The Adjustment

  “By the way,” Wes says, “I’m kind of digging the old-man sweater.”

  I laugh. “Don’t make fun of me.”

  “I’m not!” he says, hand over his heart. “I actually really dig it. You look like you don’t give a fuck what anyone thinks.”

  “Oh my God,” I say. “You are the worst at giving compliments.”

  “That’s because I’m sincere. If I lied a little bit, they’d probably go down easier.”

  “You were never one to lie,” I say. Wes seems to be proud of that thought, and he sets his hand behind him and leans back on the boulder. He runs his gaze over me, like he’s trying to figure me out.

  “Were we important?” he asks suddenly. “I know you said ‘everything,’ but were we important?” It’s not leading, not begging me to validate him.

  “I like to think so,” I say. “We were fearless. Bold. Brave.” I smile a little sadly. “Like I said, ‘everything.’ ”

  The words are heavier than I intend, and we fall silent. After it goes on for what seems like forever, Wes laughs, breaking up the melancholy.

  “So, everything, huh?” he repeats with lighthearted innuendo.

  “For someone who doesn’t remember,” I say, “you sure have kept your filthy sense of humor.”

  He shrugs, but turns away. “A beautiful girl saying she’s my long-lost girlfriend and I’m not supposed to fantasize a little?”

  “Technically, you’re the long-lost boyfriend.”

  “Good point,” he says. He sits up, crisscrossing his legs in front of him. Around us, the night has darkened considerably, and his image starts to pixilate like a photo taken in dim light. “Can I be honest about something?” he asks.

  “Of course.” My heart rate speeds up.

  “Even though I have no idea who you are, have never seen you before—”

  His words prick me, but he doesn’t seem to realize how sharp they are.

  “—at the same time,” he continues, “I’m insatiably curious. Not just about you, but about who I am with you.”

  “I can tell you that you’re very honest. You’re kind. You’re funny.”

  He smiles softly. “Well, let me make this weirder still,” he says. “I was kind of pissed after lunch. I mean, it’s not your fault or anything, but . . . I didn’t know if you were for real.”

  I try not to flinch from his words. From how he dismissed me earlier. “Okay,” I say.

  “I tried to ask people, but big surprise—no one wants to talk to returners. So I went to the library, found a yearbook from last year. Pages of memorials. Pages. It reminded me that the world I left isn’t what I remember. It was a nightmare.”

  He’s right about that. The epidemic was killing us. The Program was making it worse. There were days when hope was nowhere to be found.

  “But there was one picture,” he says, holding up his index finger. “Just one. It was of the two of us. We were in the library, standing in the stacks . . . just looking at each other. Compared to the rest of the yearbook, it was oddly upbeat. But also . . . compelling.”

  I know which picture he’s talking about it, but it isn’t nearly as light as it appears. In fact, we weren’t happy at all. Handlers had been at the school that day, hunting again. They weren’t after us—not that time, but they did take someone; I can’t even remember who it was. How sad is that? Whoever it was had been one of many. A face lost in an epidemic.

  Wes and I were drowning, trying to hold each other up. We shared a sympathetic smile, the kind you flash when you’re trying not to cry. The picture doesn’t reflect our isolation and fear.

  But without context, the picture would have seemed different to Wes. And I don’t tell him the truth of it.

  “So, yeah,” Wes says, standing up from the boulder. “I thought about you all afternoon and ended up at your house. And now I feel sufficiently exposed and even a little creepy.”

  I laugh, watching him. He’s only a silhouette against the soft glow from the other side of the cliff. I’m relieved that my lunchtime confession didn’t drive him away entirely.

  “I should probably take you home,” he adds, “but maybe we can go for ice cream first?”

  “I don’t really like ice cream,” I admit, getting to my feet.

  “What?” He gasps. “You’re a monster. Okay, then. Do you like french fries, or are you the literal devil?”

  “I love fries.”

  “Perfect,” he says as we start back toward his motorcycle. “I’ll buy you some fries and we can act all normal. It’ll be fun. Yes?”

