Page 2 of Unhitched

Chapter two

Kace

Adjusting my laptop bag on my shoulder, I cut across the gym parking lot.

It’s only three blocks to the restaurant I use as an office for a working lunch to avoid feeling cooped up.

I’m smart enough to know if I didn’t keep up the habit after Ruby left, I might never leave my apartment again.

And after the disaster four nights ago, I need to stick to a healthy routine more than ever.

I pick up my speed, hoping my brisk walk will counter the icy air. I almost make it to the other side of the lot before I notice a pink Jeep. Even with the glare from the midday sun glinting through the clouds, how could I miss it? It’s a pink Jeep. Who the hell even knew that combination existed?

A frazzled blonde stumbles out of Barbie's dream car, the strap of her bag falling off her shoulder as she tries to tie up her hair. I stop in my tracks a few parking spaces down because it’s hard to look away from a train wreck.

Once her hair is secure, she reaches into the backseat of the car, leaning so far inside that the entire top half of her body disappears.

I can’t help but stare at the way her black leggings cling to her perky ass.

What am I even doing? I shake my head in an attempt to divert my gaze because I’m well aware I’m being a total creep.

Failing miserably, I watch as she grounds herself, shoving a few more things into her bag. When she turns to close the car door, I’m hit with déjà vu. Huh. She looks vaguely familiar. My eyes widen in recognition as a whispered curse slips out.

The girl from the restaurant.

The victim of the date I disturbed. Apparently it was disrupted in a good way, but that’s hard to believe.

The whole ordeal felt like an out-of-body experience that I regretted immediately when I woke up the next day.

Valentine’s Day aside, I’m not usually a total jackass.

For some reason, Mya–I think her name was–didn’t seem to think I was.

But if she wanted to break up with the guy, why didn’t she just do it?

Why wait so long? It’s the question that’s been running through my mind on repeat since Ruby did the same shit to me.

Only Ruby finally bit the bullet and brought me to my knees all on her own.

That memory is burned into my mind, on repeat like an overplayed song on the radio.

She didn’t come home until after midnight one night–rare for her even though she was the work-late-in-the-office type.

She hadn’t responded to a single text, but for some reason when she walked into our room, I felt anger over worry and relief for the first time.

“Where have you been?” I asked her, sitting up in bed from where I had been staring at the ceiling.

She kicked her heels off and tossed them to the side.

“None of your business,” she snapped but then sighed, and a wave of dread washed over me.

She sat on the edge of the mattress, and the weight of it felt so much heavier than it should have.

Taking out her earrings, she didn’t even spare me a glance as she said, “This isn’t working for me anymore, Kace.

I’m sorry. I’ve been seeing someone else, and I’m tired of hiding it. ”

I sat there, a tornado of shock and anger brewing inside me.

I told her to fuck off, to get out of the apartment, and she grabbed her suitcase from the closet–already packed, I numbly realized.

She left without a fight–without a conversation, or so much as a “nice knowing you, thanks for the company during eight years of my life.” The self-hatred didn’t kick in until the next day when I realized I should have seen this coming.

I shake my head, clearing the memory, and huff my contempt for the girl I spent the majority of a decade loving–not well enough apparently, but regardless.

Mya locks her car with a beep on her fob and walks toward the gym.

Once she’s through the glass doors, and before my brain registers what the fuck I’m doing, my feet take me to her car.

Despite knowing I should leave it alone, this girl intrigues me more than a passing curiosity.

Glancing back at the gym entrance again to make sure she’s not within sight, I cup my hands around my eyes and peer through the window.

God, I’m a creep.

But… More importantly, why does her backseat look like it’s a bed?

There’s a pillow on one end, and blankets lying across the leather like she sleeps there.

Does she live in her car? There’s no way.

She’s a grown-ass adult. I spent all of three minutes with the woman but she has to be around my age.

I’m thirty-one, and I can’t imagine she’s older than that.

Either way, it would be insane for her to live in a car.

