The Complication

“Tomorrow morning,” he says, his voice scratchy. “There’s a café outside of town. I’ll text you the address.”

  “She won’t be alone,” Wes says, and then flashes his teeth at me in apology for speaking up.

  Realm laughs softly. “I didn’t think she would be. Now, whoever else is there,” Realm says. “I’m guessing Nathan?”

  “And Foster,” Nathan says.

  “Okay, good,” Realm responds. “It’s important to keep up appearances. I know that sounds impossible, but I need to know who the other handlers are. Melody hadn’t figured it all out yet.”

  Nathan shifts next to me, his hands balling into fists on the table.

  “Tatum won’t be at school tomorrow, so I need the two of you to keep your eyes out. Who asks about her? Who leaves early? We . . .” He gets quiet for a minute, the line covered. “Avoid the monitor,” he says after a moment.

  Nathan looks ready to argue, but I think Realm is right. There’s no sense in all of us going to meet him. Besides, I want to know who the other handlers are too. I need to know who to watch out for.

  “You should know that Marie is looking for you,” I warn Realm.

  “No doubt,” he replies. “I’d hoped to avoid her, but it seems inevitable now.”

  “Why?” I ask, furrowing my brow.

  “Another conversation,” he says, and pauses. And then his mouth is close to the receiver when he murmurs, “I’m sorry this is happening to you, Tatum. I truly did try to fix it.”

  His words are suddenly intimate, and I lean into the table, exposed by Realm’s tone. The tenderness back in my heart.

  “We really were friends,” I say, like it’s just us in the room. “We were good friends, weren’t we?”

  “Yeah, sweetness,” he replies, sounding relieved. “We really were.”

  I fall quiet and dart a look at Wes. He shrugs one shoulder and rolls his gaze away.

  “And I won’t let them hurt you anymore,” Realm adds. “Do you believe that?”

  “I believe you’ll try,” I say honestly. Knowing that he doesn’t have that power. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Be careful,” he replies.

  And then Michael Realm hangs up, and I click off my phone.

  The four of us sit silently for a moment in Wes’s basement, staring at the phone in the middle of the table. It’s Foster who talks first.

  “So he’s full of shit, yeah?” he asks, waiting for consensus.

  “Definitely,” Wes says immediately.

  “Pretty much,” Nathan agrees with a nod.

  When I look around at them, Foster smiles at me first. “So I guess I’m stuck doing our lab report tomorrow?” he says.

  “We’re going to school?” Nathan asks him seriously.

  “We have to,” Foster replies. “I have an idea of who the handlers might be. I’ve actually been paying attention. I want them exposed, and you need to keep an eye on the monitor. Field any questions about Tatum.”

  “You just want to keep an eye on your boyfriend,” Nathan says under his breath.

  “That too,” Foster says, and grins.

  Wes’s phone buzzes, and he glances at it before smiling. “Pizza’s here,” he says, going to grab his wallet. He starts for his bedroom but then stops dramatically to look back at us.

  “I meant to tell you,” Wes tells us. “I ended up getting pineapple.”

  Nathan stares at him and then shakes his head. “This is why I fucking hated you.”

  And after a long pause, we all laugh.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  WES WAS ONLY KIDDING. THE pizza had pepperoni on one half, sausage on the other. We all eat together, and I watch them quietly as they continue to joke around. Trying to keep this all manageable by not falling completely into it. It’s a coping strategy we learned during The Program. Sometimes it was the only way to survive. But I don’t want to play this way anymore. I just want to fucking win.

  A buzz snaps throughout the room, and the electricity flickers. Wes looks around, and then stands up and goes over to the high windows, getting on his toes to check outside.

  “Storm’s getting worse,” he says.

  “Yeah, I have to get home,” Foster says, getting up from the table. Nathan does the same, but I stay put.

  “You coming?” Nathan asks me.

  I glance behind me at Wes, and he smiles hopefully. I laugh. “No, I’m going to stay awhile,” I say.

  Nathan runs his palm down his face and then shakes it off. “Fine,” he says. “Call your grandparents, though. And if anything else happens”—he leans down to give me a quick hug good-bye—“call me yourself.”