  It occurs to me that this is why we’re here: him, grasping at normal. It should make me uneasy, the fact that this is less organic than I want. But we are together.

  “Yes,” I agree.

  So I play along, and try not to get lost in a feeling that may not be entirely real.

  • • •

  Scoops is an old-fashioned ice-cream counter with different kinds of sundaes and toppings, a grill for hamburgers and fries, and it’s basically the only ice cream worth having in the area. Sadly, I’m partially lactose intolerant, so I never eat ice cream. I’ll eat the hell out of some fries, though.

  The shop is busier than I expect when we pull up. There are a few customers at the wrought-iron tables outside, and some of them look in our direction as we park. I don’t recognize any of the people. I’m hesitant as I climb off the bike, waiting for someone to point us out, but no one does.

  “Do I like this place?” Wes asks. When I look at him, he apologizes. “Sorry to ask so many questions.”

  “It’s fine,” I say, taking off my helmet and handing it to him. “And, yes. You do.”

  He smiles and his dimples continue to dazzle me. It’s strange for him to ask me what he likes, where he’s been. I don’t like the power it gives me over him. As if his reality might be altered by what I say. Wes pulls open the door to the shop, and the little bells on the door jingle.

  A cold breeze rushes over me, the temperature in the place set cooler for the ice cream. There’s the sound of sizzling from the grill, the cook visible through the rectangular opening. The entire shop is old-fashioned, a jukebox lit up and playing Buddy Holly in the corner, vinyl-covered booths packed with people. There are a few seats at the counter, but before we take them, a couple gets up from a small table in the corner and we opt to sit there.

  I sit facing the ice-cream shop while Wes looks out the large window to the street. It takes forever for the server to come over to us, and we use the time to peruse the menu, discussing the pros and cons of all the sundae options. Since I just had dinner, I’m not very hungry, but Wes insists I get fries anyway. I think maybe he just wants to eat them.

  “What can I get you?” the server asks when she arrives, pulling a notebook out of her apron.

  Wes looks at me, widening his eyes like he’s pleading for french fries. I laugh and turn toward the server. “Plate of fries,” I say. “And a Coke.”

  “And for you?” she asks Wes.

  “Peanut-butter-cup sundae. Extra whipped cream. Two cherries.”

  My heart skips a beat, and Wes looks at me suddenly. “Those are for you, aren’t they?”

  I nod, stupidly emotional over this tiny sliver of a memory. We stare at each other until the server scratches the order on her pad and says she’ll also bring us waters. She probably thinks we’re crazy, but damn if I don’t feel completely validated by the fact that Wes remembered my cherries.

  “Because you don’t eat ice cream,” he says, like he’s figuring it out.

  “So you’d give me the cherries instead.”

  “I’m fucking chivalrous,” he announces, and looks around like he’s waiting for applause.

  “You also don’t like cherries,” I say.

  “Correct.”

  I laugh, but try to temper my wide smile, keep some semblance of self-control. This is the kind of moment I’ll cling to. Every peek, every reveal, of the him I know.

  We’re quiet
, and it’s only a few minutes until the server brings our food. The fries are hot and the whipped cream on Wes’s sundae spills over and runs down the side of the glass dish. He plucks off one cherry and holds it out to me by the stem. I can see he’s considering making a joke, but he must fight hard to hold it back.

  I take the cherry and eat it, conscious of how he watches me. When I’m done, he gives me the other one, smiling to himself.

  “So what should we talk about?” he asks, reaching to take a fry from the plate. “You should ask me questions since I seem to be the question king over here.”

  “Okay. Well, how personal can I get?” I ask.

  His expression clouds over, and he reaches across the table for the ketchup. “Whatever you want,” he says in lower tone, and sets the bottle in front of me. Again, the gesture fills my heart, because he would always do that, knowing how much I love ketchup.

  He seems uncomfortable with the possibilities, but this might be my only chance to ask him this question. “What was it like when you came back from The Program?” I ask. “You were gone for a long time before you returned to school.”

  He keeps his eyes downcast and picks up the shiny metal spoon next to his ice cream.

