“Okay, honey,” my grandmother says, but then pauses like she has something to say. I knew it. “And about Wes coming here today . . . ,” she adds gently.
I shift on my feet, and she holds up her hand as if to tell me she’s not judging me. “I’m glad he’s back,” she says. “And I know he came to you. How could he not?”
Her words give me a sense of justice, like someone finally understands. It makes me choke up a bit.
“I didn’t tell him anything about our past,” I say, wanting her to know.
“That must have been hard,” she allows. “But you’re doing the right thing. And Dorothy—”
I cringe at her name.
“—is also right,” my grandmother says. “About the two of you, although I disagree with her assessment as to why it’s gone so wrong in the past. The fact remains. . . .” She tries to pour sympathy into her voice. “It’s over, honey. You have to let it stay over.”
I stare at her and then flick my gaze to my grandfather, who swallows hard. Maybe he chickened out of leading this conversation. Clearly, he echoes her sentiments, though.
Her words now prove she doesn’t get it. She doesn’t get my relationship, and she obviously doesn’t get me. I can’t confront either of my grandparents right now. Hopefully, Dr. Warren will have some thoughts on how best to approach this situation. She must have some kind of therapy she can use.
“I won’t stop being Wes’s friend,” I say to my grandmother, a little raw. “I won’t turn my back on him.”
“And we’re not asking you to,” my grandfather says immediately. “Just . . . be careful what you say to him. That’s all we’re asking. Let him move on. Let yourself move on.”
It takes a huge amount of self-control to hide my annoyance. “Sure,” I breathe out. “I’ll do my best.”
The screen on the TV goes dark, the light blinking on the modem. “Well, that’s it,” Pop says, clicking off the power. “Guess we’re going to bed.”
As the storm ramps up its rage outside, I tell them both good night and head upstairs.
• • •
I lie in my bed, the Internet out on my computer and my phone a little slow. Wind blows against the window with small taps of rain, growing louder.
My grandparents went into their room an hour ago, so they’re probably asleep. But I’m not tired. And I sure as hell don’t feel like working on homework.
Instead, my mind turns back to the day, to the revelations. I consider contacting Dr. McKee, wondering if it would be smarter to approach him directly and ask if I’d been given an Adjustment. He might have my file from The Program. He might have the key to my life.
But that raises another question: If he did have my file, shouldn’t he have known the truth about me and Wes? That we were broken up? Then again, he got it wrong with Wes. It must not have been in his file either.
I wish I knew what that meant, the fact that Wes and I could deny our breakup so thoroughly that even The Program couldn’t find out. What did that say about us?
I curl up on my side, and my gaze drifts to the pictures of me and Wes on my mirror, happy. I’m curious about why they’re still here. Why let me keep these pictures of him? Why let me mourn him after he was taken?
So many whys, but in the end, it comes down to the simple fact that I was changed. A why I might never understand.
There are other pictures—newer ones. And I smile at one of me and Nathan at Rockstar Pizza, his mouth open to expose his half-chewed food. There’s another of us with Foster and Arturo, the two of them kissing while Nathan and I point to someone off camera. It was Jana, and we’d been calling her to jump into the photo, but she hates getting her picture taken.
There’s a photo of me with Pop, pretending to bite his balding head while he holds up his hand to stop me from taking the selfie. My grandfather—the man who raised me—pretending that all is fine. Betraying me every day since last summer.
Betraying me even now. And the way Marie lied to my face, I have to believe I’ll get the same response at home without proof. All I want is the truth. It’s inexplicable how evasive it is.
My phone vibrates on the side table, and I reach over to grab it, absently looking at the caller ID. My heart skips, and I sit up in bed. It’s Wes. I have no idea how he got my number.
“Hello?” I ask in a hushed voice.
“Shit,” he replies immediately. “Did I wake you up?” He matches my volume even though I’m sure there’s no need for him to whisper in his basement bedroom.
I smile. “No,” I say. “I was just lying here listlessly, rethinking my entire life. You?”
