The Complication (The Program #6)(30)

But for a moment, I allow myself to remember what it was like to feel loved and to love in return. It was the happiest I’ve ever been. What changed that? A dull ache begins behind my eyes, and I’m the verge of tears.

I don’t want to be alone anymore. I don’t want to be forgotten.

The weight of the day is heavy, and the wind howls against the window, rattling it, making me feel small and vulnerable. I just want to feel loved again.

I look over at my phone, thinking it’s a terrible idea, but finding myself unable to resist the temptation. I dial.

“Hi,” Wes says, and I can hear the smile in his voice. “I was really hoping you’d change your mind.”

“You think you can get me inside without detection?” I ask.

“Absolutely.” He sounds thrilled as he rattles off his address. His excitement encourages me. Why wouldn’t I want him to be this happy? Why wouldn’t I want to be? I’m not to blame for The Program, and neither is Wes.

“I’m on my way,” I tell him.

After we hang up, I ease my door open, listening for my grandparents. I hear the soft sound of my grandfather’s snore, and I sneak quietly down the stairs.

I go into the bathroom and brush my hair and teeth. When I’m done, I examine my appearance. My eyes are a little red, and I still have on today’s clothes, but I can’t chance going back upstairs and waking my grandparents. Besides, this isn’t a hookup date. Not like the last time Wes returned. I just want to hang out with someone. With him. I’m feeling vulnerable. And yeah, lonely.

I walk out of the bathroom, the sound of thunder rumbling the dishes in the kitchen. I survey the house, everything dark until lightning flashes. I stand there a minute, listening for any movement upstairs. There’s nothing.

I grab my keys and head out the kitchen door, glad my grandparents won’t be able to hear my Jeep start over the sound of rain.

And it is pouring out, soaking me through before I get to my Jeep. It’s coming down so fast that my windshield wipers can hardly keep up. The streets are quiet, even though it’s not that late. Bad weather has a way of clearing the roads.

I drive carefully, avoiding the flooded parts of the streets that can possibly stall my engine. I lean forward, trying to see through the steady stream of water rushing down my windshield.

When I finally get to Wes’s street, I park in my usual spot, obscured from view by low-hanging branches. I get out, and a gust of wind pushes back against my door, nearly closing it on me. The branches rustle heavily above me, sending down fat droplets of water. I get the door closed and face the wind as I hurry along the sidewalk until I’m at the basement entrance of Wes’s room.

I shake my arms, realizing my clothes are soaked through to the skin. I blow water off my lips as rain runs down my face. The door swings open, and Wes actually laughs out loud when he sees me—my hair stuck to my forehead, my lips probably blue from the chill.

“Holy shit, Tate. You look like you just crawled out of a watery grave. Get in here.” He holds the door open wider, and I walk inside, immediately comforted by the heat. I stand there, dripping on his carpet. Wes shuts the door and then turns to survey me.

“I guess it’s still raining,” he says casually, and then we both burst out laughing.

“I’ll get you a towel and something to wear. The dryer is down here if you want to toss your clothes in.”

I tell him that I will, but I already knew the dryer was down here. I’ve used it before. That little detail is a knot in my stomach as I follow behind him. He points me to the bathroom as he goes in search of clothes.

When inside the small room, I strip down to my underwear. My bra is soaked, and I toss it on top of my other clothes and wrap myself in a large beach towel. I find my reflection in the mirror above the sink. My hair hangs in stringy waves just under my chin, and my cheeks are red from being outside. There’s a knock at the door, and I open it.

Wes keeps his gaze turned away and thrusts out his hand with a pile of clothes in it. I tell him I’ll trade him and give him my wet ones in exchange. While he goes to put them in the dryer, I put on his clothes.

They’re oversize—a pair of black basketball shorts and a Nike T-shirt. He even gave me a pair of bright white athletic socks, and I pull them up to my knees. When I come out of the bathroom, Wes is sitting on the couch, and he smiles broadly.

“Okay, that is the cutest thing I’ve ever seen.”

“What?” I ask, looking down at my outfit.

“You,” he replies. “I’d say you should wear that to school, but on second thought—please don’t.” He pats the couch next to him, and I almost don’t sit there, remembering what happened last time I did. But it’s different now. I may be weak willed, but I’m not actively trying to get him back. I just . . . want to spend time with him. It’s different. At least I tell myself it’s different.

“I’m glad you came over,” Wes says as I sit next to him. We’re on opposite ends of the couch, and when I settle in, I put a pillow between us, leaning my arm on it.

“Me too,” I say. “I wanted to hang out with you. I wanted to hang out here.” I glance up at the ceiling, where his family’s living room would be. “With you and your parents,” I whisper jokingly.

He snorts. “They’re watching TV in their room, otherwise I’d totally ask them. Although I did lock the door.”