CHAPTER ONE
I TELL MY GRANDPARENTS THAT I’m going to school to find Wes. They seem a bit stunned by the comment but don’t argue. Just like they promised, they stand by my decision. Pop tells me to call if I need him.
I text Nathan before I pull out of the driveway, and he asks if he should come with me, but this is something I have to do on my own. He says he’ll be home when I get back.
It’s almost last hour, and I wonder if Wes will be in the library, catching up on his assignments. I consider texting him to ask where he is, but I don’t have the nerve. This way, if he’s not in the library, I’ll have time to rethink and regroup. It’s not brave, but I’m driving to school on a whim. Racing ahead without too much thought to slow me down. I know I’ll find Wes eventually; I won’t give up until I do. But it’s also good to have some options.
The bell for seventh hour rings as I stand in the office, signing the student book. When the attendance clerk asks where I’m heading, I tell her the library, and she writes out the pass.
I glance at Dr. Wyatt’s office door, thankful that it’s closed. I wonder if she’s out in the classrooms or talking with a student. Interrogating them, like she did with Wes. I’m relieved that she doesn’t seem to be part of The Program, but I still don’t trust her. And I still don’t want anything to do with her brand of sanctimonious bullying.
“Thanks,” I tell the clerk, and then head toward the library. I didn’t even bring my backpack with me, and I realize that should have seemed strange. Then again, I did show up only for seventh hour—that alone was weird.
There aren’t many students in the library when I walk in. Just a few people scattered around the tables. The librarian says hello to me, and I walk over and hand her my pass to let her know it’s okay that I’m here. She glances at it and then goes back to checking in a stack of books.
Maybe Wes isn’t here. Part of me hopes he’s not because it will give me time to think of just the right words—formulate an argument for why he needs to know everything. I’m currently a storm of emotions, wild and unruly.
And it’s then, of course, that I see Wes sitting at a table in the back of the library, reading a novel. I can’t help it—I smile and even sigh a little. The vision of him reading is something I’ve always enjoyed. Have always been drawn to.
I slowly make my way toward him, studying him as I do. My nerves buzz over my skin. I’m scared. I’m excited. I’m a mess.
When I get to his table, he looks up with a sharp intake of breath. “Tate,” he says. “I didn’t think you were at school today.” He looks me over, taking stock of my condition, but doesn’t ask how I am.
“Mind if I sit with you?” I ask.
He glances around, not immediately welcoming me, and my heart dips. I almost say never mind, but I won’t back down this time.
Wes motions to the chair next to him and tells me to go ahead.
I sit down, and he studies me for a moment. I’m sure he noticed I don’t have any books with me—it’s obvious that I’m here for him—but rather than ask about it, he sits back in his chair, relaxed, and opens his novel to continue reading.
I can’t see the title because he folds the spine. He seems relaxed with me next to him, even though we’re not talking. Even though we have stuff we absolutely need to talk about. We belong by each other’s side, even though we’re not together.
“Wes,” I say, and swallow hard.
“Hm?” he hums out, flipping the next page of his book. I watch him, the way he creases the binding, causing deep lines; when he licks his thumb to turn the page back like he might have missed an important plot point.
“The other night, you asked how I felt about you,” I say. Wes stills but doesn’t turn to me right away. His Adam’s apple bobs, and then he closes his book. “I want to answer,” I add.
“What are you doing?” he asks, turning to me. He says it like he’s worried I’m going to hurt him. And to be honest, I might. That’s the thing about us, we might hurt each other. But I can’t keep the past from him anymore. I need him to know.
“I want to answer,” I repeat.
Wes’s jaw tightens like he’s getting ready to take a punch. His dimples are deeply set, and his eyes flash with vulnerability.
“I love you,” I say in a rush. “Wes, I love you so much. Always have. We were together from the first day we met, together for years. Not just friends. And things have tried to come between us: the epidemic, the doctors, your mother . . . me—but we find our way back. Our hearts remember, even when we don’t.” I pause when my voice begins to shake, and take a steadying breath.
Wes blinks slowly, his eyes glassy. He doesn’t smile, doesn’t say he loves me, too.
