The Complication (The Program #6)(77)

He has no idea. Now that I know our complete history, it seems that’s all I do.

“How did you know where I was?” I ask.

“I didn’t. I was pissed off and riding around, thought the river seemed like a good idea. Then I saw you here, looking all sad. . . . Maybe I’m a little sorry for how I reacted earlier.”

“You don’t have to be.”

He shrugs one shoulder. “Maybe I’m a lot sorry. It’s entirely possible that I drove by your house and didn’t see your Jeep. And then I went by Lulu’s.”

“You were looking for me,” I say, my heart swelling.

“I was looking for you,” he admits, nodding. His dimples flash with his embarrassed smile, and it’s the most endearing thing I’ve ever seen.

I am helplessly in love with him; it burns bright in my chest, electrifies my skin. I want him. I want us. And I want to tell the truth, finally.

“I broke up with you,” I say, making him raise his eyebrows. “It was during the epidemic, and I wasn’t right—I was paranoid, a little delusional. The Program made us scared, and somehow that fear blotted out everything. It blotted out you. And so I broke up with you. I’m the one who screwed up our relationship. I’m the reason you were sent to The Program.”

Wes listens, his throat bobbing when he swallows. I explain the whole story about me telling him to see other people, how I changed my mind, how his mother called The Program on me. I tell him about his return the first time, and how much he loved me again. How desperate we were for each other. How I failed him.

“I make your life worse,” I say, miserably. “That’s what I’ve realized. You really are better off without me.”

“Interesting,” Wes says, and lowers his eyes to the boulder. “I mean, it’s quite a story.”

I’m confused by his response, and I’m not sure if I should keep talking or let him process it.

“So . . . ,” he starts. “You feel bad because an unethical institution took advantage of people’s fear and grief, poisoning society, and you reacted poorly. And then, when I returned, you couldn’t keep your hands off of me. And I couldn’t keep mine off of you. But that landed us in the Adjustment, which didn’t work, and ended with me at your house, bleeding profusely from the head?”

I try not to smile, but Wes has a way of pointing things out that makes them sound ridiculous.

“You bled all over my front porch,” I say.

“And what was I doing at your house again?” he asks. Heat warms my cheeks, and I avoid his gaze.

“You came there to tell me that you loved me. That that version of you loved me madly.”

“And I kissed you?” he asks.

“We . . . definitely kissed,” I reply.

“Sounds like more. Like I said, interesting.”

I look up at him, trying to read his reaction. He’s not angry, although he’s probably a little overwhelmed. If nothing else, he seems to be enjoying this trip down relationship lane. Especially the kissing parts.

“Well, we have certainly been through a lot,” he says. “I mean, that’s not even mentioning how you totally lied to me, repeatedly, but okay.”

I chew on my lip, and Wes takes his time, thinking things over.

“I have to admit,” he says. “It feels good to be right.”

I sniff a laugh and look at the river, the water rushing faster than it was earlier. “I’m sure it does,” I say.

“I’ve asked you out before,” he says. “Probably a few times. And I knew I’d kissed you before. In my bed the other night, it was like I could remember what your lips felt like. What you tasted like. I just . . . knew it. Even though you lied.”

I close my eyes, regretting that he can continually apply that word to me.

“I’m encouraged, though,” he adds. “This whole honesty thing you have going on, I think we’d be good at it. If . . . you want to try it out.”

I look sideways at him, nervous. Defenseless. “Go for it,” I say.

“Yeah?” he asks, smiling. “If I asked you if you wanted to kiss me right now, would you answer?”

My heart beats fast and hard. And I nod that I would.

“Do you want to kiss me right now?” he asks immediately.

“Yes.”

Wes licks his bottom lip, and I hold my breath, waiting for him to lean in. But instead, he grins. “Good. I’m glad I was right about that, too,” he says. “Back to why I’m here, though . . .”

I sit there, sort of stunned, but also amused. I’ve missed him. I think he might love me again, more easily than before, and I wonder if it’s muscle memory or because he’s been reset. He doesn’t have past experiences to base his behavior on. Wes is clear on what he wants, without the guilt of second-guessing what he should want. His intentions are pure.

I’m not entirely sure where this conversation leaves us, but it feels honest and I like it. We’re full of possibility.

I reach to brush my hair back from my face, and accidently graze the lump on the side of my head, wincing. It throbs, and I touch the spot of the swelling. Wes stops talking and furrows his brow.

“What’s this?” he asks, reaching to move my hair gently aside. He leans in to inspect the area. “Shit, Tatum. What is this?”