“That’s not true,” I murmur, mostly to myself. “We never . . .” I continue to think back, kicked out of my head as it plays the same memories on a loop. “Wes,” I say, looking over at him. “Tell her we never broke up.”
But Wes is staring at me like he’s seeing me for the first time. “Tate,” he starts, a bit of misery in his voice. “I think she’s right.” And he hates it, I can see that he hates the idea. But it’s not possible. It’s not true.
I look back at Kyle, accusingly. “You were his girlfriend?” I ask.
“We weren’t exactly like that. It wasn’t serious. Tatum,” she says, like I’m being petty. “My little brother killed himself when he was thirteen. It wrecked me. And, Wes”—she turns to him, the remains of adoration in her eyes—“he understood. Cheyenne and her boyfriend committed suicide. He told me everything about her—we’d talk late into the night. We dug into our pain together.”
Kyle winces at her next thought. “Before she died . . . Cheyenne came to you, Wes. She came and told you she was going to kill herself. And you called her stupid, said it wasn’t funny or cute. You got mad at her because you thought she was just fighting with Mackey. You didn’t believe her. But she killed herself that night and you hated yourself for it.”
I have to cover my mouth, shocked, horrified for Wes, especially when he chokes on his cry. I didn’t know any of this. In all our time, Wes never told me that. I’m starting to feel completely left out of this conversation. Like maybe I was never truly part of his life. Like I’m the lie here.
“You said it was your fault that she was dead,” Kyle continues. “And that Cheyenne haunted you. You said you were toxic. You said you were death, you said Tatum—”
“Stop,” he murmurs, holding up his hand as he squeezes his eyes shut. Kyle watches him sympathetically for a moment. Wes looks like he’s barely holding himself together, at odds with who he thought he was.
“I told you about my brother,” Kyle continues with a new breath. “You told me about your sister. Like I said, we bonded.”
Wes shakes his head as if this is all too much to take. “I don’t even know you,” he says, and looks over at her. “I don’t remember you.”
“But I remember you,” she says. “How it felt to be with you—like I was chasing you and you were always just out of reach. I figured it was because of Tatum.”
My eyelids flutter as another wave of sickness crosses me.
“But at the beginning of the summer,” Kyle continues, “you promised it was finally over with her. And we planned to run away before The Program could close in. We’d planned it all out, Wes, one late night on the coast, drawing spirals in the sand. You told me your only choice was to run away. You wanted to escape Cheyenne. You said you wanted to forget Tatum completely—bury her deepest of all. Because you couldn’t live with how you hurt her. You couldn’t live with how you broke her heart. You said you were emotional poison. You said you wished you were dead.”
Kyle sighs, and I see that she cares about him—or rather, the other version of him. The one that I loved too. “Instead,” she continues, “I waited in the park until morning, but you didn’t come. After that, I never wanted to speak to you again. And when I heard you went into The Program, part of me was glad. I’m sorry, but I was hurt and part of me was glad that you were going to forget me.
“But then you came back to school last week and I saw you. I regretted not finding you before The Program changed you. Before I could talk to you and tell you everything, I saw Tatum there. And she continued to be there, always at your side, just like before. I couldn’t compete with your history—even when you couldn’t remember it.”
Kyle looks over at me, a flash of concern at what must be my deteriorating condition. “I’m sorry I didn’t admit it to you sooner, Tatum,” she says. “I honestly thought you knew. I figured you just didn’t want to acknowledge it.”
“Why were you at the hospital?” Wes asks suddenly, his entire complexion a sheet of white with shades of purple under his eyes.
“Like I told Tatum,” she says. “Dr. McKee tracked me down after your session. He asked me about our past. I told him. He was pissed, said he should have known sooner. He asked me not to say anything to either of you. He said it would compromise your well-being.”
“Then why are you telling us now?” Wes asks.
“Because you showed up here,” she responds with a smile. “And because I don’t trust doctors anymore.” Kyle stands up from her chair, smoothing the thighs of her shorts. She walks over to the mantel, running her fingertip over the image of her brother.
