Page 13 of Unhitched
Chapter seven
Kace
Dave looks as if Mountain Dew were a person.
His hair is brown, I think? But it could be dirty blond.
On the East Coast, you’d call it scraggly, but in the Pacific Northwest it can pass as rugged–either way, it tiptoes the line of mullet, and somehow it pairs perfectly with the soul patch.
His green jacket is worn, the patches on it faded to the point that they’re unrecognizable.
His jorts have unintentional holes, and his sandals with socks complete the look.
He’s stopped on the other side of the street, his foot on the ground holding his balance on his bicycle.
He’s a real-life Forrest Gump, biking here from New York after he got back from the war, and he’s got enough stories and a good enough memory that I’ve never heard the same one twice.
He goes on a daily bike ride from the homeless RV camp, and our paths cross at least once a week.
The bike has a milk crate strapped to the back that carries a speaker and a Charlie Brown tree.
I know this because oddly enough, Dave is one of the most consistent people in my life.
He has been ever since I discovered my favorite taco and torta joint a few weeks into moving here.
I took an immediate liking to him the first time he biked past me beatboxing the Wheel of Fortune theme song, and it reminded me of my parents.
After our timing aligned for the third day in a row, I invited him to share lunch, and apparently, that’s how I landed my only friend.
When the crosswalk sign changes, he starts pedaling just fast enough to move forward and not fall over.
He doesn’t have a care in the world. As he approaches my picnic table outside Little Conejo, his singing voice projects through the air.
It’s loud and sunny, despite the overcast weather, going on about not worrying and being happy. I wish it were that easy .
“Good day, Kace,” he greets me, coming to a halt on the sidewalk before me.
“Dave. I ordered an extra sandwich with your name on it. It should be ready in a minute.” It wasn’t actually for him. It was for Mya, not sure if she had a chance to go grocery shopping today like she planned, but now that he’s here, I know Dave needs it more.
“I love you, man,” he says with a firm squeeze on my shoulder. “The way Jason Segel loves Paul Rudd.”
“Do you think that’s a good thing?” I smirk, ignoring the fact that I don’t know what I’ll do for a groomsman when I need one. Ruby and I talked about getting married, but she got promoted to VP of finance a few years back and became set on a promotion to CFO before planning a wedding.
“Sure is.” He gives me a partially toothless grin.
I glance at the approaching bartender, thanking her as I take my bag.
I have too much to get done today, so I opted for a to-go lunch instead of working here.
Pulling the extra sandwich from the white paper, I hand it over to Dave.
He thanks me and grins, showing off a few of his missing teeth again, and tucks it safely into his milk crate.
Giving me a salute, he aligns his foot with the pedal, presses forward and picks up the song right where he left off, like he was never interrupted.
His singing about how if you frown it brings everyone down fades as he gets further away.
The lyrics bring Mya to the forefront of my mind.
I’m baffled by how she’s absurdly fine after a breakup with someone she lived with.
I can’t help but wonder if it’s more of a “fake it until you make it” thing or if she’s one of those people who can see the upside of everything.
I don’t know if I should be jealous she's handling it better than I am or concerned about her coping skills.
Deciding it’s none of my business, I head home with only one sandwich.
Turning the key in the lock, I push the door open and immediately hear voices coming from the bathroom off the entryway.
I lock the door quietly, convincing myself it’s because I don’t want to interrupt whatever is going on and deny that I’m being a creep.
For as open as Mya is, I don’t understand her, and it’s one of the most unsettling things not to know the details and intentions of those around me.
I’ve been this way since I was a kid, never able to count on my parents being around consistently.
At the time, I thought they just didn’t understand me.
I wanted to take apart my Gameboy and see how it worked.
They wanted to watch game shows. Now that I’m an adult, I wonder if because I was such a smart kid, they thought I could raise myself or weren’t sure how to relate to me.
Either way, the damage is far past done, and now I only talk to them on Christmas and birthdays.
I set my lunch on the kitchen counter, thankful for once that the apartment is small.
“You really don’t miss Matt?” a woman’s voice echoes on the other side of the bathroom door. Oh. She’s talking to someone on speakerphone.
“I’m fine, really. I mostly feel bad that I wasted his time. We should have broken up sooner. He’s fine. Great, even,” Mya insists, and I wonder again if she’s putting on a brave face or means what she says.
“Just not great for you.” I can’t tell if the woman says it as a statement or a question.
“It was a red flag when we argued over our Valentine’s Day plans.” Mya sighs, and my stomach and brain flip through a range of emotions about how things could have looked different for us if she wasn’t at that restaurant.
“What did you want to do?” The inquiring voice and I are both curious.
“OMSI has a new exhibit where you learn about and play with light. I thought it would be fun,” Mya says wistfully. “And they had a special whiskey bar set up that I thought Matt would love.”