“Same,” he says dramatically, like it’s an entirely normal thing to do. “And I hope you don’t mind that I tracked down your number through social media and well-placed inquiries. It’s kind of lonely here.”
I’m quiet, not sure what response his comment warrants. “I bet there’s homework you can catch up on,” I offer.
“Good suggestion,” he says. “But I was thinking that maybe you’d want to come over. Our cable’s out, but I downloaded a movie. And before I called you, I checked with my parents.”
“You told your parents you were going to invite me over?” I ask, my stomach clenching.
“God, no.” He laughs. “I told them I was going to bed and that I’d see them in the morning. They won’t bother us, so, you know, if you want to come hang out, I’m just a loser new kid with no friends. I already asked Dr. Wyatt, but she said no. Not to put any pressure on you . . .”
I cradle the phone to my ear, looking out the window as the tree branches bend in the wind, the leaves rustling violently. I take it as a warning and lower my eyes.
“I shouldn’t,” I say quietly.
“ ‘Shouldn’t’ sounds like you kind of want to, though,” he says. “Is it me?”
“No,” I whisper.
And it’s not him. He’s being perfectly normal—adorable, even. I’ve promised people—including myself—that I wouldn’t start up this relationship again. It would be dangerous to be alone at his house with him. Selfish.
That doesn’t mean I don’t want to, though. I want to suggest I come over, spend the night, and that we don’t tell anybody—our secret. But that’s the sort of behavior that got him erased. That’s how fucking horrible I am, that I would do the same thing to him again.
Tears well up in my eyes, and I turn away from the window. “Maybe another time,” I suggest, trying to sound light. “You know, with adult supervision.”
He laughs. “That sounds . . . horrible, actually.”
“Yeah, well. You should probably work on your English paper, anyway.”
“Thanks, Mom,” he says. We both pause.
“Ew—”
“Yep, sorry,” he says immediately. “I didn’t mean to go there.”
We laugh, and I tell him I’ll talk to him tomorrow. Wes sounds reluctant when he says good-bye, and I close my eyes when I hear the click.
I set my phone back on the side table and go to my mirror, gathering all the pictures. I sit down on my bed with them, my heart aching, as the storm intensifies outside. I trace my finger over a picture of Wes.
Why is it so easy for us to fall back in love? It shouldn’t be allowed. I should hate him, or he should hate me. Or better yet, not care at all. The opposite of love is indifference. Why can’t we be indifferent?
He’s not. His heart remembers me—it’s obvious. And I can’t turn away from him. It’d be like refusing to breathe.
I set the first picture aside, looking through the others, trying to date them to find the ones around the time when The Program took me. I put the photos in chronological order, starting with middle school.
I snap down the corners of the pictures as I lay them out in a line. And as I get into what I’ll call the Weston Years, I see myself grow up. The subtle changes of a person falling in love. It hurts. God, it hurts. But it’s also beautiful to see happiness.
I pick up a picture of
me and Wes and examine his face. He looked calm, the reserved happiness that was allowed during a suicide epidemic. Something changed shortly after this. Something in him. In me. And between us.
But for a moment, I allow myself to remember what it was like to feel loved and to love in return. It was the happiest I’ve ever been. What changed that? A dull ache begins behind my eyes, and I’m the verge of tears.
I don’t want to be alone anymore. I don’t want to be forgotten.
The weight of the day is heavy, and the wind howls against the window, rattling it, making me feel small and vulnerable. I just want to feel loved again.
I look over at my phone, thinking it’s a terrible idea, but finding myself unable to resist the temptation. I dial.
“Hi,” Wes says, and I can hear the smile in his voice. “I was really hoping you’d change your mind.”
“You think you can get me inside without detection?” I ask.
“Absolutely.” He sounds thrilled as he rattles off his address. His excitement encourages me. Why wouldn’t I want him to be this happy? Why wouldn’t I want to be? I’m not to blame for The Program, and neither is Wes.
