The Complication (The Program #6)(39)

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When class ends forty minutes later, I don’t see Wes in the library. I make my way to my locker to grab my things, partially dazed as I force myself not to think. Not here.

Nathan texts me as I exchange some books at my locker and says he’ll meet me at the Adjustment office later. I tell him it’s a plan, and I leave it at that. I don’t tell him about seeing Wes. About ending things. I don’t want to make it real by telling anybody yet.

I slam my locker shut and hike my backpack onto my shoulders. I turn, and I’m startled when I glance across the hall and notice Jana, talking in a doorway with Derek Thompson. She has her finger in his face, snarling a response.

I watch a moment longer, watch as Derek laughs and reaches over to touch her hand before she rips it away. I didn’t think they knew each other, and certainly not enough to be arguing.

“Stay out of it,” she tells him. Jana storms past him down the hall, never noticing me.

I stare after her, and when she turns the corner and disappears, I look at Derek. He seems pissed, emasculated. Well, then good for her. I have no idea what that was about, but I reach for my phone to call Nathan. I don’t want Derek harassing Jana either.

Before I can call, Derek turns to me, his eyes widening before he narrows them. He laughs to himself and saunters in my direction.

I’m already feeling vulnerable, but rather than fear, I’m suddenly emboldened because I have nothing left to lose. I cross my arms over my chest defiantly, chin raised. He comes to a stop in front of me, his lips turned up with a sinister smile.

“What is your problem?” I ask. To this, he actually snorts a laugh.

“You’re a brave little toaster today,” he says mockingly. “Have your friends toughened you up? I know you told them about me.”

There’s a sharp turn in my gut. “Have you been following me?” I ask. “What do you want?”

“I’m just keeping an eye on things,” Derek says, looking me up and down.

“Why me?” I ask.

He’s still for a moment, and then he leans down to whisper in my ear. I’m struck by the smell of him, a combination of musty clothes and rubbing alcohol. It stings my nose.

“Because I know your secret,” he whispers. His words send a chill down my spine, and I quickly pull myself to my full height and push him backward into the middle of the hall. He laughs, and a few people look at us.

“Keep control of that temper,” he replies condescendingly, and fixes the collar of his shirt. “You wouldn’t want to get flagged.”

Derek reaches to touch my waist, but I punch him in the chest, making him cough and stagger back. He rubs the spot, still smiling.

The idea of his hands on me sends me reeling, sickens me. He’s not allowed to touch me ever.

“Haven’t changed a bit. I’ll see you around, troublemaker,” he says like we’re friends, and walks down the hall.

I’m confused on all fronts. First, why would he act so familiar, friendly—we’re definitely not. How does he know I’m a returner? About telling Foster and Nathan about him? And a new fear starts, one I don’t want to put into words yet. Why was Jana talking to him?

I glance around the hallways and see a few people noticed our interaction and are whispering about it. I tighten my grip on my backpack and head to my car.

Nathan doesn’t answer when I call, so I text him and tell him we need to talk. And then I put away my phone and drive to meet with my therapist.





CHAPTER THREE


DR. WARREN’S OFFICE IS A CUTE, wood-shingled building. The lawn is bright green and well-manicured, and there’s a cherry tree along the stone pathway. I remember the first time I came here, by my grandparents’ suggestion, and I thought a place this adorable would have a pretty cool therapist.

And so far, I haven’t been disappointed. Dr. Warren has been amazing to work with. She’s kind and patient. And honestly, just really likable. I feel as if I can tell her anything. Right now, I need that more than ever.

As I step onto the porch, I keep the confrontation with Derek close; something about his words has struck me in a way that feels honest. Scary, but honest. Yet another mystery piled on.

I try not to let my mind wander to Wes, either—at least, not until I can get some support. I’m going to tell Dr. Warren about the memory I had of Wes, and I’m hoping she’ll say that I was right—that I am being a better person by keeping it platonic.

But the main point here is my grandparents. How do I talk to them about The Program? I need Dr. Warren’s help with that most of all.

The waiting room for the offices is small and tastefully decorated with live plants and abstract paintings that mimic inkblot tests. I asked the doctor about them once, and she laughed.

“They were supposed to be ironic,” she said. “But I ended up loving the color scheme. Now they’re a conversation piece. Every patient asks about them.”

I like the paintings. They’re on white canvas with splashes of bright colors, bleeding into shapes. What exactly they form is up to the viewer. Sort of like finding shapes in the clouds. I almost always see hearts.

Dr. Warren’s receptionist smiles warmly from behind her desk, and she asks me to take a seat. I grab a chair nearest the door and look around the waiting area. I think this used to be a living room, and on either side is an office.