Page 7 of Mashed Hearts
She doesn’t ask where. Just kicks off her heels, scoops them up, and follows me out the side exit into the crisp night. The parking lot’s mostly empty, our breath fogging in the air. I boost her into the Jeep—dress and all—and we peel out, windows down, radio cranked to some old-school hip-hop station I found by accident.
Twenty minutes later we’re at the quarry, the one the seniors have been sneaking to since the ’90s. Moonlight’s bouncing off the water like diamonds, and the air smells like pine, bad decisions, and possibility. I kill the engine, hop out, and spread a blanket I keep in the backseat.
Kait eyes the dark water, then me. “We are not skinny-dipping, Josh. It’s fifty degrees.”
“Water’s warm,” I lie, already toeing off my dress shoes. “Geothermal springs or something. Science.”
She snorts. “You failed science.”
“Details.” I’m down to boxers before she can argue, cannonballing in with a whoop that echoes off the rocks. The water’s a literal ice bath—my balls retreat into my throat—but I surface grinning. “See? Balmy!”
Kait’s on the blanket, arms crossed, but she’s smiling. “You’re insane.”
“Insanely in love with you,” I call, because apparently freezing water makes me poetic. Or stupid. Same difference.
She bites her lip, then—miracle of miracles—unzip the dress and lets it pool at her feet. She’s in this strapless bra and matching panties that make my brain short-circuit. Then she’s running, leaping, splashing in beside me with a shriek that turns into laughter when the cold hits.
We’re treading water, teeth chattering, but I pull her close and suddenly the temperature doesn’t matter. Her legs wrap around my waist, arms around my neck, and we’re kissing like the world’s ending at midnight. Water laps at our shoulders; her skin’s goosebumped but warm where we touch. My hands slide down her back, tracing the line of her spine, and she makes this little sound that short-circuits every rational thought.
“Josh,” she whispers against my mouth, “we’re gonna freeze.”
“Worth it,” I mumble, kissing her again, deeper. We’re seventeen and invincible, convinced this is forever in the way only teenagers can be.
Eventually hypothermia wins. We scramble out, dripping and giggling, collapsing onto the blanket in a tangle of limbs. I wrap us both in the spare hoodie I keep in the Jeep—UCLA, because even then I was manifesting—and we lie there staring at the stars, her head on my chest, with the blanket around us for additional warmth.
“Promise me something,” she says, voice soft.
“Anything.”
“When we’re old and boring, we’ll still do stupid stuff like this. Break rules. Be reckless.”
I lace my fingers through hers. “Deal. But only if you promise to keep wearing dresses that make me forget my own name.”
She laughs, presses a kiss to my jaw. “Deal.”
We stay until the sky starts to lighten, stealing kisses and whispers about college and apartments and a future that feels infinite. I drive her home with the heat blasting, her bare feet on the dash again, my hoodie swallowing her whole. When I walk her to the door, her dad’s porch light flicks on like a warning shot.
“Text me when you get home,” she says, standing on tiptoes to kiss me one last time.
“Aways,” I grin. “Love you.”
She mouths she loves me back, then disappears inside, and I float back to the Jeep, high on prom and possibility and the way she says my name like it’s a promise as certain the stars are ours to keep.
kait
. . .
I wakeup to the sound of Beth snoring like a chainsaw through the walls and the faint smell of last night’s roast still clinging to my hoodie. My first coherent thought is:Josh is here. My second is:Stop it, brain.My third is a full-body replay of the way his arms felt around me during that awkward-but-not-really hug, and I groan so loudly Ainsley pokes her head in from the hallway.
“Morning, sunshine,” she whispers, way too chipper for someone who polished off half a box of wine. “Coffee’s on. And Josh is already up, looking tragically hot in flannel. Just FYI.”
I flip her the bird from under the blanket. She giggles and disappears.
I lie there another thirty seconds, heart doing that annoying fluttery thing it hasn’t done since before I can remember. Get it together, Jamison. You’re an adult, not a teenager anymore. You have a thesis. You have standards. You do not have time for California-tanned ex-boyfriends who smell like pine and poor life choices.
By the time I zombie-shuffle into the kitchen, the guys are arguing over who gets the last strip of bacon. Josh is leaningagainst the counter, coffee in one hand, the other ruffling his bed-head into perfect surfer waves. He spots me and his grin goes lopsided, kicking my nerves into high gear.
“Morning, Wait. Sleep okay?” He asks.
