I kissed a boy.
It's my first thought when my mind regains consciousnesses. Before my eyes even open, it's there, and my day starts off with a fresh dosage of anxiety. It doesn't help when I start replaying the night over again.
I'm sprawled out on the bed, and it takes me a moment to remember that someone else should be there. I fell asleep next to Thomas, didn't I?
I finally open my eyes, and my anxiety starts to settle a little bit when I see Thomas sitting at the end of the bed. His back is turned, and he's presumably watching the TV. He's also wearing different clothes, so he's probably been awake far longer than I have. That's slightly embarrassing for some reason, but I'm too tired to think about that.
When I sit up, Thomas turns around with a soft smile.
"Hi," he says. "I was just about to wake you, actually. How're you feeling?"
Scared? Anxious? Tired? "Okay," I say. I turn to my left to see the time, and it's nearly ten o'clock.
"I've got our medication in my bag," Thomas says, hopping up from the bed. "Do you want to take it now?"
"Um," I start, my brain still foggy from sleep. "Yeah, let me just... get ready first."
"Sure, sure," Thomas says, nodding. He seems oddly peppy. "Can I get anything for you? I can walk or wheel you to the bathroom, too."
"I'm alright, thank you," I say, reaching up and rubbing my eyes. This is later than I can normally sleep in, but I was also up impossibly late.
I scoot myself to the side of the bed, then look at my suitcase. It's so far across the room. Wouldn't it be nice if I could just get up, walk over to it, then go get dressed like a normal person? I've got my tens and a broken ankle standing in the way of that.
As if Thomas heard my thoughts, he picks up my suitcase and puts it on the bed next to me before I have the chance to protest. I give him a small gracious smile, then look through my things, picking out clothes. Jeans and a blue long sleeved shirt, something I haven't worn at TIMI.
I get up and count my steps as I get into the bathroom, holding my outfit. I'm in there at six steps, then turn to close the door, making it seven. When I turn and look in the mirror, it's eight.
For some reason, I look different. I can't put my finger on anything specific, but I seem... older? Same brown eyes, same blonde hair. I'm tired, so my cheeks are rosy from sleep and my eyelids are droopy. But that's not what it is—I feel different too.
Once I get out of the bathroom, holding my old clothes, Thomas looks up at me. He's sitting on the bed with two little containers on his lap.
"You can keep that if you want to," Thomas says. I frown in confusion, so he clarifies. "The hoodie, I mean. You can keep it."
"Oh," I say, my blush turning into one of embarrassment. After last night, the offer sends my brain into overdrive. Does that mean something, or is it just a kind gesture? "I couldn't, um—"
"Don't worry about it, I insist. Now come sit down before I start thinking that the hoodie is green," Thomas says, chuckling and nodding to the spot next to him on the bed. How he can make light of something so serious baffles me, but I know that humor is a common coping mechanism.
I'm on seven. That's important to remember. I make it to the bed in three steps, then sit down, snapping my fingers to drown out the nagging thoughts about the hoodie that I place in my suitcase now.
Thomas opens one of the containers and hands me a small cup of medication, just like how they'd give us at TIMI.
"Now, do you know what your pills look like? One of these might be the new one, so you're going to need to figure out what it is and if anything is missing," Thomas says.
My eyes widen. I think I know what all of them look like, but the prospect of what could happen if I mess up is horrifying. One by one, I look at them. I recognize most of them instantly, and then by the time I'm done counting, I'm relieved to see that nothing is missing. But, something has been added.
The one I don't recognize is a small white pill with numbers on its shell. I pick it out, showing Thomas. "This is new. Everything else is normal," I say.
Thomas grins. "Perfect!" He hands me a water bottle and I start taking my pills, watching him while doing so. He looks through his—and there are a few—and takes about three out, downing them all at the same time.
"Why don't you take them all?" I ask, finishing mine up.
