CHAPTER THREE
I GO THROUGH THE REST of my morning haunted by the expression on Wes’s face after Dr. Wyatt confronted him. I shouldn’t have gone searching for him—rationally, I know that. But if I hadn’t been there, how far would Dr. Wyatt’s interrogation have gone?
Unless . . . I made it worse by showing up. Maybe I always make it worse for him.
When it’s nearly lunch, I walk down the hall as text messages from Nathan blow up my phone. I’m filled with dread. I don’t want to see Nathan right now, but I’ll have to make an excuse to get away from him. And I’ll have to be convincing.
I take a cautious look around, expecting to find strangers watching me—handlers everywhere. My attempt at normalcy is hanging on by a thread.
The hall is filled with students rushing for the parking lot. Lunch recently became open campus, despite the best efforts of a handful of overprotective parents. Even though the school has instituted a monitor, all the newspapers have claimed the epidemic is over. A new board member even suggested that keeping us locked in school could cause further damage. The tide seems to be turning in our favor—at least in public.
But with returners getting sick, I’m not sure how long that good faith will last.
My stomach knots when I see Nathan waiting at my locker, looking down at his phone. For the past few weeks, we’ve been going to Campus Inn for lunch, but I won’t eat with him today. I’ll have to find a way to convince him it’s not because he destroyed my world this morning—even though that much should be obvious.
“Hey,” he says when he sees me. He holds up his phone. “I’ve been texting you.”
“Sorry,” I reply. “What’s up?”
“What’s up?” he repeats, studying me. “You took off after class. You didn’t answer my texts. I’m assuming you went looking for Wes. Did you find him?”
“Oh, no. I didn’t,” I lie. “He must have left for the day.” I don’t tell him about Dr. Wyatt, even though Nathan should be the first person I discuss it with. But I don’t trust him; it’s horrible to say. It’s unthinkable. Right now, I don’t trust him, so I don’t tell him that the monitor scared the shit out of me. Or that she might have hurt Wes by bringing up The Program.
Nathan shakes his head. “Nah, I saw Wes walking to class last hour,” he says. “He didn’t even look at me. He really must not remember anything.”
His words sting me—part of that “anything” is my long-term relationship with Wes—and I move past Nathan to spin the combination on my locker.
“I’m sorry,” he says, reaching to touch my forearm in apology. Normally it would be comforting, but after everything it feels more like emotional manipulation.
“I’m fine,” I say, turning so that his hand falls away. I’m still trying to figure out how to be on my own for lunch, when Nathan sighs.
“This is really bad timing,” he says. “But would you hate me if missed lunch today? Jana’s not feeling well and asked for a ride home.” He nods down the hall, and I see Jana at her locker, waiting for him.
I nearly sway with relief but quickly catch myself. “Of course not,” I say. “I hope she feels better.”
Nathan waits a beat. “That’s it?” he asks. “You’re not going to give me a hard time about ditching you?” He narrows his eyes. “You’re not even going to call me an asshole?”
“We need something to do later, right?” I say, and try to smile. When he doesn’t buy the act, I shift tactics. “Your girlfriend is sick—I get it. You don’t owe me an explanation. But if it helps, I really do think you’re an asshole.” I smile winningly.
“There it is,” he says. “But if you need me, I’ll stay. Today has been . . .” He pauses. “It’s been a weird day for you. I don’t want to just—”
“Nathan,” I say, putting my palm on his chest and pushing him back a step toward Jana. “I’ll be fine. Between Wes, The Program, and those damn assessments . . . I might just lose my mind. I’m tired of talking about it, thinking about it. So I’m going to work on my and Foster’s missing labs this hour. It’ll be a nice distraction. Just call me when you get back, okay?”
Nathan waits a moment, trying to discern my behavior. But at the same time, he must accept my explanation, because he gives me a quick hug. “I’ll check in soon,” he says before heading in Jana’s direction.
I look past him to where Jana is standing, watching us curiously. I wave politely, and she smiles—quick and impersonal.
As they walk away, the tension in my body lessens, but it also leaves more room for my fear, my misery. I dart my eyes around the hall, feeling like I’m being watched.
