“Wrong idea?” I say, wrapping my arms around myself. “This isn’t the first time you’ve kissed me,” I say.
“This is the first time I remember,” he says. “And it should have been . . . fun. But that was intense. Like, painfully intense.”
These are not the words I wanted to hear from him. But at the same time, I don’t disagree. We are intense. Not just now; we were always reckless. Passionate. Maybe dangerous. Because we never cared about consequences. We let each other take up the world.
“I’m sorry,” I start to say, fighting the tears that start to well up.
“Oh, God,” he says. “Please don’t apologize. Seriously.” He comes to stand in front of me again, ducking down so his gaze is on my level. “Please,” he repeats.
“How am I supposed to feel?” I ask.
“I don’t know,” he says sincerely. “It wasn’t just the kiss. It was . . .” He trails off and turns to look down the street, like he doesn’t want to voice the thought.
“What?” I ask.
“It was a feeling,” he says. “When you said you missed me, it was like emotional déjà vu. I anticipated you saying it and it made me feel . . . guilty. I felt guilty.”
I furrow my brow, confused. “You shouldn’t,” I say. “You couldn’t stop The Program. They had us on their radar. They would have come for you no matter—”
His jaw tightens at the mention of The Program, and he starts to shut down, just like he did at lunch. “You don’t get it,” he says, cutting me off. “This wasn’t about The Program. This was something about us.”
He studies the hurt on my face, and softens his tone. “Look,” he adds. “It was a good night. Honest. It was nice to talk to someone. I’m glad it was you. But now I think you should go.”
The rejection stings, and although I don’t want to be angry, it bubbles up anyway. “You asked to kiss me,” I snap. “You realize that?”
Wes steps back from me. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I know.”
I wait, but that’s it. He doesn’t offer an explanation. I shake my head and turn away from him, yanking open my driver’s door. I get in and slam it, starting the engine as soon as I can get the key in the ignition. Wes wheels his bike back toward his house, his head hanging low.
I watch him in the rearview mirror for a moment, my anger fading into heartbreak. I thought . . .
I stop myself. What did I think? That he would just suddenly remember and love me again? Did I really think I could beat The Program so easily?
My nose starts to run, and I grab a tissue from the center console. I shift the Jeep into drive and start toward my house. I won’t cry now. I can’t be weak. I even resist the temptation to pick apart the entire night, applying meaning to every word. Every pause.
So I focus on the cherries. On the ketchup bottle. On all the little pieces that added up to him. And I cling to my denial so that reality won’t drown me.
• • •
The lights in my house are blazing from inside the windows. I didn’t tell my grandparents I was leaving. They’ve probably called a dozen times, but I didn’t even bring my phone. I forgot to ask Wes for his.
I bump the curb when I pull into the driveway, racked with guilt. I hate to make my grandparents worry.
The side door opens at the same time I get out of the driver’s seat. My grandfather stands there, his glasses on even though he’s usually in bed at this time. My grandmother appears over his shoulder and pushes past him, tightening her fuzzy sweater against the night air.
“I’m so sorry,” I start, but she holds up her hand to stop me.
“I don’t want to hear your apology,” she says, uncharacteristically short. “Just tell me where you were? Why would you just leave?”
“It . . .” I pause, and look at my grandfather, expecting him to tell her to ease off. But instead he lowers his eyes like he’s disappointed in me too, and it hurts more than any scolding could. “It was Weston,” I say, turning back to Gram. “He was here.”
My grandmother’s posture stiffens, and she glances around like maybe he still is. “What do you mean?” she asks. “Why didn’t he come inside?”
“He didn’t know it was my house. He had just started walking and ended up here. Muscle memory.” I smile at this, but my grandmother is having none of it. She waits for me to explain. “I offered to drive him home, but we stopped for something to eat. It . . . it was stupid. I should have come in and told you. I was just so surprised to see him. I didn’t want to ruin the moment by asking your permission.”
