That’s why he didn’t immediately bring up my inexplicable presence at his meeting with Dr. Wyatt. Blissful ignorance—it can have its advantages in this world. And honestly, I want to say that I’ll join him. But I can’t let this go so easily. It’s not fair—it’s not fair to me. To be lied to. Betrayed. I have to know how deep it goes before I can put it behind me.
“You’re not going to take my offer,” Wes says, sounding disappointed.
“Not yet. But... maybe I can once I have answers.”
Wes lifts one eyebrow like he doesn’t believe me, sets his spoon aside, and takes a sip of his coffee. He hums out that it’s good.
“Well,” he says. “Speaking of answers, we should get back to that psychotic administrator. Dr. Wyatt, was it? She’s kind of weird. Why does she care if I was in The Program?”
“She’s obsessed with returners,” I say. “Monitoring them and looking for signs of another outbreak, I guess.”
“Outbreak?”
I stare at him blankly, not sure how to begin explaining an epidemic that killed so many of our friends. I could never illustrate the gravity of it. What it did to us.
“Oh,” Wes says. “You mean the suicides? I read about that,” he adds quietly. Which means he knows the reason both of us ended up in The Program—they thought we were a danger to ourselves. True or not, that was the excuse they used to erase our pasts.
“Dr. Wyatt is acting like they did somethingelseto me,” Wes says, lifting his eyes to mine. “Do you know what she was talking about?”
I swallow hard, but before I can figure out what to say, the server drops off our pancakes. They smell both sweet and buttery, and Wes lets the question drop as he digs into his food.
We’re quiet for a while, and when we’re nearly done eating, I absently look over to the counter. My stomach sinks when I see Kyle Mahoney there, picking up two coffees to go. Her white-blond cascade of hair, her tan legs and bare shoulders—I’m not imagining that Wes’s eyes drift toward her.
It’s a stab in my heart, and I want to tell him to stop. Stop looking at her. Stop noticing her. But Wes once told me that the heart has muscle memory... and that would apply to her, too. I wasn’t the only one who took up space in his life.
I push away the unfinished pancakes and grip my hot coffee cup. When I lift my head, Wes is watching me.
“What’s wrong?” he asks.
“Nothing,” I say unconvincingly.
“Is it her?” he asks, nodding at Kyle’s back. “Do you know her? Wait, do I know her? Never mind. Don’t tell me. It doesn’t matter.”
“But maybe it does,” I say quietly. “Not just her—but maybe it all matters.” I want to believe his past matters—thatImatter to him. But my conscience screams at me.Don’t tell him. Don’t hurt him.
“You think I should know everything,” Wes begins, “but I don’t see it that way. It’s deciding between my past and my future. Which would you choose, Tate? Would you think your old self, your old life—one you don’t even remember—would be worth dying for?”
“I don’t know. Do you?”
He watches me for a long moment. “No. I just want to be a normal guy. I want to start over. I want...” He furrows his brow and lowers his eyes. “Forget it,” he says, not finishing his thought.
Kyle leaves the coffee shop without even noticing us, and the intensity of the moment seems to fade without her presence. What would Wes think if I told him he’d left me and started dating her? That he broke my heart utterly and completely?
“No offense,” Wes adds. “But you don’t really remember either, not if you were in The Program, right? So let’s accept that we’re different people now and move on. Why spend our lives chasing the past?”
He’s right. We could start over and be whoever we want. Leave this place, leave the past. But almost as a cosmic answer, I see another figure step up to the coffee counter. My heart trips.
Michael Realm glances over his shoulder at me and Wes, and then quickly darts his eyes away when he finds me already watching him. He followed us here.
“We should go,” I say to Wes. I don’t have time to wait for the bill, so I throw down some cash and stand up. I’m truly frightened.
Wes laughs like I’m acting strangely, and he motions to the money. “You don’t have to pay. I’ll—”
“We have to go,” I say in a low voice, more forcefully.
Wes stands up and pushes in his chair. “Fine,” he says, taking one last sip of his coffee. “But buying me brunch doesn’t mean I owe you anything, if that’s what you’re—” He stops joking when he sees I’m not playing around. He swallows hard and holds out his hand for me to take. I almost do, but that would be a signal—proof that Wes and I are building something.
And I don’t want Michael to see that. I don’t want to give him any ammunition against us. I walk past Wes, my arm brushing against his, his hand left hanging out. I swear I can feel him wilt slightly, but then he shoves his hands in his pockets and walks with me out the door and into the afternoon.