It’s a fact that everyone I love betrayed me. How can I square that? How can I feel okay when there’s no one left to trust? When I’m so fucking alone? When I’m forgotten?
I slam my locker shut and rush for the back exit, desperate to escape the confines of the school. To breathe. I can’t stay here anymore. I have to figure out what the hell is going on.
The moment I exit the double doors to the parking lot, I take a big gulp of air. The sun shines brightly, blurring everything in a haze of yellow. I take another breath, but the panic floods in, overwhelming me like an ocean wave crashing over my head. My chest constricts and I’m drowning.
My life is a lie.
I walk faster, my heart beating rapidly, pins and needles prickling over my skin. I need to get to my Jeep. Several people are hanging around, laughing, and making plans for lunch, but my singular mission is to get to my Jeep without collapsing.
I’ve made a mistake; I’ve let myself think—feel—too much. I should have gone home with fake cramps hours ago. Now I’m walking devastation.
My Jeep comes into focus, and the relief is immediate. I pull my backpack off my shoulders and jog to the door, opening it and tossing my bag across to the passenger seat. My hands shake as I climb in and grip the steering wheel.
I turn the ignition, but instead of starting, my Jeep revs, never catching. I turn it again, slamming my foot on the gas, but the engine only sputters, and I let it die.
It’s a karmic pile-on, and I can no longer hold back. The quiet in my Jeep is deafening, the air warm and thick. I scream, the shriek cutting through the small space, and I smack the heel of my palm against the steering wheel. It hurts, but I do it again, harder—letting the anger take over.
The image of my grandparents, trying to pull me away from the handlers—crying and helpless. They didn’t save me. They couldn’t. No matter fault, they still failed me.
And then, even more unforgivable, my grandparents lied to me—both indirectly and to my face. Those pills they gave me . . . I realize now they were probably to keep me well-behaved. Keep me in line. What else have they done to cover this up? I don’t know how deep this all goes, but I know that life as I know it is over.
I choke on the start of a sob and use my other hand to slap the steering wheel, accidently blasting the horn. I’m losing it right now, dissolving into ashes and ready to blow away. People may be watching. Gossiping. But I don’t care.
I’m about to hit the wheel again when there’s a sharp knock on my driver’s-side window. Startled, I spin to look, and my entire body freezes.
“Hey,” Wes says, his voice muffled behind the glass. My lips part; my heart registers shock. When I don’t move, he mimes rolling down the window, exaggerated and funny.
I’ve barely caught my breath when I lower the window, and I quickly wipe away the tears on my cheeks. For his part, Wes is disheveled, as if his first day back to school was more traumatic than he thought it would be. I search his expression to see if our meeting with Dr. Wyatt has hurt him. But there’s no bloody nose, no flinching. He just looks tired.
“What are you doing?” I ask, still half in my head. This is the second time he’s seen me cry today.
Wes smiles sheepishly, like he’s wondering if he should leave. But he must overrule his instincts. “I saw you trying to start the Jeep. You know, before you started beating the shit out of it. I’m pretty good with engines—want me to take a look?”
“Why would you do that?” I ask, unsure of what he’s thinking. Why he’s here at all.
“Because I’m a nice guy,” he offers with a smirk. He’s flirting despite the clearly shitty day we’re both having. Doesn’t he wonder why Dr. Wyatt pulled me into his meeting? Or maybe he just wants to forget about it.
Despite my reservations, I pop the hood of the Jeep. “All right,” I say, a little shaky. “Have at it.”
Wes drops his backpack on the pavement, rounds the Jeep, and props up the hood. I lean down so I can see him through the opening near the windshield. He presses his lips together and stares at the engine, making his dimples deepen. The sun beats down on his cheeks, and they’re slightly red, freckles dotting his nose.
What starts as admiration quickly turns into longing. It hits me how much I need him to know me. Love me again—the way he did in the beginning of us. I want him to confirm that I’m real—that some things were real.
“Well,” Wes says, looking up from under the hood. I quell the rising panic in my chest, not wanting to alarm him. “It could be your battery,” Wes says. “Can you try starting it again?”
