Page 15 of Mashed Hearts
At 3 a.m., we’re back under the bleachers, exhausted, damp, and buzzing with schnapps and freedom. The flask’s empty, the chaperones are half-asleep, and the waterpark’s quieter now, just the hum of pumps and the occasional scream from the late-night diehards. We’re a pile of towels and limbs, passing around a bag of gummy worms like it’s communion.
“This is it,” I say, my head on Josh’s chest, his heartbeat steady under my ear. “We’re gonna be legends.”
“Legends who pay taxes,” Beth mutters, stealing a gummy worm.
“Legends who never let go,” Josh says, his hand finding mine, squeezing. “Pinky swear holds. No matter what.”
“No matter what,” we echo, our voices a messy chorus.
I look up at him, his eyes soft in the dim light, and I believe it. College, distance, life—nothing can touch us. We’re Kait and Josh, the quarry nights, the drive-in, the boy who steals my fries and the girl who steals his heart. The pact’s ironclad, the night’s eternal, and the future’s ours.
The chaperones finally herd us out at dawn, the sky pink and gold, the waterpark fading behind us. Josh’s hand is in mine, our friends laughing and stumbling, the schnapps buzzing in our veins. We’re eighteen, we’re free, and nothing—nothing—can come between us.
If only we knew.
kait
. . .
I wakeup to the smell of leftover pie and the faint thump of Josh’s heartbeat under my ear. Wait—no. That’s just my imagination running wild because last night on the porch he kissed me like the world was ending and starting all over again in the same breath. I’m in my own room, tangled in warm sheets that definitely aren’t mine from home, and the only heartbeat is mine hammering against my chest. But the memory of Josh’s mouth—warm, deliberate, tasting like red wine and apologies—lingers like a hickey I can’t hide.
I roll over and stare at the ceiling beams. We’re trying again.Trying again.The words feel equal parts terrifying and fizzy, like I swallowed a sparkler. I’m twenty-two, not seventeen. I have a thesis, a part-time office job, and a five-year plan that doesnotinclude heartbreak by a long-distance idiot. Except now the idiot is Josh, and he’s promising new beginnings, and my heart is doing cartwheels while my brain screams toabort the mission.
The door creaks open and Ainsley pokes her head in, hair in a messy bun that looks like it was styled by a tornado. “Rise and shine, lovebirds’ sidekick. Breakfast and gossip in T-minus ten.”
I groan. “I’m not a sidekick. I’m the main character.”
“Main character who made out with her ex on the porch while snow fell like a rom-com filter,” she sing-songs, then disappears.
I drag myself out of bed, throw on leggings and the softest sweater I own, and shuffle into the kitchen. The scene is pure chaos with Pete flipping pancakes like he’s auditioning for a diner commercial, Micah hunched over his laptop muttering about “algorithmic turkeys,” Jack stealing bacon straight from the pan. And Josh—God help me—leaning against the counter in gray sweatpants that should be illegal, sipping coffee, hair still damp from a shower wearing a faded t-shirt that clings to his body like a glove. He spots me and his grin goes lopsided, the same one that used to make me forget curfew.
“Morning, Jamison,” he says, voice all gravel and sunshine.
“Morning, Surfer Boy,” I shoot back, snagging a pancake before Pete can slap my hand. Our fingers brush when he passes the syrup, and yep, there’s the spark. My stomach flips like it’s training for the Olympics.
Hope claps her hands. “Ladies! Town trip. Shopping, lunch, zero testosterone. Ainsley’s driving. Boys, you’re on dish duty and… whatever boys do when unsupervised.”
Jack salutes with a strip of bacon. “Video games and bad decisions.”
Josh’s eyes stay on me as I excuse myself and with one last glance at him, I leave to grab my purse from my room.
Town is a postcard: cobblestone streets dusted with snow, shop windows strung with twinkle lights, a giant Christmas tree in the square that looks like it’s waiting for its close-up. We hit theboutiques first where Ainsley tries on a hat that makes her look like a Victorian ghost, Hope buys earrings that cost more than my rent, Beth finds a scarf painted with tiny middle fingers. I score a soft knit beanie that smells like cedar and immediately imagine Josh tugging it down over my ears.
Lunch is at a cozy bistro with exposed brick and a waiter who calls us “ladies” like he’s in a 1950s sitcom. We order mimosas because it’s vacation and carbs don’t count. The second the food arrives—truffle fries, grilled cheeses with fig jam, a salad I pretend to care about—Ainsley pounces.
“Okay, spill. You and Josh. Second chance? Or second heartbreak?”
I choke on a fry. Hope pats my back like I’m a toddler. Beth just smirks, dipping her sandwich in tomato bisque like she’s waiting for the plot twist.
“We’re… trying,” I say, wiping grease from my chin. “New beginning. Different people. Same heart. His words, not mine.”
Ainsley’s eyes go soft. “That’s romantic as hell.”
Hope, ever the realist, leans in. “But long distance? You’re in New York, he’s in LA. That’s three thousand miles of FaceTime and jealousy over frat-party Instagram stories.”
Beth nods. “And time zones. You’ll be asleep when he’s at taco trucks. You’ll be at brunch when he’s surfing. Someone’s always waiting.”
I stab a tomato like it owes me money. “I know. Iknow.But he’s graduating in a month. He has no concrete plans. Tons of frequent flyer miles. He said?—”
