. At least, I thought it would be.

  “I’m assuming we were all friends before?” Wes asks Nathan and Foster. They’re a little thrown by the question and exchange a look.

  “It’s okay,” I say to them. “Dr. McKee was full of shit. I told Wes everything, and his head didn’t explode this time.”

  Wes is impressed by my joke and clicks into a forum on the web page.

  “Yep,” Nathan says. “I mean, not super-close friends.” He looks sideways at me because he and Wes had a strained relationship. Not jealousy in a romantic way, but in a “competing for my time” way.

  “We used to play basketball,” Foster adds. “You were better than me.” Wes nods, liking this detail. Foster goes to stand behind Wes and watches him navigate the forums.

  If The Program didn’t exist anymore, this would be the beginning of our normal. All of us together, ready to move on with our lives. Of course, that’s not what’s happening. Sadly, I’m not sure it’ll ever happen. Tomorrow, I could be rotting in a hospital somewhere, instruments stabbing my brain.

  I shiver, and Wes glances up at me with a quick flinch of concern.

  “Right there,” Foster says, pointing to a post on the screen. Wes lowers his eyes to read it, and then clicks the preview to dive in further.

  “I think this is it,” he says, smiling at Foster. He pokes the keys of the computer before turning it so Nathan and I can see. “It’s a phone number from Corvallis,” he says, “registered to Anna Realm. No address.”

  “But here’s the weird thing,” Foster adds. “The area code is for Springfield, pretty close to the Program facility there. It’s one of three lines she has. Why would she need three phone lines?”

  “Other kids?” I suggest.

  “Anna’s not his mom,” Wes says. He leans forward to tap a few keys and comes up with a picture of a pretty blonde with a passing resemblance to Realm. “Sister, I’m guessing. No mention of parents anywhere, so they’re either out of the picture or dead.”

  We grow quiet at that suggestion, the sadness at the possibility of Realm’s parents both being deceased. I take out my phone.

  “Well,” I say. “One way to find out.”

  “Tatum,” Nathan warns. “Are you—”

  “I don’t have time, Nathan,” I say turning to him. “I need Realm. Marie needs him, and that means so do I.”

  Nathan chews on the inside of his lip and then nods for me to go ahead, looking anxious. Foster drops back into his chair, and I dial. I set the phone on speaker and place it
in the center of the table.

  The line rings, and we all exchange nervous glances. The sound echoes around the room, and I start to shake my leg under the table.

  The phone rings four times, and when it clicks, I assume it’s voice mail and my heart dips. But instead, Realm says, “Hi, Tatum.”

  I cover my mouth, stunned by the sound of his voice. The deep familiarity there. Affirmation that he still exists. Wes stares at me, wide-eyed.

  “Realm,” I say, slightly out of breath. Nathan leans his elbows on the table, listening closely. “I . . . I need to talk to you. I have to see you.”

  He coughs once, but when he talks, I think I hear a smile in his voice. “I figured,” he says. “I’m not in town right now. Can we meet tomorrow?”

  “I don’t have much time,” I tell him shakily. “The Program has flagged me.”

  “I know,” he says. “But you’ll be okay until then. Just . . . lay low. They can’t find Derek, so they have no idea that he got to you. As far as they’re concerned, he could have fled; they’re having a high rate of handlers disappearing. Happened before with closers, so they’re not alarmed. Not to mention I put it out there that Derek was somewhere in California.”

  There is a prickle over my skin, a bit of awe, but also annoyance. He really does seem to be dialed in, but if that’s the case . . . “You let him try to take me?” I ask, betrayed. “You knew he was coming.”

  Realm is silent for a moment, and under the table, Nathan puts his hand on my knee to steady my leg. I look sideways at him, and he presses his lips into a sad smile. I’m hurt that Realm could have stopped this and he didn’t. I mean, what the fuck, right?

  “I couldn’t get there in time,” Realm says, coughing again. “I got the word out, though. They would have never gotten you out of that school. We still have people on our side, Tatum. Now . . . we have a lot to talk about. And I mean that sincerely.”

  “We sure do,” I say, my voice darker. I’m angry with him. I don’t care what side he’s on because he failed me. “When?” I ask.