Page 47 of Unhitched

Chapter twenty-nine

Kace

I examine the VHS spines again while I wait for Mya.

It’s mostly chick flicks, but a few classics catch my eye.

Mrs. Doubtfire. Pirates of the Caribbean.

The Prestige. Hugh Jackman is the Jennifer Aniston of men.

The Truman Show. Edward Scissorhands. The Matrix.

I love that series. I wonder if Mya has seen it or if she’d watch it with me.

I don’t deserve to plan a not date after dismissing her when I damn well know I have a “crush” on her too.

Resting my forearms on the bartop, I fiddle with the Rubik’s Cube in front of me.

I can’t believe we didn’t kiss last night.

I didn’t think about it until the car ride home this morning when I replayed the entire experience on repeat, but I can’t recall for the life of me if that was my doing, hers or a total fluke.

I’m spinning the colors randomly at this point, not even bothering to try and solve it.

All I know is I regret not finding out what it’s like to actually kiss her.

I was a fucking idiot for bailing the first time, and it’s too late now.

Because the overwhelming feeling of doubt outweighs my curiosity, and I hate myself for it. Or maybe I hate Ruby for it.

I lock in an entire row of white squares by accident and decide to put in a little more effort–if only to distract myself from thinking about the way Mya’s smile widens at every nostalgic reminder in this place.

I didn’t want to go out tonight, but that smile alone makes me want to drop to my knees and beg for a chance–amongst other tempting things.

Thankfully, we’ve stuck to our Fight Club agreement and haven’t mentioned our hookup all day.

I’m capable of a lot of things. Hell, I can hack better than Walter White can sell meth.

But if Mya brings up last night, knowing I can’t be with her, I might lose her altogether.

Where is she anyway? Setting the Rubik’s Cube down, I scan toward the bathroom.

This place is actually cool, and it occurs to me that maybe Mya holding on so tightly to nostalgia isn’t much different from simply choosing to focus on the good in life.

That being said, this place feels impossible to navigate between all the colors, games and people, so I don’t even notice when someone is standing next to me.

Finally she’s back.

I swivel in my bar stool, coming face-to-face with… not Mya. I stare at the brunette in front of me. She’s pretty if you’re into the Jersey Shore vibes, but she’s not my type.

Contradictory to everything I’ve believed in the past about the women I’ve been interested in, my type is Mya.

“Hi,” the woman says, her hand falling to my bicep. I follow the motion, staring at where we connect. I don’t want anyone touching me except for Mya.

“Uh. Hi.” I twist my chair enough that her hand falls away, immediate relief shooting through me.

“So my friends and I made a bet.”

I stare back, refusing to encourage whatever the hell this is.

“They think that girl you were with earlier is your girlfriend. Is she?”

“Yes,” I lie, although it feels like a trap.

“Well, you fooled me. You don’t seem that into her. It looks like you’d rather be anywhere else, to be honest.” My gut twists at the thought of Mya thinking I feel indifferent toward her. The random girl clasps her hand around my arm again. “I can fake an emergency if you need an escape plan.”

I narrow my eyes, tugging my arm and hoping she takes the hint. “The only escape plan I’m interested in is one with Sylvester Stallone.”

She trails her fingers up my arm, touching me without any indication that I want her. Leaning in close, I can smell the alcohol on her breath when she whispers, “You can tie me up if being trapped is your thing, then.”

She’s close enough to kiss me, and unease settles in my gut. It’s not that I’m opposed to tying up a woman and worshiping her body. But not this woman, and I’m even more irritated because she butchered my reference.

Intuition makes me glance up. Looking over the woman’s shoulder, I spot Mya, who is frozen in place about ten feet away.

She’s devastatingly beautiful. Simple Mya is my favorite.

Even without colorful clothing, she stands out.

She looks comfortable in the way that couch rotting with a Harry Potter marathon and a pumpkin beer makes you feel.

But right now, she also looks really fucking upset.

I stand, completely ignoring the girl failing to get my attention.

I should feel bad about being rude, but I don’t.

I brush past her, taking a few steps that bring me to Mya.

I want to pull her into me, make whatever she’s feeling disappear.

Instead, I shove my hands into the pockets of my jacket.

“What’s wrong?” I turn to follow her gaze, which is tracking something behind me–the girl going back to her friends in the corner. “What’s wrong?” I repeat.

“She was flirting with you,” Mya whispers, her eyes glossy.

My brows furrow. “What? I mean, I know, but…” I’m not sure what’s happening. I’m clearly not into her.

“I know you don’t want to date me or kiss me or whatever, but… ”

Panic floods my body. Without thinking, I reach for Mya’s face, framing it with my hands on her neck, my thumbs holding her jaw. I bend my knees enough to level with her. “But what?”

“What did I do to make you not trust me?” Her voice is soft and fragile simultaneously, and it breaks me.

Fuck. I can’t remember the last time I felt like this.

Maybe when I lived in Virginia and Ruby got denied for her dream job.

