CHAPTER SIX
WES’S MOM IS HOME, AND I almost drive past his house to avoid her. I’m surprised she’s there, but I’m guessing she’s in overprotective mode. Hovering.
I decide to stop anyway because Wes’s motorcycle is in the driveway. I’ll go to his door, and if he doesn’t answer, I’ll text him. We’ve always been good at avoiding his parents.
I go around the block and park in my usual spot under the trees. I slip my hands into my pockets as I walk to his door, my heart beating wildly. We’re on the same page now—just friends. It shouldn’t be that hard to act on it. At least, that’s what I try to tell myself.
I check around the street, and then I knock on Wes’s basement door. There’s a shadow, so I know he’s there. I wait nervously until finally, the door opens.
Wes’s eyes widen, and he takes in a sharp breath. “Hi,” he says, surprised. He’s wearing the same clothes he had on at school, his hair a little messier. He rubs his hand over it to smooth it down, like he’s trying to impress me. He’s adorable, and I can’t help but smile when I see him.
“Can I talk to you?” I ask, expecting him to push the door open wider.
But his lips form an O, and he quickly looks back over his shoulder inside the house. “It’s not a good time,” he says quietly, edging the door tighter against him.
I don’t understand at first, but then I hear his mother’s voice from the living room.
“Weston?” she calls. “Who is it? We’re not done here.”
My heart seizes up, and I take a step back. The last thing I need to cap off this catastrophic day is Dorothy Ambrose filing a restraining order against me.
Would she even be wrong at this point? God, I’m an idiot. I can’t believe I keep running back to Wes in the same breath that I’m wishing him away. If I don’t stop, I’ll cause serious damage. Maybe I already have.
I stand there, unable to articulate why I’m here. Instead, without a word, I spin around and start walking quickly toward my Jeep.
“Be right back,” Wes says to his mother. He closes the door behind him and runs after me in his bright white socks. “Wait up!” he calls out, but I don’t stop. “Hey,” he says more forcefully to get my attention.
I turn, and Wes holds up his hands apologetically as he approaches my Jeep. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I wasn’t trying to get rid of you, it’s just . . . my mom. She’s asking questions—an interrogation, really. I didn’t want to drag you into it.”
He doesn’t realize how much she hates me. And I hate me a little too. I hate that I’m lying to him. I hate that I’m hurting and confusing him. My eyes well up because my coming clean now would put a strain on his family. All I ever do is hurt him.
“Tate,” Wes says softly, like an invitation.
I can’t help it. I step into his arms, and he hugs me fiercely, knowing that I need it—intuitive, even as I try to hide from him.
We don’t say anything at first, his hand firm on the back of my neck, my fingers threading lovingly through his hair as I get on my tiptoes to get closer, my cheek on his shoulder. Wes sighs against me, and I absorb the feel of him, the smell of him.
But the scene is far too intimate, and I force myself to pull away, straightening out of his arms like it meant nothing. This desperation feels too similar to my memory of the night I went into The Program. Me, never letting him go. It scares me out of my head.
“Tate,” Wes says, shaking his head. “I don’t know how you want me to act or what’s going on between us. I don’t know what you want from me.”
And the truth is, I don’t know either. When I don’t answer, he blows out a frustrated breath.
“I won’t chase you when you made it clear that we’re friends,” he says. “We’re still just friends?”
I nod that we are, and Wes takes a step back from me.
“Then don’t look so hurt,” he says with a bit of an edge to his voice. “Just . . . talk to me. Explain it to me.” He wants me to admit how I feel; he wants me to be with him.
But I can’t. Michael Realm said our past helped create who I am now, but I don’t want it to. I don’t want to be hurt and angry. I don’t want to make each other miserable.
“I’m sorry I bothered you,” I tell Wes. I brush off any show of emotion, standing here and pretending I didn’t freak out moments ago.
“You’re not bothering me,” he says like I should already know that. “Why did you come here anyway?”
“I wanted to talk about something that happened at therapy,” I say, “but it can wait until tomorrow.”
“You sure?” Wes asks. “I mean, I can grab my shoes, and we can go for a ride.”
I force a smile and wave my hand. “No, it’s fine. I’ll tell you about it tomorrow.”
“Okay,” Wes says, taking a step back. “But . . . if you want to come back, just let me know. I’ll be here.”
“I will. Thanks,” I say, unlocking my car.
I get in, and as I close my door, I hear him murmur, “Good-bye, Tate,” before he jogs back toward his house.
• • •
Nathan is sitting on my porch when I arrive home. I texted him, saying I needed to talk before we went to the Adjustment office. Before I say anything, I drop down next to him on the top step, both of us staring toward the street.
“How bad is it?” Nathan asks.
“Bad,” I whisper before the floodgates open. I sob and tell him everything. I pour my heart out and listen as he says that one, Dr. Warren is the worst; two, I shouldn’t talk to strangers in grocery stores; and three, Wes needs to know about our relationship.
“I can’t believe you lied to him,” Nathan murmurs, petting my hair back from my wet cheeks. “You shouldn’t have done that, Tatum. You didn’t have to tell him the whole truth, but you shouldn’t have made shit up.”
“It seemed like a good idea at the time,” I say, my voice scratchy. Nathan smiles and bumps his shoulder into mine.
“Turns out,” he says, “life after memory erasure, implantation, and monitoring is a little tough to navigate. Go figure.”
I laugh. “Maybe you should be my therapist,” I tell him.
“You couldn’t afford me,” Nathan replies easily. He looks sideways with a smirk. The sun reflects on his face, and I turn toward the sky, wishing it would cloud over. Go away and leave me to grieve in the dark.
“Okay,” I say, waving my hands like I’m done with the topic. “Enough about my nonsense. Where were you earlier? I needed to talk to you about Jana. I saw her at school arguing with Derek Thompson in the hallway. Do they know each other? Has he been harassing her, too?”
