Page 25 of Unhitched

Chapter fifteen

Mya

“How cute should I look?” I yell at Kace through his bedroom door, still wrapped in a towel. I was so focused on washing off the sweat and spice, I forgot to grab clothes before hopping in the shower.

He cracks the door open, his face a few inches above mine as he looks down at me. He takes in my lack of clothing for only a second before snapping to my eyes. “Just wear something comfortable.”

I scan the bits of his outfit I can see through the crack in the door.

Corduroy pants and a maroon hoodie with a “VT” logo on the front.

I wonder what that stands for. “Okay. Thanks.” I turn away, the door closing behind me as I make my way to my suitcases in the corner of the living room on the far side of the couch.

I dig out black leggings with an oversized bright blue crewneck that says “Super Nova Girl” in galaxy block letters. Perfect. I dress quickly and make my way back to the bathroom to put the top half of my hair up into two space buns.

I turn my head from side to side as I look in the mirror.

Nailed it. If only my eyes weren’t still red from the burn of the nut powder in the air alone.

I have to admit, despite the physical pain that challenge caused, part one of Kace’s date day was surprisingly fun.

Seeing a new side of him–one that apparently does know how to crack jokes–unlocked a new level to my crush.

I didn’t expect him to come up with something creative, something I’ve never done.

I might not have come up with the idea on my own, but even if I had, no guy I’ve ever been with would have done it with me.

I picture Matt saying something like, Why would we eat something bad when we could get something that tastes good?

He doesn’t understand that sometimes it’s about the experience.

Maybe Kace gets that more than I thought he would.

Leaning closer to the mirror, I swipe on a coat of mascara, then reach for my tweezers to take care of stray eyebrow hair. I swear they grow faster than any other hair. It’s like every time I take a shower, I become a Chia Pet.

“Ready?” Kace calls through the door.

I flick off the light, slipping into the entryway.

“Let’s zoom zoom zoom, Proto Zoa.” I flash him a smile as I swipe my pink and white checkered fanny pack off the kitchen counter, and it widens the longer he stands there staring at me like I’m E.T.

“Let’s go!” I give him a light push on his shoulders until he finally turns toward the door and leads us out.

He glances over his shoulder. “You look like candy.”

“Oh! My perfume.” I turn back, slipping inside, finding my marshmallow spray on the bathroom counter and spritzing my neck. Kace is waiting for me when I reemerge. “And now I smell like candy.” I grin.

“You do know you’re an adult, right?” he asks with another one of his blank stares.

“You do know you can be responsible and still have fun, right?” I mock him.

He looks at me with an arched brow, like he’s still not convinced I know the meaning of responsibility .

“My bills don’t get paid based on how I dress. Adults get to choose what they wear or smell like and don’t need the approval of anyone.”

“I think most employers would disagree.”

“Well, it’s a good thing I’m my own boss then, isn’t it?

” I grin. No matter what he says, I’ll have a comeback.

Am I still uncertain about a lot of things in my life?

Yes. Especially my love life. And I question daily if my little crafting business will be sustainable forever.

But it works for now, so why would I change it?

“Did your parents stunt your self-expression as a child?” He reaches behind me to lock the door, and we make our way to the elevator.

“No way.” I step into the metal box and push the parking level button as soon as Kace is inside.

“They’re the best. Straight Sonny Koufax.

Except instead of letting me wear a strainer on my head and pee on the sides of buildings, they let me wear my hair like Pippy Longstocking every day for a year.

And instead of calling me Frankenstein, they called me JJ because I was obsessed with Junie B. Jones.”

“You still don’t go by your real name.”

“Damn. I was hoping you’d forget that.”

“I don’t forget things, Eleanor .”

“No. Nope. Absolutely not.”

A smirk escapes him along with a twinkle in his eye. “What’s so bad about it?”

“It’s an old lady's name, first of all. Second, do I look like an Eleanor to you?”

He contemplates it as the elevator jolts to a stop in at the garage level. “So how’d you end up with the name anyway?”

The question strikes me simply because it’s the first time Kace is asking me personal questions that aren’t for a background check.

