Kait
. . .
I wake up in my childhood bedroom, the one with the faded glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling and the Justin Timberlake poster I swore I’d take down in college but never did. My phone buzzes on the nightstand, and I’m already smiling before I even see the screen.
Morning, beautiful. Tell your dad I’m bringing my A-game to breakfast. Also, I’m wearing the good flannel. The one that makes my eyes pop. You’re welcome.
I snort, rolling over to bury my face in the pillow that still smells faintly like his cologne from last night’s goodnight kiss. My dad’s porch-light Morse code is burned into my brain—*flick-flick, get a room, but not in my house.
Classic Dad.
Eyes popping is the least of your worries. Dad’s probably sharpening the interrogation knives as we speak.
I’ve faced worse. Remember sophomore year when he caught us in the garage? I thought he was gonna make me join the Marines.
You cried.
I had allergies.
I laugh so hard I nearly fall off the bed. God, I missed this. The easy banter, the way he makes my stomach flip like I’m sixteen again, sneaking out for late-night drives. Except now we’re adults. With baggage. And frequent flyer miles.
I drag myself out of bed, throw on jeans and the softest sweater I own and head downstairs.
Mom’s already in the kitchen, humming along to some instrumental Christmas album like it’s not blasphemy before 8 a.m. Dad’s at the table, newspaper spread out, coffee steaming, looking like a grumpy lumberjack who hasn’t slept.
“Morning,” I say, kissing Mom’s cheek and stealing a piece of bacon before she can swat me.
Dad grunts. “Josh coming?”
“Yup. His flight is at one, mine’s at six. We’re going to hang out a bit before we go back to school.”
Mom claps her hands. “I love a good airport scene! Will there be running? Slow-motion hugs?”
“Only if Dad chases him with a broom, but I won’t be going to the airport with him. He’ll be leaving from here and taking his rental back. My flight isn’t until later, and I also have my rental car, so, we’ll say bye from here.” I reply.
Dad’s eyes narrow over his coffee mug. “Don’t tempt me.”
The doorbell rings, and my heart does a stupid little skip.
I open it to find Josh on the porch, snowflakes in his hair, holding a bakery box like a peace offering.
He’s in dark jeans and that flannel—deep green, sleeves rolled up to show off forearms that should come with a warning label. His grin is pure trouble.
“Morning, Jamison family,” he says, stepping inside. “I brought donuts. The good kind. Not the gas station ones with the weird jelly.”
Mom swoops in like a caffeinated hurricane. “Josh! You’re too sweet! Come in, come in!”
Ryan barrels down the stairs in boxers and a T-shirt that says I Flexed and the Sleeves Fell Off. “Dude! Donuts!” He snatches the box, nearly taking Josh’s arm with it.
Dad stands, arms crossed, looking like he’s about to demand Josh’s blood type and social security number. “Josh.”
“Mr. Jamison.” Josh offers his hand, steady as a rock. Dad shakes it, grip tight enough to crush granite. I wince.
We settle at the table—pancakes, bacon, donuts, coffee strong enough to wake the dead.
Josh sits next to me, our knees brushing under the table like we’re still sneaking touches in study hall.
Mom’s chattering about holiday plans, Ryan’s inhaling a jelly donut like it’s his job, and Dad’s staring at Josh like he’s a puzzle with missing pieces.
“So,” Dad says, cutting his pancake with surgical precision. “Future plans, Josh?”
Josh doesn’t flinch. “Graduating early. I don’t have a ceremony though, until June, sir.
Worked my ass—uh, butt—off to finish in three and a half years.
Got an internship lined up in California, a structural engineering firm in downtown LA.
But the good news is they’ve got offices in every major city—New York, Boston, Chicago.
Flexible. I’m not tied to one coast and after my internship, can apply wherever. ”
Dad’s eyebrow arches. “And Kait?”
Josh turns to me, eyes soft. “Sir. Kait’s always been in my heart.
The past few years, didn’t matter where I was.
She was there. Now? We plan together. I’ll be in New York in two weeks, soon as finals are done.
Staying for about a week. Then home for the holidays.
After that? We figure it out. Together.”
I swallow hard, my throat tight. Mom’s eyes are misty. Ryan’s stopped mid-bite, jelly on his chin. Dad’s still frowning, but it’s softer now, like he’s trying not to crack.
“I’m not eighteen anymore,” I add, meeting Dad’s eyes. “I know what I want.”
Dad sighs, sets down his fork. “You hurt her again, I’ll find you.”
“Understood, sir.” Josh nods, solemn.
Dad stands, offers his hand again. This time, the grip is firm but not murderous. “Hope to see you around, son.”
Josh grins. “Count on it, sir.”
