The Complication (The Program #6)(29)

I wish I knew what that meant, the fact that Wes and I could deny our breakup so thoroughly that even The Program couldn’t find out. What did that say about us?

I curl up on my side, and my gaze drifts to the pictures of me and Wes on my mirror, happy. I’m curious about why they’re still here. Why let me keep these pictures of him? Why let me mourn him after he was taken?

So many whys, but in the end, it comes down to the simple fact that I was changed. A why I might never understand.

There are other pictures—newer ones. And I smile at one of me and Nathan at Rockstar Pizza, his mouth open to expose his half-chewed food. There’s another of us with Foster and Arturo, the two of them kissing while Nathan and I point to someone off camera. It was Jana, and we’d been calling her to jump into the photo, but she hates getting her picture taken.

There’s a photo of me with Pop, pretending to bite his balding head while he holds up his hand to stop me from taking the selfie. My grandfather—the man who raised me—pretending that all is fine. Betraying me every day since last summer.

Betraying me even now. And the way Marie lied to my face, I have to believe I’ll get the same response at home without proof. All I want is the truth. It’s inexplicable how evasive it is.

My phone vibrates on the side table, and I reach over to grab it, absently looking at the caller ID. My heart skips, and I sit up in bed. It’s Wes. I have no idea how he got my number.

“Hello?” I ask in a hushed voice.

“Shit,” he replies immediately. “Did I wake you up?” He matches my volume even though I’m sure there’s no need for him to whisper in his basement bedroom.

I smile. “No,” I say. “I was just lying here listlessly, rethinking my entire life. You?”

“Same,” he says dramatically, like it’s an entirely normal thing to do. “And I hope you don’t mind that I tracked down your number through social media and well-placed inquiries. It’s kind of lonely here.”

I’m quiet, not sure what response his comment warrants. “I bet there’s homework you can catch up on,” I offer.

“Good suggestion,” he says. “But I was thinking that maybe you’d want to come over. Our cable’s out, but I downloaded a movie. And before I called you, I checked with my parents.”

“You told your parents you were going to invite me over?” I ask, my stomach clenching.

“God, no.” He laughs. “I told them I was going to bed and that I’d see them in the morning. They won’t bother us, so, you know, if you want to come hang out, I’m just a loser new kid with no friends. I already asked Dr. Wyatt, but she said no. Not to put any pressure on you . . .”

I cradle the phone to my ear, looking out the window as the tree branches bend in the wind, the leaves rustling violently. I take it as a warning and lower my eyes.

“I shouldn’t,” I say quietly.

“?‘Shouldn’t’ sounds like you kind of want to, though,” he says. “Is it me?”

“No,” I whisper.

And it’s not him. He’s being perfectly normal—adorable, even. I’ve promised people—including myself—that I wouldn’t start up this relationship again. It would be dangerous to be alone at his house with him. Selfish.

That doesn’t mean I don’t want to, though. I want to suggest I come over, spend the night, and that we don’t tell anybody—our secret. But that’s the sort of behavior that got him erased. That’s how fucking horrible I am, that I would do the same thing to him again.

Tears well up in my eyes, and I turn away from the window. “Maybe another time,” I suggest, trying to sound light. “You know, with adult supervision.”

He laughs. “That sounds . . . horrible, actually.”

“Yeah, well. You should probably work on your English paper, anyway.”

“Thanks, Mom,” he says. We both pause.

“Ew—”

“Yep, sorry,” he says immediately. “I didn’t mean to go there.”

We laugh, and I tell him I’ll talk to him tomorrow. Wes sounds reluctant when he says good-bye, and I close my eyes when I hear the click.

I set my phone back on the side table and go to my mirror, gathering all the pictures. I sit down on my bed with them, my heart aching, as the storm intensifies outside. I trace my finger over a picture of Wes.

Why is it so easy for us to fall back in love? It shouldn’t be allowed. I should hate him, or he should hate me. Or better yet, not care at all. The opposite of love is indifference. Why can’t we be indifferent?

He’s not. His heart remembers me—it’s obvious. And I can’t turn away from him. It’d be like refusing to breathe.

I set the first picture aside, looking through the others, trying to date them to find the ones around the time when The Program took me. I put the photos in chronological order, starting with middle school.

I snap down the corners of the pictures as I lay them out in a line. And as I get into what I’ll call the Weston Years, I see myself grow up. The subtle changes of a person falling in love. It hurts. God, it hurts. But it’s also beautiful to see happiness.

I pick up a picture of me and Wes and examine his face. He looked calm, the reserved happiness that was allowed during a suicide epidemic. Something changed shortly after this. Something in him. In me. And between us.