Josh
. . .
The snow is coming down like it's got a personal vendetta against my rental SUV, fat flakes splattering the windshield as I navigate the last twisty mile to the cabin.
My palms are slick on the wheel, and not just from the heater blasting into my face.
It's been—what?—four years since I last did this?
The first Friendsgiving after high school graduation was a disaster.
I showed up, saw Kait across the room looking like she'd been punched in the gut by my mere presence, and bailed before the turkey even hit the table.
Ghosted the tradition ever since, citing "West Coast commitments" or whatever bullshit excuse I fed Jack.
He's the only one I've kept in touch with, our friendship surviving on sporadic texts about fantasy football, needing random help in classes, and memes that make zero sense out of context.
Now here I am, my final semester at UCLA wrapping up since I haven’t taken a break from classes, tanned from too many beach volleyball sessions, single as a sock in the dryer, and voluntarily driving into this emotional minefield.
Why? Because Jack's been hounding me like a persistent seagull at the pier: "Dude, come on, it's tradition.
Kait's chill, you probably wouldn’t even be a blip on her radar.
Everyone misses your dumb ass." And yeah, maybe a part of me—the stupid, masochistic part—wants to see if that old spark with Kait is still flickering or if it's been snuffed out by time and my epic immaturity.
I pull into the long driveway up to the cabin, the headlights cutting through the flurry like lightsabers. The place looks straight out of a Hallmark movie, all glowing windows and chimney smoke. A cabin by name, but not by square-footage.
My heart's doing that obnoxious drum solo in my chest.
What if they all hate me?
What if Kait throws a pie at my face? Nah, that's not her style.
She'd probably save face, smile, make small talk and keep distance. That’s her thing.
I kill the engine, grab my bag from the passenger seat—packed with newly purchased flannels that scream "I'm still Vermont at heart, even if I say 'dude' too much now"—and crunch through the snow to the porch.
The cold bites at my nose, a sharp reminder that SoCal has turned me into a total wuss.
I grasp the door knob, my fist feeling like lead.
The door slowly swings open, and there's Jack, grinning like he just won the lottery. "Holy shit, he actually showed! Josh, my man!"
"Bro!" I pull him into a back-slapping hug, the kind that says 'I've missed your ugly mug' without getting all sappy.
Jack's the same—dimples deep enough to hide spare change, hair styled like he's auditioning for a boy band. I see him occasionally since he’s only an hour south of me in Southern California, but the past few years, school has taken over both our lives.
“You owe me for this. That drive from the airport was like driving in a blizzard. "
He laughs, hauling me inside. The warmth hits me like a wave, along with the smell of roasted turkey and something sweet—pie, maybe?
The group's all there, sprawled around the living room and kitchen, and the energy shifts.
Half excited chatter, half that awkward pause like when you accidentally walk in on someone in the bathroom.
"Josh?" Ainsley squeals first, bounding over like a puppy. She's got flour on her sweater and that perpetual sunshine smile she always had. "Oh my God, you came! Look at you, all tanned and West Coast-y!"
I grin, pulling her into a hug. "Ains, you haven't aged a day. Still ruling the kitchen like a boss?" She's always been the mom of the group, the one who remembers birthdays and sends care packages.
She punches my arm lightly. "Flattery will only get you pie. Pete, get over here!"
Pete ambles over, his lanky frame unchanged, offering a fist bump that turns into a hug. "Dude, welcome back. Heard you're killing it at UCLA. Surfing every weekend?"
"Something like that," I say with a chuckle, slipping into that easy laid back drawl. "More like dodging traffic and eating too many tacos. You two still disgustingly in love?"
"Guilty," Pete says, winking at Ainsley. "She's got me trained now.”
“Only now?” I tease.
Beth's next, her red curls wild as ever, eyeing me with that sarcastic glint. "Well, if it isn't the prodigal son. Thought you'd forgotten how to find Vermont on a map."
I laugh, hugging her carefully—Beth's hugs are like wrestling a porcupine, all sharp elbows and zero mercy. "Beth, you savage. Life’s just been hectic at school, graduating a semester early, and no time for fun otherwise. Still painting masterpieces that make banks cry?"
"Damn straight. And you're still too pretty for your own good. California agrees with you."
Micah waves from the couch, glasses perched on his nose, laptop balanced on his knees like it's an extension of his body. "Josh! Man, long time. You here to finally lose at Mario Kart again?"
I stride over, ruffling his hair. "Only if you're cheating with that brain of yours. What's up, tech wiz? Built any robots to take over the world yet?"
He smirks. "Working on it. One that fetches beer, at least."
Hope's last in the greeting line, standing poised like she's about to give a TED Talk with a wine glass in one hand and the other hand posted on her hip. "Josh, it's good to see you. We were starting to think you were a myth."
I hug her, her scarf scratching my cheek. "Nah, just a legend in my own mind. How's the business world? Conquering corporations?"
"Trying," she says with a smile. "You look... relaxed. Must be all that sunshine."
The room's buzzing now, that initial awkwardness thawing like snow in the sun.
But then my eyes scan the kitchen, and bam—there she is.
Kait. Standing by the island, a dish towel slung over her shoulder, her dark hair falling in waves that I remember tangling my fingers in.
She's in jeans and a sweater that hugs her just right, and damn, she's even more beautiful than I remembered.
Time stands still, like the world's hit pause.
The chatter fades to a hum, and it's just her, those eyes that used to light up when I'd sneak her notes in class.
She stands stoically, like a deer caught in the headlights, and her expression flickers—surprise, maybe a hint of nerves. I feel it too, that pull, like gravity's decided we're magnets again.
"Hey, Kait," I say, my voice coming out steadier than I feel. I cross the room, the group parting in slow motion while the magnet that has always existed between Kait and I — pulls us together.
