<|endoftext|>.
"I will. Same to you."
He tells me that he loves me, and then I hang up just as I arrive at Wes's house.
I park in the driveway next to his bike, not bothering to hide my Jeep down the road like usual. I know all about our past, and frankly, now that Wes knows too, his mother's threats are useless. She can't bully me out of Wes's life.
I've made mistakes, not all of them completely my fault, but I can try not to make any more. I'm not sure where we stand relationship-wise, but we'll figure it out. We might even make the right decisions this time. For now, we just have to save the world. No pressure.
I quickly dial Nathan, but he doesn't answer, making me nervous. I tell him to call me back, and that I'm at Wes's house. I push the phone into my pocket and climb out of the Jeep.
Wes waits for me at his door, smiling and looking a little nervous. I wonder if he thought I was going to turn onto the freeway and drive away instead of coming here. The thought didn't even cross my mind. I would have followed him anywhere.
"Parents aren't home," he says, watching my approach. "In case you were worried."
"Now you won't have to lock the door," I say, and stop in front of him.
Wes's smile fades. "I always lock the door," he replies, and turns to push inside his basement apartment.
I realize that I'm nervous too. Beyond the life-altering shit that's about to go down with The Program—I'm here with Wes. And I'm still not entirely sure how to act.
I understand what Michael Realm meant now, how remembering can be a curse. Because I remember things that Wes doesn't. I remember how much he loved me. How much I loved him. The stuff they couldn't take. The stuff that crashed back. So much history, and now it's only mine.
I walk inside his room and close the door behind me. It's dimly lit, the high-set window not enough on a darkened, stormy day. But Wes doesn't flip on the lights as he leads us into the living room area.
I sit on the couch, and Wes comes to the coffee table and turns his laptop in my direction before telling me he'll be right back. He jogs up the stairs and disappears inside his house.
I smile at the wallpaper on his computer, a vintage motorcycle, mid-repair. It's simple, honest. I click open the browser, and his last page pulls up. It's a board called Survivor Rate, and the quick description says it's a forum for survivors of the epidemic. It has over ten thousand members.
I click on the first thread and start to read through, when I hear Wes close the door and lock it before bounding down the stairs. I look up, and he holds out a bag of frozen peas.
"For your head," he says. "I tried to find an aspirin, but my mom won't keep any pills in the house."
"Oh," I say, taking the icy bag from him. "Thank you." It's kind of sweet of him to do that without me asking. I move my legs aside as he scoots past me and drops down onto the couch in his usual spot. I gently press the peas to my head, groaning at the pressure.
"This is the one," Wes starts, turning the screen so he can see it too, "where the guy had the picture of Michael."
"He goes by Realm," I say, and feel Wes turn to me. I point at the screen to move forward. "Can I see the picture?"
"Sure," Wes replies, and clicks into a different thread, scrolling through posts. He double-clicks one. "Here you go. That's him, right?"
And it is. There's a picture of Realm, not looking at the camera. He's partially turned away, his scar prominent on his neck. He doesn't seem to know his picture is being taken, and I'm reminded of Melody and how she never wanted to be in any photos. She always found an excuse. It was probably because she was a handler, a closer, and she didn't want to be recognized. She didn't want a record of being Jana Simms.
"That's definitely him," I say. Under the picture, the post reads: Anyone know this guy?
Wes goes into the private messages and shows me his exchange with the original poster. It doesn't give us any information on locating Realm,