"I hate some of them. I still don't think they're right, but they never listen to me. So I always just choose my own," Thomas says, putting the lid back on his container before taking mine too. When I met Thomas, his inability to cooperate by skipping some of his medication was something that bothered me. But now that I know what could have happened if he did take it, I'm glad he broke the rules. Right now, that's keeping both of us alive.
I grab my phone from the nightstand and turn it on as Thomas gets off of the bed. This time, instead of the blank notification screen I got last night, there's a thousand missed calls and texts from my parents. I scroll through them quickly, dread mixed with anxiety hitting me full force. A few of the texts catch my eye—most of them being from my mother—but I can't bring myself to read them. It's absolutely horrifying.
"What's wrong?" Thomas' voice sounds from in front of me. It takes me a moment to answer, my mind being consumed with guilt and fear.
"My parents," I choke out. "They know I'm gone."
Thomas doesn't seem at all surprised at this when I turn off my phone to look at him. "Oh, yeah, they'll have told them by now. That reminds me, can I see your phone real quick?"
I hand him my phone, not putting too much thought in the action. Part of me wants to call them; let them know that I'm alright and apologize for all the trouble I've caused them. It's a lot more than I'm worth.
Thomas hands me my phone back, and I finally fully comprehend that he even had it in the first place. "What'd you do?"
"I turned off the things that can give away your location immediately, but there'll be other ways to find us. I'd say it's best to just ditch your phone somewhere for a while. We can get you a burner for now," Thomas says. His tone is a bit too casual, but I'm not surprised about that anymore.
"What about your phone?" I ask.
"Mine already is a burner. There hasn't been much of a reason for me to have my own phone lately, so I had Vince pick this one up," Thomas says, giving me a smile and waving his phone.
Anger courses through me. At what, I don't know. Most likely at my situation—being an anxiety and OCD ridden runaway with worried parents and a nearly impossible mission. It's not really about Thomas, but he's here, so that's who the anger comes out on.
"Why can't I talk to them?" I ask, trying to keep my voice level enough at first, but I don't think I do a very good job. "Let them know I'm okay?"
"I mean, you could. But think about it, what would really happen? They'd know you were fine, but they'd track you and find you right away and probably put you right back in there. Either way, I don't think it's really what you want," Thomas says.
"Oh yeah, that's right, I forgot that you're the expert when it comes to what I want and what I think," I say sharply. Where did that come from? My eyes are stinging, but I do my best to ignore it.
Thomas wasn't unaffected by my words as half of me expected him to be. Something in his eyes changes, and I regret saying what I said. Suddenly, I'm afraid. I don't know as much about Thomas as it feels like I do, what if he does something drastic? There are no nurses to stop him, and how could I?
"I'll be right back," Thomas says, his eyes avoiding mine and his tone eerily flat. I start to protest, but before I can get a word out, Thomas has left the room.
I'm not entirely sure how long I'm in the room alone. It couldn't be more than fifteen minutes, but for someone in the middle of a breakdown, it feels like a year. I consider chasing after Thomas to make sure he's okay, but every time I think about it, I get hit with a wave of feeling like I never want to move again. It's that horrible lack of motivation that keeps me glued to the side of the bed, unwilling to even look at my phone again.
But eventually, he walks back in the room with a pleasant smile.
"I called a car, it should be here in a few minutes. We'll get you a burner, get our car, find a place for your phone, then go get breakfast and go to Winston's house. When we're closer to there, you can call your parents from a payphone to let them know you're okay if you really need to. Sound good?" Thomas says it all like we've been talking about the plan for days.
I gape at him. "Um... yeah," I agree, figuring it's the best option. Did he completely forget what I said, or is he choosing to ignore it? Why was he gone so long?
"Great," Thomas says, wheeling my chair over to me.
I get in, and Thomas waits while I do my tens, trying hard to focus on them. Asking him why he's suddenly so calm seems like a bad idea, that's for sure.
