Page 12 of Mashed Hearts
Micah and Jacks room is a snoring disaster zone at the end of the hall. Jack’s got one arm flung over Micah’s face like a human blanket, and the air mattress I claimed last night looks like it’s been through a war. I collapse onto it, stare at the ceiling beamsthat are definitely judging me, and try to count sheep. Except the sheep all morph into Kait wearing that red bikini from senior year, the one that should’ve come with a warning label. Useless.
My brain, the sadistic bastard, cue up the highlight reel of every almost-relationship I’ve had since I boarded that plane to LAX four years ago.
There was Mia, sophomore year—blonde, surfer, laughed at my dumb jokes even when they bombed. We lasted three months until she caught me staring at a photo of Kait on my phone, and realized I saidhername in my sleep. Then Lauren, junior year—pre-med, type-A, zero chill. She dumped me when I bailed on a study date to re-watch old episodes of Friends and talk to Jack on speaker phone all night instead. And then there was Sarah, last spring—sweet, artsy, made a killer lasagna that almost made me forget. I ended it because every time she kissed me, I compared the way her hand fit in mine to the way Kait’s used to slot perfectly, like we were built by the same engineer. Spoiler alert: nothing measured up. Not even close. Even though it was me that ended things between us, I never forgot. I never let her go.
Four years of dating, and I’ve been carrying a Kait-shaped hole in my chest like a participation trophy for catastrophic decision-making.
I roll over, punch the pillow so hard the seam splits.Get it together, Daniels.She’s twenty-two now. I’m twenty-two now. We’ve got 401(k)s and student loans and emotional baggage that could fill a cargo hold. Maybe adults don’t ghost. Maybe adults communicate. Maybe adults try again without torching the whole damn forest.
The thought lulls me under, and I dream of drive-ins with milkshakes on the hood, starry quarries where the water was cold but her mouth was warm, and a girl who tasted like chocolate and second chances.
I wake to the smell of sage, butter, and the faint clatter of pans like a symphony composed entirely of carbs. Thanksgiving. The real deal. My phone says 9:17 a.m., which means I got maybe four hours of sleep, but the scent of turkey is a hell of a motivator. Also, the air mattress has deflated overnight, and I’m pretty sure my spine is now a question mark.
I shuffle into the kitchen in sweatpants that have seen better decades and a UCLA hoodie that’s more hole than fabric. The girls are already in full chaos mode—Ainsley’s basting the turkey like it’s an Olympic sport and she’s going for gold, Hope’s arranging dinner rolls in perfect spirals, Beth’s painting a turkey on the window with washable markers and giving it a speech bubble that saysGobble This. Kait’s at the island, elbow-deep in green beans, hair twisted up in a knot that’s 90% falling out and 100% adorable. She’s wearing an oversized sweater that keeps slipping off one shoulder, revealing the constellation of freckles I used to connect with my tongue. I have to grip the doorframe to keep from walking over and kissing each one like a treasure map.
“Morning, sunshine,” Jack calls, flipping pancakes with unnecessary flair and nearly setting his sleeve on fire. “You’re on potato patrol. Peel, boil, mash. Try not to cry into the pot—it makes them salty.”
“Peeling potatoes is therapeutic,” I defend, grabbing the peeler like it’s Excalibur. “Also, I’m a changed man. I can cryandmash. It’s called multitasking.”
Kait glances up, and our eyes lock across the island like heat-seeking missiles. The air does that thing—thickens, crackles, turns the kitchen into a pressure cooker. Her cheeks go pink. I grin like a total idiot who definitely didn’t spend half the night replaying the taste of her mouth.
“Morning,” I say, aiming for casual. My voice cracks on the second syllable like I’m thirteen again.Nailed it.
“Morning,” she echoes, then immediately drops a handful of green beans. They scatter across the counter like tiny green landmines. “Crap.”
I snort. She glares, but it’s the kind of glare that comes with a smile she’s trying to hide. The tension snaps, replaced by the familiar rhythm of us—teasing, orbiting, pretending we’re not cataloging every micro-expression. I settle at the opposite end of the island, peeling potatoes with the focus of a bomb tech defusing a nuke. She snaps beans with surgical precision. We don’t talk, but every time our eyes meet, it’s a spark. A question. Awhat now?
Ainsley hip-checks me so hard I nearly take out a chunk of my thumb. “You two are radiating sexual tension like a space heater on steroids. Either kiss again or pass the butter before I spontaneously combust.”
Kait chucks a green bean at her head. It bounces off Ainsley’s forehead and lands in the gravy. Ainsley gasps like it’s a hate crime. I laugh so hard I peel a strip of skin off my knuckle and don’t even care.
Thanksgiving dinner is a masterpiece of carbs, chaos, and questionable life choices. The table groans under the weight of a turkey the size of a toddler, Kait’s twist on green bean bundles with a drizzle of the casserole sauce, three kinds of potatoes, stuffing that’s 50% bread and 50% butter, cranberry sauce that jiggles like it’s alive and plotting a coup, and Beth’s “artistic” sweet potato casserole topped with a marshmallow smiley face that’s starting to look more like a cry for help as it melts.
We eat until we’re comatose, belts loosened, dignity completely abandoned. Then we migrate to the living room like aherd of overfed cattle as we sink into the couches, wine glasses in hand, with pie plates balanced on knees. The fire’s roaring with only the light of the string lights twinkling above. We’re a pile of full, happy, slightly drunk idiots. Friends. Maybe something more.
Ainsley raises her glass with the solemnity of a toastmaster general. “Thankful time. Go. No skipping. I will enforce with a turkey leg.”
Pete begins, “Ainsley’s turkey didn’t poison us. Yet. Also, her face when the gravy exploded. I’m thankful for another year with my love, and with you bastards.”
Beth chimes in next, “I got some new paintbrushes, they are magical, so I’m thankful for those. And for friends who don’t judge my life choices, and also the fact that I didn’t set the cabin on fire with my window turkey.”
Micah clears his throat, “Stable Wi-Fi, the fact that AI hasn’t killed us yet, and the fact that Josh finally grew a pair and showed up.” I wink at him while he rolls his eyes.
Jack goes next, “this wine, the fact that I’m not on dish duty, and the live show last night. Ten out of ten.”
I flip him off with the hand not holding pie. He toasts me with his glass.
“Growth. This couch. And the fact that nobody’s started a food fight. Yet.” Hope says, staring off into the fires flicker.
Kait’s turn. She swirls her wine, the deep red catching the firelight, and hesitates like she’s choosing words from a menu. “I’m thankful for… growth. And unexpected reunions.” Her eyes flick to me, then away so fast I almost miss it. My heart does a slow, lazy roll at her admission.
I clear my throat, which suddenly feels lined with sandpaper. “I’m thankful for second chances. Mashed potatoes that don’t suck, all thanks to me. And the fact that I didn’t face-plant into the snow on the hike yesterday.”
Laughter ripples around the room. Clinking glasses. The fire pops like it’s applauding our emotional maturity.
Later, when the dishes are done, it was a team effort this time, no lingering this time because Ainsley threatened to make us scrub the oven with toothbrushes, the cabin quiets into that post-feast hush where everyone’s too full to move. I’m wiping down the counter, half-listening to Jack and Micah argue about whetherDie Hardis a Christmas movie, when I glance out the window and spot her on the porch.
Kait’s wrapped in my flannel from last night—mine, the one I draped over her shoulders when she was shivering—and the sight punches me square in the sternum. Snow’s falling in big, lazy flakes, the world hushed under a blanket of white. The porch light casts a golden pool around her, turning the falling snow into glitter.