“I’m on my way,” I tell him.
After we hang up, I ease my door open, listening for my grandparents. I hear the soft sound of my grandfather’s snore, and I sneak quietly down the stairs.
I go into the bathroom and brush my hair and teeth. When I’m done, I examine my appearance. My eyes are a little red, and I still have on today’s clothes, but I can’t chance going back upstairs and waking my grandparents. Besides, this isn’t a hookup date. Not like the last time Wes returned. I just want to hang out with someone. With him. I’m feeling vulnerable. And yeah, lonely.
I walk out of the bathroom, the sound of thunder rumbling the dishes in the kitchen. I survey the house, everything dark until lightning flashes. I stand there a minute, listening for any movement upstairs. There’s nothing.
I grab my keys and head out the kitchen door, glad my grandparents won’t be able to hear my Jeep start over the sound of rain.
And it is pouring out, soaking me through before I get to my Jeep. It’s coming down so fast that my windshield wipers can hardly keep up. The streets are quiet, even though it’s not that late. Bad weather has a way of clearing the roads.
I drive carefully, avoiding the flooded parts of the streets that can possibly stall my engine. I lean forward, trying to see through the steady stream of water rushing down my windshield.
When I finally get to Wes’s street, I park in my usual spot, obscured from view by low-hanging branches. I get out, and a gust of wind pushes back against my door, nearly closing it on me. The branches rustle heavily above me, sending down fat droplets of water. I get the door closed and face the wind as I hurry along the sidewalk until I’m at the basement entrance of Wes’s room.
I shake my arms, realizing my clothes are soaked through to the skin. I blow water off my lips as rain runs down my face. The door swings open, and Wes actually laughs out loud when he sees me—my hair stuck to my forehead, my lips probably blue from the chill.
“Holy shit, Tate. You look like you just crawled out of a watery grave. Get in here.” He holds the door open wider, and I walk inside, immediately comforted by the heat. I stand there, dripping on his carpet. Wes shuts the door and then turns to survey me.
“I guess it’s still raining,” he says casually, and then we both burst out laughing.
“I’ll get you a towel and something to wear. The dryer is down here if you want to toss your clothes in.”
I tell him that I will, but I already knew the dryer was down here. I’ve used it before. That little detail is a knot in my stomach as I follow behind him. He points me to the bathroom as he goes in search of clothes.
When inside the small room, I strip down to my underwear. My bra is soaked, and I toss it on top of my other clothes and wrap myself in a large beach towel. I find my reflection in the mirror above the sink. My hair hangs in stringy waves just under my chin, and my cheeks are red from being outside. There’s a knock at the door, and I open it.
Wes keeps his gaze turned away and thrusts out his hand with a pile of clothes in it. I tell him I’ll trade him and give him my wet ones in exchange. While he goes to put them in the dryer, I put on his clothes.
They’re oversize—a pair of black basketball shorts and a Nike T-shirt. He even gave me a pair of bright white athletic socks, and I pull them up to my knees. When I come out of the bathroom, Wes is sitting on the couch, and he smiles broadly.
“Okay, that is the cutest thing I’ve ever seen.”
“What?” I ask, looking down at my outfit.
“You,” he replies. “I’d say you should wear that to school, but on second thought—please don’t.” He pats the couch next to him, and I almost don’t sit there, remembering what happened last time I did. But it’s different now. I may be weak willed, but I’m not actively trying to get him back. I just . . . want to spend time with him. It’s different. At least I tell myself it’s different.
“I’m glad you came over,” Wes says as I sit next to him. We’re on opposite ends of the couch, and when I settle in, I put a pillow between us, leaning my arm on it.
“Me too,” I say. “I wanted to hang out with you. I wanted to hang out here.” I glance up at the ceiling, where his family’s living room would be. “With you and your parents,” I whisper jokingly.
He snorts. “They’re watching TV in their room, otherwise I’d totally ask them. Although I did lock the door.”