"Josh." Her smile is tentative but real, and up close, she smells like vanilla and home. "You finally made it."
"Yeah. Figured it was time." We lean in for the hug—awkward at first, arms fumbling like we're strangers—but then it lingers.
Her body fits against mine like it never forgot, warm and soft, and I swear there's a spark, that old electricity zipping through me.
Not just nostalgia; something alive, crackling.
When we pull apart, our eyes lock for a beat too long. "You look good," I murmur, because apparently my brain's on autopilot.
"You too. California suits you." She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, cheeks pink.
Pete clears his throat dramatically. "Okay, lovebirds, save it for the mistletoe. Dinner's ready!"
The group erupts in anxious laughter, breaking the tension, and we all shuffle to the table.
It's a massive wooden thing in the dining area, laden with turkey, mashed potatoes drowning in gravy, green beans that look suspiciously healthy, and Ainsley's famous brown sugar asparagus with lemon hollandaise.
We cram in, elbows bumping, passing plates like a chaotic assembly line.
"Pass the salad, dude," I say to Micah, who's already piled his plate sky-high.
He slides the basket over. "Don't all the avocados. I know how you Californian’s are."
“Funny. I actually only have avocado on my toast.” I protest, buttering one with exaggerated innocence.
Beth snorts. “How hipster of you. You're still the guy who convinced us to sneak out for late-night drives senior year, remember? That time we ended up at the quarry, blasting old-school hip-hop?"
I grin, the memory flooding back. "Oh man, yeah. Kait was in the passenger seat, singing along to 'California Love' even though she hated rap."
Kait laughs from across the table, her eyes briefly meeting mine, then fluttering to her plate. "I did not hate it. I just preferred actual lyrics over mumbles about beaches."
"Excuse me, Tupac is a poet," I counter, pointing my fork at her. "And you loved those drives. Admit it."
She rolls her eyes, but there's a spark there. "Fine, they were fun. Until you got us lost that one time and we had to use the stars to navigate back—like we were in some bad rom-com."
The table chuckles, and Ainsley jumps in. "Speaking of rom-coms, remember senior prom? Josh, you showed up in that rented tux that was two sizes too big, looking like a penguin on stilts."
Pete barks a laugh. "And Kait in that blue dress—total showstopper. You two owned the dance floor."
I feel a flush creep up my neck, but I play it cool. "Hey, that tux was a steal. And yeah, prom was epic. Slow dancing to that cheesy Ed Sheeran song, thinking we were untouchable."
Kait's gaze softens. "Until the after-party where you tried to spike the punch and ended up spilling it all over Principal Hargrove's shoes."
"Accident!" I defend, hands up. "But worth it for the look on his face."
The conversation flows like the wine—red for the hearty types, white for the lightweights.
We talk college: my UCLA stories about frat parties that end with someone in a fountain, Kait's English lit rants about dissecting Shakespeare until the Bard's spinning in his grave.
Jack shares pre-law horror tales of mock trials gone wrong, like the time he accidentally called the judge "Your Hotness.
" Beth regales us with art school antics, painting nudes and dodging pretentious critiques.
Micah geeks out on AI, promising to build us all robot butlers someday.
Hope drops business jargon that flies over our heads, but we nod like we get it.
Pete and Ainsley play hosts, refilling plates and steering us away from politics because "it's Thanksgiving, not debate club. "
Halfway through seconds—because who diets during Friendsgiving?—the flashbacks weave in naturally, like old ghosts at the feast.
"So, Josh," Hope says, sipping her wine. "What made you finally come back? Jack's guilt trips?"
I shrug, glancing at Kait. "Partly. And... missed you all. Life out west is rad—beaches, burritos, the whole vibe—but it's not the same as this. Remember those late-night drives, Kait? Windows down, blasting tunes, talking about forever like we had it all figured out?"
She nods, a wistful smile tugging her lips. "Yeah. You'd always stop at that overlook, the one with the view of the valley. Stars everywhere. Felt like the world was ours."
"Until I ruined it," I say lightly, but there's an undercurrent. The table quiets a notch. "Transferring to UCLA on a whim, thinking distance was no big deal. Immature as hell."
Kait meets my eyes, no bitterness, just honesty. "We were kids. College changes everything."
"But hey," Jack interjects, lightening the mood, "at least you didn't pull a me and ghost everyone. Wait, you kinda did."
I throw a roll at him. "Says the guy who still owes me twenty bucks from that bet on the Super Bowl."
As the night winds down, plates stack up like Jenga towers in the sink. Everyone's lounging, full and slightly tipsy, when Kait stands. "I'll start dishes. Don't want to leave it for morning."
"I'll help," I blurt, before my brain catches up as I stand.
The group exchanges looks—subtle, but I catch them. Like they're watching a nature documentary: "And here, the exes attempt reconciliation over suds."
Kait raises an eyebrow but nods. "Sure. Grab a towel."
We head to the kitchen sink, the others pretending not to watch from the living room couches. It's like being on stage, but with more soap bubbles.
I rinse while she washes, our hands brushing occasionally, sending those sparks again. "So," I say, drying a plate, "college treating you okay? Senior year—feels surreal, right?"
"Yeah," she replies, handing me a fork. "Thesis is killing me, but it's good. You? UCLA seems to suit you, or is it the other way around?”
"Glamorous like dodging paparazzi? Nah, mostly just classes and part-time at a surf shop. Teaching tourists not to drown."
She laughs, that sound I've missed more than I admit. "Sounds very you. Still the adrenaline junkie?"
"Guilty. Remember prom night? After the dance, we ditched the party for that drive to the lake. Skinny-dipping at midnight because why not?"
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.