Page 55 of Unhitched

Chapter thirty-five

Kace

Groaning, I reach to tug on my neck before opening my eyes. Fuck, I’ve got kinks everywhere. Appraising the situation, my hazy vision scans the room.

I’m on the couch, leaning at the most awkward angle known to humanity, but the warmth of Mya’s legs is replaced with the blanket she was using last night.

Mya.

I jolt upright, searching the space. Her side of the couch is empty. The room is dark as fuck. The only reason I can see shit is from the natural light coming from the crack in my bedroom door. I glance toward the entryway. The bathroom door is open, and the light is off. Where the fuck is she?

The panic surging through me propels me to the kitchen. The clock on the oven glows 8:32 in neon white. I haven’t slept this late in a long time, and it no doubt has to do with resolving to be with Mya. Despite my “don’t sleep on a couch when you’re over thirty” aches, I feel rested.

Rested but panicked. Because what the fuck. Where is she? She’s always here in the mornings. Hell, she’s usually not even awake at this time .

I check the leather key bowl on the breakfast bar.

Her Tamagotchi keychain, Jeep fob, and the pink apartment key I made for her are missing.

If she took her apartment key, she’s planning to come home, right?

I breathe a sigh of relief at the thought.

I heard her whisper she wouldn’t be settling with me last night as I drifted off. So why would she leave?

Wanting to be sure she’s not here, I check my bedroom. The bed is still perfectly made from yesterday. There’s something on the corner of my desk though. It’s a stack of papers.

Fuck. It’s her taxes. She asked me to look these over before we went to the mountains, but I haven’t had a chance, given that I’ve spent every second working to avoid thinking about Mya.

I flip through the sheets, pulling one closer to my face when it catches my attention.

She made estimated quarterly tax payments?

My brain tries to make it make sense. Mya is the girl who rarely has anything planned further out than a week, but she’s been on top of her taxes which is the worst part of owning a business.

I hate that I’m surprised by this, but I am.

Surprised and attracted? Business intelligence is sexy as fuck.

I’ve always been impressed by Mya’s ability to run her business, but this is another level.

And seeing that she’s capable of planning and being organized like this… I’ve underestimated her.

This isn’t the tipping point though. I was already there.

Last night… fuck. Last night. Getting to watch her come undone at my touch…

She’s so fucking beautiful. But it’s more than that.

The second her legs hit my lap and she snuggled into the couch, I knew there was no going back.

This is what I want. Mya next to me every damn night.

She’s it. And whether it works out or not, I’ll kick myself forever if I don’t give her a chance–give us a chance.

My heart pounds against my chest, reminding me Mya needs to want that for us to have a chance. She needs to be here. And she’s not. Where the fuck is she?

Dropping the papers to my desk, I return to the living room.

The coffee table is clear. Our dinner plates and her cell phone are no longer there.

I glance to the far end of the couch, to where she keeps her things stacked between the sofa and window.

Relief floods me when I see two boxes neatly pushed into the back corner of the living room.

But… her suitcase isn’t here. Or the duffel bag she brought to the mountain. Which means all of her clothes are gone. Frantic, I make my way to the bathroom. The white granite is clear–all her skincare and makeup products missing.

Mya is gone.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. She’s not supposed to leave.

Today we were supposed to figure it out.

My head is spinning. Her boxes are still here.

I know they fit in her car. So she’s just gone temporarily.

She’ll be back. Unless she thought moving them would wake me.

Why don’t I call her? Jesus fuck. Of course. I can just call her.

I swipe my phone off the kitchen counter and find Mya’s contact. I press call and pull the phone to my ear. It goes straight to voicemail.

I try again. Same thing. Shit.

Setting my phone on the counter, I go back to her boxes. I tug on the blackout curtain beside it to give me enough light. I know I shouldn’t go through her things, but I’m losing my mind here trying to figure out if I’ve lost her.

I unfold the perfectly pinwheeled top of the box, looking for any clue as to what’s going on. A few leftover window clings from her project a couple of weeks ago are on top of a stack of light pink paper. I don’t know what I’m thinking. Her craft box isn’t holding some secre–

I’m either delusional or my name is written on the underside of that paper. It’s backward, so I could be wrong. I shouldn’t snoop, but I’m pretty confident it says my name.

Without any more thought, I slip the paper from the box and flip it over. My heart drops to my stomach like a falling elevator at the confirmation.

Kace,

For my fifth birthday …

I scan the letter, then reread it a second time more slowly. Fuck.

You being afraid I’m going to leave is manifesting it.

I hope it’s worth it.

My eyes shift over the final two lines so many times I’m sure they’ll change.

But they don’t.

Dropping the letter to the floor, I lean against the couch and run my fingers through my hair.

A rustle comes from outside the apartment door, and my eyes snap to the entryway.

I wait for what feels like forever, but there’s no follow-up sound.

No keys jingling in the hallway. No key sliding into the lock and twisting.

No door opening. No Mya popping into the space with a perfect smile, ready to tease me for my misunderstanding.

Just me, alone in my apartment because I was too afraid of ending up alone.