Page 16 of Mashed Hearts
“He said a lot of things four years ago,” Hope cuts in, gentle but firm. “I love Josh. We all do. But love isn’t logistics.”
The mimosa suddenly tastes like regret. I stare at my plate, appetite gone. “I’m not nineteen anymore. I won’t wait by the phone. But… what if this time is different?”
Ainsley reaches across the table, squeezes my hand. “Then we’ll be here. With wine and ice cream and murder podcasts.”
Beth raises her glass. “To epic love stories and epic backup plans.”
I clink, but the sparkler in my chest flickers.
Back at the cabin, the guys have apparently turned the living room into a war zone of Nerf darts and empty beer cans. Josh is mid-victory dance, holding a foam sword like he’s king of the nerds. He spots me and his grin falters—just a flicker—before he crosses the room in three strides.
“Hey,” he says, voice low. “Walk with me?”
We bundle up—not overly, just beanies and coats—and head out the back door. The snow’s melted enough for the trail to be crunchy, not slippery. He takes my hand like it’s the most natural thing in the world, fingers lacing through mine, thumb tracing my knuckles. My heart does that annoying fluttery thing again.
“So,” he starts, “the guys ambushed me.”
“Let me guess. Jack led the intervention?”
“All of them started in as soon as the tires started moving when you guys left, they tag-teamed like the Avengers of bad ideas.” He kicks a pinecone. “They’re worried about the distance. Time zones. My dumb ass history.”
I stop walking. “They’re not wrong.”
He turns to face me, snow catching in his lashes. “I know. But I’m graduating so soon. I don’t have a job lined up, I have no lease, nothing tying me to LA except sand and overpriced everything. I’ve got fifty thousand frequent flyer miles burning a hole in my pocket. I can be here. Or you can be there. Or we can meet in the middle and eat Chicago deep dish until we hate ourselves. I can move to New York. I have a blank slate, one that has space for you, for us.”
I laugh despite the knot in my throat. “You’d hate the winters.”
“I’d hate losing you more.” He cups my face, thumbs brushing my cheeks. “I broke your heart once. I was a kid who thought love could survive on vibes and stubbornness. I learned my lesson, Kait. I won’t make that mistake twice.”
My eyes sting. “Promise?”
“Swear on every mile between here and LAX.” He kisses me—soft, slow, a vow. “We’ll make it work. Spreadsheets, calendars, surprise visits. Living together. Living apart. Whatever it takes.”
I lean into him, forehead against his. “You’re still an idiot.”
“Your idiot,” he corrects, and I laugh-cry into his coat.
The hike is perfect: hand in hand, boots crunching, breath fogging. We talk about everything and nothing—his thesis on sustainable surfboard materials, my fairy-tale retellings, the time Beth tried to dye her hair with Kool-Aid and ended up looking like a moldy strawberry. The trail climbs gently, pines giving way to a clearing at the peak. The forest spreads below us in a quilt of evergreen and slate, the sky so blue it hurts to look at.
Josh stops at the edge, arms around my waist from behind. “I never stopped loving you,” he says into my hair. “Not for a second.”
I turn in his arms, snowflakes melting on my lashes. “Good. Because I’m not done with you either.”
He kisses me until the cold doesn’t stand a chance.
Back at the cabin, the group’s gathered in the living room, board games spread like a battlefield. We walk in holding hands, and the room goes suspiciously quiet.
Ainsley claps. “Finally!”
Josh squeezes my fingers. “We wanted to say thanks. For worrying. For the interventions. But we’re doing this. Whatever it takes. And maybe next year, Ainsley and Pete won’t be the only couple at Friendsgiving.”
Jack whoops. Beth fake-cries into a pillow. Micah starts a slow clap that catches on until the room’s cheering like we just won the Super Bowl.
Night falls fast. The fire’s crackling, William Shatner’s “Shatner Claus - The Christmas Album”, belting jams, and we’re deep into Monopoly—Josh is the banker and definitely cheating, Jack’s in jail for the third time, Hope’s hoarding hotels like a Bond villain. One by one, they tap out for the evening, Micah cites “early morning coding session,” Pete carries a giggling Ainsley to bed, Beth declares bankruptcy and face-plants on the couch, giving up and saying only sleep can make her better.
Then it’s just us. Me and Josh, the fire down to embers, the room glowing soft and gold. He tugs me into his lap, hands sliding under my sweater to trace lazy circles on my back.
“Hi,” he whispers, lips brushing my ear.
