But they did let me down. And they lied about it.
Wes’s expression grows serious for a moment, but then it clears and he points to the house. “Mind if I come in for a bit?” he asks. “I don’t really want to go back to school yet.”
It makes me smile, the way he invites himself—always inquisitive. He wants to know more, wants to explore. It’s not expectant or pushy. It’s a quality I’ve always found endearing. Still do.
Even so, I debate continuing our conversation. A large part of me has missed him desperately, madly. But am I putting him in danger just by being near him? Can that trigger a crashback?
I decide that as long as I keep control of the situation, control the narrative, Wes and I will be better for it. We’ll each have someone to talk to. Someone to confide in. Or, at least, that’s what I rationalize as I lead him toward the back door of my house to enter through the kitchen.
As I unlock the door, Wes peeks over the fence, checking out Pop’s vegetable garden. Insatiably curious.
When we get inside, my house still smells slightly of the roast beef Gram cooked last night. Wes looks around, seeming comfortable within the space. When he catches me staring at him, he smiles.
We walk into the living room, and he immediately goes to where my family pictures are hanging on the wall. He points to one of me at my first Communion, decked out in white.
“Adorable,” Wes says. I smile. “Are you an only child?” he asks, continuing down the line to inspect each picture.
“Yep,” I say.
“When I first came back,” Wes says, stopping at a picture of me in eighth grade, riding a horse in Washington, “I thought I was an only child. Turns out I had a sister.” He swallows hard and turns to me.
Of course, I already know this. Weston’s sister died several years ago in a suicide pact with her boyfriend, Mackey. They drove a car off a bridge and into the water, causing Mackey to die on impact. Cheyenne drowned in the car. It was during the height of the epidemic, when one in three teens died. With so many deaths, theirs could have been lost among the rest, but Mackey’s friends started a memorial by the river. And it was at that memorial when I met Wes almost three years ago.
He’d been so lost, watching the water, trying to be close to his sister. He was tormented. I should have known how badly, but I wasn’t paying enough attention. I regret that. I regret that I let him suffer.
His sister’s gone now. And even though I didn’t know her, Cheyenne was a part of my life too. She was the ghost who haunted him. Her death a wound I couldn’t heal.
I loved Wes deeply and truly—but I missed the signs of his complicated, life-altering grief. Despite what I wanted to believe, love wasn’t enough.
And just like that, Dr. McKee’s warning rings truer in my ears. I have to be careful with Wes. I couldn’t live with myself if I hurt him again.
“Did you know her?” Wes asks, furrowing his brow. “Did you know Cheyenne?”
“No,” I admit. “But I sort of knew her boyfriend, Mackey. It was awful what happened to them. I’m so sorry.”
“I don’t remember her,” he admits. “I saw her picture and read up on the accident.” He looks sideways at me. “Can I call it an accident?”
“Yes,” I answer immediately.
The corners of Wes’s mouth turn up in a soft smile. “I have to say, you seem like a really good person.”
“Sometimes,” I respond, although the simple fact that he’s here right now might disprove his assumption.
Wes seems to consider my response and walks over to sit on the couch. When I sit next to him, dropping my car keys on the coffee table, he turns to me.
“So how did things get so messed up that both of us—really good people,” he adds, “ended up in The Program?”
And I don’t have to lie when I respond. “I’m not sure. But I intend to find out.”
A car pulls into my driveway, and I go over to the window, surprised to see my grandfather park his car next to Wes’s bike. He climbs out, his phone pressed to his ear.
“My pop’s home,” I say, looking back at Wes worriedly. My grandfather usually works until four or five, and he has no idea that Wes came back to school today. He has no idea that I know the truth about The Program.
“Are you not allowed to have company?” Wes asks, seeming confused by my alarm.
“Get to the table,” I say, and point toward the kitchen. Wes is apprehensive, but he does what I ask while I run to the fridge to grab two sodas. The outer door opens, and I quickly set one can in front of Wes. I open mine, drop down in the chair, and look up just as Pop walks into the kitchen. He stops dead when he sees us and lowers the phone from his ear, clicking it off.
His glasses are askew, and he straightens them before darting his eyes from Wes to me. “Tatum,” he says in a tight voice. “What are you—?”
