CHAPTER FOUR
WES AND I DON’T TALK as we ride toward the restaurant. Normally, Wes would turn back to me at every stoplight, continuing a conversation the entire way. We have less to say to each other now—odd, considering we have so much more to talk about. But there’s intimacy in conversation. An intimacy based on shared experiences. He doesn’t remember those.
Lulu’s is a house-turned-café with overflowing flower beds, pale yellow siding, and a white picket fence. Their pancakes are legendary, as is the usual wait time to get a table.
As we pull up, Wes glances around and then smiles at me. “Now, this place is goddamn delightful,” he says emphatically.
“It is,” I agree. “It’s usually really busy, but it doesn’t look too bad today.”
We stash our helmets and go inside. Even though there’s not a wait, it’s a little hectic, nearly every table taken. The café smells like hazelnut coffee and maple syrup, the air warm from all the bodies in here. The music is on, but it’s not loud enough to make out what’s playing. Right now it sounds like moaning whales.
It’s a seat-yourself situation, and Wes and I go stand at a table near the window just as the guy sitting there packs up his laptop. When he’s gone, Wes and I sit across from each other, perusing the menu. The server comes by, and we order coffees and two stacks of pancakes.
Wes puts his elbows on the table and leans in. “Before we address the psychotic school administrator with the out-of-line interview tactics,” he says, “I feel like we should talk about your fists of fury in the Jeep. I mean, I wasn’t going to bring it up . . . but you . . .” He scrunches his nose as if making sure it’s a topic he can mention. “You were crying during first hour too. I was worried.”
I study him to see if this is all a ruse somehow, like he might remember. Otherwise, why would he worry? Why would he ask me to lunch? I’m probably projecting, but then again, maybe it’s still there—our love. But the way his soft brown eyes study me, trying to figure me out, confirms he’s not the old Wes. Not the one I knew.
“This morning, when you saw me,” I say, lowering my gaze to the table, “my best friend had just told me something devastating. Life altering. And I . . . I’m not handling it all that well.”
There’s a sudden and aching fear creeping into my lungs, squeezing. Grief surrounds me. I’m scared because it feels like I’m all alone in this. In my whole life, I’ve never been truly alone until now.
“You can tell me,” Wes says, and I look up at him. “I know I’m sort of a stranger,” he adds, “but I don’t have any ulterior motives. At least none that I can remember.” He offers me a small smile.
The server appears and drops off our coffees. I nod a thank-you and wrap my hands around my hot mug.
“To be honest,” I tell Wes. “That’s why you might be the only person I can trust right now.”
“Exactly.”
I watch him, his concern, and imagine things are different between us. The way they used to be. But that only lasts a moment because there is no “used to be.” Wes and I were just as big a lie as the rest of it. The only real thing is now. This moment.
“What did your friend tell you, Tatum?” he asks. “What could be so bad?”
“I was in The Program,” I murmur, the words breaking my heart. “I was in The Program, and I don’t remember any of it.”
Wes tilts his head, seeming confused. “Isn’t that the point?”
“No. I was supposed to forget my problems, or at least what they considered problems. But I remember the bad stuff. I mean, some of my memories are wrong, but overall, I have them. It’s The Program that’s gone. They made me forget the wrong stuff. They’ve done something. They changed me.”
“You’re not who you used to be,” Wes says, grabbing sugar to pour into his coffee. “Funny story, neither am I. Seems we have that in common, Tate. Two lost souls.”
He called me Tate—he must remember that. Or maybe it’s proof that, given the chance, most of us would make the same decisions, same mistakes, even if we don’t realize we’re making them. Maybe that’s what fate really is.
“I don’t know what to do now,” I confide. “Because it’s not just that I forgot. No one told me. My family, my friends, they kept it a secret. How can I face them, knowing they kept something so huge from me?”
“I can relate,” Wes says, stirring his coffee, the metal spoon clinking on the ceramic. “My parents act like I’ve been away at summer camp. None of us has said a word about my past. So I can tell you that eventually, you’ll accept it. And you’ll forgive your family because you have to.”
I’m not sure if Wes is right, but the level of sadness in his voice bothers me. Forgiveness is voluntary. There should be no “have to” about it.
“Besides,” Wes adds. “I’m starting to believe that our memories can be a dangerous place. Part of why I’m so damn charming is because I don’t remember how royally fucked my life has been. So I refuse to look back,” he continues. “I’m afraid it will kill me. You’re welcome to join me in my blissful ignorance if you’d like.” He smiles, hopeful.
That’s why he didn’t immediately bring up my inexplicable presence at his meeting with Dr. Wyatt. Blissful ignorance—it can have its advantages in this world. And honestly, I want to say that I’ll join him. But I can’t let this go so easily. It’s not fair—it’s not fair to me. To be lied to. Betrayed. I have to know how deep it goes before I can put it behind me.
“You’re not going to take my offer,” Wes says, sounding disappointed.
“Not yet. But . . . maybe I can once I have answers.”
Wes lifts one eyebrow like he doesn’t believe me, sets his spoon aside, and takes a sip of his coffee. He hums out that it’s good.
“Well,” he says. “Speaking of answers, we should get back to that psychotic administrator. Dr. Wyatt, was it? She’s kind of weird. Why does she care if I was in The Program?”
“She’s obsessed with returners,” I say. “Monitoring them and looking for signs of another outbreak, I guess.”
“Outbreak?”
