The Complication (The Program #6)(37)

I smile when I sit next to him, grabbing an apple first and taking a bite. I scan the courtyard, noting that it’s a lot less busy than it used to be. I don’t mind; it’s kind of peaceful.

“Hello, my dudes,” Foster says as he comes over. He sits on the other side of the food, and we all settle in. Foster isn’t fully recovered from the flu—the tip of his nose is still red, and his eyes are a little puffy—but he’s moving a lot better than he did yesterday. He’s no longer hunched over with body aches, at least.

“If I’d have known about this date sooner, I would have brought you soup,” Nathan says, studying him. “God, you look like shit.”

I slash out my hand and slap Nathan in the chest with a thud. He cough-laughs and pushes my arm away.

“Thank you,” Foster says. “And just in case that doesn’t add to my insecurity, Arturo decided to go have lunch with Jana and company. Why isn’t your girlfriend eating with us?” he asks Nathan.

“Because I didn’t ask her,” Nathan says simply, and opens a snack bag of chips. “Plus, I wanted to eat with you guys.”

“Aw . . . ,” Foster says. “I love when it’s just the three of us.” He beams, his eyes glassy from after-flu, his skin sickly. Regardless, he’s still adorable.

“Love you,” I murmur to him, and pass him a cookie.

“So . . . ,” Foster says, taking a bite of the cookie. “Nathan told me you were with Wes last night. Is he your boyfriend again, or are we trying something less conventional?”

Nathan tsks, annoyed that Foster brought it up.

“We’re friends . . . ish,” I say. “I don’t want his brain to melt down because of me.”

“You do have that effect on men,” Foster jokes, and I laugh.

“Besides,” I tell him, trying not to the let the emotions of the story take over, “I remembered some things.” I recount the crashback calmly, detached, and watch as Foster wilts. Feeling sorry for me, I’m sure.

“How about handlers?” Foster asks, changing the subject. “Notice anything?”

“No,” I say, and Nathan agrees. “I haven’t seen Derek.” I pause. “You really think he’s a handler?” I ask.

“Anyone can be,” Foster says, examining the cookie I gave him. “Even those close to us.”

“I don’t know if I’d say anyone,” Nathan argues. His voice has a hitch in it, and Foster smiles, shaking off the moment.

“Right,” he says. “Only the really creepy people.”

“Well,” I say. “Nathan and I are going to the Adjustment office later today. We’re going to confront Dr. McKee in person. He’ll probably lie, but at least he’ll have to do it to my face. And I’ll be able to tell.”

Nathan scrunches up his nose and looks sideways at me. “Really, though?” he says. “You’re not the best judge of character.”

“What?” I say. “I’m a great judge.”

“I agree with Tatum,” Foster says. “I mean . . . she is here with us.”

Nathan smiles to himself, and then he picks up a can of soda, pops the top, and hands it to me. “She’s making better decisions every day.”





CHAPTER TWO


I SORT OF FLOAT THROUGH the rest of the day, nervous about going to the Adjustment office after school, but comforted by my low-stress lunch. Having friends is powerful—knowing you have people to watch out for you. In the days of The Program, it was the best defense a person could have. Obviously, it didn’t always work (I’m the perfect example of that), but it kept the dark hours at bay. I’m lucky that I have both Nathan and Foster. Right now, it makes me feel a little invincible.

When I get to my last class of the day, the teacher tells us we’re going to the library. A few people boo, not wanting to do any research, but I don’t mind. I grab my stuff and head over there.

The library is quiet today, even with my entire class there. The librarian is hanging in her office, occasionally looking out at us. She seems worried, and I wonder if she’s having personal problems.

I take a spot at the table and run my gaze down the assignment sheet. We’re supposed to collect firsthand stories throughout history and write a paper about how historical events were viewed from different perspectives. It’s interesting—and, dare I say, educational.

I leave my backpack at my chair and walk into the stacks, trying to find a nonfiction book from World War II. I locate the section, and when I pull the book off the shelf, I notice someone in the row with me. I look up, surprised when I find it’s Wes.

“Hey,” I say, swallowing hard. “What are you doing here?”

“Apparently, I have four term papers to make up, so they gave me a pass out of my last class to work in here. You?”

“Research report.”

Wes comes to stand next to me, examining the section of books that I’m picking through. “Look at us,” he says. “A couple of smarties.” He glances over and smiles, his dimples flashing adorably.

“Ha. Yeah, I guess.” I put back the first book I grabbed and select another. Wes shifts, and his arm grazes mine.

“What was up with the cryptic good-bye text?” he mentions casually, and runs his finger down the spine of a book on the shelf. “You could have woken me up when you left.”