  I tell him that I will. I say good-bye to Foster and wait at the table while Wes walks them both out. My phone lights up, and when I check, I see that Realm sent me the address for a diner. I hate having to wait until the morning, but he said I’d be okay until then. I have to trust that he’s right. What’s the alternative?

  Wes comes back into the room, his brown eyes lit up with concern. “It’s pretty bad outside,” he says. “If you wanted to be responsible . . .” He doesn’t finish his sentence, extending the same invitation he gave me the other night.

  “I’ll stay,” I say, sitting back in the chair. “If you don’t mind.”

  He purses his lips as if thinking over whether he’ll mind. “I think it’s a mature decision,” he says.

  “Me too.”

  “Should I get the sleeping bag ready?” he asks, making me laugh.

  “No,” I say. “We can share that stupidly comfortable bed of yours.”

  “It’s the worst,” he says like he agrees. “I’m sure we can make it work, though.” He smiles, and comes over to grab his laptop from the table. He heads to the couch and motions me over.

  “I will, let me just call my grandparents first.”

  I take my phone into his room and sit at the end of his bed. I call home and talk to my grandfather. I relay the conversation with Realm and text the address where I’ll be meeting him. I let him know I’m spending the night at Wes’s, and although he doesn’t love it, he doesn’t order me home, either. Gram asks about my head, and if I’m honest, it still hurts. But I tell her it’s not too bad.

  “Call us before you leave in the morning,” Pop says. “And if you want me there . . .”

  “I’ll let you know,” I say. “But don’t worry, I’ll be careful.”

  “Okay, honey. Talk to you in the morning.”

  I hang up and set the phone next to me, taking a deep breath. Wes appears in the doorway and leans against the frame.

  “How’d it go?” he asks.

  “Fine. Pop will come with us if we need him.”

  Wes nods. “I hope we don’t. Less people involved, the better—or so it seems to me,” he adds, admitting he doesn’t know the full extent of this threat. He comes over to the bed, stopping in front of me. I lean back on my arms, staring up at him. He smiles softly.

  “Want to help me forget for a little while?” I say in pretend seduction, running my socked foot over his calf. He laughs.

  “Uh, yes.” He moves in closer, lifting my ankle to tip me backward. He slides his knee against my inner thigh and climbs onto the bed, holding himself above me before slowly lowering into a kiss.

  I put my hand on his cheek, and then we move up on the bed until we have pillows. Wes collapses next to me, taking my leg to pull over his hip, and we turn into each other, occasionally kissing, mostly just cuddling.

  And I feel safe with him. The other images still haunt me, but here with him . . . it’s up to me. I’m powerful. I’m in love.

  I listen as Wes talks about motorcycles, about music, about movies. Whenever he asks me a question, I’m quick to ask a follow-up, enamored with how calm his thoughts are. The peace in him. I kiss him constantly then, and we’re sweet together, free-spirited in a lazy way. Like we have time.

  But time is only an illusion. Sometimes, in the midst of a disaster, you have to take a moment to
breathe, or you’ll run out of oxygen. Wes and I breathe each other.

  And as the afternoon fades into evening, we fall asleep together—letting the storm rage around us.

  • • •

  There’s an insistent knocking. I think it’s only in my dream, but then it gets louder. Wes moves first, moaning softly before pulling me closer and burying his face in my neck like he can block out the sound.

  “Weston,” a voice calls, shrill and angry. The knocking becomes banging.

  My eyes open, and I stare up at the ceiling. “Well, fuck,” I murmur.

  “Probably not now,” Wes says, and I snort a laugh.

  We sit up, and I quickly get out of his bed, smooth his sheets, and reset the pillows. I slip on my shoes, and go to stand in the doorway to the living room, poised there to give Wes’s mom the chance to adjust to my presence.

  “Weston?” she calls again, and the wind howls against the windows.