“I miss that bond we had,” she says to Wes. “And I’m sorry, Tatum”—she looks over at me—“but Wes didn’t love you anymore. Not the real Wes at least.”
“You talk about me like I’m dead,” Wes says. “But I’m sitting right here. I’m real, and I don’t need you to speak for me. And definitely not about my relationship with Tate.”
“And when your memories crash back?” she asks, glaring at him. “Will you want to die again? Will you hurt her again?” Kyle nods in my direction. “Or will you find another stranger to bond with late at night?”
Sitting there, listening to the two of them, I feel a million miles away. Nothing makes sense. None of this seems real, but it hurts like it is. I stare down at the floor and the specks of dirt in between the slats of wood.
“Where did you go?” I ask out loud. Both Wes and Kyle fall silent, and I look up at Wes. “The week you went missing—where did you go?”
Wes looks absolutely forlorn when he meets my eyes. “I don’t remember, Tate. I don’t remember any of this. Please—”
I stand abruptly, turning away from him. The world tilts sharply, and I grab the back of the chair and train my eyes on Kyle. I’m no longer angry about her presence in my life. Seems she’s been there for a while. I just didn’t notice. Somehow . . . I had missed it all.
I nod at her, thanking her for her honesty, and I start for the front door.
“Tate,” Wes calls. “Don’t walk away from me now. I need you.”
I stop to look back. “No,” I say, shaking my head. “You need to figure out your shared past with Kyle. Because, Wes . . . this has nothing to do with me. This is all you.”
He shakes his head like he’s ready to argue, but I don’t let him have another word in this. My heart can’t take any more. And so I leave Kyle’s house without him. I leave Wes behind.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
I PROBABLY SHOULDN’T BE DRIVING, not when I’m this out of control. I take the turns at full speed, bumping curbs, the windshield wipers slapping rainwater back and forth.
Wes and I broke up.
Did we? Could that be true? Would my denial really run so deep?
A few blocks from home, something occurs to me. Something awful. The pills, the ones my grandparents have been giving me. What if . . . ?
I blink quickly, like I’m trying to blink away the thought. But it doesn’t fade. What if my grandparents gave me those pills to help me get over Wes?
“No,” I say out loud in my car. They wouldn’t give me medication for that purpose without asking me. My cheek itches and I reach up to scratch it, wincing when my fingernail digs too deep.
I glance in the mirror and see a thin line of red where I’ve cut myself. “You’re cracking up,” I say to my reflection, and then laugh.
I look back at the road, my mind swirling. I think about Vanessa, just before she died. She was right—I shouldn’t have trusted anybody. Dr. McKee—he found out about Kyle and didn’t tell us. He kept her out of Weston’s memory. Memory control, just like The Program.
And I wish Vanessa were still alive. I wish I could have saved her and asked her everything. We should have been friends. My mind races, and I conjure up Sebastian and Alecia. I bring back all the dead.
I sputter out a cry. “I’m sorry,” I say out loud. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there.” My head throbs; my vision blurs. But I keep racing for
home, pressing harder on the accelerator.
My grandparents’ car isn’t in the driveway when I pull up, screeching my tires and skidding one tire onto the grass. I’m glad they’re not home. I can ask them about the pills later. And I will. But if they see me like this now, they’ll probably never let me out of the house again.
I climb out of the Jeep, moving slowly and letting the rain run over my hair. I glance up at Nathan’s bedroom window. He’s probably in there with Jana, and the thought of it annoys me. I’m not even sure why. I slosh through puddles and walk in the back kitchen door of my house.
I go directly to the cabinet and grab the bottle of pills. I dump them all into the disposal and turn it on, chopping them to bits. When that’s done, I toss the bottle aside and start toward my room. I flinch once—like a shiver that contracts all my muscles. My headache deepens, and I groan in pain.
Halfway up the stairs, I strip off my wet sweater and pull my T-shirt over my head to toss it aside, walking around in my bra. I push open my bedroom door and head straight for my drawer of pictures.