“Well,” I say as he lets me out of the elevator first. I look over my shoulder as I make my way to the parking garage.

“My parents are obsessed with the Beatles. My older sister, Stella, got the cool name. I was named after my mom’s favorite song. ”

“That’s depressing.” He pushes the black metal bar on the tinted door leading to the garage.

I pause as I pass by him, the cool air of the garage hitting my face. “At least they gave me a workable middle name. Can you imagine if it had been Rigby? Oh the horror that would have been.”

He looks baffled by the entire situation. “But they named you after a song about a woman who is lonely as fuck.”

“I guess. But I don’t know, I think it’s a reminder to me that knowing you’re isolating yourself is half the battle.

I can choose to put myself into situations where I don’t feel as alone, even when I’m feeling detached, or I’m convinced no one understands me.

That’s part of why I prefer Mya. It’s my active choice to be the person I want to be, rather than the version of me who feels trapped.

” It’s the first time I’ve spoken that thought aloud, and a wave of shyness overcomes me realizing that Kace was likely not the person to reveal it to.

“That sounds stupid, I know,” I mutter, walking ahead, even though I have no idea what Kace drives.

A hand touches my arm from behind. “It’s not stupid,” he says, and then with a light grip, he guides me in the other direction, toward his… truck apparently.

“So where are we going?” He unlocks and opens the passenger side door to his black Toyota Tacoma. “Thanks.” I slip past him, hopping onto the seat.

Walking in front of the truck to the driver’s side, he slides in next to me, pausing with his key halfway to the ignition. He glances over to meet my waiting stare. “Therapy.”

I laugh. “No, really. Where are we going?”

“I told you,” he says, the key clicking into place as his glance shifts to the backup camera.

I open my mouth to speak but snap it shut, not knowing how to respond, or how I feel about it. I’ve never been to therapy .

“Don’t tell me I finally figured out the secret to get you to stop talking?” He spares me a glance as he drives out of the dark parking garage and into the daylight.

I quickly recover. “Saving all my talking for therapy.”

He accepts my response, keeping his eyes on the road. He didn’t put a location into the GPS, so we’re either not going far or he’s been to this therapy place before.

“So,” I start, unsure how to phrase the question I want answered.

If we’re going to therapy, it’s something he wants to do–that’s the point of this challenge.

It also means it's something he feels he’d be judged for or unsupported through.

Not wanting him to feel either of those things from me, I shift directions. “How do you want to play this?”

He flicks on his blinker, coming to a complete stop before looking both ways and turning right. “What do you mean?”

“We should pretend we’re in a relationship, right? For this to work.”

“Yeah. I mean we did last week. So I figured we could manage it today.” He spares me another glance that looks… vulnerable, I think. I consider harassing him for a second about how it probably didn’t look like we were together after he ran out on me, but I decide against it.

“Absolutely. Let’s just wing it. We’ll follow the other person’s lead and stick to each other’s stories.”

His grip tightens around the steering wheel. I don’t know why he’s so tense when this was his idea. “Okay.”

“Okay,” I echo, unzipping my fanny pack and pulling out a Blow Pop.

I unwrap it, sucking the burst of strawberry into my mouth.

Ignoring the strained silence between us, I flatten the candy wrapper between my fingers.

I fold it the way I used to fold starburst wrappers to make a necklace, focusing all my attention on that rather than the chaos of the “what ifs” running through my mind.

Kace's thumb presses into a button on his steering wheel and a loud drum and guitar intro fills the space between us. I glance at the display. “All I Want,” by A Day to Remember. I never got into the punk rock scene as a teenager, but I recognize the name. He doesn’t bother to turn it down as the beginning vocals blare through the speakers at a deafening volume.

The next ten minutes pass without a word between the two of us–not like he could hear me unless I snuck in a word between songs. It flipped to BOYS LIKE GIRLS next, then Fall Out Boy. I surprisingly knew both of the songs. They must have been really popular.

He pulls into the space at the back of a lot in front of office buildings. Yanking the key from the ignition with more force than necessary, the music cuts. The whoosh of cars speeding by replaces the song, but it’s not nearly as loud as the tension filling the air.