Page 18 of Unhitched
Chapter ten
Kace
I half-expect to open my bedroom door to a bright and chipper Mya, but it's still dark when I step into the main space. Glancing toward the couch, I find her curled against the arm, a glow coming from her lap.
As I approach, I realize it’s a portable DVD player. I had no idea those things still existed. Mya doesn’t acknowledge me until I’m directly beside her. She glances up, slightly startled as she pulls headphones from her ears.
“Oh. Hey.” Her upbeat charm is nowhere to be found.
I shove my hands into the pockets of my joggers, thankful I put on a T-shirt because I’m fucking uncomfortable. I hid in my room like chickenshit from the moment we got home yesterday. “Morning.”
She hits pause on whatever she’s watching. “I’m sorry about yesterday.”
“Why?” My brows furrow. If anyone should be apologizing, it’s me. “You did warn me you were planning my worst date ever. ”
Her face falls even further, which I didn’t think would be possible. “We don’t have to hang out today if you don’t want to. I understand.”
“I was a jackass, and I shouldn’t have taken it out on you.” She opens her mouth to speak, and I already know what she’ll say, so I cut her off. “But I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Okay.” She closes her DVD player and sets it on the coffee table.
“But–”
She freezes, glancing back at me.
“I know this is bad timing, but something with work came up that I can’t miss this afternoon. Can we rain check for next weekend?”
“Yeah. No problem. I love rain.” She gives me a weak smile, and I feel like a fucking asshole.
I could probably rearrange the date and make everything fit this morning or an evening this week, but I hate being crammed on time.
I could also cancel the second half, but we may as well wait.
On the plus side, the movie I initially wanted to see will be playing next weekend at an old theater near Portland.
I’ve only ever gone alone. Though, it would have been nice for Ruby to join me on occasion.
The place is retro, a classic theater like none of the others that exist these days.
Plus, they have beer on tap and killer pizza.
She never understood why we’d drive thirty minutes to see a movie when a brand-new theater is within walking distance.
She doesn’t understand. Nostalgia ties us to a simpler era, and I, for one, am way too stressed all the damn time to not vacation there once in a while.
“Thanks. Sorry again. I’m going on a run then. Are we good?”
She nods too enthusiastically to possibly mean it. “Yup. I wanted to work out anyway.”
“Good.”
“Good,” she echoes.
We stare for a beat before I cut the tension by turning away. Not bothering to change, I slip into my navy Brooks and swipe my keys and headphones off the counter before I leave.
I’ve run one marathon, but I wouldn’t say I’m a runner.
I’ve got the typical natural talent many men have–the stupidly annoying ability to accomplish athletic endeavors without much training.
It helps that I lift weights, but it was absurd that I knocked out 26.
2 miles after only three months of training.
Mainly I did it because I wanted to prove to myself that I could.
That was a few years ago. I’d rather snowboard to keep in shape, but it’s not always practical.
So I just run one or six miles here and there, depending on my stress levels.
By the time the elevator hits the ground level, I’ve added fourteen songs to the queue, which should be enough to get me through six miles.
“Face Down” by The Red Jumpsuit Apparatus blares through my left earbud at full volume.
Leaving the right one out to stay somewhat aware of my surroundings, I head down the sidewalk leading to the waterfront.
It’s not raining, and it’s not cold enough to snow, but there’s a fine mist in the air that stings my face.
Hoping to warm up quickly, I take off running to the beat of the music.
Without looking at my watch, I know the music’s perfect tempo already has me on a good pace, and the cool air feels warmer against my skin by the time my playlist switches to “Weightless” by All Time Low.
Damn. They don’t make music as good as they used to.
Right.
Left.
Right.
Left.
Skip down the steps two at a time.
Right.
Left.
I let the steady beat of the song and my feet carry me along the waterfront path, trying to lose myself in the lyrics .
Right.
Left.
Mya.
Fuck.
I want anything except her in my head.
Ruby.
Definitely not her.
I pick up speed, pushing myself until I’m nearly breathless, but hold my pace anyway. I hesitate a step, enough to veer around a couple walking in the opposite direction who are too focused on each other to notice me flying toward them.