I do just that, and, to my surprise, the engine turns over. Wes closes the hood, grinning at me. I leave the engine running and get out of the driver’s seat.
“I swear it wouldn’t start,” I say, temporarily stunned out of my misery.
“You sure you weren’t just trying to get me to come over?” Wes asks, leaning against the Jeep.
Suddenly the engine sputters and dies out. Wes laughs loudly, staring at me wide-eyed like he caused it to stall by making a bad joke. He tells me to pop the hood again, and we try, unsuccessfully, to get the engine running.
After a few minutes, I give up and climb out from behind the wheel. Wes still stands in front of the Jeep, his hands folded on top of his head as he stares at the engine.
“Well, shit,” he says. “Do you have jumper cables?”
“I don’t,” I say.
Wes scans the parking lot. “I can ask around,” he says. “Someone should—”
“It’s fine,” I say, not wanting him to worry about it. “I’ll call my grandfather. Thanks for trying, though.”
Wes closes the hood and comes over to where I’m standing next to the Jeep. He picks up his backpack from the concrete, pulling one strap over his right shoulder. He doesn’t walk away immediately, and I don’t want him to. There are so many questions burning in my mind. In my heart.
Do you love me?
Did you know I was in The Program?
Can I ever let you go?
I finally gather some nerve and open my mouth to ask about our meeting with Dr. Wyatt. A simple start. But before I can, Wes peeks around the open driver’s door and motions inside the Jeep.
“Mind if I check it out?” he asks, his eyes flashing with anticipation.
“Oh,” I say. My question falls away, and I wonder if that was his intention. “Sure. All yours.”
Wes has always loved my Jeep. He’d change the oil and get it washed for me. Every so often I’d let him drive and gaze at him as he drove too fast. The fact he wants to see it now strums my heart, and I don’t want to ruin the moment. It’s too familiar, too right.
Wes climbs inside the Jeep, making himself comfortable in the seat as he inspects the dash and the gearshift. He looks over at me.
“What year is this?” he asks as if he can’t tell. He probably can’t. It’s been rebuilt a bunch of times, something Wes no longer remembers.
“She’s about ten years past her prime,” I say, studying his every movement. Looking for flashes of him.
“Nonsense,” Wes replies, running his hand lovingly across the steering wheel. “She’s perfect.”
Just then I catch something out of the corner of my eye. I turn and see a guy, slightly hidden by his car, across the parking lot. He looks away, pretending he hasn’t been watching us, but I recognize him. I saw him in the Adjustment office; he knows Marie Devoroux. What was his name? It was unusual. Realm. Michael Realm, I think.
“Hey,” I say to Wes, tapping his arm. He looks down at where I touched him before lifting his eyes to mine. “Do you know that guy?” I ask, nodding toward Michael Realm.
Wes leans out, but I stop him.
“Covertly,” I say.
He sniffs a laugh and then ducks down to look in the side-view mirror. He narrows his eyes. “The tall guy?”
“Yeah.”
“Is he your boyfriend?” Wes asks. “I’m jealous.”
His comment catches me off guard, makes me blush. I stare at him for a moment, surprised by how easily he flirts with me, and hoping it means more than it probably does.
“No,” I say quietly. “He’s not my boyfriend.” Wes puts his fingers over his lips like he’s trying not to smile at my answer. I turn back to Michael Realm. “I met him once,” I say, growing distracted as I search my memory. “I’m sure it’s him.”
“Well, I’ve never seen him before in my life,” Wes says. In reality, Wes was with me when I met him.
I watch Michael Realm a little longer, knowing it’s too much of a coincidence that he’s here the same day Wes came back. Same day Dr. Wyatt questioned us. I just don’t know how he plays into all of this.
“What is he doing here?” I say more to myself than Wes.
“Did you want to go talk to him, or . . . ?”
“No,” I say. “That wasn’t what I . . . I’m not interested in him.”
“Good,” Wes responds. “I was worried I’d have to be more obvious.”