He wheels me out of the room, locking the door behind us. I put my phone in my pocket, and I can feel it burning a hole there. It feels like touching it will set off an explosion. I didn't even think about the fact that we could be tracked until Thomas brought it up, so until we get rid of it, my paranoia level will be high.
On the way out of the building, I tap my foot in tens against the footrest.
The car is an overall unpleasant experience. Thomas has a really hard time getting the wheelchair in the trunk, which is extremely embarrassing for me. Then, when he finally gets in the car, the driver already sounds done with us and has no patience for Thomas' odd explanation of where we want to go. The drive to the nearest convenience store is silent, and most of it is spent trying not to throw up from my nerves and the horrible scent.
When we're finally there, Thomas hops out of the car practically before the driver can even fully stop. Apparently the ride wasn't enjoyable for him either. He grabs my wheelchair and brings it to me, then we head into the store together, Thomas telling the driver to wait for us.
Thomas takes care of the talking in the store, and also pays for the phone and I tell him he doesn't have to—even though I don't actually have any money on me. The woman behind the counter doesn't seem phased by the request for a burner phone, so I take that as a good sign.
Once we leave the store and get back in the car, Thomas gives the driver a very specific address and we set off. I want to ask him where it is we're going, but in the silence of the car, I'd rather just wait. Thomas is on his phone for some of the drive, but I just look forward and try to keep my anxiety at bay.
Eventually, we pull into a big lot and get out of the car, Thomas thanking the driver and paying him. It takes us a minute to get me into my wheelchair, and I only speak once the car has pulled away and I've finished my tens.
"May I ask where we are?" I ask, looking up at Thomas as he starts pushing me.
"Somewhere better than that car," Thomas says. After a few seconds of confusion, I notice we're approaching a car. At first I don't recognize it, but then it hits me.
"Is that Vince's car?" I ask.
"Affirmative. He has two, and he's letting us borrow this one. It's kinda like our getaway car," Thomas says brightly.
"Who's driving?" I ask, as we stop.
"Well, you have a broken ankle, so definitely not you," Thomas says, opening the passenger door. He helps me in, then puts the wheelchair in the backseat before getting into the driver's seat.
"Why didn't Vince just leave the car at the hotel?" I ask.
"He had no way to get back, he left it here because he's got a friend nearby," Thomas says, buckling himself.
"Do you even know how to drive?" I ask.
"There's a first time for everything!" Thomas says, turning to me with a grin. When he sees the horror on my face, he laughs. "I know how to drive. I'm fine, I'm on the medication I need."
With that, and a whole lot of trust from me, we're off.
The Candle Diner isn't very crowded when we arrive. At this point, we've successfully hidden—meaning buried—my phone by the side of a building, and made it to the diner with only a few driving scares. "Sorry, I'm a little rusty," Thomas had said. But we made it here in one piece, if you don't count my unrelated injury.
We're seated immediately, and my eyes dart around the place, irrationally expecting my parents or Ava Paige to show up. But no, it's just us and a select few elderly couples. My eyes drift up to see a TV with the news on, and a new fear creeps in.
"Are we going to be on the news?" I ask. If we are, then the option to go anywhere public is automatically eliminated.
"No," Thomas says with a frown, "I don't think so. Especially not from TIMI, since we're minors and they're already about to get bad press."
I distract myself from worrying by attempting to read the menu, but nothing looks even remotely appetizing. My brain knows that I have to eat though, so I pick pancakes with a bowl of fruit. It seems easiest to stomach.
I shakily give the waitress my order when she arrives, and Thomas orders while I try to sip the water she brought us.
"What do you think they're doing right now?" I ask Thomas, once the waitress is gone. "The Normals, Janson and Ava Paige, all of them?"
"I can imagine they all know by now. Chuck is probably worried, Minho is probably impressed but angry that we didn't take him with us. Ava Paige and Janson are probably stressed beyond belief, which is really fun to think about," Thomas says.