I slam my feet on the pavement harder than a runner should but not hard enough to erase that kiss from my mind. Half a kiss. A Peck. It was nothing . I made way too big of a deal out of it.
I already knew I had no desire to date.
Of course I’m attracted to Mya. I have eyes.
She’s like Jennifer Aniston–everyone’s type.
But attraction does not equal interest .
I don’t know nearly enough about her to make that call.
Plus, until I figure out how the fuck to resolve my trust issues, I don’t need to be dating or kissing anyone.
I’ll just pray that by the time I’m ready, any muscle memory and familiarity for only Ruby will be gone.
I follow the path along the river, under the I-5 bridge and through the tunnel of maple trees. It's a perfect three miles to Marine Park.
Once I hit the park, filled with barbeques and a grassy area that will be covered in volleyball nets come summer, I take a quick drink from the fountain before heading back. I glance at my watch; I’m on a good pace to land a time under forty minutes.
I push myself the entire three miles back, focusing on nothing more than the words to each song.
I don’t think about my roommate as Taking Back Sunday’s “Cute without the ‘E’” plays.
I don’t think about the fucking rays of sunshine that constantly emanate from her as Papa Roach screams “Last Resort” through my left earbud.
I don’t think about wanting a real taste of her lips on mine as “In the End” by Linkin Park takes me back to the Vancouver Waterfront Park.
Fuck.
Coming to a stop against the railing overlooking the Columbia, I take a breath and stop my watch. A top three time. Slipping my hands under my T-shirt, I bring it to my face, wiping away the sweat and feeling a rush of cool air on my stomach.
My heart pounds in my chest as my lungs work to get me oxygen to recover. I take in a deep breath of fresh, earthy air, and that “just rained” smell is soothing enough to help bring my heart rate down. I opt to lean my hands against the railing to take in the view before going to get water.
“I knew it was fucking you,” an angry voice projects from my right.
What the… I scan my surroundings to see who this man is talking to.
“I’m talking to you.” He points directly at me, and my eyebrows scrunch. Who the fuck is this dude? “Don’t act like you have no clue who I am when you were screwing my girlfriend.”
Shit. I should have known my Valentine’s Day antics would come back to haunt me, but I thought inviting a stranger to move in with me might have kept karma at bay.
I wouldn’t be able to place another person I saw that night besides Mya and only because she followed me out to the street.
I consider defending myself because I haven’t been screwing anyone’s girlfriend.
I can’t even kiss a woman without needing a date with the pavement.
Instead, I stare back like I don’t have all day.
“Whatever, man. Mya is all yours now.” His eyes scan me, and he chuckles .
Suddenly I’m aware of my clenched fist, and I realize maybe the anger building inside me might be a strange possessiveness taking over.
“Chill out. No need to punch me over it. Let me do you a solid–man to man. Watch your back. Mya is a classic serial dater. She’s never happy because she gets bored too easily. She checks out by the time three months rolls around.”
“Maybe you weren’t interesting enough,” I defend her for god knows what reason as I run my fingers through my sweaty hair. It’s sure as shit going to seem like I’ve been screwing her now.
He chuckles again. “Whatever helps you sleep at night, man. But tell me. Have you ever seen her stick with one of her silly art projects for more than a week? She can’t finish a workout program without hopping to another one.
Hell, she can’t even get through every season of her favorite TV shows without jumping ship for a few months.
You think people are any different for her? ”
What the fuck am I supposed to do with this information?
The accusations filter through my mind again as I take them in.
I can’t attest to the second two, but every time she crafts, it’s something completely different.
Not to mention she was living in her car–literally living life like she could flee at any moment. Fuck. Maybe he’s right.
It doesn’t matter though.
Regardless of what he thinks, I’m not screwing Mya. I’m not dating her. I have no desire to do either. So none of this is a concern. “I guess that’s not something you have to worry about anymore, is it?” I level him with a stare, holding my ground to defend my honor or some shit. Whatever.
Without giving him time to reply, I take off running back to my apartment.
Back to Mya.