The Complication (The Program #6)(46)

I check my reflection in the mirror and think the circles under my eyes look a little darker than usual; I’m slightly drawn. I haven’t exactly been taking good care of myself lately. I’ll have to focus on that more.

But for now, I begin the drive toward Wes’s house.





CHAPTER SIX


WES’S MOM IS HOME, AND I almost drive past his house to avoid her. I’m surprised she’s there, but I’m guessing she’s in overprotective mode. Hovering.

I decide to stop anyway because Wes’s motorcycle is in the driveway. I’ll go to his door, and if he doesn’t answer, I’ll text him. We’ve always been good at avoiding his parents.

I go around the block and park in my usual spot under the trees. I slip my hands into my pockets as I walk to his door, my heart beating wildly. We’re on the same page now—just friends. It shouldn’t be that hard to act on it. At least, that’s what I try to tell myself.

I check around the street, and then I knock on Wes’s basement door. There’s a shadow, so I know he’s there. I wait nervously until finally, the door opens.

Wes’s eyes widen, and he takes in a sharp breath. “Hi,” he says, surprised. He’s wearing the same clothes he had on at school, his hair a little messier. He rubs his hand over it to smooth it down, like he’s trying to impress me. He’s adorable, and I can’t help but smile when I see him.

“Can I talk to you?” I ask, expecting him to push the door open wider.

But his lips form an O, and he quickly looks back over his shoulder inside the house. “It’s not a good time,” he says quietly, edging the door tighter against him.

I don’t understand at first, but then I hear his mother’s voice from the living room.

“Weston?” she calls. “Who is it? We’re not done here.”

My heart seizes up, and I take a step back. The last thing I need to cap off this catastrophic day is Dorothy Ambrose filing a restraining order against me.

Would she even be wrong at this point? God, I’m an idiot. I can’t believe I keep running back to Wes in the same breath that I’m wishing him away. If I don’t stop, I’ll cause serious damage. Maybe I already have.

I stand there, unable to articulate why I’m here. Instead, without a word, I spin around and start walking quickly toward my Jeep.

“Be right back,” Wes says to his mother. He closes the door behind him and runs after me in his bright white socks. “Wait up!” he calls out, but I don’t stop. “Hey,” he says more forcefully to get my attention.

I turn, and Wes holds up his hands apologetically as he approaches my Jeep. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I wasn’t trying to get rid of you, it’s just . . . my mom. She’s asking questions—an interrogation, really. I didn’t want to drag you into it.”

He doesn’t realize how much she hates me. And I hate me a little too. I hate that I’m lying to him. I hate that I’m hurting and confusing him. My eyes well up because my coming clean now would put a strain on his family. All I ever do is hurt him.

“Tate,” Wes says softly, like an invitation.

I can’t help it. I step into his arms, and he hugs me fiercely, knowing that I need it—intuitive, even as I try to hide from him.

We don’t say anything at first, his hand firm on the back of my neck, my fingers threading lovingly through his hair as I get on my tiptoes to get closer, my cheek on his shoulder. Wes sighs against me, and I absorb the feel of him, the smell of him.

But the scene is far too intimate, and I force myself to pull away, straightening out of his arms like it meant nothing. This desperation feels too similar to my memory of the night I went into The Program. Me, never letting him go. It scares me out of my head.

“Tate,” Wes says, shaking his head. “I don’t know how you want me to act or what’s going on between us. I don’t know what you want from me.”

And the truth is, I don’t know either. When I don’t answer, he blows out a frustrated breath.

“I won’t chase you when you made it clear that we’re friends,” he says. “We’re still just friends?”

I nod that we are, and Wes takes a step back from me.

“Then don’t look so hurt,” he says with a bit of an edge to his voice. “Just . . . talk to me. Explain it to me.” He wants me to admit how I feel; he wants me to be with him.

But I can’t. Michael Realm said our past helped create who I am now, but I don’t want it to. I don’t want to be hurt and angry. I don’t want to make each other miserable.

“I’m sorry I bothered you,” I tell Wes. I brush off any show of emotion, standing here and pretending I didn’t freak out moments ago.

“You’re not bothering me,” he says like I should already know that. “Why did you come here anyway?”

“I wanted to talk about something that happened at therapy,” I say, “but it can wait until tomorrow.”

“You sure?” Wes asks. “I mean, I can grab my shoes, and we can go for a ride.”

I force a smile and wave my hand. “No, it’s fine. I’ll tell you about it tomorrow.”

“Okay,” Wes says, taking a step back. “But . . . if you want to come back, just let me know. I’ll be here.”