Page 6 of Mashed Hearts
Her cheeks flush. "How could I forget? You swore the water was warm. Liar."
"Hey, it built character. And led to... other fun." I wink, keeping it light.
She splashes me with suds. " perv. But yeah, good times."
We fall into rhythm, the clink of dishes underscoring the quiet. The group's chatter fades to background noise—Jack telling some story that's got them howling.
"About how things ended," I say softly, drying a glass. "I was an idiot. Thought moving west would fix everything, but it just... amplified the immaturity. Should've handled it better."
Kait pauses, looking at me. "Water under the bridge, Josh. We're different now."
"Are we?" I ask, our eyes locking again. That spark flares, warm and insistent.
Before she can answer, Ainsley calls from the couch, "You two need a chaperone? Or are you reenacting a rom-com scene?"
We both laugh, the moment breaking but not shattering. I flick water at Kait. "See? They're watching like hawks."
"Creeps," she mutters, but grins.
We finish up, stacking the last plate, and rejoin the group. The fire's dying down, yawns circulating. "Crash time?" Pete suggests.
Nods all around. As we divvy up rooms, I catch Kait's eye one last time. "Night, Josh,” she whispers.
"Night, Kait." And damn if that doesn't feel like a beginning.
The cabin settles into quiet, snow still falling outside. I'm nervous, yeah, but excited too. Maybe this Friendsgiving isn't a disaster after all. Maybe it's a second chance.
josh - 17 years old
. . .
I’m seventeen,months away from being eighteen, sweating through a rented tux that smells like the inside of a plastic bag, standing in Kait’s driveway while her dad sizes me up like I’m about to rob a bank. The corsage in my hand is wilting faster than my confidence, but then the front door opens and Kait steps out in this midnight-blue dress that hugs every curve I’ve spent the last six months memorizing in stolen glances during calc. The porch light catches on the tiny sequins, and for a second I forget how to breathe.
“Jesus, Jamison,” I manage, voice cracking like a middle-schooler. “You trying to kill me?”
She laughs—God, that laugh—and does a little spin, the skirt flaring just enough to make my palms sweat harder. “You clean up okay yourself, Surfer boy.” She’s been calling me that since Freshmen year when I showed up to a pool party in board shorts, sunglasses, and flip-flops in forty-degree weather. Tonight I’m in black, bow tie crooked, hair gelled into submission. I feel like a fraud, but the way she’s looking at me—like I’m the only guy on the planet—makes me stand taller.
Her mom snaps approximately four hundred photos while her dad mutters something about curfew and “hands where I can see them.” Despite the fact that we’ve been dating since we were fifteen. I nod like a bobblehead, slide the corsage onto Kait’s wrist, fumbling the elastic twice, and finally we’re free, tumbling into my beat-up Jeep Wrangler with the top off because I’m an idiot who thinks April in Vermont is convertible weather.
The drive to the high school gym is twenty minutes of pure teenage electricity. Kait’s bare shoulder brushes mine every time I shift gears as she leans on the middle console between us; the radio’s blasting some overplayed Ed Sheeran song that I secretly love because she does. She’s got one foot up on the dash, humming off-key, wind whipping her hair into my face. I don’t even mind the strands in my mouth. I’d eat her hair if it meant keeping this moment.
Inside the gym, the prom committee has gone full Titanic: paper lanterns, fake stars dangling from the rafters, a fog machine that smells like burnt plastic. We pose for the obligatory photo—my arm around her waist, her hand on my chest—and the second the flash pops I lean in and whisper, “You owe me a real dance later. None of this side-to-side middle-school sway.”
She smirks. “Only if you promise not to step on my toes.”
The first slow song hits and I drag her to the floor before she can protest. My hands find her waist like they were custom-made for the spot; hers slide up to my shoulders. We’re swaying, but it’s more like orbiting—close enough that I can feel her breath on my neck, the heat of her skin through the thin fabric. The gym lights dim to purple, and suddenly it’s just us, the bass thumping in my ribs like a second heartbeat.
“You know,” I murmur into her hair, “I had this whole plan to spike the punch with the vodka I swiped from my dad’s cabinet.”
She pulls back just enough to arch a brow. “And?”
“And I chickened out when I saw Principal Manning doing the Macarena with Mrs. Jenkins. Figured I’d rather not get expelled two months before graduation.”
“Smartest thing you’ve done all year,” she teases, fingers playing with the hair at my nape. Goosebumps. Everywhere.
We dance through three more songs—fast, slow, doesn’t matter. Beth photobombs us with bunny ears; Jack tries to cut in and I hip-check him into Micah. Kait’s laughing so hard she snorts, which makes me laugh harder, and suddenly we’re those obnoxious couples everyone hates but secretly wants to be.
By eleven the gym’s a sweatbox and the chaperones are circling like sharks. I grab Kait’s hand. “Come on. Adventure awaits.”