"Why do you seem so calm about this?" I ask. If he doesn't realize the scope of what we're doing, I'm afraid to be the one to break it to him.
"Because I know that we're doing what's right," Thomas says. "It's scary, sure, but we're doing something that'll help people."
I want to believe him.
The waitress brings out our food a few minutes later, and I cannot believe the mountain in front of Thomas. There's pancakes, bacon, eggs, sausages—everything.
"What is that?" I ask, my eyes widening.
"Breakfast," Thomas says simply.
"For the whole town?" I ask, making him laugh.
"They don't feed me enough at TIMI," Thomas says. "I'm gonna take this opportunity while I have it."
I have so many questions for Thomas. They're all on the tip of my tongue, waiting to be asked. I've never been so intrigued by a person in my life, and the fact that I've put so much trust into him is baffling considering I haven't got much back information-wise. I know that him, his mother and his sister ran from an abusive father. I know that he attempted to run from TIMI once, and has been there for a long time. I know that he hallucinates but doesn't know exactly what he has. What else?
There's a slight wall of tension between us, but I can't tell if it's from our current situation, the events of last night, or even what happened this morning. Maybe all of it. Either way, it could be completely one-sided.
As we eat, my eyes keep drifting up to Thomas when he's not looking. I don't want to think about it, but last night keeps flashing in my mind. His face when he saw me in the hallway. When my eyes scan his face and find their way down to his lips, I immediately look away and am no longer hungry. I have no time for this right now—though he would probably disagree.
"Do you know where Winston's house is?" I ask, looking for a distraction from my thoughts.
"Of course, it's not too far from here," Thomas says. There isn't much food left on his plate now. "Are you finished?"
Thomas pays for our meals and we leave the diner, my stomach in knots thinking about our next stop.
"What will you say?" I ask, once Thomas gets in the car from putting my wheelchair away.
He takes a breath, then turns the car on. "The truth. She needs to know."
Thomas wasn't joking when he said the house wasn't far, because it only takes a few minutes of Thomas' questionable driving to get there. I was almost hoping it would be longer, because I'm absolutely dreading going in. It feels like walking into class when there's a test you know you didn't study for. Impending doom.
"You're sure you want to do this?" I ask. If Thomas suddenly decided right now to turn around and never look back, I wouldn't object.
"Positive. Let's go," Thomas says, hopping out of the car.
We parked a little ways down the street, so once I'm in my wheelchair, there's still a small walk involved. As we get closer, Winston's driveway seems to stretch a million miles long. His house is quite large, and it adds to the intimidating factor. There's a garden out front, but as we get closer to the front door, I see that the plants all look withered and untended to.
This is a beautiful house with a broken family inside. If Thomas is right, and they can get justice for their son, could we possibly help them heal?
Thomas knocks on the door, and I hold my breath. I count the seconds. Ten seconds. Twenty seconds. The door knob is moving. My heart is in my stomach.
A man answers the door. He only glances at me, but he looks at Thomas. The standing one, the one not in a wheelchair. I can imagine that would be annoying in any other situation, but right now, I don't want to be the one with the attention.
"Hello, Sir, is Mrs. Flores around?" Thomas asks politely.
The man narrows his eyes. Just like the house, he looks put together at first glance. But looking closer, his tie is done wrong, his hair is graying on the sides, and he looks utterly tired.
"Are you one of Winston's friends?" he asks.
"I am, and I was told to see Mrs. Flores with any information I have," Thomas says.
Another quick look down at me. Then back to Thomas again.
"Come in."
The inside of the house has a somber atmosphere that you can immediately feel in the air. There's a staircase at the entrance, and rooms on either side. We're guided into what I'm assuming is the living room, and I notice the crosses hung on the walls. Definitely a religious family.
In the corner of the room, there's a little table set up with candles, another cross, and in the middle, a picture of Winston. It makes me feel even sicker than I already was.