  “First few days are a little hazy,” he says. “They had me pretty doped up. Next thing I knew, I was in Palm Springs, living at my uncle’s house. He was cool about it, but kind of tiptoed around me like he thought I might murder him.” Wes lifts his eyes to mine. “Sorry, that went a little dark.”

  “I imagine there are more dark moments,” I say. “You don’t have to spare me.”

  He dips the spoon in his ice cream and takes a bite. “Maybe I’m sparing me.”

  The song on the jukebox switches to “Son of a Preacher Man,” and I salt my fries and pour ketchup all over them. I take a bite.

  “I waited for you,” I say softly. “I would have waited forever.”

  He pauses, spoon near his lips. “I’m sorry I don’t remember you, Tatum.”

  “And I’m sorry you’re sorry. It’s not your fault.”

  He scoffs at this. “They say that a lot, but if I was stronger—”

  “It didn’t work like that,” I say. “No one remembered.”

  Wes smiles. “Are you trying to say I’m not special?”

  “You are entirely average,” I say, like I’m not joking.

  “Funny,” Wes says, taking another spoonful of ice cream, hot fudge dripping from his spoon. “Men’s Health led me to believe that I was well above average.”

  I nearly choke on a fry, and we both crack up. There’s the jingle of the door opening, and I turn out of curiosity to look over my shoulder. My humor falters when I see it’s Kyle Mahoney, her hair trailing behind her in the wind. She stops dead when she notices me—her shiny black Mary Janes skidding on the tile.

  Kyle is alone, and she darts a quick look at me and Wes. Then she continues toward the counter of the ice-cream shop, sitting in an open seat there. I turn back to Wes and find him licking the back of his spoon, seeming lost in ice-cream heaven.

  “Do you know her?” I ask him.

  “Who?”

  “Kyle Mahoney,” I say, and motion toward the counter. “The blonde.”

  Wes glances over and I try not to feel slightly jealous as I watch his eyes travel over her, taking her in. He turns back to me and scoops up another mouthful of ice cream. “I have no idea who that is.” He continues eating, but I let my fries get cold. I feel unsettled, although I can’t exactly pinpoint why. I watch her, and notice when she turns her head slightly to check on us with her peripheral vision.

  “Why do you ask?” Wes says.

  “She keeps showing up,” I say. “Ever since you came back, I’ve been bumping into her. I saw her near your locker twice.”

  “Maybe that’s where her locker is,” he adds logically.

  “Maybe.”

  Wes exhales, and when he sees I’m still examining her, he asks, “Do you know if I know her?”

  “I don’t think so,” I say, looking at him instead. “You might have had a class together or something.”

  Wes shakes his head. “My guess is that she’s just curious about a returner.”

  He puts his spoon aside and points at the fries. “Are you going to eat those now that you’ve destroyed them?”

  “No, go ahead,” I say, pushing the plate closer to him. He picks up a fry and when it hangs limp, heavy with ketchup, he drops it back onto the plate.

  Kyle turns away from the counter with a white Styrofoam container in her hand. She keeps it close to her and walks past us and straight out the door. She doesn’t stop or even hesitate. And it occurs to me that her strangeness might have nothing to do with her at all. Maybe I’m projecting. Maybe I’m the one making it weird.

  CHAPTER NINE

  WES PAYS THE BILL SINCE I didn’t have time to grab any money from the house. The ice-cream shop has died down, and by the time we get outside, the tables there are empty too.

  “What do you want to do next?” Wes asks, as we pause at his motorcycle. I reach and grab the helmet I wore earlier.

  I groan. “I should actually get home,” I say. “I . . . sort of took off.”

  “Hey, what a coincidence,” he says, climbing on his bike. “Me too. Guess we’re both terrible.”

  “Told you so,” I say, and get on behind him. He kicks the bike to life, and I slide my arms around his waist. Wes leans back into me, subtly, but I notice. And my heart is content as we drive back toward his house, where I left my car.

