Page 7 of Unhitched

Chapter four

Mya

Before my eyes open, I unstick my face from the leather beneath it. Running my fingers over the sleep marks, I take in my surroundings–Kace’s apartment. The room is nearly pitch black with the shades, but slivers of light seep in at the edges.

I sit, adjusting the sheet underneath me.

My blankets shifted so much in the night that they’re hanging off the edge of the couch and jammed into the cushion cracks.

Scanning the room, I see no sign of life.

I tilt my head to look behind me but don’t detect light or sound coming from behind Kace’s door.

I reach for my phone on the coffee table, immediately smiling at the new yellow and pink daisy case I bought for my birthday.

Considering all celebrating was canceled when my relationship ended the day before I turned 30, I thought I deserved something special.

Mom and Dad offered to drive up from Eugene, but I told them it wasn’t necessary.

That it was fine. I am fine . Today is a new day.

I’m going to work on this week’s business project and go grocery shopping so I’m not tempted to eat Kace’s food.

I’m choosing to focus on what I can control.

10:37 . It’s late, but I still have plenty of time to get through my to-do list and then some. Standing from the couch, I adjust my shorts and sports bra. It’s not like I’m excessively well-endowed on either end, but I can’t be pulling a Janet Jackson on my first full day as a roommate.

I can make out the kitchen from the living room, even in the dark, but carefully make my way to it and flip on the light switch by the fridge.

I continue on, peeking my head in the bathroom to make sure Kace isn’t there.

The light’s off, but with the new brightness from the kitchen, I can see the mirror is fogged up like he just finished showering. Maybe he is still in the apartment.

Pressing my ear against his bedroom door, I listen for Kace–or at the very least, Borrowers in the walls.

Nothing. I knock lightly. Nothing. I rap my knuckles a little harder on the wood.

Nothing. I turn the knob slowly, hoping if I’m interrupting him, he’ll have time to stop me.

When no objection comes, I push open the door wide enough to step through.

I wish I were surprised by the room in front of me.

I hadn’t necessarily pictured it, but if I had, this is what it would be.

His bed is pushed against the back wall, a rustic wooden bed frame with a dark comforter.

His bed is made neatly, with a few throw pillows even.

His office desk is definitely not from Ikea.

It has a rustic vibe too but looks sturdy enough to withstand an earthquake.

Three sleek monitors are arranged in a semicircle, turned off as they sit in front of a computer chair that surely supports his back in a way all thirty-something-year-olds need.

Not wanting to snoop, mainly because I don’t think I’d find anything I need to know, I get a move on my work day.

I grab my jacket off the hook in the entryway, but the moment I’m outside the apartment door, it hits me that I don’t have a key.

Crap. Scanning the hallway, there’s no one in sight.

I decide to take the chance, just this once, and leave it unlocked while I run to my car.

Since my ex had furniture before I moved in, there wasn’t much to take with me besides my clothes and my crafting boxes.

Pushing open the front door to the complex, I’m struck with the steady beat of the rain on the pavement. I tug my hood over my head, and run down the sidewalk to my car, raindrops pelting my bare legs as I go.

I quickly pull out the cardboard box labeled “guillotine” and balance it in my grip as I close the trunk.

This paper cutter is one of the best purchases I’ve ever made, but it feels more like a medieval torture device and my Lanta it’s heavy–even more so when I have to carry it through the downpour.

By the time I make it back to the apartment–thankful someone held the door to the building open for me because apparently you need a key for that too–I’m wet with a combination of rain and sweat.

Maneuvering the knob with a flimsy grasp from under the wet box balancing in my arms, I push my way into the apartment, taking in the space again.

There is no room for activities, but I’ll make it work.

I’m not sure what time Kace will be back, but I’m going to bet on having a few hours to myself.

He had his laptop set up at Little Conejo yesterday when I ran into him, and the way he casually sat there makes me think it’s a regular thing.

