“Ah . . . ,” Wes replies like it explains so much about me. “We can go anyway,” he offers. “Get a burger or something.”
And the truth is, this hurts—rejecting him hurts me. But I saw what our relationship did to us. If I lead him on, it would mean his mother was right—I’m bad for him. I never do what’s best for him. This is our real test, I guess.
I’ve already lied to him, and now I have to let him live. I can’t hold on to our ghosts.
I grab another book off the shelf without reading the title and press it to my chest with the other, my movements careful so as not to give away my thoughts.
“I can’t,” I say with a quick shake of my head. “I have plans tonight. And that research paper to write.” I motion over to the tables where the other students are working. “Look, I have to go,” I say. “Maybe I’ll see you tomorrow.”
I start to walk away, and Wes laughs. “Maybe?” he repeats. “We have class together.”
I look back over my shoulder at him, and I can see he’ll take friendship over nothing because he’s drawn to me the same way I’m always drawn to him. But I can’t play this anymore. Being Wes’s friend will be impossible because it means watching him carry on with his life. Eventually loving someone else. And that just might kill me. I have to break with him completely.
“Bye,” I say with a soft smile, and turn around and start walking toward the tables.
And when I sit down, all alone, a wave of grief hits me. It’s like the air has been sucked from my chest, my soul being torn from my body.
I squeeze my eyes shut and shield the side of my face with my hand. And I accept that it’s really over.
• • •
When class ends forty minutes later, I don’t see Wes in the library. I make my way to my locker to grab my things, partially dazed as I force myself not to think. Not here.
Nathan texts me as I exchange some books at my locker and says he’ll meet me at the Adjustment office later. I tell him it’s a plan, and I leave it at that. I don’t tell him about seeing Wes. About ending things. I don’t want to make it real by telling anybody yet.
I slam my locker shut and hike my backpack onto my shoulders. I turn, and I’m startled when I glance across the hall and notice Jana, talking in a doorway with Derek Thompson. She has her finger in his face, snarling a response.
I watch a moment longer, watch as Derek laughs and reaches over to touch her hand before she rips it away. I didn’t think they knew each other, and certainly not enough to be arguing.
“Stay out of it,” she tells him. Jana storms past him down the hall, never noticing me.
I stare after her, and when she turns the corner and disappears, I look at Derek. He seems pissed, emasculated. Well, then good for her. I have no idea what that was about, but I reach for my phone to call Nathan. I don’t want Derek harassing Jana either.
Before I can call, Derek turns to me, his eyes widening before he narrows them. He laughs to himself and saunters in my direction.
I’m already feeling vulnerable, but rather than fear, I’m suddenly emboldened because I have nothing left to lose. I cross my arms over my chest defiantly, chin raised. He comes to a stop in front of me, his lips turned up with a sinister smile.
“What is your problem?” I ask. To this, he actually snorts a laugh.
“You’re a brave little toaster today,” he says mockingly. “Have your friends toughened you up? I know you told them about me.”
There’s a sharp turn in my gut. “Have you been following me?” I ask. “What do you want?”
“I’m just keeping an eye on things,” Derek says, looking me up and down.
“Why me?” I ask.
He’s still for a moment, and then he leans down to whisper in my ear. I’m struck by the smell of him, a combination of musty clothes and rubbing alcohol. It stings my nose.
“Because I know your secret,” he whispers. His words send a chill down my spine, and I quickly pull myself to my full height and push him backward into the middle of the hall. He laughs, and a few people look at us.
“Keep control of that temper,” he replies condescendingly, and fixes the collar of his shirt. “You wouldn’t want to get flagged.”
Derek reaches to touch my waist, but I punch him in the chest, making him cough and stagger back. He rubs the spot, still smiling.
The idea of his hands on me sends me reeling, sickens me. He’s not allowed to touch me ever.
“Haven’t changed a bit. I’ll see you around, troublemaker,” he says like we’re friends, and walks down the hall.