  I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that I’m terrified of Dorothy Ambrose. She doesn’t deserve all the blame in making me feel that way, but for the past year, she has been more than a thorn in my side. She has eroded my confidence, made me question my self-worth on every basic level. She’s managed to make me feel like the lowest person on the planet, and although I know she did it to protect her son, I have to wonder if that excuses the fact that she’s been awful to me.

  I want to forgive her, though. Not for her, but for me. It doesn’t mean I’m not scared of her. I wrap my arms around myself and nod for Wes to open the door. He waits a beat, watching me. Although I’ve told him everything, he didn’t see any of the exchanges firsthand. My expression must give away my fear, because his softness fades, and he strands straighter as he pulls open the door.

  “Yes, Mother?” he asks. She scoffs, and her hand darts out to grab the edge of the door to push it open wider.

  “Where—?” She stops dead when she sees me. Her hair is wet with rain, and the storm crackles behind her. She looks deranged, her own storm as she bounds into the room. Wes closes the door but waits there like he’s hoping she’ll walk right back out.

  “How dare you?” Dorothy says to me with contempt. “How fucking dare you?”

  I flinch back, surprised she’d swear at me, and I quickly lower my eyes, my bravery stumbling. Maybe I should have hidden my Jeep up the road.

  “Hey,” Wes says immediately. “Don’t talk to her like that.”

  “Stay out of this, Weston,” his mother says, not looking back at him. Wes laughs bitterly.

  “Yeah, I think not,” he says. “She told me everything, Mom.”

  Dorothy’s eyes widen into saucers, and she spins quickly, rushing over to him and putting her hand on his cheek, his upper arm. He shrugs her off and takes a step back.

  “Are you okay?” she asks, frantic with worry.

  “It wasn’t true,” I announce, finding my voice. “What Dr. McKee said about the truth hurting him—it was a lie meant to protect me.”

  Dorothy looks at me, and I shrink back. She intimidates me, which I guess is her point. I consider leaving, but that would mean walking past her. So instead, I try to make myself as small as possible.

  “You called The Program on her,” Wes says to his mother, his voice thick with betrayal. “You could have called her grandparents and got her help, but instead you called The Program. Instead you did the worst thing possible.”

  Dorothy looks at him, shaking her head that it’s not true. “The Program was the only answer,” she says. “And you can’t take her word for it.” She motions to me. “You didn’t see how erratic she was acting.”

  “But I did see,” he says. “I must have known what was happening to her, but I didn’t help her either, not in any real way. When it came down to it, though, I didn’t want her in The Program. I wouldn’t have fucking erased her. I wouldn’t have stolen her life. I would have saved her.”

  Dorothy tightens her jaw, the first indication that she knew full well the impact of her action. “You don’t understand what those times were like,” she says. “She was out of control, Wes.”

  “Like I said, why didn’t you call her grandparents, then? Why was your first call to The Program?”

  Dorothy stands perfectly still for a moment, and I realize that I want to know that answer too. She could have called my pop—he would have gotten me help. It all could have gone down differently. But he never got the chance.

  I hold my breath, waiting for her response.

  “Because I wanted her out of your life,” Dorothy says with finality. “And I didn’t want her to come back.”

  I put my hand to my chest, a sudden pain striking me. It is the cruelest thing she’s said about me yet. She knew what she was doing. She knew what The Program would do to me. She used it to break up a relationship, not because she was worried—but because she wanted me gone. A literal character assassination.

  My eyes well up, and when I blink, tears drip onto my cheeks. I’ve never felt weaker, the idea that an adult I trusted could hate me so completely. I sniffle, and tears keep flowing.

  “Why?” I choke out, and she turns her head slightly, not daring to look at me.

  “Because Wes deserved better than you,” she says. “He deserved someone from a good family, someone who made him a better person. And that wasn’t you, Tatum. All you would have done was take him away.”

  I sway, hurt. I had no idea her contempt went so deep. I’m in shock, but Wes is breathing heavily, his face going red.

  “I hated you,” Wes says to his mother with sudden realization. “I hated you, didn’t I?”

  Dorothy watches him like she’s waiting for him to calm down before she answers. She must decide that’s not going to happen, because she starts talking.

