“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 TALKas 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.”
I study him to see if this is all a ruse somehow, like he might remember. Otherwise, why would he worry? Why would he ask me to lunch? I’m probably projecting, but then again, maybe it’s still there—our love. But the way his soft brown eyes study me, trying to figure me out, confirms he’s not the old Wes. Not the one I knew.
“This morning, when you saw me,” I say, lowering my gaze to the table, “my best friend had just told me something devastating. Life altering. And I... I’m not handling it all that well.”
There’s a sudden and aching fear creeping into my lungs, squeezing. Grief surrounds me. I’m scared because it feels like I’m all alone in this. In my whole life, I’ve never been truly alone until now.
“You can tell me,” Wes says, and I look up at him. “I know I’m sort of a stranger,” he adds, “but I don’t have any ulterior motives. At least none that I can remember.” He offers me a small smile.
The server appears and drops off our coffees. I nod a thank-you and wrap my hands around my hot mug.
“To be honest,” I tell Wes. “That’s why you might be the only person I can trust right now.”
“Exactly.”
I watch him, his concern, and imagine things are different between us. The way they used to be. But that only lasts a moment because there is no “used to be.” Wes and I were just as big a lie as the rest of it. The only real thing is now. This moment.
“What did your friend tell you, Tatum?” he asks. “What could be so bad?”
“I was in The Program,” I murmur, the words breaking my heart. “I was in The Program, and I don’t remember any of it.”
Wes tilts his head, seeming confused. “Isn’t that the point?”
“No. I was supposed to forget my problems, or at least what they considered problems. But I remember the bad stuff. I mean, some of my memories are wrong, but overall, I have them. It’s The Program that’s gone. They made me forget the wrong stuff. They’ve done something. They changed me.”
“You’re not who you used to be,” Wes says, grabbing sugar to pour into his coffee. “Funny story, neither am I. Seems we have that in common, Tate. Two lost souls.”
He called me Tate—he must remember that. Or maybe it’s proof that, given the chance, most of us would make the same decisions, same mistakes, even if we don’t realize we’re making them. Maybe that’s what fate really is.
“I don’t know what to do now,” I confide. “Because it’s not just that I forgot. No onetoldme. My family, my friends, they kept it a secret. How can I face them, knowing they kept something so huge from me?”
“I can relate,” Wes says, stirring his coffee, the metal spoon clinking on the ceramic. “My parents act like I’ve been away at summer camp. None of us has said a word about my past. So I can tell you that eventually, you’ll accept it. And you’ll forgive your family because you have to.”
I’m not sure if Wes is right, but the level of sadness in his voice bothers me. Forgiveness is voluntary. There should be no “have to” about it.
“Besides,” Wes adds. “I’m starting to believe that our memories can be a dangerous place. Part of why I’m so damn charming is because I don’t remember how royally fucked my life has been. So I refuse to look back,” he continues. “I’m afraid it will kill me. You’re welcome to join me in my blissful ignorance if you’d like.” He smiles, hopeful.
