Page 30 of Mashed Hearts
Outside, the snow’s piled high around the school bus play structure, kids screaming as they slide down the snowy slide on trays. We take a group photo—everyone crammed together,cheeks red, arms linked, the bus looming like a yellow dinosaur behind us. Josh’s arm is around my waist, my head on his shoulder, and I’m pretty sure this is what happiness tastes like—grease, snow, and him.
The Rusty Nail is a dive bar masterpiece: sticky floors, neon beer signs, a jukebox that only plays Springsteen, Shania, and the occasional Garth Brooks deep cut. The pool table’s older than I am, and the bartender—a woman named Donna with a tattoo of a dolphin wearing a Santa hat—knows us all by name. The girls claim the dance floor, kicking off boots, coats in a pile by the bar. Ainsley’s twirling Hope to “Man! I Feel Like a Woman!”, Beth’s doing some chaotic flailing that’s half moshing, half ballet. I’m in the middle, laughing so hard my sides hurt, when Josh appears, pool cue in hand, eyes locked on me like I’m the only person in the room.
“Dance with me, Jamison,” he says, pulling me close.
The jukebox flips to “I Cross My Heart” by George Strait, and the bar fades to background noise. It’s just us, swaying under flickering Christmas lights, his hands on my hips, my arms around his neck. He smells like burger grease, snow, and that cologne that makes my knees weak.
“You’re good at this,” I murmur, head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat.
“Only with you,” he says, kissing my hair. “You make me better.”
The song ends, but we keep swaying, slow and close, until Donna yells last call. Our friends are by the door, coats on, ready to roll. Josh and I are the last to leave, his hand in mine, snow crunching under our boots as we step into the cold.
“Vermont for Christmas,” he says, pulling me into one last kiss under the bar’s neon glow. “Then California. You and me.”
“You and me,” I echo, kissing him until the snow melts around us.
The night’s cold, the snow’s deep, but with Josh’s hand in mine, my dad’s grudging approval, and our friends’ cheers in my ears, I’m warm. Long distance is a beast, but we’re taming it—one burger, one dance, one kiss at a time.
josh
. . .
I’m sprawledon the Jamison family couch, Kait’s legs draped over my lap, her head on my shoulder, stealing bites of my cinnamon roll like a greedy raccoon. Christmas morning is pure chaos—wrapping paper snowstorm, Ryan’s drone buzzing like a drunk bee, Mrs. Jamison crying over a photo album, Mr. Jamison pretending he’s not misty-eyed over a monogrammed and fully stocked tackle box. Kait’s in my UCLA sweatshirt, reindeer socks flashing with every step, and I’m wearing the scarf her mom knitted like it’s a medal of honor. Her dad’s even stopped glaring at me like I’m a felon on parole. It’s perfect. It’sus. And in two days, she’s supposed to be on a plane to California with me—beaches, tacos, my bed that’s been tragically Kait-less for too long.
Then her phone buzzes.
She checks it, and her face goes fromChristmas morning glowtosomeone just kicked my puppy. “No,” she whispers, sitting up so fast my cinnamon roll takes a nosedive onto the carpet.
“What?” I ask, already bracing for impact.
Her advisor. Some corrupted test file for a required class—Lit Theory, the one she swore she aced. Every student has to retake it.Immediately.Like,get your ass back to New Yorkimmediately. Her flight to California—booked, paid for, non-refundable—is toast.
“Fuck,” she says, which is rare enough that Ryan’s drone crashes into the Christmas tree. Ornaments rattle. Dad raises an eyebrow.
I grab her hand, thumb tracing her knuckles like I can erase the panic in her eyes. “Okay. We’ll fix this. Reschedule the flight. You go, crush the test, come to me.”
She nods, but her chin’s wobbling. “I’m so sorry, Josh. I was supposed to?—”
“Hey.” I cup her face, kiss her forehead. “You’re a badass student. This is a speed bump, not a wall.”
Mr. Jamison clears his throat. “You need to be in New York when?”
“Tomorrow morning,” she says, voice small. “First available slot’s at 6 a.m.”
Mrs. Jamison’s already in mom-mode, pulling up flight schedules on her phone. Ryan’s offering to drive her to the airport at 3 a.m. like it’s a hostage negotiation. I’m trying to keep it together, but inside? I’m a mess. My brain’s doing that thing where it spirals into worst-case scenarios like a Netflix true crime documentary.
This is it. This is how it starts. One canceled flight, then another. School deadlines, my internship, time zones, life. We’ll be those couples who live on FaceTime and resentment. I’ll be the idiot who let her go again.
I shove the thought down, but it’s there, gnawing like a termite. I’ve been counting down to her visit since I left New York—phone calls, Facetimes, text messages all day long, aplaylist titledKait Jamison: California Edition. And now? Poof. Gone.
We spend the rest of the day in a weird limbo. Kait’s on her laptop, emailing her advisor, rescheduling her flight. I help—sort of—by stress-eating cookies and pacing the living room like a caged tiger. Her dad pulls me aside while she’s packing, his hand heavy on my shoulder.
“You take care of her, son,” he says, voice gruff. “Long distance or not.”
“I’m trying, sir,” I say, and it comes out rougher than I mean. “I’m really trying.”
He nods, the closest thing to a hug I’m gonna get. “Good.”