  Again, his riding is a bit shaky, and I suggest he get some boots (Wes would have never worn sneakers), because they slide better on the pavement.

  Wes kills the engine at the end of his block next to my Jeep. He parks his motorcycle, and I’m charmed when he walks me to my driver’s-side door. I unlock it, but we stand there a moment longer. I don’t think either of us wants the night to end.

  The streetlight casts Wes in shadows, and it’s still new between us, familiar, but uncharted. I’m not sure who either of us is anymore.

  Wes smiles under my gaze and moves to stand next to me, his shoulder resting against my Jeep. I can see him more clearly now, and that was probably by design. He has to know how attractive I find him. As if acknowledging it, he licks his lips.

  “Tatum,” he says, smiling my name.

  “Yes?”

  “Can I kiss you good night?”

  There is a flutter of butterflies, weightlessness inside me. But at the same time, I’m entirely grounded in reality. “Why?” I ask, thinking it’s too soon. He still doesn’t know me. And I don’t know this new him.

  He laughs and puts his palm over his mouth. “Ouch,” he says. “Shut down.”

  “That’s not what I meant,” I say. “It’s not a rejection. It’s just . . . do you want to?”

  “Sure,” he says. “Of course I do. But it’s more than that. I want to feel it. I want to know if it’ll be something I remember, like the cherries.”

  “So I’m a science experiment?”

  “No. But it is for the good of science if that helps sway you.” He grins, and it melts away my hesitation. Fact is, I’d do anything to be in his arms again. Plus . . . it might actually help.

  Then again, I’m curious. Will he kiss me the same way? Will it feel the same for me? Damn. I’m overanalyzing again.

  Rather than step toward him, I move back against the driver’s-side door. I’m scared. Because the worst thing that could happen would be for us to kiss and for Wes not to feel any way about it at all. I nod my chin, motioning him toward me.

  Wes laughs quietly to himself and pushes off the Jeep. He comes to stand in front of me, and I lift my eyes to his, my heart already racing. Wes looks me up and down, his lips parted in anticipation, and then he moves a step closer, taking up my entire world.

  Another step and my breath catches, my hands automatically reaching for him when he’s this close. I twist my fingers around the fabric of his sh
irt and gasp when he moves closer still, pressing me against the door. My eyes flutter with the excitement of the impending kiss. His body heat is fire.

  And slowly, torturously slow, he leans down and presses his lips to mine, his fingers grazing my jaw to bring me nearer. I close my eyes, overwhelmed.

  His lips are soft just like always, only now they move hesitantly, carefully. I pull him closer, growing impatient, and when I feel the light touch of his tongue against mine, I lose my mind. Desire floods me and I get on my tiptoes, slipping my arms over his shoulders, my fingers on the back of his neck. He responds, moaning slightly as he kisses me harder, his hands now at my hips, pulling my body against his.

  “I’ve missed you,” I murmur against his lips. “I’ve missed you so much.”

  But my words must startle him, because he suddenly pulls away, making me stagger forward a step before he steadies me. His eyes are wild and glassy, his face flushed. We’re both heaving in breaths, but he stares at me, like when he was looking into his locker, trying to figure out what everything was.

  I brush my hair back from my face. I’m aching inside, my emotions a roller coaster that went from high to low in just seconds, upending my reality. It was just a kiss, but when me and Weston used to hook up, a kiss always led to something more. It was always so passionate—as if we couldn’t stop.

  But Wes isn’t saying anything now, and I’m starting to wonder if I did something wrong. Maybe I shouldn’t have grabbed his shirt. Maybe I shouldn’t have been so eager. He must notice my concern, because he quickly holds up his hands apologetically. But he still moves back another step.

  “Sorry,” he says. “That was . . .” He runs his thumb over his lower lip like it’s tingling. “I’m not trying to lead you on or anything.”

  There’s a pinch in my heart. “What do you mean?” I ask, my voice weak.

  “I’m sorry if I made you think . . .” He winces like he knows this is going to hurt my feelings. “I was just trying something—I shouldn’t have. If I gave you the wrong idea, I’m sorry—”