There’s an urge inside me to help her, make this better, but my instincts beg me to shut this down and push her away like I have been.

The last time I completely let someone in, she let someone else inside of her.

If I give an inch, how can I be sure this situation with Mya won’t spiral out of control too? I want so badly to get on this ride, but I can’t help but stress about the safety rating on the damn track.

Not wanting Ruby’s infidelity to bleed into my relationship with Mya anymore, I realize I have to give her something –something I can manage for now until I figure out what the next steps are. I need to at least get in the damn seat and click my harness into place.

I sigh, scaling my hands down her arms until my fingers link with hers.

She’s tense in my grasp, but she doesn’t pull away.

I tentatively stroke the back of her hands.

While it’s not grade-A flirting, I’m not running out the door.

“Mya,” I start, but instead of holding my gaze, her eyes drop to the ground.

“I just want to go home,” she mumbles.

“Hey,” I say. She doesn’t respond. “Mya,” I try again, invading her space by moving half a step closer–close enough to get a whiff of her sweet vanilla perfume. I squeeze her hands, and she finally glances up. “We’re going to talk about this when we get home.”

She hesitates. “You don’t talk about feelings, Kace.”

“We’re going to talk about it.” I’m firm, releasing her to pull my wallet from my pocket, moving away from her to hand a fifty to the bartender .

We walk home, the ten minutes dragging on in silence and tension. I itch to grab her hand again to comfort her, but I opt to just move to the car side of the sidewalk instead.

Mya makes a beeline for the couch as soon as we enter the apartment. She pulls the blanket she made for me from where it’s folded on the back of the leather and wraps it around her bare shoulders in a way that feels like she’s closing herself off.

I toss my keys on the counter, then rub my hands against the front of my jeans, realizing they’re sweaty.

I squeeze between the couch and the coffee table–past where she’s leaning against the armrest, her knees pulled to her chest–and sit on the far cushion.

Fuck. I lean forward, my forearms resting on my knees, unable to face her.

“Ruby was cheating on me for the last year of our relationship,” I admit for the first time aloud. I shake my head. “An entire year , and I had no clue,” I say more to myself than Mya.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, sounding genuinely upset for me. “But I’ve never cheated on anyone, Kace.” She takes a breath. “I would never cheat on you.”

Her confession slams into my chest so hard I swear it knocks the air from my lungs.

Not the cheating part, but the way she’s openly admitting she wants to be with me.

“What Ruby did fucked me up. Partially because of the action itself. Partially because I feel like a goddamn idiot for not seeing it.”

“You’re not an idiot,” Mya whispers, and I glance over to see her staring at the blanket where her fingers hold it together at her chest.

I sigh. “Mostly it’s that she should have made it clear that things weren’t working between us anymore. She wasted time I can’t afford to waste.”

Mya looks up. “What do you mean?”

“I want to get married and have a family. I’m thirty-one, and I don’t trust anyone. It will take time for me to find someone, and I have to give myself a leg up by trying with someone who doesn’t have a track record of staying with men for the hell of it–because they can’t break up with someone.”

I watch in what feels like a slow-motion assault as my words process in her mind. Her eyes widen. Her body freezes.

Like the asshole I am, I continue, trying to backtrack.

“I know that my issues from Ruby are my problem. There’s nothing you can do because I’m not in a place to trust you.

Your past tells me you can’t handle a relationship, and I don’t trust that in three months, or a year, or however long from now, you won’t hurt me too.

” So much for backtracking the attack on her.

Choosing not to dig a deeper hole, I shut my mouth.

She’s silent, like she’s considering her response, and I give her the space to do so.

I have a hundred other things pounding against the cell walls of my chest to get out, but they’re more jumbled than a tangled phone cord.

“It’s not that you don’t want someone to be the exception.

” Her shoulders slump. “You just don’t think that person can be me.

” The sadness in her voice is almost enough to make me take it back.

I take a breath, running my fingers through my hair.

Fuck. This is why I didn’t want to have this conversation.

There’s no winning. For either of us. I’m not in a place to trust her, regardless of if she deserves a chance.

And there’s nothing she can do to change that because nothing can make me forget her track record.

It’s a catch-22. It’s something that won’t work until I figure out how to get the fuck over it.

Maybe that therapist can get me in on short notice again.

I do want her to be the exception, but that’s not enough.

“I’m sorry,” I say instead of the dozen things that would make her feel better.

Her gaze falls to the hardwood floor, wrapping her arms tighter around herself. “I want to be alone right now.”

I nod. “Okay.” Standing, I hesitate in hopes of something changing. Of her saying something that will prove I can trust her even though I’m convinced I can’t. It’s fucked up. The moment I accept that, I walk away, leaving her curled up and alone on the couch as I retreat to my room.

I don’t even bother removing my jeans as I flop myself onto my bed, feeling guilty about sleeping here while Mya sleeps on the couch. Or is it that I wish she were in this bed with me and know it’s sure as shit my fault she isn’t?