“Telling your family you’re going out and haven’t been abducted isn’t ruining the moment. It’s responsible. Respectful.” She hardens her jaw, but I see the anger fade from her eyes, replaced with relief that I’m home. She turns away and starts back toward the house.
“And you’d better call Nathan,” she adds. “He’s out looking for you right now.”
“Shit,” I mumble. I follow my gram inside, passing my grandfather, whose lack of conversation makes me feel worse than ever. I’m not sure if he’s angry or if he understands in some way. But once I’m inside, he goes to his room, so I guess I’ll have to wait until morning for clarification.
My grandmother goes into the kitchen to make herself some tea, and I head up to my room to get my phone. I call Nathan’s number and when he answers, sounding immediately reassured, I tell him I’m home.
“Dude,” he says, and I can hear his car blinker through the hands-free connection. “I’m in my sweatpants and a flannel shirt,” he says. “What if I saw someone I knew? Where did you go? And why the hell wouldn’t you tell your grandparents?”
“It’s a long story,” I say. “But I’m sorry you had to look for me.” I sit down on my bed and run my hand over my comforter to smooth it out. “I went for ice cream with Wes,” I say.
Nathan is quiet for a moment, and then I hear him exhale. “You’re lactose intolerant,” he points out.
“And fries,” I say.
“Okay, well, that isn’t what I assumed. Although I’ll go ahead and admit that I assumed the worst. I’m about to turn onto our block. Do you want me to stop by?”
“No,” I say. “I’m a little talked out.”
“Cool. Well, just a piece of advice: It wasn’t too long ago when people were being picked up off the street by handlers. So next time you plan to disappear, give me a heads-up. Now I’m going to enjoy my life. See you tomorrow.” He hangs up, and I figure he’s annoyed that he was part of my search party, rightfully so. I owe him. I’ll bring him a latte tomorrow.
I set my phone on my side table and plug it in. I gaze at it for a moment, part of me expecting it to buzz with a message from Wes. But of course it doesn’t. I lie back, the lamp still on, and stare at the ceiling.
My night didn’t go as planned either. And although I’m disappointed in how it ended, I hold on to the fact that he found me. Wes may not have meant to, but he found me tonight. It makes me think his subconscious is fighting to get out. To set things right.
It makes me think that he still loves me—always and forever. Just like before. Even if he doesn’t know it yet.
CHAPTER TEN
I’M NERVOUS WHEN I WAKE up. Not about handlers following me or a test I didn’t study for. I’m unsure of how to approach Wes now, wondering if he’ll avoid me.
When I come downstairs for breakfast, I’m reminded of the consequences of my evening escape. My grandparents are both at the table, actively ignoring me. It’s not that they don’t care—they’re obviously mad, and it’s standing policy to never talk while angry. They swear it leads to regrets. So I eat my Fruity Pebbles in dead silence and then kiss them both on the head and leave for school.
I bring Nathan a double mocha chip, and all is forgiven between us. I tell him about the night before with Wes, and ask what he thinks it means. All on the way to English class.
“I don’t know,” Nathan says. “It sounds like he’s definitely still in there—like maybe The
Program wasn’t able to take it all.” Nathan turns to me and smiles supportively. “He remembered your cherries.”
“But what about the kiss?” I ask.
“Well,” he says seriously. “That was definitely an example of you oversharing with me. But if I have to comment, I’d say you reminded him of what he lost and it scared him. I’m just guessing, though. Maybe you want to share more of your intimate details with me?”
“Be quiet,” I say, pushing his shoulder. “I wanted your opinion. You don’t have to—”
He quickly leans in like he’s going to confide in me. “I’m sorry,” he says seriously. “But I mean it—there was a lot of good that happened last night. Just . . . these things take time. Don’t lose perspective. And try not to be so extreme,” he adds.
“I’ll dial it back,” I say, admitting that he’s right. “None of this is easy, though.”
“I know it’s not. But you’ve got this. Okay?”
I smile, appreciating his support. “Yeah, okay.”