I laugh, and the sound of it—the lightness of it—is startling. Surreal and free of consequence. “I’m not sure you’re being that subtle,” I say, making him smile. The truth is, I like how he’s flirting with me. I like how it makes me feel, how it overshadows the absolute wreckage of my reality.
Wes leans back in the seat, carefree. He doesn’t have the weight of his memories, his past. He’s not a tortured soul. At least, not anymore. I barely remember this version of him. In fact, I’m not sure I ever knew this version of him.
I throw an incautious glance in Michael Realm’s direction, and he hurriedly gets into his black car. He could be here to remind me of Dr. McKee’s warning to stay away from Wes—to keep his past from him. I promised I would. I begged the doctor to save Wes’s life, and he did.
This is the cost.
I look at Wes and know that I can’t ask him the questions I want. I can’t tell him who he is to me, who we are to each other. Even though he’s right here in front of me, he’s never felt so far away.
“Do you want to grab lunch with me?” Wes asks, climbing out of the Jeep. “There’s a pizza place—”
“No,” I say too quickly. Rejecting him doesn’t come naturally to me, and we both shift uncomfortably. I avoid his eyes when he turns to me.
“Do you . . . I mean, your Jeep won’t start,” he says, a slight insecurity in his voice. “And it’s lunchtime. What are you going to eat?”
I look over at him, standing close enough to touch. Knowing how easy it would be to fall into a relationship with him again.
“And not to sound pathetic,” he adds, “but I don’t have any friends. So if you’re feeling charitable—”
“Do you like pancakes?” I ask.
“I happen to fucking love pancakes,” he responds immediately. “Why do you ask?”
“There’s a place that serves breakfast all day. None of that IHOP shit either. You know Lulu’s?” Wes and I had only been there once before.
“I don’t know it,” he says. “But it sounds perfect. I hope you’re inviting me and not just taunting me with your talk of all-day pancakes.”
I laugh. “We can probably get there and back before next hour,” I say.
“Or . . . ,” he offers, shrugging one shoulder. “We don’t come back.”
“Huh,” I say like he’s got a novel idea. “I’ll think about it. But do you mind . . . ?” I motion to my nonstarting Jeep. “I doubt it’ll start a second time.”
“It would be my absolute pleasure to drive you to brunch,” he replies. Wes smiles, and it’s the purity in his expression that reminds me of how Wes makes me feel like the most important person in the world. Like he can see me. Like he can make it all real again.
Sharing a stack of pancakes together can’t hurt. In fact, being near him is the only thing that doesn’t hurt right now. We’re in our own private universe.
Wes closes the door of my Jeep, and we start toward his parking space.
“Hope you don’t mind the open air,” he says, pointing to his motorcycle. “I have an extra helmet.”
“I don’t mind,” I tell him, not wanting to give away that I know what he rides, and I know he always has an extra helmet—a habit he started when we got together.
We get to his bike, and Wes pulls my helmet from the pack and holds it out to me. As I take it, he runs his eyes over me. He seems to debate what he’s going to say next. “It was Tatum, right?” he asks.
I nod, and neither of us acknowledges that it was Dr. Wyatt who mentioned my name in the first place. Wes climbs onto the bike, moving up on the seat so I can get on behind him.
“And do we know each other, Tatum?” he asks, snapping the chin strap on his helmet. He doesn’t look back at me, but something in his voice tells me he’s been waiting to ask that question from the first moment he saw me in class. I must be familiar to him.
My entire body warms with the depth of the answer, the love between us, but I can’t explain it to him; I won’t put him in danger. But I can’t outright deny it either.
“Yeah,” I say quietly, putting on my helmet. “We do.”
Wes kicks the bike to life, and it sends a vibration over my entire body. I put my hands on either side of his waist, a familiar movement that is suddenly anything but. He doesn’t follow up on the question, and I’m grateful. I don’t want to lie to him. And I don’t want to tell him the truth.
I’ll have to figure out exactly what I can say, but for now, we’re going for a ride on his motorcycle, wind in our faces, free.
And as Wes revs the engine and drives us toward the parking lot exit, I glance back at Michael Realm and find him watching us leave. His expression deadly serious.