The Complication (The Program #6)(9)

“Do you want to grab lunch with me?” Wes asks, climbing out of the Jeep. “There’s a pizza place—”

“No,” I say too quickly. Rejecting him doesn’t come naturally to me, and we both shift uncomfortably. I avoid his eyes when he turns to me.

“Do you . . . I mean, your Jeep won’t start,” he says, a slight insecurity in his voice. “And it’s lunchtime. What are you going to eat?”

I look over at him, standing close enough to touch. Knowing how easy it would be to fall into a relationship with him again.

“And not to sound pathetic,” he adds, “but I don’t have any friends. So if you’re feeling charitable—”

“Do you like pancakes?” I ask.

“I happen to fucking love pancakes,” he responds immediately. “Why do you ask?”

“There’s a place that serves breakfast all day. None of that IHOP shit either. You know Lulu’s?” Wes and I had only been there once before.

“I don’t know it,” he says. “But it sounds perfect. I hope you’re inviting me and not just taunting me with your talk of all-day pancakes.”

I laugh. “We can probably get there and back before next hour,” I say.

“Or . . . ,” he offers, shrugging one shoulder. “We don’t come back.”

“Huh,” I say like he’s got a novel idea. “I’ll think about it. But do you mind . . . ?” I motion to my nonstarting Jeep. “I doubt it’ll start a second time.”

“It would be my absolute pleasure to drive you to brunch,” he replies. Wes smiles, and it’s the purity in his expression that reminds me of how Wes makes me feel like the most important person in the world. Like he can see me. Like he can make it all real again.

Sharing a stack of pancakes together can’t hurt. In fact, being near him is the only thing that doesn’t hurt right now. We’re in our own private universe.

Wes closes the door of my Jeep, and we start toward his parking space.

“Hope you don’t mind the open air,” he says, pointing to his motorcycle. “I have an extra helmet.”

“I don’t mind,” I tell him, not wanting to give away that I know what he rides, and I know he always has an extra helmet—a habit he started when we got together.

We get to his bike, and Wes pulls my helmet from the pack and holds it out to me. As I take it, he runs his eyes over me. He seems to debate what he’s going to say next. “It was Tatum, right?” he asks.

I nod, and neither of us acknowledges that it was Dr. Wyatt who mentioned my name in the first place. Wes climbs onto the bike, moving up on the seat so I can get on behind him.

“And do we know each other, Tatum?” he asks, snapping the chin strap on his helmet. He doesn’t look back at me, but something in his voice tells me he’s been waiting to ask that question from the first moment he saw me in class. I must be familiar to him.

My entire body warms with the depth of the answer, the love between us, but I can’t explain it to him; I won’t put him in danger. But I can’t outright deny it either.

“Yeah,” I say quietly, putting on my helmet. “We do.”

Wes kicks the bike to life, and it sends a vibration over my entire body. I put my hands on either side of his waist, a familiar movement that is suddenly anything but. He doesn’t follow up on the question, and I’m grateful. I don’t want to lie to him. And I don’t want to tell him the truth.

I’ll have to figure out exactly what I can say, but for now, we’re going for a ride on his motorcycle, wind in our faces, free.

And as Wes revs the engine and drives us toward the parking lot exit, I glance back at Michael Realm and find him watching us leave. His expression deadly serious.





CHAPTER FOUR


WES AND I DON’T TALK as we ride toward the restaurant. Normally, Wes would turn back to me at every stoplight, continuing a conversation the entire way. We have less to say to each other now—odd, considering we have so much more to talk about. But there’s intimacy in conversation. An intimacy based on shared experiences. He doesn’t remember those.

Lulu’s is a house-turned-café with overflowing flower beds, pale yellow siding, and a white picket fence. Their pancakes are legendary, as is the usual wait time to get a table.

As we pull up, Wes glances around and then smiles at me. “Now, this place is goddamn delightful,” he says emphatically.

“It is,” I agree. “It’s usually really busy, but it doesn’t look too bad today.”

We stash our helmets and go inside. Even though there’s not a wait, it’s a little hectic, nearly every table taken. The café smells like hazelnut coffee and maple syrup, the air warm from all the bodies in here. The music is on, but it’s not loud enough to make out what’s playing. Right now it sounds like moaning whales.

It’s a seat-yourself situation, and Wes and I go stand at a table near the window just as the guy sitting there packs up his laptop. When he’s gone, Wes and I sit across from each other, perusing the menu. The server comes by, and we order coffees and two stacks of pancakes.

Wes puts his elbows on the table and leans in. “Before we address the psychotic school administrator with the out-of-line interview tactics,” he says, “I feel like we should talk about your fists of fury in the Jeep. I mean, I wasn’t going to bring it up . . . but you . . .” He scrunches his nose as if making sure it’s a topic he can mention. “You were crying during first hour too. I was worried.”