After breakfast, we escape to the porch for air. Josh pulls me into his arms, my back to his chest, chin on my shoulder. “Your dad didn’t kill me. I’m calling it a win.”
“Barely,” I laugh, turning in his arms, fitting mine around his neck. “You’re lucky you brought donuts.” I lean up on my tip toes and kiss his lips gently.
He pulls away from me and grabs the backpack that is sitting beside the front door.
He must have left it there as he came over.
He reaches into the pack, pulls out his UCLA sweatshirt—a soft, faded one that has seen better days.
“Until I can get back to school to grab you a new one from the bookstore on campus. For you. So you don’t forget me in the big city. ”
I bury my face in it, inhaling his scent. “Like I could.”
We sit together on the front porch for over an hour. We make a plan: he’ll finish finals, fly to New York in two weeks, stay for a week, then I have my finals. Then we’ll be back here, on this porch for Christmas. After that, we’ll figure out the rest. Together.
He kisses me slow and deep, hands in my hair, until Ryan bangs on the window yelling, “Get a room!” We break apart laughing, foreheads pressed together.
“Text me when you land,” I say.
“Already planning my airport people-watching messages to you,” he says, and kisses me once more before heading to his car.
My phone buzzes an hour later. He’s made it to Burlington, to the airport.
Airport security line is a zoo. Guy in front of me has a emotional support peacock. No joke. It’s wearing a tiny hat.
Pics or it didn’t happen.
Josh sends a blurry photo of a peacock in a fedora.
Wish you were here to mock this with me.
Wish I was there to steal your fries.
Boarding now. Gate agent just called my name like I’m in trouble. Miss you already.
Miss you more. Safe flight, Surfer Boy.
After spending the day with my mom, I head to Burlington airport and start. my travels back home. I send a selfie in the airport terminal, beanie crooked, UCLA sweatshirt on to Josh, even though I know he’s still on his plane ride back to California.
My flight’s 1.5 hours of recycled air with a crying baby who’s definitely plotting a coup is finally over as I land at JFK, grab my bag from underneath the seat in front of me, and my phone buzzes a moment after I turned off the airplane mode.
I see a photo of Josh at the LAX baggage claim, hair messy, grin wide.
Missing you already. Landed! LAX is chaos. Guy next to me snored the whole flight. I have his playlist memorized. It’s all yacht rock. Call you when I get home.
I’m sprawled across my unmade bed in Brooklyn, the city’s distant hum filtering through the cracked window like a lullaby I never asked for.
My apartment smells like stale coffee, lavender candle wax, and the faint ghost of Josh’s cologne clinging to the UCLA sweatshirt I’m swimming in.
It’s soft, worn thin at the elbows, and I’ve got the hood pulled up over my messy bun like I’m seventeen again, stealing his clothes after a late-night drive.
My phone’s propped on a pillow, Josh’s name glowing on the screen, and his voice—low, warm, a little raspy from the flight—fills the tiny room like he’s right here instead of three thousand miles away.
“Hey, you,” he says, his tone soft, like he’s savoring the sound of my name.
“Hey there.” I roll onto my stomach, kicking my feet in the air like a teenager. “You home for real, or are you still stuck in LAX purgatory with the emotional support peacock?”
He laughs, the sound rumbling through the speaker and straight into my chest. “Peacock’s probably got its own reality show by now.
I’m in my apartment. Roommate’s passed out on the couch with a bag of Flamin’ Hot Cheetos on his chest like a blanket.
Place smells like regret and Axe body spray. And I wish I was with you, instead.”
I snort. “Sounds about right. You check on your plants?”
“Spike’s a goner,” he says, mock-solemn. “Ainsley would be so disappointed in me. I Found him face-down in his pot. I’m holding a cactus funeral tomorrow via Zoom. You’re invited. Bring tissues.”
“Only if you play ‘Taps’ on a tiny kazoo.”
“Deal.” There’s a rustle, like he’s shifting on his bed, and I picture him in his own hoodie, hair still messy from the plane, sprawled across sheets that probably smell like laundry detergent and his scent. “So. Brooklyn. How’s the big city treating my girl?”
My girl. My stomach does a slow, delicious flip. “It’s… quiet. Too quiet. My books are judging me from the desk like they’re plotting erasing all the text. I walked in, said hi to my sad little succulent—his name’s Kevin, by the way—and he looked at me like, Where the hell have you been?”
“Kevin’s got trust issues,” Josh says. “You gotta water him with love and apologies.”
“Noted.” I trace the frayed hem of his sweatshirt, the one I used to steal in high school because it smelled like him and made me feel like I was wrapped in his arms even when he was at surf practice. “I miss you already. Which is pathetic. It’s been, what, six hours?”