CHAPTER FOUR
I GET BACK IN THE Jeep, waiting an extra minute in case Michael Realm magically shows up outside my door. When he doesn’t, I go over to the 7-Eleven to check inside, but he’s not there, either. Frustrated, I start driving. I’m not sure where to look.
Alone, my mind tries to replay the moment I was attacked at school. I shake my head, like I can shake out the memory. I roll down the windows, turn up the music, trying to tune out my own thoughts. My head hurts.
I see the turn for the river up ahead, and I take it. I haven’t been here since Wes was reset, but there are a ton of memories in this park, most of them tragic. Maybe that’s why it feels like the perfect place to go right now. I might need to wallow just a bit before I go home.
I find a parking spot, and then I get out and head toward the river. I walk along the water’s edge until I see the boulder that juts over the side. It’s like a favorite chair calling to me, and I feel nostalgic as I climb onto it and hug my knees to my chest, listening to the river rush past.
I could have died today. And, more concerning, I might still die today. Or tomorrow. The next day. I need Michael Realm to help me. I’m running out of time, and I don’t know what to do.
There’s a rumbling sound, and my stomach drops when a motorcycle pulls into the lot and parks next to my Jeep. I can see from here that it’s Wes, and I’m not sure if it’s a coincidence, or if he’s looking for me. I left my phone in the car, so I have no idea if he tried to call. I have no idea if he’s still mad at me for lying to him.
I shift on the boulder, letting my feet dangle over the side. I don’t watch Wes’s approach, but my heart has sped up since he arrived. He doesn’t call out, and when he gets to the boulder, he sits down beside me without a single word.
I keep my breathing measured, afraid to ask him why he’s here. When the silence goes on too long, I look sideways at him while he watches the river.
“I’m failing English, by the way,” he says. He picks up a pebble from the boulder and tosses it into the water. “That’s why I was reading in the library.”
“Failing?” I ask, surprised. I don’t know why he’s telling me this, but Wes has always been an A student—the sort you resent because he rarely has to try.
“I guess when you miss a lot of school and get your memory erased, it’s hard to catch up,” he adds.
“I bet it is,” I say, imagining my own work piling up. But it seems petty to worry about grades right now.
“Want to tutor me?” Wes suggests, and turns. His expression has softened since I saw him at school. I smile, and there’s a twinge in my head at the movement. I rub the bump under my hair.
“I’m not really in a place to provide much help,” I tell him honestly.
“Okay. How about you just talk to me, then?” he asks like it was his real intention. “I should have . . . I should have run after you at school. I was full of shit when I said I wouldn’t chase you. I would. I am. But you hurt me, Tate. You may not have meant to, but you wrecked me.”
He has no idea. Now that I know our complete history, it seems that’s all I do.
“How did you know where I was?” I ask.
“I didn’t. I was pissed off and riding around, thought the river seemed like a good idea. Then I saw you here, looking all sad. . . . Maybe I’m a little sorry for how I reacted earlier.”
“You don’t have to be.”
He shrugs one shoulder. “Maybe I’m a lot sorry. It’s entirely possible that I drove by your house and didn’t see your Jeep. And then I went by Lulu’s.”
“You were looking for me,” I say, my heart swelling.
“I was looking for you,” he admits, nodding. His dimples flash with his embarrassed smile, and it’s the most endearing thing I’ve ever seen.
I am helplessly in love with him; it burns bright in my chest, electrifies my skin. I want him. I want us. And I want to tell the truth, finally.
“I broke up with you,” I say, making him raise his eyebrows. “It was during the epidemic, and I wasn’t right—I was paranoid, a little delusional. The Program made us scared, and somehow that fear blotted out everything. It blotted out you. And so I broke up with you. I’m the one who screwed up our relationship. I’m the reason you were sent to The Program.”
Wes listens, his throat bobbing when he swallows. I explain the whole story about me telling him to see other people, how I changed my mind, how his mother called The Program on me. I tell him about his return the first time, and how much he loved me again. How desperate we were for each other. How I failed him.
“I make your life worse,” I say, miserably. “That’s what I’ve realized. You really are better off without me.”
“Interesting,” Wes says, and lowers his eyes to the boulder. “I mean, it’s quite a story.”
I’m confused by his response, and I’m not sure if I should keep talking or let him process it.
“So . . . ,” he starts. “You feel bad because an unethical institution took advantage of people’s fear and grief, poisoning society, and you reacted poorly. And then, when I returned, you couldn’t keep your hands off of me. And I couldn’t keep mine off of you. But that landed us in the Adjustment, which didn’t work, and ended with me at your house, bleeding profusely from the head?”
