Page 27 of Mashed Hearts
“We’re not doing the full tourist gauntlet,” she says, linking her arm through mine as we hit the subway. “You’re here a week. We pace ourselves.”
We arrive to our first stop, Central Park. It’s crisp, the kind of December day where your breath fogs and the city smells like roasted nuts and possibility. We rent bikes—hers wobbly, minetoo tall—and race along the paths, her laughter echoing when I nearly take out a hot dog cart.
“Eyes on the road, Surfer Boy!” she yells, ringing her bell like a maniac.
“Eyes on you, New York!” I shout back, swerving just to make her squeal.
We ditch the bikes near the Boathouse, buy hot chocolate that scalds my tongue, and find a bench overlooking the lake. She leans into me, head on my shoulder, and I wrap an arm around her like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“Never been to New York,” I admit, watching rowboats bob in the water. “Always thought it’d be chaos.”
“It is,” she says, sipping her cocoa. “But the good kind. Wait till you see Times Square at night. It’s like Vegas had a baby with a seizure.”
We wander—Belvedere Castle where she insists I pose like a prince, the Imagine mosaic where she makes me sing “Strawberry Fields” off-key. I snap a million photos: her feeding pigeons, her sticking her tongue out at a street performer, her silhouetted against the skyline.
Lunch is a halal cart on 53rd and 6th—lamb over rice, white sauce so good I consider proposing to the cart guy. Kait steals my fries, I steal her soda, and we eat on the curb like we’re broke college kids instead of… well, broke college kids.
“Tomorrow’s Brooklyn,” she says, licking sauce off her thumb. “Pizza, bridge, bookstore where I pretend to be intellectual.”
“Save the Empire State for later?” I ask, bumping her shoulder.
“Definitely. Gotta pace the romance.”
Her schedule’s brutal—Columbia classes, thesis meetings, library marathons. I play house husband in her apartment, sprawled on the couch with a structural engineering textbook thicker than my thigh. The firm I’m interning with post-grad—sustainable high-rises, green materials, offices in NYC, LA, everywhere—sent a welcome packet that’s basically a novel. I highlight, take notes, try not to think about how I’m one step closer to a future that includes her.
She comes home one afternoon, cheeks pink from the cold, backpack slung low. “Save me,” she groans, collapsing face-first onto the couch. “My advisor used the word ‘problematic’ seventeen times when talking about a freaking full page of my thesis. I counted. And now I need to revise it.”
I set my book aside, pull her into my lap. “Seventeen? That’s a felony.”
She laughs into my neck, and I kiss her until the stress melts off her shoulders. We order Thai, eat straight from the container, and she falls asleep mid-bite, head on my chest. I carry her to bed, tuck her in, and watch her sleep like a total creep. Worth it.
Midweek, we meet her friends for dinner at a cozy Italian spot in the Village—red sauce, candlelight, the kind of place where the waiter calls you “bella.” Her crew’s a riot: Maya, the sardonic journalism major; Leo, the theater kid who quotesRentunironically; and Sam, the quiet one who’s secretly hilarious after two glasses of wine. They size me up like I’m a lab specimen. I’m grilled by each of them, as they know of the past that Kait and I share. They’re weary, of course as good friends are.
“So, Mr. California,” Maya says, twirling pasta, “you surf?”
“Poorly,” I admit. “But I am good at falling, so I would say so-so.”
Leo leans in. “And the long-distance thing? You’re not gonna pull a disappearing act?”
Kait’s hand finds mine under the table. “He’s here now,” she says, firm. “We’re figuring it out.”
Sam raises her glass. “To figuring it out. And to Kait, almost done with her thesis, smiling like a human again.”
I clink my glass, heart full. Kait blushes, squeezes my fingers.
The week blurs—museums we don’t finish, coffee shops where we argue over who pays, nights tangled in sheets and laughter. We save the big stuff for another visit: Statue of Liberty, Top of the Rock, ice skating at Rockefeller. “Pacing,” she reminds me, kissing me under the Brooklyn Bridge at sunset, city lights flickering on like they’re cheering us on.
Too soon, it’s the last day. We’re at JFK, curb drop-off, my duffel at my feet, her eyes glassy. Snow’s falling again, soft and silent.
“Vermont for Christmas,” I say, cupping her face. “You, me, your dad’s death glare, Ryan’s push-up contests.”
She laughs, but it’s wobbly. “Then I go home with you, to Los Angeles. I’ve got a week before spring semester. Show me your beaches.”
“Deal.” I kiss her—slow, deep, memorizing the taste of her. “I love you, Kait. Never stopped.”
“Love you back.” She kisses me again, hands fisting my coat. “Text me when you land.”
“Already typing.”
