Page 52 of Unhitched

“Yes.” I shock both of us with the speed of my response, feeling my eyes widen. I told Mya I don’t have time to waste with her, but I don’t think I’d get over her at this point. I watch a smirk grace Angela’s face before she neutralizes it again.

“When you went to college, you chose a major that would lock you into certain jobs. You committed. It was the only way to know for sure if it was what you wanted.”

“Yeah.” Hearing it in different terms unlocks something. My mindset seems to be rearranging its matrix. “Yes. Okay,” I resolve. Mya is what I want, who I want to be with, and I can’t continue to let anything within my control keep me from her.

By the time I return from therapy, I need sustenance before I can come up with a plan to show Mya I’m ready to make this work.

I already scheduled another session for next week because I know that one was a start but not enough.

I need help with creating lasting trust, and I’m hoping after a few more on my own, Mya might be willing to go with me again.

Making my way to the kitchen, I scan the main living space. No Mya. Weird. I assumed she’d be here working on an art project.

Opening the cabinet, I reach for a glass.

What is that? I pull down a cup that doesn’t match my set.

It looks like a glass beer can, but there’s a design etched on the side.

I twist the cup in my hand. It’s a mountain, and it says, “Live like the mountain is out” in bold lettering.

It’s my favorite expression people in the Pacific Northwest use.

It’s the idea that even on cloudy days, you should live your life with the energy you feel with a clear and stunning view of the mountain.

Mya must have bought these. Or maybe she made them.

I glance back in the cabinet to see two others, all with a mountain theme.

I examine the frosted fine lines. I’m pretty sure she made these.

Not because there’s a flaw–they’re perfect.

They could easily be sold in stores. I just have a feeling she made them. For me .

I’m such a dick for snapping at her in the car the other day.

It’s overwhelming as fuck how attracted I am to her–how much I want to try to be with her.

But my mind has finally tipped over the edge that leads me to act on it.

Filling the glass with water, I chug almost all of it in a few gulps.

I set it on the counter, pressing my palms to the marble.

Where is Mya? I scan the room again, noticing her phone on the coffee table.

I make my way to it, pulling a mini sticky note from the screen.

Needed to touch grass. Be back later.

Panic slams into my chest like a child jumping on it.

What the fuck does she mean “touch grass?” And why did she leave her phone at home?

She could have at least taken it with her.

How the hell will I know if something bad happens?

How long am I supposed to wait? How long has she been gone? Where would I even look for her?

Walking toward the floor-to-ceiling windows, I tug on the blackout shade. It shoots up, curling in on itself all the way to the top, and revealing a view of downtown Vancouver with a Twilight filter.

Everything is a dull blue. The sky. The fog over the Columbia River. The mirrored sides of apartments and business buildings. The air even looks cold.

The sidewalk– Is that Mya? I press my face a few inches closer to the glass like it’ll help me see seven stories down to where a woman is lying on her back on the cement.

She bends her knees, her arms crossing over her stomach.

That’s definitely Mya. Her blonde hair splays across the concrete in a fan around her head.

She’s wearing a sweatshirt I’ve seen her in before with leggings.

At least she’s not trying to get hypothermia, but what the fuck is she doing out there?

Without bothering to pull down the blind, I head toward the door, swiping my Virginia Tech hoodie from the hook in the entryway.

Tugging it over my head, I opt for the stairs instead of waiting for the elevator.

I take them two at a time, pausing to catch my breath only when I reach the front door to our complex.

Pushing through it, I take an immediate right, only a few steps away from Mya. She doesn’t flinch as I approach, and that’s concerning in itself. The storm clouds have opened just enough to turn the air into mist, and the coolness wets my face as I squat beside her, my forearms resting on my knees.

“Hey, what are you–are you crying?” I’m unsure if the water streaming from her eyes and into her hair is rain or tears.

Still looking toward the sky, she doesn’t even glance my way. “I needed to feel the rain on my skin,” she says, her voice thick with emotion.

“Mya, what’s wrong?” I try again.

She finally glances over, giving me confirmation that she’s crying. Her voice cracks. “Liam is dead.”

Panic surges through me as I drop to my knees next to her, my jeans dampening against the wet cement. “Who is Liam?”

“Liam!” she cries like I’m supposed to know who the fuck she’s talking about.