I don’t call Nathan—the thought of talking to anyone is unappealing. I’m sick with paranoia, and beyond that, I can’t imagine retelling what Kyle said.
Wes didn’t love you anymore.
I flinch again, and pull open the drawer hard enough to yank it out of the dresser, spilling its contents as it falls to the floor.
And there, spread out on my wood floor, is the history of me and Weston Ambrose. Our smiles, our kisses. I fold in on myself and sit down next to them, spreading them out. His dimples. His eyes. None of it looks fake, not one second of it.
Tears stream down my cheeks, and finally . . . I let myself fall apart.
Weston stopped loving me. He’d met someone else he connected with. And I denied it all. I drove the thought away—whether by sheer will or medication, it doesn’t change a fucking thing.
Wes and Tatum are a lie. And now I have to doubt everything I thought I knew.
I curl up next to the pictures, gathering them up at my side. I should throw them away, but I’m mourning for the girl in the picture. I’m mourning for the future she thought they had. Because nothing is what she thought. Not even—
There is a sudden and devastating pain across my forehead. I scream, covering my face, and before I can even understand what’s happening, I crash back into a memory.
• • •
“Tatum, wait up,” Wes called as I rushed out of Casey’s house, running for my Jeep. “Please,” he said.
I slowed but didn’t stop. I was angry, but more than that, I was hurt. Crushed. I knew Wes didn’t want to go to the party; he’d said as much. But I told him if we didn’t show up together, people would wonder. The Program would come. And although that was true, I was also hoping things would change between us—that he’d see me again the way he used to.
Instead he met up with her. The blonde—Kyle Mahoney. He didn’t tell me, but I had a feeling something was going on between them. And his smile . . . I knew by his smile that it was true. Fuck, it was true.
I dashed around to the driver’s-side door, my fingers shaking as I tried to get the key in the lock.
“Hey,” Wes said softly, appearing at my side. He reached to put his hand over mine, steadying the key. “Take it easy, Tate. I’m here.”
My expression broke, but I quickly pulled back and shook off his hand. “I’ve got it,” I said. I unlocked the door and jumped in. Wes cursed and ran around to the other side, getting in the passenger seat.
He slammed the door shut, and we both sat there for a moment in the dark. I took in the scent of his cologne—more than usual. More for her. I listened to him breathe deeply.
“Do you want a ride home?” I asked numbly. Wes looked out the passenger window and said sure. He didn’t seem like he wanted to leave, but I was glad he said yes.
We drove in silence, and I parked in front of his house. The lights were blazing inside. His mother had been acting worried lately; she said I wasn’t myself. But I didn’t care what she thought. Wes doesn’t get out of the Jeep.
I looked sideways at him. “I love you,” I said miserably.
Wes squeezed his eyes shut like my confession hurt him. “Tate,” he said warningly.
I unclicked my seat belt and climbed over to the passenger seat. He kept his face turned away, but his hands rested on my hips like it was where they were naturally meant to be. I stared at him until I couldn’t take it anymore.
“Look at me,” I said, my voice hitching on a cry. Wes swallowed hard, and then lifted his eyes to mine. “I love you,” I repeated, only I said it like it was the most painful thing in the world. Wes sniffled and he began to cry.
“I know you do, baby,” he said, nodding. “I know.” He gathered me up then, tucking my head under his neck, cradling me to him. He laid his cheek against my hair, and I could feel his tears when they dripped onto my skin.
“I never wanted to hurt you,” he whispered. “Never. But if we don’t end this now, it’s going to kill us both. I’m worried about you, and . . .” He stopped to cry a moment. “We just can’t be together anymore, Tate.”
I sobbed against him, telling him I would do anything. I begged him.
“Please, Tate,” he said, reaching to put his palms on my cheeks. “Please don’t cry anymore. I can’t . . . I can’t take it.”
