Free Progress (Progress #1) by Amalie Silver Page A

comments back and forth, I sat quietly, trying to hold back my tears and watching Jesse leave through the window. Stupid stupid stupid.
    What was I thinking?
    Did I think this dress and some makeup would make me pretty enough for him? It’s just like he said.
    I’m no one.
    “I should probably go.” I cleared my throat. “I have to work tomorrow.”
    “Are you okay to drive?” Troy asked, standing with me.
    Nothing could have sobered me quicker than this night.
    “Yeah, I’m good.”
     
    ***
     
    When I got home, I ran to the bathroom. I scrubbed off all of my makeup, buffing so hard that my eyes and face turned bright pink. I brushed my teeth, turned off the light, and got into bed.
    You’re nothing, Charlie Johnson. Nothing. You’re a waste of a human being. A huge, worthless, disgusting human being.
    Like so many days growing up, I balled myself up under my sheets and sobbed.

 
     
    Chapter Eight
     
    Charlie
     
    My life hadn’t equipped me with the emotional maturity I needed to carry on like Jesse hadn’t broken me the night before. I was irritable at work, looking over my shoulder for someone who—according to the schedule—would be there that evening.
    Our paths didn’t cross often that night, and when they did, we didn’t speak to each other. That was fine by me. Every time he got within fifteen feet of me, my anger and unease flushed my skin and my flight instincts kicked in.
    But who was I to be angry with him? I was no one but a fat slob with an endless supply of cigarettes. There were no signs he viewed me as anything but a friend. My anger was irrational and I knew it, but that didn’t stop it from stinging like a bitch.
    If I stayed mad at him, our friendship was done. That’s how friendships worked. Yet his honesty and bluntness were just enough for me to question whether or not I wanted it to be the end. It wasn’t as though he’d feel it necessary to apologize, and for how drunk he was, he probably wouldn’t even remember his snide comments.
    “They’re no one. Let’s go,” he’d said.
    Most of what he said wasn’t far from illogical, and for all that I’d internalized when it came to Jesse, that unexplainable pull to know more about him strengthened. My whole life had proven I’d do the opposite with his kind of confrontational nature, but my intrigue was too piqued. And my self-esteem had me in a chokehold.
    I wanted to be somebody.
     
    I wanted to be somebody to him.
     
    There was something familiar about his pensive and bitter personality that made ignoring him next to impossible. I’d never been so conflicted with my pull toward someone. Hell, I’d never been pulled toward anyone like that, period.
    People flocked to me for advice and for sympathy. They wanted me to tell them they were right. On the other hand, Jesse sought confrontation, made people feel like shit, and tried to prove that they were wrong. We were completely opposite, but drawn together despite ourselves. His sad, gray eyes were too powerful to ignore. They reminded me so much of my own. I knew then that whatever triggered his anger was the same thing that triggered my complacency…a past too painful to remember.
    It was the only explanation. We’d both seen trauma and dealt with it differently.
    I sat in a booth after my shift, surrounded by loud, drunk regulars. Coupled with the clattering dishes and the music, the crowd did well to hide me in the corner. But just as I took my first sip of beer, Jesse slung himself into the seat across from me, wearing his street clothes and a funny grin.
    He plucked a stud from his pocket and wiggled his labret into his chin, then calmly folded his hands on the top of the table.
    “So what are we going to do tonight?” he asked.
    Was I supposed to be angry with him for making me feel uncomfortable at the patio party? Who was I to expect an apology anyway? I didn’t know how to feel. I set my beer down on the table, tugging at my lip.
    He narrowed his eyes.