My heart feels like it’s smashing from side to side against either lung, making it hard to breathe. Did I do this? My self-pity rampage caused her breakup, and as a result, she’s homeless?

Running my hands through my hair, I step away from the car and take a breath, exhaling a cloud of condensation. I’m overreacting. Everything isn’t about me, and I’m sure there is a logical explanation for this.

I shove the thoughts into a compartment in the back of my brain and continue on my way. I had to pick up the pieces of my life when my relationship ended. I’m sure this girl is more than capable of doing the same, and where she sleeps in the meantime is none of my business.

Although, living in a car isn’t safe, and I fucking hate that. Vancouver is primarily green on the crime map, but the yellow gets a little spotty here in downtown. It’s nothing like Portland, but still.

Still .

No. Not my problem. I have enough of those to deal with at work, which is where I need my focus. I turn down the next street, and the brick exterior of the corner restaurant comes into view. The dependability of my favorite taco and torta joint always being there is just what I need.

Reaching for the handle, I hold the door open for a couple of businesswomen to step through, then follow them in, thankful I no longer have the desire to bite the head off of any woman I encounter.

Too bad that wasn’t before I became partially responsible for a girl now sleeping in her fucking Jeep. I shake the thought away again.

To the left is a small seating area with mismatched round and square wooden tables, all the chairs looking like they’ve come from a variety of grandmother’s homes. I find a seat on a metal stool at the end of the L-shaped bar against the wall.

By the time my laptop is out of the bag and open on the concrete bartop, the bartender, Rocco, is in front of me, holding up an empty glass. “Hey, Kace. The usual?”

Tattoos scatter his arms–his are random and chaotic in design and color compared to my grayscale foggy forest. I push up the sleeves of my black and white flannel, revealing the bottom half of the design. My forearms flex in the process, reminding me how sore I am from this morning’s arm workout.

I nod, but he’s already rolling the rim of the glass in black salt. A few moments later, the mezcal cocktail is on a coaster next to my computer. “Thank you.” I cross my ankle over my knee, settling my fingers on the keyboard and glancing at the open kitchen in the back of the restaurant.

He hooks a thumb over his shoulder. “The kitchen wants to try out a new dish. You in?”

“Always.” I give him a nod. Now that Ruby is out of my life, I’d say I see Rocco more than anyone.

It’s sad as fuck considering all he really knows about me is my favorite drink on the menu, that I’m always down for whatever dish they want to serve, and that I don’t like to be bothered while I work.

He walks away, leaving me to fire up my VPN and bring up my chat window on Discord.

I moved here from Virginia when Ruby got a job as director of finance for Columbia Sportswear.

I hadn’t found my dream job yet, so there wasn’t a good enough reason to say no.

I could hate her for it, the way I’m pulled to hate everything else in my life that’s a result of loving her, but the truth is, the Pacific Northwest is home.

I grew up in Charleston, West Virginia, and I didn’t dislike it, but I love living in Vancouver.

The mountains. The trees. Look in any direction and drive three hours or less and you can snowboard.

There are too many small-town breweries to even know them all.

And that’s not even considering the food.

“They must have known you were going to say yes,” Rocco chuckles, setting a tin plate with a fat torta in the space next to me.

The. Food.

Fuck, I love the food. The tortas here are out of this world. And while I’ve never had this specific one, I’ve yet to be let down.

“Thanks, Rocco.” My eyes lock on the golden toasted bread as I reach for it.

He leaves me to my meal as I take the first bite.

I groan internally as the flavor explodes in my mouth.

Soft bread, crisp on the outside. Marinated pork.

Avocado that they did not skimp on even though they never charge me extra.

I chew and look at the meal in my hands, examining the flavor profile.

I think it’s an orange-habanero salsa. Red onions and cilantro.

Never enough cilantro, but I’ll let it slide.

What the hell is this crema sauce? I would commit a crime for this sauce. That says a lot coming from a guy whose dream job would be snatched away if he did so. I take another bite, savoring the second even more.