The Complication (The Program #6)(84)

Wes’s phone buzzes, and he glances at it before smiling. “Pizza’s here,” he says, going to grab his wallet. He starts for his bedroom but then stops dramatically to look back at us.

“I meant to tell you,” Wes tells us. “I ended up getting pineapple.”

Nathan stares at him and then shakes his head. “This is why I fucking hated you.”

And after a long pause, we all laugh.





CHAPTER SEVEN


WES WAS ONLY KIDDING. THE pizza had pepperoni on one half, sausage on the other. We all eat together, and I watch them quietly as they continue to joke around. Trying to keep this all manageable by not falling completely into it. It’s a coping strategy we learned during The Program. Sometimes it was the only way to survive. But I don’t want to play this way anymore. I just want to fucking win.

A buzz snaps throughout the room, and the electricity flickers. Wes looks around, and then stands up and goes over to the high windows, getting on his toes to check outside.

“Storm’s getting worse,” he says.

“Yeah, I have to get home,” Foster says, getting up from the table. Nathan does the same, but I stay put.

“You coming?” Nathan asks me.

I glance behind me at Wes, and he smiles hopefully. I laugh. “No, I’m going to stay awhile,” I say.

Nathan runs his palm down his face and then shakes it off. “Fine,” he says. “Call your grandparents, though. And if anything else happens”—he leans down to give me a quick hug good-bye—“call me yourself.”

I tell him that I will. I say good-bye to Foster and wait at the table while Wes walks them both out. My phone lights up, and when I check, I see that Realm sent me the address for a diner. I hate having to wait until the morning, but he said I’d be okay until then. I have to trust that he’s right. What’s the alternative?

Wes comes back into the room, his brown eyes lit up with concern. “It’s pretty bad outside,” he says. “If you wanted to be responsible . . .” He doesn’t finish his sentence, extending the same invitation he gave me the other night.

“I’ll stay,” I say, sitting back in the chair. “If you don’t mind.”

He purses his lips as if thinking over whether he’ll mind. “I think it’s a mature decision,” he says.

“Me too.”

“Should I get the sleeping bag ready?” he asks, making me laugh.

“No,” I say. “We can share that stupidly comfortable bed of yours.”

“It’s the worst,” he says like he agrees. “I’m sure we can make it work, though.” He smiles, and comes over to grab his laptop from the table. He heads to the couch and motions me over.

“I will, let me just call my grandparents first.”

I take my phone into his room and sit at the end of his bed. I call home and talk to my grandfather. I relay the conversation with Realm and text the address where I’ll be meeting him. I let him know I’m spending the night at Wes’s, and although he doesn’t love it, he doesn’t order me home, either. Gram asks about my head, and if I’m honest, it still hurts. But I tell her it’s not too bad.

“Call us before you leave in the morning,” Pop says. “And if you want me there . . .”

“I’ll let you know,” I say. “But don’t worry, I’ll be careful.”

“Okay, honey. Talk to you in the morning.”

I hang up and set the phone next to me, taking a deep breath. Wes appears in the doorway and leans against the frame.

“How’d it go?” he asks.

“Fine. Pop will come with us if we need him.”

Wes nods. “I hope we don’t. Less people involved, the better—or so it seems to me,” he adds, admitting he doesn’t know the full extent of this threat. He comes over to the bed, stopping in front of me. I lean back on my arms, staring up at him. He smiles softly.

“Want to help me forget for a little while?” I say in pretend seduction, running my socked foot over his calf. He laughs.

“Uh, yes.” He moves in closer, lifting my ankle to tip me backward. He slides his knee against my inner thigh and climbs onto the bed, holding himself above me before slowly lowering into a kiss.

I put my hand on his cheek, and then we move up on the bed until we have pillows. Wes collapses next to me, taking my leg to pull over his hip, and we turn into each other, occasionally kissing, mostly just cuddling.

And I feel safe with him. The other images still haunt me, but here with him . . . it’s up to me. I’m powerful. I’m in love.

I listen as Wes talks about motorcycles, about music, about movies. Whenever he asks me a question, I’m quick to ask a follow-up, enamored with how calm his thoughts are. The peace in him. I kiss him constantly then, and we’re sweet together, free-spirited in a lazy way. Like we have time.

But time is only an illusion. Sometimes, in the midst of a disaster, you have to take a moment to breathe, or you’ll run out of oxygen. Wes and I breathe each other.

And as the afternoon fades into evening, we fall asleep together—letting the storm rage around us.

? ? ?

There’s an insistent knocking. I think it’s only in my dream, but then it gets louder. Wes moves first, moaning softly before pulling me closer and burying his face in my neck like he can block out the sound.