I try not to smile, but Wes has a way of pointing things out that makes them sound ridiculous.
“You bled all over my front porch,” I say.
“And what was I doing at your house again?” he asks. Heat warms my cheeks, and I avoid his gaze.
“You came there to tell me that you loved me. That that version of you loved me madly.”
“And I kissed you?” he asks.
“We . . . definitely kissed,” I reply.
“Sounds like more. Like I said, interesting.”
I look up at him, trying to read his reaction. He’s not angry, although he’s probably a little overwhelmed. If nothing else, he seems to be enjoying this trip down relationship lane. Especially the kissing parts.
“Well, we have certainly been through a lot,” he says. “I mean, that’s not even mentioning how you totally lied to me, repeatedly, but okay.”
I chew on my lip, and Wes takes his time, thinking things over.
“I have to admit,” he says. “It feels good to be right.”
I sniff a laugh and look at the river, the water rushing faster than it was earlier. “I’m sure it does,” I say.
“I’ve asked you out before,” he says. “Probably a few times. And I knew I’d kissed you before. In my bed the other night, it was like I could remember what your lips felt like. What you tasted like. I just . . . knew it. Even though you lied.”
I close my eyes, regretting that he can continually apply that word to me.
“I’m encouraged, though,” he adds. “This whole honesty thing you have going on, I think we’d be good at it. If . . . you want to try it out.”
I look sideways at him, nervous. Defenseless. “Go for it,” I say.
“Yeah?” he asks, smiling. “If I asked you if you wanted to kiss me right now, would you answer?”
My heart beats fast and hard. And I nod that I would.
“Do you want to kiss me right now?” he asks immediately.
“Yes.”
Wes licks his bottom lip, and I hold my breath, waiting for him to lean in. But instead, he grins. “Good. I’m glad I was right about that, too,” he says. “Back to why I’m here, though . . .”
I sit there, sort of stunned, but also amused. I’ve missed him. I think he might love me again, more easily than before, and I wonder if it’s muscle memory or because he’s been reset. He doesn’t have past experiences to base his behavior on. Wes is clear on what he wants, without the guilt of second-guessing what he should want. His intentions are pure.
I’m not entirely sure where this conversation leaves us, but it feels honest and I like it. We’re full of possibility.
I reach to brush my hair back from my face, and accidently graze the lump on the side of my head, wincing. It throbs, and I touch the spot of the swelling. Wes stops talking and furrows his brow.
“What’s this?” he asks, reaching to move my hair gently aside. He leans in to inspect the area. “Shit, Tatum. What is this?”
He’s close now, and when I meet his eyes, I nearly break apart—shattering to pieces in front of him. But I don’t want to give Derek any more power over me. I have to be stronger.
“Tate,” Wes whispers, truly concerned. “Who did this?”
“After I left the library,” I say, trying to sound calm, “I was attacked by a handler. He hit me.” My voice cracks. “He hit me and he dragged me across the floor, and . . . I was scared. I was terrified.”
Wes’s posture stiffens, but he listens silently as I tell him everything, every detail. I tell him about Melody bashing Derek with a fire extinguisher, thinking he was dead. Her telling me to act normal, even though more handlers will be looking for me soon. I tell him I need the cure to make this stop. I tell him I might get lobotomized.
Wes doesn’t say anything, but he’s shaking. And when I look at him, I see that his jaw is sharp, clenched, and his gaze darts around the park behind me.
“And Melody told you Derek was taken care of for now?” Wes asks. “He’s not in a place where I can go have a chat with him?”
“He’s gone,” I say. “But there will be others. The most important thing right now is finding this other guy, and then—”
“Which guy?” Wes says. For a second, I think he’s jealous, but his eyes narrow with realization. “Are you looking for Michael Realm?” he asks.
My heart dips, and I nod, surprised that he remembers his name. More surprised that he knows who I was looking for.
“How did you—?”
“About him,” Wes interrupts. “You know how I was texting, asking to talk, and you kept ignoring me? And then I came here looking for you?”
“Uh, yeah,” I say.
“That’s who I wanted to talk about. If you’re looking for him, I found him.”
My breath catches. “What do you mean you found him?” I ask. “Where?”
“I found his records,” he clarifies.
“You spied on him?” I ask.
“Kind of. Does it count if it was only over the Internet?”
“Yes.” I smile, and Wes laughs, nodding that I’m probably right. “And what did you find out about him?”