"Marie, there are people here to see you," the man raises his voice to call upstairs, then turns to address us again. "I'm Mr. Flores. You can just sit—" He looks at me, then shakes his head. "I mean—"
"We will, thank you," Thomas says from behind me. Mr. Flores gives us one more nod, before leaving us and going upstairs. There's two chairs and a couch, which Thomas wheels me over to now. He walks in front to face me, then looks down at the couch. "Do you want to sit on the couch, or stay in the chair?"
Figuring it would be weird to stay in the chair, I begin to stand and Thomas helps me onto the couch. Two steps to get on, then eight taps of my feet while Thomas is sitting down next to me. By the time I start my ten snaps, there are footsteps coming down the stairs.
I turn to face the source of the noise while I finish up, and see Mrs. Flores walking down the stairs and eyeing us carefully. She looks weaker than the last time I saw her—everything about her seems sunk. Frail.
Thomas stands up, and I feel rude for having to stay seated. "Hi, Mrs. Flores. I'm Thomas, we met at the memorial." When she finally comes into the room and sits down on the chair to our left, Thomas sits too.
"I remember you," Mrs. Flores says, with a small nod. "How are you here? Aren't you a patient at Ted Immenty?"
"We came here because we have more information," Thomas says, obviously avoiding her question.
"Are you also a patient?" It takes me a moment to register that she's talking to me and not Thomas. How do I respond to that? I technically am, but after running away, does it still count?
"I spent a while there," I decide on saying. My voice is shaky and quiet, and I can only hope she heard me clearly.
"My meeting with your lawyers isn't supposed to be today, but I was hoping I could push it up. We're sorta pressed for time," Thomas says.
"Well, what do you know?" Mrs. Flores asks. This is it.
Thomas looks at me, then back at her. "I found something out. Something about Ava Paige."
"Anything will help," Mrs. Flores says. Thomas sounds like he's stalling. Maybe he's not so confident after all.
"I found a letter in Ava Paige's office. It was from WCKD pharmaceuticals. I think she's working with them, getting medication and testing it out on us," Thomas says. Mrs. Flores' eyes widen.
"So she tested a pill out on Winston?" she says, her voice breaking.
"Not exactly," Thomas says. His leg is shaking, and his hands are fidgeting. He's nervous—he has every right to be nervous.
"Then what?" Mrs. Flores asks. She's getting impatient. No more stalling.
I turn to Thomas. His face has dropped, and he looks moments away from crying. He opens his mouth, then closes it. How's he supposed to do this?
"The medication wasn't meant for Winston." I'm saying the words before I can talk myself out of it. I couldn't let Thomas do this. He lives with enough guilt, the least I can do is break the news. "It was supposed to go to Thomas, but Winston took it."
"Why? Why would he take it?" She's crying now. I should have expected her to cry, but it still throws me off guard.
"Winston felt he wasn't getting what he needed, and Thomas felt he didn't need what he was getting. So..." I take a deep breath. This is harder than I thought, and I was not planning on telling her. "Thomas gave Winston what he wanted, because he thought he was helping. It was fine until he got the new pill."
Winston's mother is looking at the ground. Thomas is looking at me. I feel guilty and I didn't even do anything. But she needs to know what happened to her son. This is a lot larger than an awkward conversation. I can feel Thomas bracing himself next to me.
"What else?" Mrs. Flores asks with a sniffle after a few silent moments. I'm shocked at her reaction, but she looks so resigned that it actually makes it even sadder than getting angry. This woman has been through more than any mother should have to.
"We broke out." Thomas blurts it out, looking back at her. Her eyes widen, and he continues while my heart drops to my stomach. "I found out that they were going to give Newt"—he points to me—"something new and I broke us out to come see you. Ava Paige can't be in charge of those kids anymore."
"You broke out of Ted Immenty? How?" She looks conflicted. Telling her was a mistake. She could call someone and get us in trouble. She could call TIMI, she could call the police. What would they do to us?
"We had to, it was the only way. We needed to tell you what we know, and I had to save Newt and everyone else from them," Thomas says.
