Progress (Progress #1) by Amalie Silver

different. Light. Simple. A reggae of sorts, the song had a fast tempo fused with strange guitar distortions.
    “What are we listening to?” I shouted over the music, my knuckles turning white from the grip on the handle.
    He turned down the volume. “They’re called Less Than Jake. Third-wave ska. Love ’em. You like?” he asked, holding an invisible drumstick and hitting the dash.
    “Amazingly enough, I do. It doesn’t give me a headache.” I smiled, and glowed with anticipation of the afternoon. His mood definitely helped lessen my apprehension, as I hadn’t felt that calm with him since I’d first laid eyes on him. My anxiety had been replaced with deep breaths and quiet thoughts. “How many waves of ska are there?”
    He smiled so wide that a small dimple appeared. He clearly appreciated my question. “Just three.”
    We pulled off the highway, and within seconds he turned into a driveway. The house wasn’t far from mine, and I recognized the neighborhood. The simple home was two stories, brown with white trim. The screens were dirty but the landscape was clean. A short brick wall segregated the mulch from the grass, and two trimmed lilac bushes flanked both sides of the front door.
    “You want to come in, or do you want to wait out here? I’ll only be a few minutes,” he asked, taking the keys out of the ignition.
    I’m too curious to pass this up. “I’ll come in.”
    I followed closely behind. He jogged up the steps to open the unlocked door, and the aroma of bacon hit my senses followed by the distinct smell of men’s cologne, aftershave, and Irish Spring soap. Clean and masculine. The small entryway was uncluttered and inviting, and the split-level entry garnished a wooden banister on both stairwells. The steps down led to nothing but a closed door, and Jesse quickly ran upstairs to an open space.
    At the top was a living room and kitchen. An open window blew the curtain sheers elegantly, and faded green wallpaper covered two walls. The kitchen cupboards were painted white, and the countertops an old vinyl with dirty dishes littering their surface.
    “It’s big. I thought you’d be living in an apartment.” I said, but Jesse had disappeared up another short flight of steps to a narrow hallway.
    “Make yourself at home! There are cups in the cupboard by the sink and pop in the fridge!” he yelled down.
    I circled the room, looking at photographs of people I didn’t know and generic wall art that told me nothing of the man who lived there. The bookshelf held classics like Tom Sawyer, Great Expectations , and Moby Dick . I had to remove one to make sure they weren’t just a façade of cardboard replicas.
    I scanned the collection of books until I discovered a book that had tattered edges and a broken spine that had the appearance of being read over and over again.
    How to Cope With Bipolar Disorder. And another at its side: Commonly Prescribed Medications, Interactions and Side Effects.
    “Finding anything interesting?” he asked, appearing behind me.
    “Oh!” I gasped. “Um, have you read all of these? It’s quite a collection. Varied.”
    “Most of these are Dennis and Jake’s. Jake is a good buddy, and Dennis is his dad. But I’ve read a few of them, I guess.” He shrugged. “Are you ready?” He gestured toward the front door.
    I nodded and followed behind, quietly contemplating.
     
    ***
    “Where are we going?” I asked, watching the woods zip past as he drove. It was early afternoon, and the sun was beating down through the windshield.
    “Just a quiet place I used to go. Good greasy food.”
    The greens, yellows, and browns of spring blurred together outside as we sped down the freeway. I rolled down the window, and my short red hair whipped around my forehead, hitting the lenses of my sunglasses. I couldn’t stop smiling.
    He plucked a CD from his visor and switched the music. Looking over at me, he grinned and took a cigarette from my pack. “If you like this kind of