And so I tried. I sniffled and took a deep breath. Wes and I sat facing each other in the dark, breaking up again—a breakup that was going on three weeks now. And then, despite all we said, I leaned in and Wes met me halfway in a kiss. Sad and slow at first, but then—as if we sensed it could be the last time—passionate and reckless. We kissed until we were both breathless. But it had gotten late and I was going to miss curfew. Wes said he had to go.
I nodded, fixing my clothes and moving over so he could climb out. He paused just outside the door, his eyes red from crying, his mouth red from kissing. He looked at me, long and deep.
“I don’t know how to live without you in my life,” he said. “I don’t know how to leave you after all this time. I don’t deserve you, Tatum. You know that, right?”
I smiled sadly. “Sometimes you do,” I said.
He laughed, shaking his head. “So stubborn,” he whispered. He looked down at the ground and I watched his smile fade away, replace itself with the same determination to leave me that he came outside with. But I didn’t give him a chance to say the words again.
“Good night, Wes,” I said quickly, and got behind the wheel. Guilt hung on Wes’s posture, and reluctantly he shut the door of the Jeep, and he walked back toward his house.
And once he was gone, I didn’t pull away. I sat there and I cried. And I cried.
And I cried.
• • •
I open my eyes and find myself on my bedroom floor. I stir awake, and slowly sit up. There’s a tickle under my nose, and when I swipe it, there’s a small streak of blood. I get up and grab a tissue, dabbing it until it’s clear.
It’s true. It’s all true.
There’s an ache deep in my chest, a shadow over my heart. I lost Wes once, and it wasn’t to The Program. Somehow I’d forgotten that.
The doorbell rings downstairs, and I turn toward my bedroom door. It may have been ringing for a while. I’m still half in my head, but more settled now. My headache has passed completely, and I imagine it was the memory trying to get out. Crashing back on me.
I start downstairs, soaked in grief. More heartbroken than I thought possible. I still can’t make sense of the memory, but I know it’s real. And that’s devastating.
“I’m coming,” I call when the knocking starts. I get to the door and yank it open, a cold breeze blowing over my bare skin.
Wes sways, grabbing the door frame. He’s dripping wet like he ran the whole way here from Kyle’s house. In reality, his motorcycle is at the curb.
“Tate, you don’t have a shirt on,” he says, stepping inside like he means to cover me
up. I push him aside, and cross my arms over my bra instead. Wes falls back, looking hurt.
I take in his appearance; the rims of his eyes are so dark, so red, that it looks like he’s been crying blood. He’s been beating himself up about this, seeming as brokenhearted as I am. He reaches for me again, but I sidestep his touch and close the door with him dripping in my foyer.
I’m hurt. And after the memory, I’m angry about his relationship with Kyle. That he moved on so quickly. But as Wes stands here, waiting for me to decide if he stays or goes, I realize that this Wes—the one here now—didn’t break my heart. And so I’m not even sure who to be angry with.
“Did it work?” I ask. “Did you remember everything?”
“No,” he says. “No, I didn’t.”
So it wasn’t worth it. Destroying us wasn’t even worth it—not to me.
When I don’t ask him to leave, Wes goes to sit on the bottom stair, his elbows on his knees, his shoulders slumped. “I don’t remember her, Tate,” he says. “I don’t remember us breaking up.” He looks me over, pain coating his expression as tears well up. “I don’t remember hurting you like this,” he whispers. “It wasn’t me.”
And I can’t bear to see him cry—it destroys me on the most basic level; it unravels me. I walk over and place my hand on the back of Wes’s neck, and he pulls me between his knees, wrapping his arms around me as he presses his cool cheek against my waist.
“Don’t leave me,” he murmurs into my skin. “I need you.”
I am utterly heartbroken. Everything was a lie—everything I believed we were. And yet . . . here we are once again. We came back to each other; we always seem to come back to each other like muscle memory. Maybe we always will. We’re young. We’re in love. We’re flawed.
I look down at Wes, running my hand over his shaved head, and he slowly lifts his face to gaze up at me. He’s so beautiful that it’s painful.
“I’m sorry, Tate,” he whispers. “I’m sorry that I—”