Page 21 of Mashed Hearts
Josh turns to me, eyes soft. “Sir. Kait’s always been in my heart. The past few years, didn’t matter where I was. She was there. Now? We plan together. I’ll be in New York in two weeks, soon as finals are done. Staying for about a week. Then home for the holidays. After that? We figure it out. Together.”
I swallow hard, my throat tight. Mom’s eyes are misty. Ryan’s stopped mid-bite, jelly on his chin. Dad’s still frowning, but it’s softer now, like he’s trying not to crack.
“I’m not eighteen anymore,” I add, meeting Dad’s eyes. “I know what I want.”
Dad sighs, sets down his fork. “You hurt her again, I’ll find you.”
“Understood, sir.” Josh nods, solemn.
Dad stands, offers his hand again. This time, the grip is firm but not murderous. “Hope to see you around, son.”
Josh grins. “Count on it, sir.”
After breakfast, we escape to the porch for air. Josh pulls me into his arms, my back to his chest, chin on my shoulder. “Your dad didn’t kill me. I’m calling it a win.”
“Barely,” I laugh, turning in his arms, fitting mine around his neck. “You’re lucky you brought donuts.” I lean up on my tip toes and kiss his lips gently.
He pulls away from me and grabs the backpack that is sitting beside the front door. He must have left it there as he came over. He reaches into the pack, pulls out his UCLA sweatshirt—a soft, faded one that has seen better days. “Until I can get back to school to grab you a new one from the bookstore on campus. For you. So you don’t forget me in the big city.”
I bury my face in it, inhaling his scent. “Like I could.”
We sit together on the front porch for over an hour. We make a plan: he’ll finish finals, fly to New York in two weeks, stay for a week, then I have my finals. Then we’ll be back here, on this porch for Christmas. After that, we’ll figure out the rest. Together.
He kisses me slow and deep, hands in my hair, until Ryan bangs on the window yelling, “Get a room!” We break apart laughing, foreheads pressed together.
“Text me when you land,” I say.
“Already planning my airport people-watching messages to you,” he says, and kisses me once more before heading to his car.
My phone buzzes an hour later. He’s made it to Burlington, to the airport.
Airport security line is a zoo. Guy in front of me has a emotional support peacock. No joke. It’s wearing a tiny hat.
Pics or it didn’t happen.
Josh sends a blurry photo of a peacock in a fedora.
Wish you were here to mock this with me.
Wish I was there to steal your fries.
Boarding now. Gate agent just called my name like I’m in trouble. Miss you already.
Miss you more. Safe flight, Surfer Boy.
After spending the day with my mom, I head to Burlington airport and start. my travels back home. I send a selfie in the airport terminal, beanie crooked, UCLA sweatshirt on to Josh, even though I know he’s still on his plane ride back to California.
My flight’s 1.5 hours of recycled air with a crying baby who’s definitely plotting a coup is finally over as I land at JFK, grab my bag from underneath the seat in front of me, and my phone buzzes a moment after I turned off the airplane mode.
I see a photo of Josh at the LAX baggage claim, hair messy, grin wide.
Missing you already. Landed! LAX is chaos. Guy next to me snored the whole flight. I have his playlist memorized. It’s all yacht rock. Call you when I get home.
I’m sprawled across my unmade bed in Brooklyn, the city’s distant hum filtering through the cracked window like a lullaby I never asked for. My apartment smells like stale coffee, lavender candle wax, and the faint ghost of Josh’s cologne clinging to the UCLA sweatshirt I’m swimming in. It’s soft, worn thin at the elbows, and I’ve got the hood pulled up over my messy bun like I’m seventeen again, stealing his clothes after a late-night drive. My phone’s propped on a pillow, Josh’s name glowing on the screen, and his voice—low, warm, a little raspy from the flight—fills the tiny room like he’s right here instead of three thousand miles away.
“Hey, you,” he says, his tone soft, like he’s savoring the sound of my name.
“Hey there.” I roll onto my stomach, kicking my feet in the air like a teenager. “You home for real, or are you still stuck in LAX purgatory with the emotional support peacock?”