  “After your sister died,” she says, “you retreated down here. I guess we all retreated into our own places of misery. But the Wes I knew died in that river too. You weren’t the same without Cheyenne. And then you met Tatum, and together, you began to slip away—just like your sister did. I knew it was only a matter of time. Both of my kids would be gone. I had to stop it, but you wouldn’t listen.

  “And don’t you see now?” she continues, looking from him to me. “I was right. Tatum broke your heart just like I thought she would, and then she came here to ruin your new relationship. I got to her first. I only wish it could’ve been permanent.”

  Holy shit.

  I know that Wes wasn’t the only one destroyed by Cheyenne’s suicide—his entire family had been devastated. As a parent, Dorothy’s loss is immeasurable, and all this time, she’s been slowly spiraling. Digging into her pain. Trying to protect her last child. But that grief has brought her to the brink of insanity.

  She wished she had killed me. I think she might still wish it.

  “You’re not well,” I say, wiping my cheeks. “Dorothy, you need serious help.”

  I’m braver now because I realize this wasn’t about me. This was always about her holding on to her only living child. And although that’s sad, it’s also completely fucked.

  Dorothy smiles ruefully. “No, honey,” she says coldly. “I need you out of our lives.”

  The door suddenly opens, and with a gasp of wind, two men rush inside. Wes quickly drops his arms to spin to face them, but it’s clear they have a mission. Without hesitation one of them comes for me. Dorothy steps aside.

  They’re handlers, I realize, and I dart into the living room, bounding up the stairs. I don’t make it. One of the men grabs my foot, and I slip, banging my knee painfully on the stairs. I reach to hold on to the stair above me, but he drags me down the steps, my elbows getting carpet burn, my body bumping jarringly at each stair.

  “No!” I scream, trying to turn over, but he’s got my feet, and pulls me to the basement floor. He flips me over, and I’m able to look up, stunned when I recognize him.

  The handler has a scar across his cheek, thick and white with little lines running through it. He’s the same man who took
me from my house and brought me to The Program.

  I kick him hard in the thigh, and he loses his grip. I get up, trying to rush past him, running for the bedroom and the door to the outside. Wes is pinned against the wall, his arm behind his back at an impossible angle as he tries to fight. Dorothy, concerned, watches it unfold.

  She widens her eyes when she sees me run into the room, but then I’m tackled from behind and fall onto the bed. I scream, scream as loud as I can, and Dorothy flinches against the sound. Wes goes wild, and just as he breaks free from the handler, there is a pop and he howls out in pain, his arm dangling at his side. The handler takes a step back and looks at Dorothy.

  “Get her out of here!” she yells, pointing to me.

  But I’m still kicking, not letting the handler get close enough to grab me. I don’t understand how this happened, how we got here. Wes, injured, sees the second handler start toward me. He grabs the lamp with his left arm, ripping it from the wall, and bashes it over the guy’s back. The handler stumbles, falling into Wes and knocking him against the desk, both of them hitting the floor.

  Undeterred, the handler with the scar punches my shin to get my leg down, making me cry out, and then scrambles on top of me, holding me on the bed. I thrash, ready to bite his fucking ear off.

  “What are you doing?” I beg Dorothy. “Stop this!”

  “You’re a threat to my family,” Dorothy says authoritatively. “And Dr. Warren contacted me and told me all about how you slept here the other night. How you did exactly what I told you not to. She said you’d bring Wes down, and I told her I already knew that. Dr. Warren promised to collect you earlier, so imagine my surprise to see your Jeep in my driveway. I called her. You left me no choice, Tatum.”

  She is completely unhinged. The handler tries to lock my legs with his, but the intimate touch makes me go berserk. I free myself enough to bring my knee between his, nailing him in the balls as hard as I can. He coughs and falls to the side, gripping them.

  I push him off the bed and dash for the door.

  “If you don’t cooperate, she will take Wes!” Dorothy screams.

  “You fucking idiot!” I scream back. “They’re going to take him anyway!” I stop to help Wes up from the floor. He’s gone ghostly pale, holding his arm to his side. He looks like he’s about to throw up.