"But breaking out—isn't that illegal?" she asks.
This was a bad idea. This was a really bad idea.
"Are you going to get us in trouble?" I ask. It occurs to me that I need a new dosage of anxiety medication, because clearly this one isn't working for me.
Mrs. Flores looks between us. "No. But I'm going to need to record you saying everything you know before you leave," she says. I exhale.
"No problem, I'll tell you everything," Thomas says, also looking relieved to hear her say that she won't rat us out.
Mrs. Flores gets up, presumably to get a camera. I turn to Thomas.
"Are you going to leave in all the things that will get you in trouble? That'll get Vince in trouble?" I ask.
Thomas nods. "I don't care about getting in trouble. This is going to her lawyers, and I won't use Vince's name. But even if I did, in the end, we're not the ones that did anything wrong."
I'm not sure how much Vince will like that, but I don't press. He's right, we really aren't at fault here. But as for where we stand legally, I'm not so clear on that.
When Mrs. Flores comes back with a camera, two pieces of paper and two pens, she sits down on the edge of the coffee table in front of us.
"I'm going to film you telling the story, then I'll need you both of write out your sides and sign it," she says, turning on her camera. She's talking quickly, like she's trying to get through this without breaking down.
My palms are sweating, and I notice I'm tapping my foot in tens. What do I say? I've never been great under pressure, and the camera on me will make it even worse. Technically, I wasn't involved in the case at all. I didn't know Winston, I wasn't with Thomas when he saw the letters to Ava Paige. All I know is what he told me.
"Can it only be me on the recording?" Thomas asks. For a moment, I think I'm the one that asked. It's like he read my mind. "I'm the one with the information, he doesn't know anything I don't."
Mrs. Flores considers this for a painstakingly long moment, then nods. "Fine. But I'll need you both to do the written statements."
"That's fine," Thomas says.
While she fusses with the camera, I tap Thomas' arm.
"Thank you," I whisper, keeping it so low that I practically mouth it.
Thomas gives me a quick smile and nod, and suddenly the camera is up. I scoot down the couch to the side, and Thomas looks into the lens.
The red light goes on. Mrs. Flores begins to list her name and the date. Then, it's Thomas' turn.
"My name is Thomas Green, I was a patient at Ted Immenty Mental Institution for two and a half years, and this is everything I know about the death of Winston Flores."
After Thomas' detailed video, and writing our statements—mine looking as neat as I could make it with a shaking hand—Mrs. Flores lets us go with the knowledge that she'd be sharing our story with her lawyers today or tomorrow. At the door, she stops us and gives us a few snacks from her kitchen that we try and fail to refuse.
I like her a lot, she's extremely kindhearted. She could have blown up at Thomas for giving Winston the medication. Even I would, if I were her. But she didn't. After meeting her, thinking about what she's going through breaks my heart even more.
The walk—for Thomas, anyway—back to the car is silent. I think we're both going over the last hour in our heads. We did the right thing, I'm confident in that now, but the process is the scariest thing I've ever had to go through.
When we're sitting in the front seats, Thomas leans his head back. His dark hair flops over his forehead, and all of the angles on his face, jaw and neck are sharp and defined. His skin is pale, and the bags under his eyes are still deep. But right now, as the small smile creeps onto his lips, I've never seen him look more... alive.
He quickly springs back up, and pulls out his phone, the smile settling onto his face. I don't know why he would be happy after something as heavy as that, but I'm not going to ask. After a minute of looking at it, he puts it down, then turns to me.
"Do you want to call your parents from a payphone?" Thomas asks.
The question stumps me more than it should. My obvious answer would be yes, but what could I even say to them right now that wouldn't end in telling them where I am?
"Not yet," I say. Thomas nods, then starts the car. "How far is the hotel from here?"
Thomas starts driving down the street in the opposite direction from where we came, and shakes his head.
"Actually," he says, "I had something else in mind."