We walk into English class and I see that Weston is already in his seat, and he looks up when I enter. I pause, and Wes holds my gaze for a moment before looking at Nathan, as if trying to guess our conversation. Nathan ignores him completely, touching my arm in a good-bye, and heads to his seat.
It’s not hostile; he and Wes weren’t enemies or anything. But when your girlfriend’s best friend is a guy, there tends to be a little jealousy. Not the macho, possessive kind—more like jealous of the time split between them. Or the fact that they know everything about each other because of me. Their personalities don’t mesh, but they each mesh with mine individually. So they tolerated each other and mostly joked about being rivals.
Wes leans forward in his desk. “I’m sorry,” he says loudly enough to get my attention. And the attention of several others. “About last night,” he continues, “I—”
“Shh . . .” I move quickly toward his desk. “Don’t talk so loudly,” I say in a hushed voice.
“I fucked up,” he whispers. “I’m sorry.”
“You . . . didn’t,” I say, looking around uncomfortably. I see one girl bite down on her lip as she pretends not to listen. “I mean, it’s fine,” I add. But when I turn back to Wes, I see that it’s not fine. The skin under his eyes is dark with shadows from lack of sleep. He tilts his head like he wants me to admit that what happened was not okay at all.
The bell rings and the rest of the class comes rushing in, along with our teacher. She glances at me, and then at Wes.
“Miss Masterson,” she says, “that was the bell.”
I nod an apology to her, and head back to my desk and take my seat.
As class goes on, Wes looks back at me a few times, impatient, and it’s completely throwing me off. Even Nathan leans up to whisper, “You sure he didn’t like that kiss?”
I honestly don’t know what to make of Wes’s behavior. I get that he’s confused, but I never thought he could be confused about us. I guess I’m just as lost as he is in this.
When the bell rings, Wes holds at his desk like he’s waiting for me. I turn to Nathan, and he fills up his cheeks with air and blows out a breath. “Might as well hear him out,” he says. “I’ll catch up with you at lunch?”
“Yeah,” I say, distracted. “See you then.”
Nathan leaves, and I walk to the front of the room. Wes stands at his desk, and shoves his hands in the pockets of his jeans. He looks at the teacher, and then motions toward the hallway so she can’t overhear us. I adjust my backpack, fidgeting, and follow him out of class.
“Can I say something?” Wes asks when we get into the hallway. Several people look at us as they pass, mouths open with surprise. Before the end of The Program, this wouldn’t have been allowed—a returner and a former relationship partner talking out in the open. But no one is monitoring us now.
“You can say whatever you want,” I tell Wes. He winces, and I realize my tone was colder than I intended.
“You were right,” he blurts out, surprising me. “Last night when you said the kiss was my idea—you were right. And I was an asshole to just send you away like that. I didn’t know how to explain how I felt. I honestly still don’t. But I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings. I felt guilty all night.”
His words should make this better, but they don’t. Guilt isn’t the intended emotion. And the fact that it’s all he’s feeling right now isn’t reassuring. I swallow down the bitter taste, and accept his apology.
“I’m still saying the wrong thing, aren’t I?” he asks.
“Sort of.”
“This will probably make it worse,” he says. “But . . .” He furrows his brow and runs his palm over his shaved head. “Can we be friends?” he asks. “Can we start there?”
The stab to my heart is sharp and rusty. To go from loving someone so completely to just being friends . . . it seems almost cruel. False, at least on my part. But Wes doesn’t love me like he used to. I have to admit that to myself.
“Sure,” I say, diverting my eyes. I’m afraid to blink because tears might fall onto my cheeks. “Friends.”
He waits a moment, doubting my response, I assume. But when I don’t offer anything more, when I don’t look at him for fear I might cry, he sighs out his frustration and turns to walk the opposite way.
When he’s gone, I watch after him. I see a few people nod politely in his direction, but no one speaks to him. No one gets too close. It’s like he has an invisible shield, repelling them. And seeing that makes me realize Wes is going through a lot—for him to feel outside his own life must be tortuous. He could use a friend.