I stare at him blankly, not sure how to begin explaining an epidemic that killed so many of our friends. I could never illustrate the gravity of it. What it did to us.
“Oh,” Wes says. “You mean the suicides? I read about that,” he adds quietly. Which means he knows the reason both of us ended up in The Program—they thought we were a danger to ourselves. True or not, that was the excuse they used to erase our pasts.
“Dr. Wyatt is acting like they did something else to me,” Wes says, lifting his eyes to mine. “Do you know what she was talking about?”
I swallow hard, but before I can figure out what to say, the server drops off our pancakes. They smell both sweet and buttery, and Wes lets the question drop as he digs into his food.
We’re quiet for a while, and when we’re nearly done eating, I absently look over to the counter. My stomach sinks when I see Kyle Mahoney there, picking up two coffees to go. Her white-blond cascade of hair, her tan legs and bare shoulders—I’m not imagining that Wes’s eyes drift toward her.
It’s a stab in my heart, and I want to tell him to stop. Stop looking at her. Stop noticing her. But Wes once told me that the heart has muscle memory . . . and that would apply to her, too. I wasn’t the only one who took up space in his life.
I push away the unfinished pancakes and grip my hot coffee cup. When I lift my head, Wes is watching me.
“What’s wrong?” he asks.
“Nothing,” I say unconvincingly.
“Is it her?” he asks, nodding at Kyle’s back. “Do you know her? Wait, do I know her? Never mind. Don’t tell me. It doesn’t matter.”
“But maybe it does,” I say quietly. “Not just her—but maybe it all matters.” I want to believe his past matters—that I matter to him. But my conscience screams at me. Don’t tell him. Don’t hurt him.
“You think I should know everything,” Wes begins, “but I don’t see it that way. It’s deciding between my past and my future. Which would you choose, Tate? Would you think your old self, your old life—one you don’t even remember—would be worth dying for?”
“I don’t know. Do you?”
He watches me for a long moment. “No. I just want to be a normal guy. I want to start over. I want . . .” He furrows his brow and lowers his eyes. “Forget it,” he says, not finishing his thought.
Kyle leaves the coffee shop without even noticing us, and the intensity of the moment seems to fade without her presence. What would Wes think if I told him he’d left me and started dating her? That he broke my heart utterly and completely?
“No offense,” Wes adds. “But you don’t really remember either, not if you were in The Program, right? So let’s accept that we’re different people now and move on. Why spend our lives chasing the past?”
He’s right. We could start over and be whoever we want. Leave this place, leave the past. But almost as a cosmic answer, I see another figure step up to the coffee counter. My heart trips.
Michael Realm glances over his shoulder at me and Wes, and then quickly darts his eyes away when he finds me already watching him. He followed us here.
“We should go,” I say to Wes. I don’t have time to wait for the bill, so I throw down some cash and stand up. I’m truly frightened.
Wes laughs like I’m acting strangely, and he motions to the money. “You don’t have to pay. I’ll—”
“We have to go,” I say in a low voice, more forcefully.
Wes stands up and pushes in his chair. “Fine,” he says, taking one last sip of his coffee. “But buying me brunch doesn’t mean I owe you anything, if that’s what you’re—” He stops joking when he sees I’m not playing around. He swallows hard and holds out his hand for me to take. I almost do, but that would be a signal—proof that Wes and I are building something.
And I don’t want Michael to see that. I don’t want to give him any ammunition against us. I walk past Wes, my arm brushing against his, his hand left hanging out. I swear I can feel him wilt slightly, but then he shoves his hands in his pockets and walks with me out the door and into the afternoon.
I quickly grab my helmet and put it on, watching the door of Lulu’s. I’m on the bike before I realize Wes is standing there, staring at me.
“I don’t mean to be nosy,” he says, “but are you on the run from the cops or something?”
“What?” I ask, surprised. He smiles.
“I’m kidding,” he says. “Mostly. But the fact that wasn’t immediately obvious is worrisome.” He puts on his helmet and gets in front of me on the bike. I slip my arms around him and lean in closer, my heart racing as I wait for Michael Realm to appear.
“Sorry,” I say. “I’m just a little freaked out right now.”
“Why? Because I—”
“No, nothing about you,” I say. “It was this guy.”
“Huh,” Wes says, kicking the bike to life and revving it loudly. “Another promising development.”
“It was the guy I saw earlier—the one I pointed out in the parking lot?”
Wes turns to me, his eyes concerned. “He’s following you?”
“Us.” I pause. “Or me, I don’t know.”
“And why would he be doing that?” Wes asks, his voice ticking up.
“I’m not exactly sure,” I say. “At first, I thought it was because you just returned, you know? But now I’m thinking it might be me. I don’t know. Let’s just get out of here.”
“Done,” Wes says, telling me to hang on. We ride out of the parking lot, on our way back to school, when I lean forward, my lips near his ear.
“Would you take me home instead?” I ask. Despite everything going on, home seems the safest place to be.
“Of course,” Wes says, and I give him my address.
I glance back and make sure that no one is following us. I notice the first return of clouds clinging to the sky and immediately miss the sun. Wind blows through the trees, and Wes has to tighten his grip against it.
At the next stoplight, Wes turns slightly to talk to me. I love this angle of him, so familiar. I lean in closer.
“So who is this guy?” Wes asks as if he’s just curious. “What’s his name?”
“Michael Realm,” I say. The light turns green.
“Stupid name,” Wes says under his breath, and continues toward my house.