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.”
“Ah . . . ,” Wes replies like it explains so much about me. “We can go anyway,” he offers. “Get a burger or something.”
And the truth is, this hurts—rejecting him hurts me. But I saw what our relationship did to us. If I lead him on, it would mean his mother was right—I’m bad for him. I never do what’s best for him. This is our real test, I guess.
I’ve already lied to him, and now I have to let him live. I can’t hold on to our ghosts.
I grab another book off the shelf without reading the title and press it to my chest with the other, my movements careful so as not to give away my thoughts.
“I can’t,” I say with a quick shake of my head. “I have plans tonight. And that research paper to write.” I motion over to the tables where the other students are working. “Look, I have to go,” I say. “Maybe I’ll see you tomorrow.”
I start to walk away, and Wes laughs. “Maybe?” he repeats. “We have class together.”
I look back over my shoulder at him, and I can see he’ll take friendship over nothing because he’s drawn to me the same way I’m always drawn to him. But I can’t play this anymore. Being Wes’s friend will be impossible because it means watching him carry on with his life. Eventually loving someone else. And that just might kill me. I have to break with him completely.
“Bye,” I say with a soft smile, and turn around and start walking toward the tables.
And when I sit down, all alone, a wave of grief hits me. It’s like the air has been sucked from my chest, my soul being torn from my body.
I squeeze my eyes shut and shield the side of my face with my hand. And I accept that it’s really over.
• • •
When class ends forty minutes later, I don’t see Wes in the library. I make my way to my locker to grab my things, partially dazed as I force myself not to think. Not here.
Nathan texts me as I exchange some books at my locker and says he’ll meet me at the Adjustment office later. I tell him it’s a plan, and I leave it at that. I don’t tell him about seeing Wes. About ending things. I don’t want to make it real by telling anybody yet.
I slam my locker shut and hike my backpack onto my shoulders. I turn, and I’m startled when I glance across the hall and notice Jana, talking in a doorway with Derek Thompson. She has her finger in his face, snarling a response.
I watch a moment longer, watch as Derek laughs and reaches over to touch her hand before she rips it away. I didn’t think they knew each other, and certainly not enough to be arguing.
“Stay out of it,” she tells him. Jana storms past him down the hall, never noticing me.
I stare after her, and when she turns the corner and disappears, I look at Derek. He seems pissed, emasculated. Well, then good for her. I have no idea what that was about, but I reach for my phone to call Nathan. I don’t want Derek harassing Jana either.
Before I can call, Derek turns to me, his eyes widening before he narrows them. He laughs to himself and saunters in my direction.
I’m already feeling vulnerable, but rather than fear, I’m suddenly emboldened because I have nothing left to lose. I cross my arms over my chest defiantly, chin raised. He comes to a stop in front of me, his lips turned up with a sinister smile.
“What is your problem?” I ask. To this, he actually snorts a laugh.
“You’re a brave little toaster today,” he says mockingly. “Have your friends toughened you up? I know you told them about me.”
There’s a sharp turn in my gut. “Have you been following me?” I ask. “What do you want?”
“I’m just keeping an eye on things,” Derek says, looking me up and down.
“Why me?” I ask.
He’s still for a moment, and then he leans down to whisper in my ear. I’m struck by the smell of him, a combination of musty clothes and rubbing alcohol. It stings my nose.
“Because I know your secret,” he whispers. His words send a chill down my spine, and I quickly pull myself to my full height and push him backward into the middle of the hall. He laughs, and a few people look at us.
“Keep control of that temper,” he replies condescendingly, and fixes the collar of his shirt. “You wouldn’t want to get flagged.”
Derek reaches to touch my waist, but I punch him in the chest, making him cough and stagger back. He rubs the spot, still smiling.
The idea of his hands on me sends me reeling, sickens me. He’s not allowed to touch me ever.
“Haven’t changed a bit. I’ll see you around, troublemaker,” he says like we’re friends, and walks down the hall.
I’m confused on all fronts. First, why would he act so familiar, friendly—we’re definitely not. How does he know I’m a returner? About telling Foster and Nathan about him? And a new fear starts, one I don’t want to put into words yet. Why was Jana talking to him?
I glance around the hallways and see a few people noticed our interaction and are whispering about it. I tighten my grip on my backpack and head to my car.
Nathan doesn’t answer when I call, so I text him and tell him we need to talk. And then I put away my phone and drive to meet with my therapist.