The Complication (The Program #6)(31)

“You don’t think that’ll seem suspicious if your mom tries to come downstairs?”

“Why would she try to come downstairs?”

“I don’t know, if she hears something?”

“What would she hear, Tate?” he asks.

My cheeks warm with his innuendo. “The dryer,” I say.

He smiles. “It’s okay,” he says, waving off my concern. “I lock that door every night. I don’t want anyone sneaking up on me.”

I stare at him, even as he turns away to grab the laptop. It’s an odd statement. That he locks his door every night. He didn’t use to do that. I wonder why that changed.





CHAPTER THIRTEEN


IT’S ABOUT AN ALIEN INVASION. The movie is kind of scary—okay, it’s pretty damn scary—and the wind and rain blowing against the high-set basement windows isn’t helping matters much. I’m curled up on the couch, my elbow on the pillow between me and Wes. He’s also leaning on the pillow, but we’re not touching—like an invisible barrier is keeping our arms apart.

Wes jumps, and then laughs and looks at me sheepishly. Wes has always done that—jumped at the scary parts in movies. I find it incredibly endearing.

There’s a thump upstairs, and Wes and I sit perfectly still and lift our eyes to stare at the ceiling. The last thing I need is for Wes’s mom to find me here. She might literally kick me out. The toilet flushes. And then the thumps cross the ceiling and the sounds are gone.

Wes and I exchange a look of relief and then go back to watching the movie.

When it’s over, Wes sits up and stretches his arms over his head. He’s thinner than he used to be, leaner. I admire him for a moment before I excuse myself to the bathroom. While I’m in there, still wearing his clothes, I take a peek at myself. I look sleepy, like I’ve just woken up.

In a way, it’s like I have. Being here with him, comfortable and quiet—it’s my favorite part of us. Sure, I love the other stuff, but it’s how easily we fit into each other’s space—that’s what I loved. Being here reaffirms that.

When I get out of the bathroom, Wes is standing by his stairs, watching the credits roll down the laptop screen, holding my clothes from the dryer. He glances over at me, smiling when he sees his oversize basketball shorts. He tosses my clothes onto the couch.

“Want to sleep over?” he asks. I laugh because he doesn’t realize he asks me that every time I come over. Sometimes I say yes.

“Your mom would hate that,” I tell him.

“Kind of makes you want to do it more, right?”

I laugh. “Yeah, it does,” I admit. I walk over to the couch and sit next to my clothes, not really wanting to put them on.

“What if I say please really sweetly?” he offers.

I lift my eyes to his. “It’s not a good idea.”

“Are you kidding?” he asks. “It’s a fantastic idea. And besides, look outside. It’s a torrential downpour. In fact, staying the night is the mature, responsible thing to do.”

“Hm . . . ,” I say, leaning back on the couch and enjoying his rationalization. “I’m sure my grandparents will assume me staying in your bed is due to inclement weather.”

Wes raises his eyebrows. “You want to stay in my bed?” he asks, seeming a little surprised. My thoughts stumble, and I shake my head like I was only just kidding. That was stupid of me.

“Not what I meant,” I say. I grab my clothes and stand, and Wes’s face sags with disappointment. “I should get changed.”

“You can have the bed,” he offers as I walk past him toward the bathroom. “I’ll sleep on the floor. It’s a great carpet. That way we can talk, or . . . whatever.”

“It’s the whatever that I’m worried about,” I say. I’m about to expand on my refusal, when I turn around and look at him. I’m struck by the vulnerability in Wes’s expression.

“I don’t want to be alone,” he blurts out, and then lowers his eyes, embarrassed. “I’m having a hard time being alone, Tate.”

Chills run up my arms, and I step a little closer to him. “Why didn’t you say something earlier?” I ask.

He presses his lips into a sad smile, his dimples flashing. “I did. I called you, remember?”

I shrug. “Yeah,” I say. “But I thought it was just the typical loneliness.”

Wes rubs his hand roughly through his hair, admonishing himself. “I’ve probably made you want to run out of here twice as fast,” he says.

I turn toward the window. I can’t see outside from here, but I hear the wind howl against the glass and the steady beat of rain. The clicking of debris and pebbles. It’s shitty outside.

“I can stay for a while,” I offer. “Wake up before dawn and drive home. My grandparents can’t think this is a terrible idea if they don’t know about it.”

Wes looks over at me. “I still think they’d consider it a responsible, mature idea, but whatever you want.”

What I want isn’t a possibility right now, but I won’t leave him here if he’s feeling lonely like this. If I keep it platonic, there’s no harm. We can be friends. It’s what he wanted the first time he came back, but I kept pressing the issue. Now I know better. Now I know better for both of us.