Page 5 of Mashed Hearts
“Funny. I actually only have avocado on my toast.” I protest, buttering one with exaggerated innocence.
Beth snorts. “How hipster of you. You're still the guy who convinced us to sneak out for late-night drives senior year, remember? That time we ended up at the quarry, blasting old-school hip-hop?"
I grin, the memory flooding back. "Oh man, yeah. Kait was in the passenger seat, singing along to 'California Love' even though she hated rap."
Kait laughs from across the table, her eyes briefly meeting mine, then fluttering to her plate. "I did not hate it. I just preferred actual lyrics over mumbles about beaches."
"Excuse me, Tupac is a poet," I counter, pointing my fork at her. "And you loved those drives. Admit it."
She rolls her eyes, but there's a spark there. "Fine, they were fun. Until you got us lost that one time and we had to use the stars to navigate back—like we were in some bad rom-com."
The table chuckles, and Ainsley jumps in. "Speaking of rom-coms, remember senior prom? Josh, you showed up in that rented tux that was two sizes too big, looking like a penguin on stilts."
Pete barks a laugh. "And Kait in that blue dress—total showstopper. You two owned the dance floor."
I feel a flush creep up my neck, but I play it cool. "Hey, that tux was a steal. And yeah, prom was epic. Slow dancing to that cheesy Ed Sheeran song, thinking we were untouchable."
Kait's gaze softens. "Until the after-party where you tried to spike the punch and ended up spilling it all over Principal Hargrove's shoes."
"Accident!" I defend, hands up. "But worth it for the look on his face."
The conversation flows like the wine—red for the hearty types, white for the lightweights. We talk college: my UCLA stories about frat parties that end with someone in a fountain, Kait's English lit rants about dissecting Shakespeare until the Bard's spinning in his grave. Jack shares pre-law horror tales of mock trials gone wrong, like the time he accidentally called the judge "Your Hotness." Beth regales us with art school antics, painting nudes and dodging pretentious critiques. Micah geeksout on AI, promising to build us all robot butlers someday. Hope drops business jargon that flies over our heads, but we nod like we get it. Pete and Ainsley play hosts, refilling plates and steering us away from politics because "it's Thanksgiving, not debate club."
Halfway through seconds—because who diets during Friendsgiving?—the flashbacks weave in naturally, like old ghosts at the feast.
"So, Josh," Hope says, sipping her wine. "What made you finally come back? Jack's guilt trips?"
I shrug, glancing at Kait. "Partly. And... missed you all. Life out west is rad—beaches, burritos, the whole vibe—but it's not the same as this. Remember those late-night drives, Kait? Windows down, blasting tunes, talking about forever like we had it all figured out?"
She nods, a wistful smile tugging her lips. "Yeah. You'd always stop at that overlook, the one with the view of the valley. Stars everywhere. Felt like the world was ours."
"Until I ruined it," I say lightly, but there's an undercurrent. The table quiets a notch. "Transferring to UCLA on a whim, thinking distance was no big deal. Immature as hell."
Kait meets my eyes, no bitterness, just honesty. "We were kids. College changes everything."
"But hey," Jack interjects, lightening the mood, "at least you didn't pull a me and ghost everyone. Wait, you kinda did."
I throw a roll at him. "Says the guy who still owes me twenty bucks from that bet on the Super Bowl."
As the night winds down, plates stack up like Jenga towers in the sink. Everyone's lounging, full and slightly tipsy, when Kait stands. "I'll start dishes. Don't want to leave it for morning."
"I'll help," I blurt, before my brain catches up as I stand.
The group exchanges looks—subtle, but I catch them. Like they're watching a nature documentary: "And here, the exes attempt reconciliation over suds."
Kait raises an eyebrow but nods. "Sure. Grab a towel."
We head to the kitchen sink, the others pretending not to watch from the living room couches. It's like being on stage, but with more soap bubbles.
I rinse while she washes, our hands brushing occasionally, sending those sparks again. "So," I say, drying a plate, "college treating you okay? Senior year—feels surreal, right?"
"Yeah," she replies, handing me a fork. "Thesis is killing me, but it's good. You? UCLA seems to suit you, or is it the other way around?”
"Glamorous like dodging paparazzi? Nah, mostly just classes and part-time at a surf shop. Teaching tourists not to drown."
She laughs, that sound I've missed more than I admit. "Sounds very you. Still the adrenaline junkie?"
"Guilty. Remember prom night? After the dance, we ditched the party for that drive to the lake. Skinny-dipping at midnight because why not?"
