Page 25 of Mashed Hearts
I paddle back to shore, Jack trailing, the guilt heavier than my board. We collapse on the sand, beers cracked, the sky going dark. My phone’s in my bag, probably buzzing with another text I won’t answer. Jack’s quiet, for once, letting me stew.
“I miss her,” I say, voice low. “Every fucking day.”
“Then stop being a coward,” he says, not looking at me. “Or let her go for real. But this half-assed ghosting? It’s cruel.”
I don’t sleep that night. I’m back in the dorm, Chad snoring like a chainsaw, Spike judging me from his pot. I open Kait’s contact, thumb hovering over call. Her photo’s still there—us at the quarry, her in my flannel, grinning like we owned the world. I want to hit dial, spill my guts, beg her to wait. But I don’t. I lock the phone, shove it under my pillow, and stare at the ceiling until the sun comes up.
I’m doing the right thing. I have to be. She’s better off without me holding her back. We’re young, we’re dumb, and love’s not enough to bridge three thousand miles. Maybe someday, when we’re not broke, not lost, we’ll find each other again. But for now, I’m a ghost, and she’s the girl I’m letting go.
It’s killing me. But it’s for her.
I hope.
kait - 18 years old
. . .
I’m almost nineteen,just a few more months, curled into a ball on my twin XL dorm bed at Columbia, the radiator clanking like it’son it’s last leg and my heart doing a pretty good impression of a deflating balloon. It’s the day after the first Friendsgiving since high school, and I’m in New York City—the New York City—wearing Josh’s hoodie from high school like a sad security blanket, surrounded by books and a half-eaten bag of stale bagels. My phone’s face-up on my pillow, screen dark, mocking me with the last text I sent Josh two days ago that’s still glowing read like a neon sign screaming YOU’RE BEING IGNORED, Jamison.
I’m the world’s biggest idiot, and I know it.
It’s been three months since grad 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 our personal anthem. Josh was my guy—my surfer boy—his hand in mine, his laugh in my ear, his board shorts showing off his stomach, I traced like a love letter. We promised forever, quarry nights, drive-ins, a future where nothing could touch us. Then he got on a plane to UCLA, Icame to Columbia, and three thousand miles turned our forever into a text thread that’s dying faster than my succulent, Kevin, who’s currently yellowing on my windowsill.
I’m staring at my phone like it’s a Ouija board that might summon him. My call log’s a crime scene—six calls to Josh in the past week, all unanswered, all sent to voicemail where his recorded voice says “Yo, it’s Josh, leave a message or whatever” and I want to scream into the void. My last text, the one he read and ghosted, sits there like a gravestone:
Josh, please. Just talk to me. I miss you.
My roommate, Priya, is out at a study group, thank God, because I’m a mess—mascara smudged, hair in a bun that’s 90% dry shampoo, wearing his hoodie like it’s armor against the world. My dorm’s a disaster: class notes scattered like confetti, a coffee mug with a lipstick stain I haven’t washed since October, a poster of Central Park that’s curling at the edges. Kevin’s judging me from his pot, his leaves drooping like he’s personally offended by my life choices.
I roll over, clutch the hoodie to my face, and inhale. It still smells faintly like Josh—pine, salt, the cologne he wore that made me weak in the knees. But it’s fading, just like us. I want to call him, hear his voice, tell him about the party I skipped because some guy named Ethan tried to flirt and I couldn’t stop thinking about Josh’s grin. I want to book a flight to LA, blow my entire barista tips, and show up at his dorm with bagels and apologies. But I don’t. Because I’m broke, and because every unanswered text feels like a door slamming in my face.
I open my call log instead. His name’s at the top, a string of outgoing calls with no return. I let the last one ring out on purpose, my thumb shaking as I hung up before voicemail. I couldn’t leave another message—“Hey, it’s Kait, again, just…call me?”—because I’m not that girl. I’m not desperate. Except I am. I’m desperate for the boy who stole my fries and my heart when we were barely in our teens.
My phone buzzes. Not Josh—Beth.
You alive, girly? Talk to Josh yet?
I snort, typing back with shaky fingers.
Alive. Barely. He’s ghosting me like a pro.
She sends agif of a dumpster fire
He’s a dumbass. Want me to paint his face on a target?
Tempting. But no.
Beth is my lifeline, the only one I’m spilling my guts to. The group chat’s too chaotic—Ainsley’s heart-eye emojis with Pete, Jack’s memes, Micah’s tech rants as he gets underway with his computer classes. Beth gets it—she’s at RISD, close enough for weekend vent sessions when I take the train to Providence. We got drunk on boxed wine the first weekend of school, and I cried into her lap about how much I love him, how much it hurts, how I don’t know what I did wrong. She called him a moron, braided my hair, and said, “You’re Kait freaking Jamison. You don’t chase boys who ghost.” I didn’t listen. I’m still chasing, in my head at least.
I sit up, hug my knees, and stare at the wall where I taped a photo of us from the quarry—me in his flannel, him grinning like he owned the world. My brain’s a tornado of guilt and what-ifs. I keep telling myself he’s busy—midterms, surfing,new friends. But three months of radio silence? That’s not busy. That’s a choice. And it’s killing me.
I open Instagram, because I’m a masochist. His latest story’s a surf video—him riding a wave, hair wet, laughing with some guys I don’t know. No tag, no caption, just vibes. My heart twists. Is there a girl? Is he over me? Did I imagine us? I close the app, toss my phone across the bed like it’s radioactive.
Priya’s side of the room is pristine—color-coded notes, a Buddha statue, a diffuser pumping lavender like it’s trying to zen me into submission. My side’s chaos—books, empty coffee cups, a scarf Josh gave me senior year draped over my lamp. I grab it, wrap it around my neck, and try not to cry. The scarf smells like my detergent now, not him. Everything’s fading.
My phone buzzes again. Beth.
Coffee shop. I’m in the city. Now. Bring your sad face, I’ve got wine.