I’m confused on all fronts. First, why would he act so familiar, friendly—we’re definitely not. How does he know I’m a returner? About telling Foster and Nathan about him? And a new fear starts, one I don’t want to put into words yet. Why was Jana talking to him?
I glance around the hallways and see a few people noticed our interaction and are whispering about it. I tighten my grip on my backpack and head to my car.
Nathan doesn’t answer when I call, so I text him and tell him we need to talk. And then I put away my phone and drive to meet with my therapist.
CHAPTER THREE
DR. WARREN’S OFFICE IS A CUTE, wood-shingled building. The lawn is bright green and well-manicured, and there’s a cherry tree along the stone pathway. I remember the first time I came here, by my grandparents’ suggestion, and I thought a place this adorable would have a pretty cool therapist.
And so far, I haven’t been disappointed. Dr. Warren has been amazing to work with. She’s kind and patient. And honestly, just really likable. I feel as if I can tell her anything. Right now, I need that more than ever.
As I step onto the porch, I keep the confrontation with Derek close; something about his words has struck me in a way that feels honest. Scary, but honest. Yet another mystery piled on.
I try not to let my mind wander to Wes, either—at least, not until I can get some support. I’m going to tell Dr. Warren about the memory I had of Wes, and I’m hoping she’ll say that I was right—that I am being a better person by keeping it platonic.
But the main point here is my grandparents. How do I talk to them about The Program? I need Dr. Warren’s help with that most of all.
The waiting room for the offices is small and tastefully decorated with live plants and abstract paintings that mimic inkblot tests. I asked the doctor about them once, and she laughed.
“They were supposed to be ironic,” she said. “But I ended up loving the color scheme. Now they’re a conversation piece. Every patient asks about them.”
I like the paintings. They’re on white canvas with splashes of bright colors, bleeding into shapes. What exactly they form is up to the viewer. Sort of like finding shapes in the clouds. I almost always see hearts.
Dr. Warren’s receptionist smiles warmly from behind her desk, and she asks me to take a seat. I grab a chair nearest the door and look around the waiting area. I think this used to be a living room, and on either side is an office.
On one side is Dr. Warren’s, and on the other is the office of a therapist I’ve never seen in person, although I’ve noticed a few patients go in that door. A plaque on the wall reads MR. CASTLE—LICENSED THERAPIST.
I’m the only person in the waiting room now, and I take out my phone to check for missed messages. There is one from Wes, and my heart sinks when I see his name. I click it open.
Good luck on your paper.
I don’t know how to answer, so I turn off the phone and put it away. He’s trying to get to know me. And honestly, if I hadn’t remembered, I would have fallen right back into a relationship with him. But the self-hatred I felt that night at his house . . . I’ll never forget it again. That kind of pain is forever.
I needed help, and instead I got The Program. I won’t put either of us in that position again.
“There she is,” Dr. Warren announces, startling me. I look up and see her standing at the door of her office. She’s wearing a denim dres
s with a red belt and tall brown leather boots. “Come on in.” She waves me forward and walks into her office ahead of me.
I follow her and go sit in my usual spot—an oversize leather chair with high arms and worn soft cushions—as she closes the door. Dr. Warren picks up a clipboard from her desk and takes a seat on the couch opposite me.
Dr. Warren is slight with cropped short hair and stylish glasses. She seems like she’d be somebody’s favorite aunt.
“Thank you for making time for me today,” she says. “I was worried.”
“My grandparents shouldn’t have done that,” I respond. “I would have called you if I needed you.”
“Would you have?” she asks, taking a pen out of the breast pocket of her dress. She clicks it and then steadies her gaze on me. “What’s going on, Tatum?” she asks. “I can see you’re upset.”
She has such a soothing voice, and I want to tell her my problems, get her advice. “I’m not sure where to start,” I say.
“Well,” she says. “We’ve covered the Adjustment and what it did to both you and Weston, so perhaps it’s best to start with his latest return. Your grandparents were greatly concerned. Mentioned headaches?”
