The Complication (The Program #6)(34)

It was like I’d just stepped off a cliff. My heart in my throat, falling toward an impact I couldn’t stop.

“Tatum?” a groggy female voice called, and I spun to find Mr. and Mrs. Ambrose coming down the walkway from the front door. “What are you doing?” Mrs. Ambrose added, tightening her robe around her.

But as she saw me under the lights, her mouth fell open. Her husband took her by the arm, and both of them stared at me.

“Tatum,” she said softly, like I was about to jump off a building. She had no idea how close she was to the truth. “Come inside, honey. We’ll call your grandmother.”

“Is he in there?” I asked. And my voice was different, hoarse. Raw. My throat burned, and I wondered if I’d been screaming the entire time.

Mrs. Ambrose gave a quick shake of her head to let me know her son wasn’t home. I flinched, and then groaned like I’d been punched in the chest. It felt like it.

I wanted the spiral to take me. Death was scary, but the pain—the pain was a distraction. It pulled me deeper, and I squeezed my eyes shut, and I ground my teeth, my fists clenched.

“Tatum?” Mrs. Ambrose called, and she sounded scared. “Please, you’re bleeding.”

He did this to me, I thought wildly. Wes did this by continuing to hook up with me. Giving me hope when there was none. I was a pathetic creature he felt sorry for. One he used. I was worthless. I was a joke.

I hate myself.

“You’re scaring me,” Mrs. Ambrose said, and took a step closer to me. “I think you should go now.”

I looked at her fiercely. She was the second person to turn me away tonight. First Nathan, now her. No one wanted me. Only The Program wanted me, and they couldn’t have me.

“Don’t tell me what to do,” I growled.

Mrs. Ambrose shot a concerned glance at her husband, then turned back to me. “Go home, Tatum. You’re not well.”

Her words struck me like a slap. A warning. “A threat.” I said the last part of my thoughts out loud. “You’re going to call them?” I asked. I flinched again, this time half of my face scrunching up. I couldn’t control it.

“You need help,” she whispered, almost desperately. “Now go. I don’t want Wes seeing you. Stay away from him.”

“Fuck you,” I said instantly. She was worried I’d taint her son, ruin him. Maybe I would. Maybe he deserved it.

I closed my eyes for a moment, sudden clarity coming through. I’d scared myself. I understood that this wasn’t me; this wasn’t how I really felt. I loved Wes, and I would never hurt him. I wouldn’t hurt myself.

I looked at Mrs. Ambrose again, swaying on my feet. I was ready to apologize, but her face was a growing storm of rage. “I think I need help,” I murmured.

She scoffed, clearly not forgiving my outburst. “Leave,” she said coldly. “Before I call the police.”

The police would haul me off to The Program without hesitation. She might call them anyway. I wanted to plead with her to forget I was here, and fear crawled over me, replacing my misery. I looked at Mr. Ambrose, and his brows were pulled together sympathetically. He nodded his chin as if telling me to leave.

I started to back up, my steps unsteady. My lips parted to tell her I was sorry, but Mrs. Ambrose turned her back on me and took a step toward the house.

She was going to turn me in. She was going to send me away and have them destroy me. She was going to kill me.

“Pop,” I whispered, running my hand roughly through my hair as I rushed toward my Jeep. I needed my grandparents to save me.

I ruined everything.

? ? ?

The alarm on my phone goes off, and I sit up with a gasp. I stare straight ahead in the darkness of Wes’s room, sweat on my skin, heart banging against my chest. I click off my phone alarm, momentarily disoriented as the fear that I felt in the memory begins to slowly dissipate.

I know why Wes’s mother called The Program on me. I don’t even really blame her. I was out of control. I needed help.

The wind is quiet outside, and even though I was quick to cut the ringing on my phone, Wes groans and turns over, slapping the pillow on his head.

I stare at his back, stunned that I’m here. The memory is still with me, and I can feel the devastating loss of him. What it did to me. How it hurt me.

Wes hurt me, I think weakly. He may not have meant to, but it was wrong. And how I reacted to it was wrong. And sitting here in his bed, I’m truly convinced for the first time . . . that we’re wrong. We are wrong together.

I get up from the bed, quiet as I slip off his shorts and pull on my jeans, change my top, and stuff my bra into my pocket. Once my shoes are on, I grab my car keys and go to the door. I pause there a moment and look back at the bed, Wes sleeping soundly. I’ll be gone when he wakes up, and he’ll wonder why I didn’t say good-bye.

We never were good with good-byes.

I open the door and go outside; the smell of rain—damp earth and grass—is thick in the air. It’s cold, and I wrap my arms around myself. The wind and rain are gone, leaving the street a mess. Branches on the road, a buzzing powerline above me. I open and close my fist, as if my knuckles are still injured from the memory.

I get to my Jeep, relieved to see there’s no note or anything to say that I’ve been found out. As if I’m under surveillance. Which doesn’t feel that far off, if I’m honest.