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner,” I continue. “And I’m sorry that I lied and said we were just friends—it was stupid. I thought I was protecting you, but . . . I won’t lie to you anymore. I needed you to know the truth about us.”
He still doesn’t speak and lowers his eyes to his lap, his chest rising and falling quickly. Despite his subdued reaction, I feel lighter. The heaviness of carrying the secret gone, just like earlier. It gives me clarity, and I’m grateful for the open space I suddenly feel. I wish I’d told the truth all along.
“Anyway,” I say, not sure if he needs time to digest what I just told him. “I didn’t mean to interrupt your reading, I just had to get that off my chest.”
“And put it on mine?” he asks, lifting his eyes.
My lips part, surprised by the intensity in his words. “I didn’t mean to. I—”
“You didn’t mean to? You sure?” he asks. “Because I’m wondering why you would tell me all this if you didn’t want a reaction. If you didn’t want to ruin my day.”
“Wes, that is not what’s happening.”
“Then what is?” he asks. A girl a few tables away looks over at us curiously. “What is happening, Tate? Because I was pretty clear how I felt about you, and you pushed me away. You made me feel . . . crazy—like I was making up our connection. You gave me just enough affection to keep me around, and then you’d pull it back. Acting like it meant nothing. Ignoring me. And now you walk up and say you love me?”
“You deserve to know what’s real,” I say, trying to explain.
“And we’re real?” he asks, motioning between us.
I pause and lower my voice. “We used to be,” I say. “I didn’t remember everything, not at first. And the doctors, they told me you’d die if I confessed. But now I know that’s not true. Now I have the whole picture. You have no idea what I’ve been through the last few days.”
“You’re right,” he says. “Because you wouldn’t return my texts. You wouldn’t even have a conversation with me. You’re . . . you’re fucking me up, Tate.”
My heart aches at his words. This isn’t good for him, this sort of emotional shrapnel. He needs time, and if I’m honest, he probably needs distance. Even when I’m trying to make things better for him, I make it worse. I can’t hold his gaze.
“Forget I said anything,” I murmur, and stand up from the chair.
“No,” he snaps. “You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to just throw words out there and then try to take them back. What do you expect me to do with this information? What did you want me to do?”
“I don’t know.”
“Sure you do. What did you think would happen?”
I don’t want to admit it because it makes me seem manipulative, but I can’t lie to him again. “I thought you’d tell me you love me too,” I admit.
Wes stares at me, and I’m at once exposed and hopeful. He licks his lips, his dimples deepening, and then he shakes his head.
“That’s not how this is going to go, Tatum,” he says coolly. “I’m sorry.”
It’s like a pile of bricks drops on my chest, but I nod, trying not to look as bowled over as I feel. Wes has every right to reject me, especially now. This is the way it was always supposed to end, with him moving on. I have to let him.
“I’m sorry,” I say again, and turn to cross through the library.
The girl who’d been watching us smiles as she texts something into her phone. I can’t help but wonder what she’s saying about us. And then there’s a small voice that says maybe she wasn’t watching for gossip.
Maybe she was watching us for The Program.
I go to my locker, fighting back tears. What started as empowering feels more like devastation, and I deserve all of it. I should have been clear from the start or avoided him. Instead, I’ve strung Wes along. Why should he believe me at this point? The only Tatum he knows is a liar.
I lean my head against the cool metal of my locker. In the quiet hallway, I try to retreat into a happy memory of the two of us. Wes’s arms around me. His lips at my ear, whispering that he would do anything for me. How pure it felt.
But are any of those memories even real, or have they all been strategically placed by an Adjustment? I squeeze my eyes shut, the idea too disturbing. I just want to go back, go back to before the doctors took it all. The good, the bad. I want to remember. I just want something real.
There’s an itch, a pinhole of pain in my temple that suddenly and violently expands. I straighten, startled by it, but the hallway begins to tunnel, my vision blurs. I groan and push the heel of my palm against the side of my head.
The world is smashed like a ceramic plate, and I fall backward . . . and into a memory.
• • •
And I was standing in the leisure room of The Program, wearing stiff lemon-yellow scrubs.