“My headaches have nothing to do with Wes,” I tell her. “And I’m not here about them. I’m here about The Program.”
Dr. Warren presses her lips into a concerned smile. “I told you, Tatum. You were never in The Program. Where did you hear that?”
She gives nothing away—exhibiting the same demeanor I’ve trusted for over a year. But I’m not going to throw Nathan under the bus. “Someone at school,” I say like it doesn’t matter. “But how can you be sure it’s not true?” I ask, leaning forward. “You wouldn’t really know. . . .”
“I’ve worked with a lot of returners,” she says, jotting down a note. “You have zero markers, no symptoms—”
“The headaches?” I point out. She smiles.
“Stress,” she says. “And I don’t think we’ll have to look hard to find the cause.”
Back to Wes again. I huff out an annoyed breath and lean my head against the chair. “It’s not Wes,” I say. I’m being defensive, even though I know she has a point. We’re quiet for a minute, and I relent.
“Okay,” I admit. “He might have a little bit to do with this. But it’s over. Wes and I are over. I lied to him today—told him we were never a couple and that we were just friends.”
Dr. Warren’s lips part in surprise. “That . . . that must have been difficult. I’m sorry you had to lie.”
“So am I,” I say. “But I wanted to be better. His mother said some pretty hurtful things. They hurt because they weren’t wrong.”
I want to get back to discussing The Program, but Dr. Warren seems pretty certain I wasn’t there. She’ll need proof. I guess it’s possible my grandparents never admitted it to her; it’s possible they never told anybody.
Dr. Warren leans forward and pats my knee. “I’m so proud of you for breaking things off,” she says. “It was selfless.”
“My friend said the same thing,” I tell her. “But I’m not sure the opposite of selfish is selfless. I just stopped hurting him. Hurting both of us.”
She sits back, making another note. “I have to say, Tatum,” she begins. “This is the most mature I’ve ever seen you. I’m encouraged, and with your permission, I’d love to tell your grandparents that you’ve made huge strides toward wellness.”
“Sure,” I murmur. But there’s a tingle up my arms as I take slight offense at her words. First, my life is pretty fucked—it’s not fair to say I was immature before. Second . . . I’m not sure what she means about wellness. Wasn’t I well before?
No, I realize. I wasn’t well—not if I was flagged for The Program. She might have seen that during therapy, the remnants of my spiral. But again, wouldn’t that have clued her in? I’m starting to doubt her effectiveness as a therapist. I’m starting to doubt her.
Almost in response to my thoughts, Dr. Warren smiles warmly.
“Can you tell me what made you decide to finally break off ties with Wes?” she asks. “Was there an epiphany of some sort?”
“Sort of,” I say. “I remembered something.”
“Something negative?” she asks. And I’m not imagining that she scoots closer, riveted. I like her attention. It might be a little needy, but I miss my grandparents. I need them, so I’m letting Dr. Warren fill in—act the role of the concerned adult.
Besides, I’m still sore from earlier. Still broken from the memory.
I tell Dr. Warren all about going to Wes’s house and spending the night. I recount the painful memory I had, including telling off his mother. Including wishing I was dead. I don’t mention the handlers at my house or even The Program. I want her to know that I mean what I say about ending things with Wes. But rather than appearing encouraged, Dr. Warren flares her nostrils and tightens her jaw.
“I don’t understand,” she says, adjusting her glasses. “You knew Wes was dating someone else? You were suicidal?”
“I put together that he was seeing someone,” I say, “but I don’t believe I would have hurt myself. Okay, I admit there was a decline in my health, but when it came down to it, I knew I didn’t want to die. I didn’t want to hurt anybody. I just needed help.”
“And you never got it,” she says, mostly to herself. Her pen presses into her paper, scraping the clipboard underneath.
“The Program—” I start to say, and she slaps her clipboard onto the couch.
