Page 3 of Mashed Hearts
“Me too.” Jack echoes.
The conversation flowed like the wine—easy, teasing, full of inside jokes. We reminisced about high school pranks, like the time Jack and Micah hacked the PA system to play Rick Astley during assembly. Or when Ainsley and Pete got caught making out in the janitor's closet. Beth shared her latest art project, a series of portraits inspired by our group, and promised to show us sketches later.
As dinner cooked, filling the air with savory goodness, we migrated to the living room for snacks—cheese boards that Ainsley had artfully arranged. Pete built up the fire, and we sprawled on the couches, legs tangled under blankets.
"So, who's missing?" Micah asked innocently, though his eyes twinkled.
My stomach dropped. Don't say it. Don’t say it.
"Josh," Jack said casually, like he was mentioning the weather. "I invited him, as usual. Said he might make it happen."
The room went a tad quieter. Josh. My ex. The one who'd broken my heart when he decided long-distance wasn't his thing after he went off to college out west. We'd been the "it" couple for a hot minute—homecoming dates, stolen kisses in the hallways. But then poof, ghosted. Well, not totally ghosted; he kept in touch with Jack, because bros before... whatever.
Ainsley shot me a sympathetic look. "He probably won't come. He's been flaky every year."
"Yeah," I said brightly, forcing a smile. "No biggie. More food and wine for us."
But inside? Turmoil. Part of me hoped he wouldn't show—avoid the awkwardness. The other part? The stupid, romantic part that read too many novels? Wondered what if.
We shook it off, diving back into dinner prep. I was elbow-deep in adding to the salad that was abandoned when headlights pierced the windows. The snow had picked up, swirling like confetti in the beams.
Everyone froze. Whispers started.
"Is that...?"
"Could be Josh."
My heart hammered. Ainsley peeked out the curtain. "One car. Black SUV."
Jack grinned. "Told ya he might come."
Beth nudged me. "You okay?"
I nodded, but my mouth was dry. The engine cut off. Footsteps crunched on the snow.
The door creeking open as if it’s a slow-motion.
Here we go.
josh
. . .
The snow is comingdown like it's got a personal vendetta against my rental SUV, fat flakes splattering the windshield as I navigate the last twisty mile to the cabin. My palms are slick on the wheel, and not just from the heater blasting into my face. It's been—what?—four years since I last did this? The first Friendsgiving after high school graduation was a disaster. I showed up, saw Kait across the room looking like she'd been punched in the gut by my mere presence, and bailed before the turkey even hit the table. Ghosted the tradition ever since, citing "West Coast commitments" or whatever bullshit excuse I fed Jack. He's the only one I've kept in touch with, our friendship surviving on sporadic texts about fantasy football, needing random help in classes, and memes that make zero sense out of context.
Now here I am, my final semester at UCLA wrapping up since I haven’t taken a break from classes, tanned from too many beach volleyball sessions, single as a sock in the dryer, and voluntarily driving into this emotional minefield. Why? Because Jack's been hounding me like a persistent seagull at the pier: "Dude, come on, it's tradition. Kait's chill, you probably wouldn’teven be a blip on her radar. Everyone misses your dumb ass." And yeah, maybe a part of me—the stupid, masochistic part—wants to see if that old spark with Kait is still flickering or if it's been snuffed out by time and my epic immaturity.
I pull into the long driveway up to the cabin, the headlights cutting through the flurry like lightsabers. The place looks straight out of a Hallmark movie, all glowing windows and chimney smoke. A cabin by name, but not by square-footage.
My heart's doing that obnoxious drum solo in my chest.
What if they all hate me?
What if Kait throws a pie at my face? Nah, that's not her style.
She'd probably save face, smile, make small talk and keep distance. That’s her thing.
I kill the engine, grab my bag from the passenger seat—packed with newly purchased flannels that scream "I'm still Vermont at heart, even if I say 'dude' too much now"—and crunch through the snow to the porch. The cold bites at my nose, a sharp reminder that SoCal has turned me into a total wuss. I grasp the door knob, my fist feeling like lead.