“You wanted to visit the museum of science for Valentine’s Day?”
“They have an ‘after-dark’ event. It’s adults only. I thought it would be cool. There’s also a laser show, and I don’t know. I wanted to do something besides just go to dinner. The only places we ever went for dates were restaurants. I told him there should be more to dating than dinner.”
“And he took you to dinner anyway.” I can hear the woman’s eyes roll in her voice.
I want to judge the guy for not giving his girl what she wants, but would I have chosen differently?
Despite being tired of going out to dinner with Ruby too often , I’d still be down for cliche because it’s comfortable and predictable.
I don’t have to stress about things going awry when it’s something I’ve done a hundred times.
“Yeah. It’s fine. I just thought it would be fun and different.
You know me, I hate doing the same things twice.
There’s so much to explore and experience.
” My heart thumps in my chest, Mya’s words both exhilarating and terrifying.
I’d kill for that mindset. Part of me does think that way, but a more significant part is too consumed by everything that could go wrong.
The security at events. The discomfort in an unfamiliar setting.
Being self-aware and a creature of habit isn’t great for living , but it sure as shit eliminates risks, which is what I’m best at and paid to do .
“Why don’t you come home? You can stay with us, and we can go on all the adventures,” the woman on the other end of the line suggests. Home? I wonder if she’s talking to her sister. I think Mya said her family lives in Eugene–two hours from here.
“Yeah, because living with a happy little family won’t make me think about how far away I am from having my own.” Her voice cracks, and it’s the first sign of negative emotion I’ve had a glimpse of. “No offense, El, but I’m barely holding it together here as it is.”
Guilt swarms through me at my eavesdropping, but selfishly I’m thankful as fuck to get this insider view.
“Okay, what about Mom and Dad? They would love for you to stay with them for a while. Until you get your own place.”
My own worst nightmare.
Mya chuckles, but it’s sad. “You know I love them, but living with your parents as an adult? It would massively feel like going backward in life.”
“And living on a stranger’s couch isn’t?”
I wonder if Mya took that jab like a punch in the gut because there’s silence on the other side of the door.
“It could be fun,” her sister says, taking the hint and redirecting the convo. “Your bedroom still looks like it did when you graduated high school, Damon Salvatore poster and all.” A laugh sounds from the other end of the phone.
“What can I say?” Mya’s voice feels lighter. “I’m a sucker for mysterious bad boys who are secretly squishy on the inside.”
I internally groan. Hearing a conversation about teenage heartthrobs is my karma for eavesdropping. I move to unwrap my sandwich and sit at the kitchen island but freeze mid-crinkle of the paper.
“Speaking of mysterious, tell me about this stranger you’re living with. Are you sure he’s safe?”
Mya giggles, and even though I have a feeling it’s at my expense, it’s a sweet sound. “Trust me, the only place I’d be safer is Emily Gilmore’s panic room. ”
“That locked down, huh? What’s he like? Give me the details. Is he hot?”
“He’d be hotter if he smiled more. He’s grumpier than Luke Danes.”
“You’ve been binge-watching Gilmore Girls again, haven’t you?”
“It’s the only show I own on DVD! I don’t want to mess up Kace’s Netflix algorithm. It’s already hard enough to contain my chaos with all my crafting.”
“He asked for it by letting a woman he knows nothing about move in.”
“Yeah. That’s wild, isn’t it? He feels responsible for my breakup. Technically he was the catalyst, but it was needed. It’s not his fault .” It’s nice to hear her say that, but it doesn’t make it feel any less true.
“But you moved in anyway?” her sister asks.
“Besides the fact that the ache in my back reminded me daily that I’m too old to sleep in a car, I don’t know, Ella. Something pulled me to say yes. I know it’s only temporary, but I like being here. As much as I try to tiptoe around Kace, I like his company.”
“So his hotness outweighs his grumpiness?” My sandwich has officially been abandoned.
“Yes.” Mya giggles. “He’s very hot. Think Josh from Younger but more ripped. And obviously more moody. But the rest is spot on.”
Note to self: Google search “Josh from Younger” later.
“Even the tattoos?” Ella questions, and I shake my head in amusement. I feel like I’m a fly on the wall at a sleepover a decade ago–every high school boy’s dream or nightmare.
“YES!” Mya squeals. There’s no other way to describe the sound she made, and I have to hold back a chuckle.
I’m flattered she finds me attractive, but it’s a moot point.
Starting to feel guilty now that I’ve become more than a side note in a conversation, I sneak out the front door, leaving my sandwich behind.
This time when I enter, I swing the door open with a little more force and loud feet.
I manage to hear Mya whisper, “Gotta go, I’ll call you later,” before ending the call and immediately turning on the shower.