“You were never in The Program, Tatum,” she says forcefully, startling me. My eyes start to tear up, feeling scolded, and Dr. Warren smiles an apology.
“I’m sorry,” she says in that same soothing voice she’s used for over a year. “I’m . . . unnerved by these revelations. Despite what you told me about wanting to be better, you slept over at Wes’s house last night. That was unethical.”
I lower my eyes. “Yeah, but nothing happened. I didn’t—”
“I’m sure your grandparents don’t know?”
I lift my eyes to hers because the tone of her voice . . . it feels kind of like a threat.
“No,” I say. “But they’re not your patients, remember?”
We stare at each other, and then Dr. Warren nods and smiles. “That is true,” she says lightly, like we’re gal pals again.
But now I’m the one unsettled. She can’t really be that mad that I went to Wes’s house. Is she secretly working for his mother or something?
“Tell me more about your memory,” she says casually, picking up her clipboard again. “Was there anything else you suddenly remembered? It’s highly unusual, but we’ve established that you were traumatized by the ending of your relationship with Weston. If this flashback is indeed true, it could be why. I’m sorry you didn’t realize sooner. Probably would have saved you both from the Adjustment.”
It’s a dig, once again putting the blame on me. And I feel myself close up. I’m not going to tell her any more about The Program or that I think I had an Adjustment to fix it. I’m not telling her shit.
“That’s it,” I say with a shrug. “Seemed like a good enough reason to make sure Wes and I didn’t make the same mistake.”
“Sure does,” she agrees.
I’m doing my best not to fidget, ready to leave her office. When she asks if I’d like to formulate questions for my grandparents, I tell her maybe next time. Whatever Dr. Warren’s motive is, I no longer think it’s in my best interest. Whether on purpose or as the “concerned adult,” she’s overlooking my actual problems in hopes of treating the symptoms.
And for now, we’re done.
“I should go,” I say, checking the time on my phone. I’ve only been here twenty minutes, but I make a quick excuse about meeting Nathan.
“And how is Nathan?” she asks. “How did he feel about Wes coming back today?”
“Oh, uh . . . he told me to be careful,” I say, surprised she’s asking about him. “You know Nathan—made some
jokes and whatnot.”
There’s a buzzing on her desk, and Dr. Warren flinches, looking in that direction. “I’m sorry,” she says, standing up. “I have to answer that.” She sets her clipboard on the seat and goes over to her desk. I watch as she picks up her phone, not even checking the ID as she says, “Yes?” in a hushed voice.
She turns toward the window, and I wait for her, not wanting to be rude by walking out. My eyes drift to the couch and eventually the clipboard resting on the cushion. I don’t mean to, but I read the words, able to decipher them upside down.
Evasive
Falsified history
I quickly lower my eyes before turning slightly to look at Dr. Warren. She still has her back to me.
Evasive? Okay, she might not be totally wrong about that, but in fairness, it was based on her reaction. But what the hell does she mean about falsified history?
But, of course, it’s the words near the bottom of the paper that send a cool breeze over my soul, a warning shot.
Possible flag
It seems a direct relation to The Program, and that means she knows I was there. She’s been lying to me. How much more does she know about my situation? I have to wonder, especially if she’s involved with my grandparents.
And it hits me: My grandparents called her, I knew that, but they’re also the ones who set up these sessions last summer. Whatever they’re involved in, it’s likely Dr. Warren’s involved too. I turn to look at the door and decide I have to get out of here. Get the proof I need to confront them all.
While Dr. Warren’s back is turned, I get to my feet and creep toward the door. I open it slightly and then call her name. When she looks at me, I smile apologetically.
Got to go, I mouth like I’m really sorry about it. She puts her hand over the receiver to say something, but I duck my head and slip outside.
Once I’m back in the lobby, the receptionist glances up from her computer. She asks if I want to schedule my next appointment, but I tell her I’ll call and hurry past before Dr. Warren can chase me down and tell me not to leave.
CHAPTER FOUR