Page 1 of Mashed Hearts
kait
. . .
The snowflakes were doingthat thing where they looked picturesque in the headlights but felt like tiny ice daggers on my windshield wipers. I gripped the steering wheel of my ancient Honda Civic, peering through the flurries as the GPS cheerfully announced, "You have arrived at your destination." Yeah, right. Destination: middle of freaking nowhere, Vermont edition. One hour from my hometown, but it might as well have been Narnia with how remote this cabin felt. Annual Thanksgiving get-together with the high school crew—because nothing says "holiday cheer" like cramming seven adults into a "not so small" cabin that was basically a glorified log house with Wi-Fi that worked only if you sacrificed a goat to the router gods.
I am Kaitlyn "Kait" Jamison, college senior majoring in English lit with a minor in regretting my life choices and education. Not only is the English language confusing, but I’ve opted to teach as well? And here I am, pulling up to the cabin that we rent every year, for what felt like the umpteenth year, armed with a duffel bag of cute sweaters, a few boxes of cheap wine, and enough emotional baggage to fill a U-Haul.
The cabin loomed ahead, its windows glowing like warm beacons against the darkening sky. Smoke curled from the chimney, and I could already smell the faint hint of pine and whatever Ainsley was probably burning in the kitchen. Ainsley and Pete were always the first to arrive—they were the only remaining couple of the group, the ones who'd been together since sophomore year of high school and somehow made it look effortless. Like, annoyingly effortless. While the rest of us were out here adulting like drunk toddlers, they were building a life together, complete with matching flannel pajamas and inside jokes that made everyone else gag.
I killed the engine and stepped out into the crunch of fresh snow, my boots sinking in up to my ankles. "Note to self: Buy better winter gear before you turn into a human popsicle," I mutter, hauling my bag over my shoulder. The cold slapped me in the face like a passive-aggressive text, but I trudged up the porch steps anyway.
Before I could even knock, the door swings open, and there is Ainsley, all five-foot-nothing of her, wrapped in a chunky knit sweater that screamed "I shop at Anthropologie on sale." Her blonde hair was piled in a messy bun, and she had flour dusted across her cheek like she'd been wrestling a bag of it.
"Kait! Oh my God, you made it!" she squeals, pulling me into a hug that smelled like cinnamon and vanilla. "I was starting to think you were going to bail and were binge-watching Hallmark movies instead."
"Please, as if I'd miss out on your famous turkey disasters, plus, I RSVP’d.” I teased, hugging her back. Ainsley was the eternal optimist of our group, the one who believed in love potions and manifestation journals. She'd drag us all into vision-boarding sessions back in high school, convinced we'd all end up married with 2.5 kids by twenty-five. Spoiler: We were twenty-two, and the only one close was her.
Pete poked his head out from behind her, his lanky frame filling the doorway. He was the yin to her yang—tall, dark-haired, with a perpetual five-o'clock shadow and a grin that could charm a grizzly bear. "Hey, Kait. Need help with your stuff? Or are you still pretending you're Wonder Woman?"
I roll my eyes but handed him my bag. "Only if you promise not to snoop and steal my panties. I have some wine in the trunk.” I hold out my bag and car keys to him.
He chuckles, slinging the bag over his shoulder like it weighed nothing. "Wouldn't dream of it. Come on in before you freeze your ass off."
The cabin was exactly as I remembered: cozy chaos. The living room had a massive stone fireplace crackling with a fire, mismatched couches piled with blankets, and string lights draped everywhere because Ainsley insisted on "ambiance." The open kitchen was already a war zone—cutting boards littered with veggies, a turkey thawing in the sink, and what looked like the remnants of a pie crust explosion on the counter.
"So, what's the plan?" I asked, shrugging off my coat and hanging it on the hook by the door. "Are we doing the full Thanksgiving spread, or is this the year we finally admit defeat and order pizza?"
Ainsley gasped dramatically, clutching her chest. "Blasphemy! We're doing it right this year. I found this recipe on Pinterest for a herb-rubbed turkey that's supposed to be foolproof."
Pete snorted from where he was stowing my bag in the hallway. "Famous last words. Remember last year when the oven decided to go on strike?"
"That was sabotage," Ainsley shot back, pointing a wooden spoon at him. "And this year, we've got backup. I brought a deep fryer for the potatoes and my ninja oven thing. There’s no fucking this one up.”
I laugh, the sound bubbling up unexpectedly. God, it felt good to be here. College had been a grind—endless papers on Jane Austen, part-time barista gigs that left me smelling like burnt espresso, and a social life that consisted of group chats and the occasional disastrous Tinder date. But this? This was home base. These people knew me before I figured out how to adult, back when my biggest worry was passing AP Bio.
We settled into the kitchen, Ainsley handing me a glass of mulled wine that was probably 80% sugar and 20% alcohol. "Catch me up," she demanded, hopping onto the counter like we were still teens. "How's senior year? Any hot professors? Spill."
I take a sip, the warmth spreading through me. "Senior year is... intense. I'm buried in thesis work on modern retellings of fairy tales. As for hot professors? Eh, Dr. Hargrove is like a silver fox, but he grades like a demon. No crushes there. What about you two? Still playing house in that apartment downtown?"
Pete leaned against the fridge, arms crossed. "Yeah, but Ainsley's turned it into a plant jungle. I swear, one more succulent and I'm staging an intervention."
"It's called biophilic design, babe," Ainsley said with a wink. "It reduces stress."
"Or increases it when I trip over a fern in the dark," he countered.
Ainsley looks at me with no emotion in her expression, “he’s just mad at me, because I like to rescue plants.”
“It’s not rescuing when it’s being paid for. You’ve got an addiction and the plant nursery isn’t a bad environment that plants need to be rescued from.”
I grin, watching their banter. It was like watching a rom-com unfold in real time. They'd been the golden couple since high school—prom king and queen, valedictorian and star quarterback. Everyone thought they'd crash and burn after graduation, but nope. They were the real deal. Made me a littleenvious, if I was honest. My love life? Let's just say it peaked in senior year with Josh and had been on a downhill slide ever since.
But no thinking about Josh. Not yet. He was the ghost at the feast, invited every year but never showing. Good riddance, right? Except my traitorous heart still did that flip-flop thing whenever his name came up.
A knock at the door saved me from spiraling. Ainsley slid off the counter. "That'll be Beth! She's always punctual."
She swung the door open, and in tumbled Beth, shaking snow from her red curls like a dog after a bath. Beth was the artist of the group—tattoos peeking from under her sleeves, paint stains on her jeans, and a vibe that screamed "free spirit with a side of sarcasm."
"Kait! Ains! Pete! Frands! My people!” she exclaimed, dropping her backpack and enveloping me in a hug that squeezed the air out of my lungs. "God, I missed your faces. Traffic was a nightmare—some idiot in a Subaru thought four-wheel drive meant invincible."
