Page 26 of Mashed Hearts
I drag myself out of bed, throw on leggings and boots, and trudge to the campus coffee shop. It’s November in New York, which means it’s freezing, the kind of cold that slaps you awake. The city’s a blur—yellow cabs, holiday lights, people hustling with shopping bags. I’m in Josh’s hoodie under my coat, scarf up to my chin, looking like a sad burrito.
Beth’s waiting at a corner table, her hair dyed purple since last week, a flask peeking out of her bag. She slides me a latte, no questions asked. “You look like Kevin’s evil twin,” she says, nodding at my drooping posture.
“Thanks,” I mutter, sipping the latte. It’s perfect, because Beth knows my order—oat milk, extra foam, a dash of cinnamon. “He’s still not talking to me.”
“Josh or Kevin?”
“Both,” I say, and she snorts. “Josh read my text two days ago. Nothing. I called yesterday, straight to voicemail. I’m dying, Beth. Kevin is mad at me for not watering him.”
She leans forward, eyes sharp. “You’re eighteen, not a Victorian widow. He’s being a coward. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Then why’s he ghosting me?” My voice cracks, and I hate it. “We were us. We made promises, pinky swears and all. And now… nothing.”
Beth sighs, topping my latte with a splash from her flask. “Miles are a bitch. Money’s a bitch. He’s probably freaking out, thinking he’s doing you a favor or some dumb boy logic.”
“I don’t want a favor,” I say, tears stinging. “I want him.”
“I know.” She squeezes my hand. “But you’re Kait Jamison. You’re killing it here—aced your lit theory midterm, charmed your profs, got that barista gig where the tips are insane. You don’t need a boy who can’t pick up the phone.”
I nod, but it feels hollow. I miss him so much it’s a physical ache—his laugh, his flannel, the way he called me Jamison like it was a secret just for us. I miss drive-in nights, his hand on my thigh, John Mayer on the radio. I miss the boy who made me believe in forever at eighteen.
But we’re young. Too young, maybe. I’m at Columbia, drowning in essays and literature. He’s at UCLA, surfing and grinding through engineering. Flights cost so much money that I don’t have, and my barista tips barely cover my social life. FaceTime’s a joke when you’re crying over time zones and expensive airport salads. It’s not fair to him, tethering him to a girl who’s three thousand miles away, drowning in her own heartbreak.
So I keep texting, keep calling, keep hoping. But every read receipt is a brick in the wall he’s building. I’m not giving up—not yet—but I’m starting to wonder if he already has.
I don’t sleep that night. Priya’s snoring softly, Kevin’s judging me from his pot, and I’m staring at the ceiling, Josh’s scarf still around my neck. I open his contact, thumb hovering over call. His photo’s still there—us at some party in the woods, me in his flannel, grinning like we owned the world. I want to hit dial, spill my guts, beg him to fight for us. But I don’t. I lock the phone, shove it under my pillow, and cry into his hoodie until the city lights blur.
I’m doing the right thing. I have to be. He’s better off without me holding him 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 he’s the boy I’m losing.
It’s killing me. But it’s for him.
I hope.
josh
. . .
I landat JFK with a bag slung over my shoulder, a heart doing cartwheels, and a playlist titledKait Jamison: The Reunion Tourblasting in my AirPods. One week of finals hell—three all-nighters, one fueled by Red Bull and sheer panic—are behind me, and all I care about is the girl waiting for me at baggage claim. I spot her before she sees me: hair in a messy bun, UCLA sweatshirt drowning her frame, black leggings, bouncing on her toes like she’s about to sprint the 100-meter dash. The second our eyes lock, she’s running, and I drop my bag just in time to catch her as she launches into my arms.
“Josh!” she squeals, legs wrapping around my waist.
“My girl!” I spin her once, burying my face in her neck, inhaling vanilla and home. “God, you smell better than anything I’ve every smelled before.”
She laughs, kisses me hard right there in the middle of baggage claim, and I’m pretty sure the guy next to us drops his suitcase. We don’t care. I’ve got my girl, and the city can wait.
Her Brooklyn apartment is tiny—cozy, she calls it; shoebox with ambition, I call it—but it’s perfect. Exposed brick, a window overlooking a fire escape, a bed that takes up half the squarefootage. We don’t leave it for the first twenty-four hours. I’m talking full-on hermit mode: takeout dumplings, her wearing my T-shirt and nothing else, me learning every inch of her like it’s the first time and the last time rolled into one. The mattress squeaks like it’s filing a noise complaint, but we’re too busy making up for four years of lost touches to care.
“Josh,” she gasps at one point, nails digging into my back, “if the neighbors complain, I’m blaming you.”
“Let ’em,” I growl into her neck, kissing that spot that makes her arch like a cat. “I’m staking my claim.”
We only surface for air, water, and the occasional slice of cold pizza. She traces the new scar on my shoulder from a surfboard fin—“Battle wound?”
“Ego wound.”—and I kiss the freckles across her nose like I’m connecting constellations.
Time is a suggestion when I’m inside her, with her legs wrapped around me, her moan in my ear as I move above her.
When we finally emerge into the wild. Kait’s bundled in a puffy coat that makes her look like a sexy marshmallow, scarf trailing, mittens swallowing her hands. I’m in flannel and a beanie, feeling like a Vermont boy playing tourist. She’s got a plan—sort of.