Wes takes a deep breath and pulls his legs under him, turning to face me. I do the same, sitting cross-legged.
“The day you saw him following us,” Wes begins, “and then told me not to worry about him”—he lifts his eyebrows, pointing out how ridiculous the request was—“I asked you his name. I went home and searched for him on social media to find out why he’d been following us. But there were no profiles. No accounts.
“Then,” Wes continues, “I thought about your revelation that you were in The Program. Pretty big deal, right? So I went onto survivor sites, dozens of them, and read through their forums.”
I love him. Just listening to him, calmly explaining how he tracked someone down to find out if he was dangerous makes me smile. It was stupid, an overreaction in most situations. But this time he was right to check. Just when I needed him.
“I kept notes,” Wes says, holding up one finger. “And I looked for similarities in stories. These people had gone through The Program and survived it. I mean, I read thousands of posts. Some of them pretty dark. But then I found one who referenced a guy named Michael.”
“It’s a common name,” I suggest.
“Yeah, but how many have a jagged pink scar across their neck?” he asks. “How many were in The Program?”
“Okay, good point.”
“Yeah,” Wes responds like I’m not getting it. “But then I found another post on a different forum. A girl who said she dated Michael in The Program and was hoping to find him to reconnect.”
“He’s fairly cute,” I say, not getting why that’s strange.
“Huh,” Wes says like that’s a fascinating observation, and then presses on. “There were several Michael was my best friend, and another I dated Michael for three weeks.”
I scrunch up my nose. “Uh . . . he would have been busy,” I say. “Where was I in these posts? Realm and I were in The Program together. I . . . I was apparently friends with him.”
Wes stares at me a long moment, his eyes intense. “That’s the thing, Tate,” he says. “Most people are only in The Program for six weeks. These posts were scattered over several years. Michael Realm was in The Program for years.”
A sense of dread winds through me. “Years?” I ask. “How? Why?”
“I couldn’t quite make sense of it at first,” Wes says. “So I pulled up public notices, articles, anything that might mention his name. I joined three different Program support groups, and in there, I found a guy who knew him. He even posted a picture. He said Michael dropped by recently with an apology and his file to give back. Michael Realm was his handler. And, Tate . . . I think he was your handler. He wasn’t in The Program. He was working for them.”
The world drops out from under me. I call up the memory again, us in the leisure room. The way Realm looked at Derek. How he sensed that I could see through their act. And it was an act because he wasn’t a patient. He was a handler. They were all handlers.
When I had coffee with Realm the other day, I confided in him about Wes, and he acted like he’d never heard it before. But if he was my handler, he knows my entire history, knows it better than I do. And if he was my handler . . . that means he helped erase me.
And yet, Melody was certain we’d been friends. Even I’m sort of certain of that, although I can’t prove why. I’m not sure how to reconcile these two versions of Michael Realm. What else is missing?
“I have to find him,” I tell Wes. “Find him in person. Can you help me?”
“You want me to take you to your handler?” he asks, doubtful.
“I think he’s on my side,” I say, mostly believing it. “I think he’s on our side.”
Wes watches me, the corner of his mouth flinching up. “Are you saying we’re on the same side?” he asks, his voice lower.
“Yes,” I say.
He smiles broadly and looks down as he reaches to take my hand, playing with my fingers nonchalantly. He was always openly affectionate, and I forgot what that was like. It makes me melt a little.
“We’ll find your handler,” Wes says, sliding his fingers between mine and then out again. “But then what do we do with him?”
“We take him to Marie Devoroux. She said if she could perfect her cure for crashbacks, get it to the free market, The Program would be decimated. No point in having a mind-controlling service people are immune to. The company would be destroyed. And so would all their shareholders, politicians, or whoever the fuck runs it.”
“So . . . ,” Wes says, tracing his finger over my wrist. “You’re saying you want to take on the entire Program, including any doctors, handlers, or politicians who are working with them?” He lifts his eyes to mine.
I smile. “Sounds a little ambitious when you put it like that, but yeah—pretty much.”
There’s a distant boom of thunder, and Wes glances up at the sky. I do the same, noticing gray clouds have rolled in. The weather here changes so quickly, and it almost always ends in rain.
“Another storm,” he says. “Want to come over?”
I laugh. “I guess it depends,” I say. “Are you going to help me save the world or not?”
Wes stares at me a long moment, and then he takes my hand and squeezes it. “Tate,” he says seriously. “I thought that was already a given.”