“What?” Nathan asks, surprised. “She doesn’t know Derek.”
“She sure seemed like she did,” I say. “And then Derek came over to me and insinuated that he knew I had a secret, and that it was possibly The Program. So please tell me how the fuck Derek Thompson knows more about me than most people, and for the second part of that question, does that mean your girlfriend knows as well?”
Nathan looks troubled, and I wonder if I should have softened my inquiry. “I’m sorry,” I start to say, but he holds up his hand to let me know that I don’t have to apologize.
“I don’t know the deal with Derek,” he says. “But I didn’t tell Jana anything about you. And definitely nothing about The Program. So . . . I’m not sure what to think anymore.” His posture sags.
“Did you really have a talk with her yesterday?” I ask. “What about?”
“Let’s not—” he starts.
“No way,” I interrupt. “I’ve told you everything, Nathan. You don’t get to spare me your drama. What’s going on with her? Is she okay?”
“I like how you’re pretending to actually care about Jana,” he says, glancing over at me.
“I care about you,” I say quickly. “And, by extension, that means I care about your sketchy girlfriend, too.” I keep a straight face, but when he smiles, we both laugh.
“Fair enough,” Nathan says. “But it’s going to sound weird.”
“I can handle weird. I’m becoming an expert at it.”
“I was at her house yesterday,” Nathan says, “and she was making food when her mom came home from the store. I was chatting with her mother on the couch, and . . .” Nathan pauses, furrowing his brow. “And her mom leaned closer to me and whispered, ‘Be careful of that girl.’ ”
Chills run up my arm, and my logical side wants me to jump to an easy answer. “Was she saying her daughter will break your heart?” I ask lightly.
“No.” He shakes his head. “I don’t think that was what she was saying at all. I got the impression . . . it seemed like she was scared of her.”
“Scared of Jana?” I ask.
“Yeah. Because then Jana came into the room, saw me sitting with her mother, and there was this slight . . . I don’t know, this flash of worry, I guess. Jana told her mother to leave us alone, and . . . she did. Her mom got up, shot me a pointed look, and then walked past Jana into the back of the house. Their body language, their lack of resemblance—it was weird. If I’d seen them together anywhere else, I would have thought they were hostile strangers.”
“They might not be close—like me and my mom.”
Nathan leans forward, elbows on his knees, seeming to think it over. “Anyway, I asked Jana about it,” he says, “and she went off on me. Told me I shouldn’t interrogate her mother, as if I was the one to start the conversation. She told me she loved me, and asked why I didn’t love her.”
There’s a twist in my gut, a thought that hadn’t occurred to me. “Do you love her?” I ask quietly.
Nathan swallows hard. “I think so,” he says. “But the whole situation . . .” He shakes his head. “It’s kind of fucked. She told me I was hurting her by never including her with my friends. She said I was an asshole—and not in an endearing way. It’s why I brought her to your house with me yesterday, to show her that I care. I promised to include her more.”
“And lunch today?” I ask.
“I hadn’t done enough, apparently. She texted this morning claiming I didn’t love her, because if I did, I’d tell her everything. Like . . . what the fuck is everything? I don’t even know what she’s talking about. And, to be honest, I’m getting a little tired of being called an asshole.” He pauses. “With the exception of you,” he allows, and I nod.
Nathan sighs. “I’m not going to fight a losing battle,” he says, his hazel eyes reflecting the light. “And it’s starting to seem pretty obvious that she’s . . . well, she’s the one not being honest with me. I just don’t know what she’s lying about.”
“Nathan,” I say, truly concerned. “I think you should stop dating her. You’re right, this is weird. Her mom, Derek, calling you an asshole? That’s not . . . normal.”
Jana is Nathan’s first serious girlfriend, and that worries me. Because he might really love her, and that would give her the opportunity to take advantage of him. Nathan’s my best friend, and I want to look out for him. He’s done the same for me.
“You know you have other options, right?” I say gently. “You’re a cool guy. You can meet another girl.”
“Sure,” he says like he doesn’t believe it.
“For real, Nathan.” He looks over at me, and I see the sadness in his eyes. Nathan doesn’t want to fail at this relationship, and what Jana said to him, accusing him of basically being a bad boyfriend, was manipulative. I already didn’t like her very much; he was right about that. I won’t let her break his spirit.
“Listen,” I say to Nathan in mock seriousness. “You have options. You are moderately attractive, your sense of humor is slightly above average, and, dude,” I say, trying not to smile, “your laundry detergent always smells really nice. Fresh. So don’t sell yourself short, kid.”
Nathan stares at me a moment, his lips flinching. “I’m also so-so at video games,” he adds. “You forgot that part.”
“I did,” I say regretfully.
Nathan smiles, and then unexpectedly, he reaches over and takes my hand, squeezing it. He rests his head on my shoulder, and I lean my cheek against him. The sadness rolls off of him, and I wish I could make it better.
“I hate liars,” he whispers. “I can’t date one.”
I consider his words, and reluctantly, I have a moment of sympathy for Jana Simms. After all, she lost her best friend recently. Many of us understand to some extent (thanks to the epidemic and The Program) what that means. Erratic behavior is one of the signs that something’s wrong. Add Derek and family problems to that . . . and maybe I’ve jumped to conclusions about her. I don’t want her to get hurt, but I also can’t let her hurt Nathan. I might just talk to her myself.
“What time is it?” Nathan asks, sitting up and taking out his phone. My heart starts beating faster, and I swallow hard before looking at him.
“Time for some answers?” I suggest.
He nods solemnly, and then we both stand up and walk quietly to the Jeep. Determined to follow through on our plan. Determined to find Dr. McKee.