“Thanks,” I tell the clerk, and then head toward the library. I didn’t even bring my backpack with me, and I realize that should have seemed strange. Then again, I did show up only for seventh hour—that alone was weird.
There aren’t many students in the library when I walk in. Just a few people scattered around the tables. The librarian says hello to me, and I walk over and hand her my pass to let her know it’s okay that I’m here. She glances at it and then goes back to checking in a stack of books.
Maybe Wes isn’t here. Part of me hopes he’s not because it will give me time to think of just the right words—formulate an argument for why he needs to know everything. I’m currently a storm of emotions, wild and unruly.
And it’s then, of course, that I see Wes sitting at a table in the back of the library, reading a novel. I can’t help it—I smile and even sigh a little. The vision of him reading is something I’ve always enjoyed. Have always been drawn to.
I slowly make my way toward him, studying him as I do. My nerves buzz over my skin. I’m scared. I’m excited. I’m a mess.
When I get to his table, he looks up with a sharp intake of breath. “Tate,” he says. “I didn’t think you were at school today.” He looks me over, taking stock of my condition, but doesn’t ask how I am.
“Mind if I sit with you?” I ask.
He glances around, not immediately welcoming me, and my heart dips. I almost say never mind, but I won’t back down this time.
Wes motions to the chair next to him and tells me to go ahead.
I sit down, and he studies me for a moment. I’m sure he noticed I don’t have any books with me—it’s obvious that I’m here for him—but rather than ask about it, he sits back in his chair, relaxed, and opens his novel to continue reading.
I can’t see the title because he folds the spine. He seems relaxed with me next to him, even though we’re not talking. Even though we have stuff we absolutely need to talk about. We belong by each other’s side, even though we’re not together.
“Wes,” I say, and swallow hard.
“Hm?” he hums out, flipping the next page of his book. I watch him, the way he creases the binding, causing deep lines; when he licks his thumb to turn the page back like he might have missed an important plot point.
“The other night, you asked how I felt about you,” I say. Wes stills but doesn’t turn to me right away. His Adam’s apple bobs, and then he closes his book. “I want to answer,” I add.
“What are you doing?” he asks, turning to me. He says it like he’s worried I’m going to hurt him. And to be honest, I might. That’s the thing about us, we might hurt each other. But I can’t keep the past from him anymore. I need him to know.
“I want to answer,” I repeat.
Wes’s jaw tightens like he’s getting ready to take a punch. His dimples are deeply set, and his eyes flash with vulnerability.
“I love you,” I say in a rush. “Wes, I love you so much. Always have. We were together from the first day we met, together for years. Not just friends. And things have tried to come between us: the epidemic, the doctors, your mother...me—but we find our way back. Our hearts remember, even when we don’t.” I pause when my voice begins to shake, and take a steadying breath.
Wes blinks slowly, his eyes glassy. He doesn’t smile, doesn’t say he loves me, too.
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner,” I continue. “And I’m sorry that I lied and said we were just friends—it was stupid. I thought I was protecting you, but... I won’t lie to you anymore. I needed you to know the truth about us.”
He still doesn’t speak and lowers his eyes to his lap, his chest rising and falling quickly. Despite his subdued reaction, I feel lighter. The heaviness of carrying the secret gone, just like earlier. It gives me clarity, and I’m grateful for the open space I suddenly feel. I wish I’d told the truth all along.
“Anyway,” I say, not sure if he needs time to digest what I just told him. “I didn’t mean to interrupt your reading, I just had to get that off my chest.”
“And put it on mine?” he asks, lifting his eyes.
My lips part, surprised by the intensity in his words. “I didn’t mean to. I—”
“You didn’t mean to? You sure?” he asks. “Because I’m wondering why you would tell me all this if you didn’t want a reaction. If you didn’t want to ruin my day.”
“Wes, that is not what’s happening.”
“Then what is?” he asks. A girl a few tables away looks over at us curiously. “What is happening, Tate? Because I was pretty clear how I felt about you, and you pushed me away. You made me feel... crazy—like I was making up our connection. You gave me just enough affection to keep me around, and then you’d pull it back. Acting like it meant nothing. Ignoring me. And now you walk up and say youloveme?”
“You deserve to know what’s real,” I say, trying to explain.
“Andwe’rereal?” he asks, motioning between us.
I pause and lower my voice. “We used to be,” I say. “I didn’t remember everything, not at first. And the doctors, they told me you’d die if I confessed. But now I know that’s not true. Now I have the whole picture. You have no idea what I’ve been through the last few days.”