“You don’t think that’ll seem suspicious if your mom tries to come downstairs?”
“Why would she try to come downstairs?”
“I don’t know, if she hears something?”
“What would she hear, Tate?” he asks.
My cheeks warm with his innuendo. “The dryer,” I say.
He smiles. “It’s okay,” he says, waving off my concern. “I lock that door every night. I don’t want anyone sneaking up on me.”
I stare at him, even as he turns away to grab the laptop. It’s an odd statement. That he locks his door every night. He didn’t use to do that. I wonder why that changed.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
IT’S ABOUT AN ALIEN INVASION. The movie is kind of scary—okay, it’s pretty damn scary—and the wind and rain blowing against the high-set basement windows isn’t helping matters much. I’m curled up on the couch, my elbow on the pillow between me and Wes. He’s also leaning on the pillow, but we’re not touching—like an invisible barrier is keeping our arms apart.
Wes jumps, and then laughs and looks at me sheepishly. Wes has always done that—jumped at the scary parts in movies. I find it incredibly endearing.
There’s a thump upstairs, and Wes and I sit perfectly still and lift our eyes to stare at the ceiling. The last thing I need is for Wes’s mom to find me here. She might literally kick me out. The toilet flushes. And then the thumps cross the ceiling and the sounds are gone.
Wes and I exchange a look of relief and then go back to watching the movie.
When it’s over, Wes sits up and stretches his arms over his head. He’s thinner than he used to be, leaner. I admire him for a moment before I excuse myself to the bathroom. While I’m in there, still wearing his clothes, I take a peek at myself. I look sleepy, like I’ve just woken up.
In a way, it’s like I have. Being here with him, comfortable and quiet—it’s my favorite part of us. Sure, I love the other stuff, but it’s how easily we fit into each other’s space—that’s what I loved. Being here reaffirms that.
When I get out of the bathroom, Wes is standing by his stairs, watching the credits roll down the laptop screen, holding my clothes from the dryer. He glances over at me, smiling when he sees his oversize basketball shorts. He tosses my clothes onto the couch.
“Want to sleep over?” he asks. I laugh because he doesn’t realize he asks me that every time I come over. Sometimes I say yes.
“Your mom
would hate that,” I tell him.
“Kind of makes you want to do it more, right?”
I laugh. “Yeah, it does,” I admit. I walk over to the couch and sit next to my clothes, not really wanting to put them on.
“What if I say please really sweetly?” he offers.
I lift my eyes to his. “It’s not a good idea.”
“Are you kidding?” he asks. “It’s a fantastic idea. And besides, look outside. It’s a torrential downpour. In fact, staying the night is the mature, responsible thing to do.”
“Hm . . . ,” I say, leaning back on the couch and enjoying his rationalization. “I’m sure my grandparents will assume me staying in your bed is due to inclement weather.”
Wes raises his eyebrows. “You want to stay in my bed?” he asks, seeming a little surprised. My thoughts stumble, and I shake my head like I was only just kidding. That was stupid of me.
“Not what I meant,” I say. I grab my clothes and stand, and Wes’s face sags with disappointment. “I should get changed.”
“You can have the bed,” he offers as I walk past him toward the bathroom. “I’ll sleep on the floor. It’s a great carpet. That way we can talk, or . . . whatever.”
“It’s the whatever that I’m worried about,” I say. I’m about to expand on my refusal, when I turn around and look at him. I’m struck by the vulnerability in Wes’s expression.
“I don’t want to be alone,” he blurts out, and then lowers his eyes, embarrassed. “I’m having a hard time being alone, Tate.”
Chills run up my arms, and I step a little closer to him. “Why didn’t you say something earlier?” I ask.
He presses his lips into a sad smile, his dimples flashing. “I did. I called you, remember?”
I shrug. “Yeah,” I say. “But I thought it was just the typical loneliness.”
Wes rubs his hand roughly through his hair, admonishing himself. “I’ve probably made you want to run out of here twice as fast,” he says.