The Complication (The Program #6)(38)

My heartbeat quickens. “You looked tired,” I say. We’re quiet for a moment, and I’m afraid to turn to him. The silence between us feels intimate, much like it did last night.

“I was worried,” he says, taking a book and flipping through the pages to examine the pictures, fidgeting. “Thought maybe I came on too strong.”

“No,” I say. “It’s not that.”

He clears his throat and puts the book back on the shelf. He moves down a little bit, and the sudden absence of his body heat sends a chill over my arm. “You meant what you said about being friends,” he murmurs. “Is that it?”

Of course that’s not it, but it’s the way it has to be. Anything more is cruel to both of us.

Be better, I tell myself.

“Last night was a mistake,” I say, clutching the book I was holding to my chest. “Friends don’t really . . . share a bed.”

“They probably shouldn’t,” he agrees.

I start to explain that I still think he’s great (not the best answer), when Wes cuts me off, sounding unbothered.

“I want you to like me,” he says.

The sentence catches me completely off guard. “I do like you,” I whisper.

“I’m not stupid, you know,” he says. “You think because you’re not telling me that we were together that I can’t still figure it out? I mean, you should have seen your face when I walked into class yesterday, like I was back from the dead. Not to mention Dr. Wyatt asking you about my life.”

I lean in closer, drawn to him. Drawn to the truth.

“I can tell by the way you talk to me,” Wes adds in a low voice. “The way you look at me. The way I wanted you to kiss me.”

And I’m gazing at him now, willing myself to not profess my love. To keep my emotions in check before I ruin everything. Ruin us.

“I want you to like me, Tate,” he repeats. “Not because you used to, or whatever went on between us, but because you just do. I want you to be crazy about me.” His mouth flinches with an embarrassed smile.

But it’s not that easy, not with our history. Not with the promise I made to Dr. McKee to stay away from him. And I have to decide if I’m going to lie—boldly lie—despite everything.

I feel sick when I utter, “We weren’t like that.” I force myself to hold Wes’s gaze, see the flash of uncertainty, and then disappointment. “We were just friends, Wes. And it’s all we’ll ever be.”

His throat clicks as he swallows hard, turning to the books. “Then I guess I’m an idiot,” he says. He looks sideways at me and smiles. “I must have been the ‘secretly in love with you’ best friend.”

“I don’t think that was the case,” I say, not wanting him to feel worse than he already does. I’m trying to let him down easy, destroy years of our relationship with lies and smiles. By trying to be better, I’m starting to despise myself.

Neither Wes nor I leaves the stacks, and I help him find a book for his class. At one point, he chews on the inside of his lip like he’s waiting to say something.

“What?” I ask, pushing his shoulder. He laughs.

“I’m just wondering if you want to go out tonight,” he says, checking my reaction.

I tilt my head. “Didn’t we just agree—”

“To not share a bed again,” he finishes the sentence. “And we won’t. But I’m pretty sure friends share meals—especially friends like us. We might even share ice cream.”

“Sorry,” I say. “But I’m lactose intolerant.”

“Ah . . . ,” Wes replies like it explains so much about me. “We can go anyway,” he offers. “Get a burger or something.”

And the truth is, this hurts—rejecting him hurts me. But I saw what our relationship did to us. If I lead him on, it would mean his mother was right—I’m bad for him. I never do what’s best for him. This is our real test, I guess.

I’ve already lied to him, and now I have to let him live. I can’t hold on to our ghosts.

I grab another book off the shelf without reading the title and press it to my chest with the other, my movements careful so as not to give away my thoughts.

“I can’t,” I say with a quick shake of my head. “I have plans tonight. And that research paper to write.” I motion over to the tables where the other students are working. “Look, I have to go,” I say. “Maybe I’ll see you tomorrow.”

I start to walk away, and Wes laughs. “Maybe?” he repeats. “We have class together.”

I look back over my shoulder at him, and I can see he’ll take friendship over nothing because he’s drawn to me the same way I’m always drawn to him. But I can’t play this anymore. Being Wes’s friend will be impossible because it means watching him carry on with his life. Eventually loving someone else. And that just might kill me. I have to break with him completely.

“Bye,” I say with a soft smile, and turn around and start walking toward the tables.

And when I sit down, all alone, a wave of grief hits me. It’s like the air has been sucked from my chest, my soul being torn from my body.

I squeeze my eyes shut and shield the side of my face with my hand. And I accept that it’s really over.