I take off my jacket and quickly dry my legs with a towel, then push the coffee table toward the TV and away from the couch.

Unfolding the top of the box, I pull out the folder of papers and my paper cutter.

I walk to the floor-to-ceiling windows, tugging on all four black-out shades until they spring up and flood the room with natural light. It’s overcast today, but the river is clear, and I love seeing it from this view.

I settle on the floor with my back against the couch and open Spotify, tapping on the top option on my recently played: Metamorphosis.

“So Yesterday” begins, the intro quiet. I increase the volume by the time the first verse starts and place it on the couch behind me.

It’s the soundtrack to my life right now, and while maybe I should be crying as the chorus hits, instead, I’m tempted to grab a hairbrush and sing into it like a microphone because I feel floaty in the best way.

Today is going to be great.

Sliding paper from the hot pink folder, I thank one-week-ago Mya for printing these bookmarks.

The one thing I did leave behind was my printer because technically, it was a mutual purchase.

The look on my ex’s face when Kace ruined our date haunts me so much that guilt forced me to leave the thing behind.

This week’s project is nostalgic bookmarks.

Think: stories you scored at the scholastic book fair and fell in love with.

The books that might suck if you read them today, but if you had a Bookstagram back then, you’d make it your entire personality for at least a week.

I have ten sheets of paper with five bookmarks printed on each.

I’m only making these fifty for two reasons.

Reason number one is that if I craft for more than a couple of days on one project, I tend to get bored and abandon it altogether.

Reason number two is supply and demand. Simple keys to a successful business.

I flip through the sheets, checking the quality of the titles and background images on each bookmark. I’ve already lined the back with holographic sticker paper and sealed the prints with holographic lament. These babies will be as timeless as these stories have been for me.

Island of the Blue Dolphins

Among the Hidden

Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants

Daughters of the Moon

The Boxcar Children

Magic Treehouse

Hatchet

Bridge to Terabithia

The Secret Garden

A Little Princess

I know there are so many others I could have chosen, but my business isn’t typically for all the mainstream favorites.

You can get Twilight nostalgia from anywhere.

It’s way more fun to bond over secret gems of the world with strangers.

The way it makes someone’s day to be reminded of a love their brain kept locked away in a childhood compartment is one of my favorite glimmers.

Lining up the edge of The Secret Garden print with the blade on my cutter, I lean forward to make sure it’ll slice perfectly. The smooth grind of the knife against the metal base is almost as satisfying as the way it perfectly cuts through the cardstock.

I hold the shortened piece of paper in front of me. Perfect. Realigning it back into the cutter, I lean close again, making sure it’ll slice my pretty print into a straight bookmark.

Slice.

Fuck.

The smooth chop of my hair happened in slow motion yet too fast to stop.

I sit back, staring at my perfectly cut bookmark covered by a huge chunk of my blonde hair.

Glancing from the freshly cut strands, my eyes cross as I try to look down at where my evenly cut hair is looking not so uniform.

I run my fingers through it, thankful I only cut the front chunk to just barely above my shoulder.

I mean, it’s a lot because the rest of my hair is long enough to reach my mid-back, but at least I won’t need a pixie cut.

That would be too drastic. Not to mention, I don’t think I could manage that on my own. This, though, I can fix.

Calmly grabbing my nice fabric scissors from my craft box, and leaving my phone blasting “Workin’ It Out,” I walk to the bathroom.

Flipping on the light, I shut the door behind me and glance in the mirror, my heart rate skyrocketing at the blatant difference in length.

Panic courses through me. Is this going to be what breaks me?

The thing that finally tips me over the edge into accepting I’m not where I want to be in life?

Nope. It’s fine. I inhale as deep as possible, my chest expanding as I fill my lungs completely with air. Everything is fine. I’ve always wanted to try short hair, but I’ve been too scared. I guess this is the universe’s way of getting me over my fears. It’s been taking over my life a lot lately.