I thought I’d been paying attention. I feel like I know a decent amount about her.

“From One Direction,” she exclaims with aggravation, but it all fades away, and she starts sobbing.

Her palms dig into her eyes, her cries racking through her shaking body.

I’m so fucking confused, but all I want to do is comfort her.

“Hey. Mya.” She continues to cry. “Talk to me. Did this happen today?”

She shakes her head, her hands still covering her eyes.

“No. It happened a while ago. But I just… I forget sometimes. Bu t a post popped up and reminded me that he’s dead,” she manages before she chokes on a cry.

“He was so young and–” She sucks in a breath.

“It's not fair.” She sniffles so hard I’m concerned she hurt her brain.

“And why is life so confusing? How am I old enough to experience tragedy?” Another sob cracks in perfect unison with pronounced raindrops.

I don’t think this is all about Liam. “My Tamagotchi died again.” She lets out a sigh that feels devastating.

“Britney’s conservatorship destroyed her.

Don’t even get me started on the Nickelodeon documentary. Everything is falling apart.”

She’s spiraling.

I readjust myself, lying down next to her. The cement is cold, even through my hoodie, but I move close enough to feel her faint body heat.

She removes her hands from her eyes to look at me. “What are you doing?”

“Feeling the rain on my skin.”

She releases a sad laugh, then sighs as she brushes some of the rain from her face. “Seriously, Kace?”

“I’m not leaving you out here alone, and I have a feeling you’re not ready to go inside yet.”

She tilts her face back toward the sky and closes her eyes.

“I feel like Brittany Murphy spinning around and around in that teacup with Dakota Fanning.” She goes silent.

“I’m spinning round and round, and nothing feels okay, but I don’t know how to get off,” she adds like she knows I was confused at the reference.

“I’m thirty, and I have nothing to show for it.

I live in an apartment with a guy I’m not in a relationship with.

I have an unstable job. I wing every second of my life like nothing matters except the present.

But what fucking good is that, Kace?” She cries for another second, attempting to take breaths but choking on her sobs.

I want to take her inside, to hold her, calm her down, but I think she needs to get this out, and if she doesn’t, I won’t know how to help her in the first place .

Batting at her eyes, she continues. “I know it’s my fault for not leaving guys until they leave me.

I’m not trying to be a bad person or lead them on or waste their time.

I settle because I’m afraid. I’m terrified it’s so late in the game that if I leave the wrong person, it doesn’t guarantee I’ll find the right one. What if I’m alone forever?”

The angel on my shoulder tells me I could be the right person for her, but despite wanting that, the devil makes another appearance and throws a punch when she reminds me that settling is her bad habit. “You’re not going to be alone forever,” I reassure her.

“How do you know that?”

“Because anyone would be lucky to be with you. You’re always coming up with projects to brighten people’s day–thank you for our new glasses, by the way.”

“You’re welcome,” she whispers, refusing to look my way.

“You’re smart enough to figure out any project you’re inspired by.

” I shift to face her a bit, the cement cold and wet under my side.

“You’re fun. Outgoing. Adventurous. Beautiful.

You’re everything so many people wish they could be, and instead of acting like you know it, you help everyone else live brighter too. Who wouldn’t want to be with you?”

“You,” she whispers, and like the fucking idiot I am, I let it hang in the silence between us.

My heart thumps in my chest, my mind reeling with all the words I could say.

I don’t know which ones are right, and I don’t have the tools to knock down my walls and figure it out.

“Gwen Stefani was right,” she mutters but doesn’t follow up on the thought.

I’m pretty sure she’s talking to herself.

“At least I know how to spell bananas,” she continues, and a part of me wishes I had first-class tickets for her thought train.

It’s as wild as Phoebe Buffay’s. “I’m just having a midlife crisis.

Or a midnight crisis. One or the other.” She sighs.

It’s only six in the evening, but I get her point. “How about we go upstairs? I’ll make you the best comfort food, and we can watch TV. You don’t have to fix everything tonight. ”

She glances at me, eyes full of vulnerability as she takes a deep breath. “Alright.”

I stand and reach for her hands. She slips them into mine and squeezes them tight as I pull her to her feet. I refuse to let go of her hand as I lead her back to our place.