And so that’s what I’ll be.
• • •
I’m standing in front of the soda machine on my way to lunch, and I count through the change in the front pocket of my backpack. I haven’t seen Wes since first hour, and when I texted Nathan to tell him what happened, he didn’t answer. Not even to say I’m oversharing. Foster’s not at school today, so I couldn’t even get his opinion during lab.
“Hey,” a girl calls. I turn and find Jana Simms standing there, smiling pleasantly. Her dark hair is in a tight knot at the top of her head, her liquid liner a perfect cat-eye swish. She’s always pulled together; from her baby-blue Nike sneakers to the delicate gold necklace resting in the hollow of her neck, she’s effortless. “You okay?” she asks with a flash of concern.
“Oh,” I say, and swipe my hair behind my ear. “Yeah. I’m good.”
Jana gets in line behind me. “I saw that Weston came back,” she says conversationally, and her eyes sweep over me like she might be able to tell how it’s going. “Nathan mentioned he was your boyfriend. Or used to be.”
“Yep.” I don’t say more about it, but I wonder how much Nathan has shared with her about my situation. I shift uncomfortably and go to the machine to put in my coins. I’m ten cents short.
“Here, I’ve got it,” Jana says, just as I start to rummage through my bag again.
“Thank you.” I step aside as she puts in a dime. When she moves back, I hit the button for a Coke and listen as it falls to the bottom of the machine with a rattle. “Appreciate it,” I say, ready to flee for the courtyard.
“I know why Nathan was asking about the Adjustment,” Jana says. I turn back to look at her, glad that the other people in line are distracted. “I know how it feels to watch someone you care about struggle. If I can offer any advice,” she adds, “it’s that sooner or later, they all want their memory back. It’s cruel to keep it from them. It’s just another form of manipulation.”
Her words are a slap in the face. Even though I’m not the one who took away Weston’s memories, it makes me think I should be doing more to get them back.
“Is that what happened with Vanessa?” I ask, stepping closer to her. “She felt manipulated?”
“Something like that,” Jana says. “As I’m sure you’ve noticed, not everyone can deal with the aftermath of The Program. Not everyone is strong enough.” She subtly
nods to the right, and I look over to where Derek Thompson rests against a locker, his phone close to his face as he reads from it, his shoulders flinching up every so often. He’s alone—always alone, like most returners.
Derek has been back for months, but he never really acclimated. And when I think about it, none of them truly have. The returners are the social pariahs of our school, even if it’s through no fault of their own. Derek lifts his gaze from his phone, maybe feeling us staring, and I quickly look away. Jana presses her lips together sympathetically and turns back to me.
“Can the Adjustment help?” I ask her seriously.
“It saved Nessa’s life,” she says. “It’s going to save a lot of lives.”
Several girls from the basketball team—a sport newly reinstated after The Program’s ban on athletics ended—pass us, and it’s like Jana flips an entirely different switch when they call out to her. She goes over to them, and they slap hands. She doesn’t even give me a backward glance, as if I’ve disappeared from her vision.
I turn away, surprised to find Derek, still at the locker, staring dead at me. His eyes are dark and shadowy; he lifts the corner of his mouth in a crooked smile, and damn—it sends a chill right down my spine. But I smile back politely and rush toward the courtyard for lunch.
• • •
When I walk outside, I notice Weston sitting at the wall, reading. He glances up from his book, and there’s a flutter in my chest when his eyes meet mine. He nods a hello, watching me the entire time I pass him.
I find Nathan at the half wall, all alone and looking sullen in our usual spot. I drop my bag on the ground at his feet and sit next to him, setting my soda on the wall between us.
“You’re late,” he murmurs. “I didn’t think you were coming today.”
“Is that why you have such a sad face?” I say with an exaggerated pout, trying to make him laugh. But instead, when he turns to me, I see actual hurt there. I quickly ask him what’s wrong.