The Complication (The Program #6)(55)

It’s so bizarre; I’d entertain it was never there in the first place, except there is a box-size hole on the shelf. An empty space exactly where it had been. And then I remember that I didn’t just tell Nathan and Foster about it—I told Dr. Warren, as well.

I fall back a step, overwhelmed. My grandparents aren’t who I thought they were—how could they be? At this point, if I confront them, will they tell Dr. Warren? Will The Program come for me? I need help—I see that very clearly now.

Paranoid, I quickly dash back to my room. I don’t understand what’s happened, how quickly my life has unraveled. And that box . . . I don’t get. It was baby stuff. What was in there to hide?

I shut my door, and consider locking it—just like Wes locks his—but I have to accept that physically, if I can keep pretending, I’m not in any danger. I have to believe that for now because there isn’t another option. Not yet.

My bed creaks as I sit down, and I’m more confused than when I woke up. So much of my past is a lie. Not even my recent past, but my actual childhood. And although I should be too worried to sleep, my eyelids are heavy. My conscience tired. I lie back, staring up at the ceiling.

I watched someone die today. I had my reality shaken. Once Nathan deals with his broken heart, we’ll figure out what to do next about Melody. We’ll figure it out together.

I’m drained, ready to slip away into the darkness of sleep, but I think about Dr. McKee again. How his last wish was to talk to his daughter. And how, for some reason, Marie said no.

There’s a buzzing, and I glance over wearily and see Wes’s name lit up on my phone. I debate answering, sure that if I talk to him, we’ll talk for hours. I watch the phone until it grows silent.

There’s a vibration, and I pick up the phone and see he texted.

I really need to talk to you, he writes. Can you please call me?

I stare at the words, and I hate that he has to ask. I should have answered the phone; I should call back. Wes has only known me two days—he can’t feel that strongly about me. Not after I told him we weren’t together like that. Then again, muscle memory. His heart remembers me.

But I don’t respond. I tuck the phone under my pillow, and I close my eyes. So tired. So fucking tired.

There’s an itch in the back of my head, deep in my skull. A fuzziness begins to spread, and then all at once, the bed drops out from under me as I fall deep inside a memory.

? ? ?

Wes and I were at the park, six months before The Program came for me. The weeping willow tree rustled quietly in the sunny afternoon sky. Blanket spread out in the grass; birds singing on the branches.

I turned the page of my magazine, and Wes leaned in to kiss my bare shoulder, his finger teasing the spaghetti strap of my tank top.

“Can I ask you something?” he said, kissing my skin again. I shrugged him off and turned another page.

“Sure,” I said. I didn’t really want to talk. The Program had been collecting more and more people from class, their threat bigger than ever. Closing in on us. Talking seemed like a terrible idea.

“Do you love me?” Wes asked in a quiet voice.

I looked over at him with a sudden skip in my heart. His soft brown eyes reflected the light, shining even as he squinted at me.

“Yeah,” I said impatiently. “Of course.”

Wes fell silent, and then pushed on. “But you don’t love me the same,” he added.

We stared at each other for a long moment, and then I set my magazine aside. Wes and I had been together for years, we were a team. I cared deeply for him, but lately . . . things around me had started to feel hopeless. What was the point of loving anybody anymore?

We would never survive The Program.

That idea consumed me; it consumed my love for Wes. It was all I thought about.

Something was wrong with me. I was unwell, and I didn’t have a single person to talk to about it aside from Wes. Anyone else would turn me in to The Program. But I couldn’t spread this to Wes, this . . . sadness. I couldn’t do that to him.

“Tatum?” Wes asked, still waiting for me to answer. But what could I say?

“No,” I told him. “It’s not the same.”

Wes flinched, lowering his eyes to the blanket. He sniffled, his lips parting as he tried to find the question he needed to ask.

He was right—I didn’t feel the same anymore. I was starting to think I didn’t feel at all. For weeks, I’d been retreating further and further inside my head. Finding a safe spot. From The Program, from the world. From his mother. I was detached from everyone, including Wes. If I stopped feeling, stopped loving, I could still make it. I could still survive.

But new guilt crawled into my chest as I realized what I was doing. I would destroy him if I kept this up—this push and pull of a relationship. This lie. I’d basically be handing him over to The Program.

I had to let him go.

“We should see other people,” I said, watching as he flinched again. “With everything going on, I think it’d be the best idea.”

Wes lifted his eyes to mine, his face pained. “You want to date other people?” he asked, his voice scratchy with emotion. Tears spilled over onto his cheeks, and he was crying. I was making him cry.

“I think you should see other people,” I clarified. He hitched in a breath, his hand over his heart like it hurt.