Page 23 of Mashed Hearts
“I was terrified you’d throw a stale roll at my head.”
“I considered it.”
He chuckles, low and warm. “But you didn’t. And now I get to fall asleep knowing you’re wearing my sweatshirt and thinking about me.”
“Always thinking about you,” I admit, and it’s true. Four years of trying to forget, and he’s been there in every quiet moment, every song on the radio, every starry night that reminded me of the quarry. Even when I tried to date, no one ever measured up to Joshua Daniels, and so my relationships were short and infrequent.
“Same, Jamison. Every damn day.” His voice is softer now, sleep tugging at the edges. “Tell me something I don’t know.”
I think for a second, tracing the UCLA logo on the sweatshirt. “I still have the ticket stub from our first date. The drive-in.The Notebook.You spilled popcorn all over my lap and spent the whole movie trying to pick it out of my skirt.”
He groans. “I was smooth as hell.”
“You were a disaster. I loved it.”
“Still a disaster. Just better at hiding it.” A beat. “My turn. I kept the note you wrote me senior year. The one you slipped in my calc book.Meet me at the overlook. Bring fries.It’s in my wallet. Been there since the day you gave it to me.”
My breath catches. “Josh.”
“Truth, Kait. Always.”
We talk until my eyes are heavy and his voice is a sleepy murmur. He tells me about his roommate’s snoring, the way the California air smells different after snow, the way he’s already counting down to New York. I tell him about the crack in my ceiling, the way Kevin the succulent is definitely judging me, the way his sweatshirt makes my apartment feel less empty.
“I should let you sleep,” he says finally, but he doesn’t hang up.
“Five more minutes,” I whisper.
“Five more hours,” he counters.
We settle into silence, just breathing. His is steady, mine’s a little shaky. The city hums outside, but in here, it’s just us—connected by a phone line and a promise.
“Alright, night, Surfer boy,” I say, voice thick.
“Night, Kait. Dream of me.”
“Always do.”
The call ends with a soft click, but I keep the phone to my ear for a second longer, like I can hold onto his voice. I roll over, pull his sweatshirt tighter around me, and let the city lights blur through my tears. Two weeks. Finals. New York. Him.
Long distance starts now, but for the first time, it doesn’t feel like a wall.
It feels like a runway. And I’m ready to fly.
josh - 19 years old
. . .
I’m nineteen,drowning in a UCLA hoodie that smells like regret and In-N-Out, staring at my phone like it’s a live grenade. It’s the day after the first Friendsgiving post-high-school, and I’m back in my dorm, the walls closing in with posters of surf spots I haven’t hit yet and a cactus named Spike who’s judging me harder than my mom. The group chat’s blowing up—Jack sending memes of turkeys with abs, Beth posting a photo of her “artistic” cranberry sauce that looks like a murder scene, Ainsley and Pete making heart eyes at each other in every selfie. Kait’s in there too, her messages a mix of miss you guys and Josh, call me. I’ve left every single one on read. My call log’s a graveyard of her missed calls, each one a punch to the gut.
I’m the world’s biggest asshole, and I know it.
It’s been three months since graduation night at the Pump House, when we were eighteen and invincible, pinky-swearing under the bleachers with peach schnapps burning our throats and Gwen Stefani blasting like a battle cry. Kait was my girl—my Jamison—her laugh in my ear, her hand in mine, her bikini leaving tan lines I memorized like a roadmap. We promisedforever, quarry nights, drive-ins, a future where nothing could touch us. Then I got on a plane to LA, she went to Columbia, and three thousand miles turned our forever into a Post-it note that’s peeling at the edges.
I’m sprawled on my bunk, the bottom one because my roommate, Chad claimed the top. My phone’s face-down on my chest, vibrating with another text I’m not ready to face. The dorm’s a mess—empty Red Bull cans, a surfboard leaning against the wall like it’s mocking me for not using it, a pile of laundry that’s 90% flannel. Spike’s wilting in his pot, probably because I forgot to water him again. I’m a disaster, and Kait’s paying for it.
I pick up the phone, thumb hovering over her name. The last message she sent, two days ago, is still unread:
Josh, please. Just talk to me. I miss you.
