Free Rewired (The Progress Series) by Amy Queau

doesn’t think she deserves to be happy. No, that doesn’t sound right, either. Wait, maybe I’m looking at this all wrong. Who is this guy? What kind of pull would he have for you to lose your judgment? Are you still with him? Is that why you’ve been so cryptic with your texts?
    Fuck! I hate not having the answers.

Chapter Two
     
     
    “I know, I know, Mr. Walker. I ran into a speed bump with the progress on your design,” Sam said over the phone.
    “What’s the speed bump?”
    “Well, I’m having issues contacting the person who owns the copyright to that specific stock photo you want to use. There are only so many times I can email the guy…”
    “We have a deadline, Sam,” said Mr. Walker, obviously annoyed.
    “Yes, and in our original meeting in New York you said I had until the ninth. That’s still four days away. It’s not going to be a problem, I can assure you. If nothing else, we can get a photographer to recreate the photo. Just give it until tomorrow.”
    “We’re counting on you, Mr. Bordeaux. I guarantee you, you don’t want to screw this up.”
    “No, sir. I’ll get it done.”
    After hanging up, Sam turned to his computer to check his email. No new messages. He picked up a pencil and began doodling on a sheet of paper. He drew circles, squares, smiley faces, all while ignoring Summer Breeze lightly singing from his phone. He turned his focus back to Charlie’s coat, this time glaring at it, hoping it would burn itself to ashes before him. And hoping his memories of Charlie would do the same.
    I can’t just sit here asking myself the same goddamned questions over and over. She doesn’t do anything without reason. She’s much too smart and calculating for that. None of it makes any sense. God, please…don’t let this be a girl I have to say ‘I used to know.’ I wasn’t ready for this. I trusted her. I believed her. I loved her.
    He stood, swiped the coat from the chair and grabbed his keys.
     
    “Fuck you. I don’t have anything to say to you,” Sam said aloud on the car ride over to their apartment. “No, there are no excuses. And please stop texting me.” He kept reciting all the responses he could think of to any question she might ask. “I know, I miss you too.” Back and forth, the spectrum of emotions flared—feeling sure he could let her go if he put in his best effort, and then denying something like that would even be possible. His love and infatuation for Charlie stemmed too deep to go without answers. I know she’s home. It’s a Tuesday night; she always stays home. Probably sipping on cocoa in her pajamas. I’ll just pick up the stuff I need for now and get the rest later. I probably shouldn’t even speak to her, not with my unstable mind.
    I just need answers. It’s going to drive me crazy. If I could just sneak into her head… His eyes shifted with a sudden thought.
    Making a mental list of items to retrieve from the apartment, he made sure to note his art supplies, a few books, extra underwear, and sneaking some of Charlie’s journals.
    He slowly approached the front door of the apartment complex. Reaching for the handle, he tugged on the door, trying to steady his breath.
    Arriving at their front door, he paused. Fuck. What if she’s not alone? He shook the keys lightly as a subtle announcement of his presence. Should I knock? He rolled his eyes. What am I saying? This is my apartment too. I’m just so fucking nervous.
    He turned the key and the lock clicked. He glanced in briefly and snapped his head back into the hallway again. Not seeing anything at first, he opened the door and stepped in. He instantly smelled Charlie’s perfume. A wave of pain and heightened awareness rushed through him, making the hair stand up on the back of his neck.
    “Cha…” He coughed and stopped to clear his throat. “Charlie?”
    There was no answer. Dammit. I’m pissed at myself for being disappointed that she’s not here. And, completely relieved.
    In a