Page 29 of Mashed Hearts
Dad’s lips definitely twitch this time. I swear I see approval in his eyes as he settles back into his recliner, newspaper up like a shield. Mom’s already in the kitchen, cooing over her sunflowers.
I drag Josh out before Dad changes his mind. In the driveway, he pulls me into another kiss, snow falling soft around us.
“Your dad didn’t kill me,” he murmurs against my lips. “I’m calling it a Christmas miracle.”
“Mom’s flowers sealed the deal,” I say, stealing his beanie and pulling it over my ears. “You’re officially golden.”
Josh slides into the driver’s seat, hand finding mine as we pull out. The snow’s thick, the road slick, but with him beside me, it feels like we’re unstoppable.
Burger Bonanza is flashback to the 1980’s, the parking lot a winter wonderland of snowbanks and Christmas lights strung like a drunk electrician’s masterpiece. The giant plastic cow on the roof is wearing a Santa hat and sunglasses, because why not? The air smells like fryer grease and roasted nuts from a cart nearby, and the snow’s piled so high around the yellow school bus play structure out back that kids are sledding down it on cafeteria trays.
Our friends are already here, in the biggest booth of the place. Ainsley’s wearing a red beanie and a coat that looks like it add no warmth, waving both mittened hands. Pete’s beside her wearing a t-shirt because he rarely gets cold. Beth’s got a flask peeking out of her pocket, her scarf painted with tiny middle fingers, the same one she bought when we went shopping. Jack is on his phone, staring at the ceiling as if he’s hating the conversation. We’re only missing Hope and Micah, who won’t be back home this year.
The diner’s a time capsule: checkered floors, red vinyl booths, a jukebox blasting “Sweet Caroline” like it’s 1985. Thetable’s littered with crayon buckets, menus sticky with soda, and a jukebox remote Beth and Pete are fighting over like it’s the One Ring.
“Order everything,” Ainsley declares, slamming her menu shut. “I’m eating my feelings in bacon.”
“Same,” Beth says, coloring a placemat Santa with devil horns.
I’m wedged between Jack and Josh, his hand on my thigh under the table, thumb tracing circles that make my brain short-circuit. The server—a teenager with a nose ring and a vibe that saysI hate my life—takes our order: double cheeseburgers with extra pickles, chili cheese fries that could clog an artery in one bite, onion rings the size of hula hoops, milkshakes in every flavor from vanilla to “mystery.” Josh gets chocolate with extra whipped cream; I steal his cherry before it hits the table.
“You’re a menace,” he says, kissing the whipped cream off my lip.
“Your cherry was begging for it,” I say, and the table loses it.
“Get a room!” Jack yells, tossing a fry that lands in Pete’s milkshake. Splash. Classic. “We don’t want to hear about anyones cherries.”
The food arrives in a grease-soaked avalanche, plates clattering, fries vanishing like they’re auditioning for a magic trick. Josh feeds me a bite of his burger—bacon, avocado, spicy sauce that sets my mouth on fire—and I moan so loud the family at the next table packs up and leaves.
“Foodgasm,” I declare, licking sauce off my thumb. “This is why I come home.”
Josh’s eyes darken, his hand squeezing my thigh, leaning into me. “Pretty sure I can make you moan louder.”
“Down, boy,” I laugh, swatting him. Ainsley chokes on her soda, Beth cackles, and Jack pretends to gag.
Conversation flows like the milkshakes—sticky, sweet, unstoppable. We talk finals, holiday plans, and, inevitably, us.
“So,” Beth says, leaning forward with a grin that screamsspill, “you two. Long distance. How’s it working?”
I glance at Josh, his hand warm and steady on my leg. “It’s… good. Hard, but good. He was in New York last week, I’m in California after Christmas. FaceTime, text messages. You name it. We’re making it work.”
“Dirty text messages,” Josh says, deadpan.
“Scandalous,” Beth teases, but her eyes are soft.
Jack raises his milkshake. “To Josh and Kait, proving love can survive time zones and Josh’s terrible taste in movies.”
“The Notebookis a classic,” Josh protests, but he’s grinning. We clink plastic cups, whipped cream smearing everywhere.
The arcade calls post-burgers. Jack makes beeline forPac-Man, screaming over high scores. Pete and Ainsley dominate air hockey, yelling like it’s the Olympics. Beth and I attemptDance Dance Revolution, nearly taking out a kid in a Spider-Man beanie. Josh hits upSkee-Ball, accumulating tickets that amount to practically nothing.
After a round ofDance Dance Revolution,I join Josh atSkee-ball, “You’re toast, Jamison,” he says, rolling a ball into the 10-point hole. Amateur.
“Please,” I scoff, nailing the 50-point slot. “I was Skee-Ball queen three years running.”
He leans in, lips brushing my ear. “Loser buys a next round of drinks at the bar.”
“Deal.” I win by a landslide, mostly because he’s distracted by my ass in these jeans. We cash in our tickets for a plastic dinosaur that Beth immediately claims as her “spirit animal.”
