Kait #2
“Five hours, forty-two minutes,” he corrects, and I can hear the grin in his voice. “Not pathetic. I was counting the seconds until I could call you. Got weird looks from the Uber driver when I started humming John Mayer in the backseat.”
I laugh so hard I nearly knock the phone off the pillow. “You’re such a sap.”
“Only for you.” A pause, then softer: “Tell me about your day. Every detail. I wanna picture it.”
I roll onto my back, staring at the ceiling crack that looks like a lightning bolt.
“Okay. Woke up to Mom’s Christmas playlist—full blast, no mercy.
Dad was already in interrogation mode, sharpening his knives.
You showed up looking like a lumberjack heartthrob, charmed Mom with bakery goods, survived Dad’s death grip.
We made a plan—you in New York in two weeks, then we figure out the rest.”
“Best plan ever,” he says. “I’m already packing. Got my flannel collection ready. Gotta impress the city girl.”
“City girl’s already impressed,” I tease, but my voice catches a little. “You really meant it? All the stuff you were telling my dad, about the job, the offices, all of it?”
“Every word.” His tone shifts, serious now. “Kait, I’ve spent four years kicking myself for letting you go. I’m not doing that again. The job’s flexible—New York office is brand-new, they’re begging for people. I finish my internship, ceremony in June, and I’m yours. Wherever you are.”
I swallow hard, my eyes stinging. “You’re gonna make me cry.”
“Good. Means you’re feeling it too.” Another rustle, like he’s rolling over. “Now tell me about the pedicure. Did your mom make you get the holiday red?”
“Obviously. My big toes are currently sparkling like a disco ball. She also bought me a candle that smells like a cinnamon broom exploded on it. We hit the holiday market, ate kettle corn, pretended we weren’t freezing our asses off.
Then the airport—delayed, overpriced salad, baby screaming like it was auditioning for The Exorcist. Landed, grabbed my bag, and your selfie was waiting. You looked… happy.”
“Because I was home and still had you in my pocket,” he says, simple as that. “Now it’s your turn. What’s Brooklyn Kait doing tonight?”
“Ignoring the school books, obviously. They’re glaring at me like I owe them rent. I’m in your sweatshirt, I ate a bowl of cereal, and talking to you. Living the dream.”
“Cereal and my hoodie? Marry me.”
I laugh, but my heart’s doing that fluttery thing again. “Slow down, cowboy. We’ve got two weeks of long-distance torture first.”
“Torture’s my love language,” he says. “I’m already planning my first care package. Surf wax, In-N-Out gift card, and a mixtape of all the songs we made out to in high school.”
“God, you’re cheesy.”
“Only the finest aged cheddar for you.” A yawn creeps into his voice. “What time’s your first class tomorrow?”
“Ten. Thesis seminar. I’m presenting my chapter on Beauty and the Beast retellings. Pray for me.”
“You’re gonna kill it. You always do.” Another pause, longer this time. “Kait?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m really fucking glad we’re doing this.”
“Me too.” My voice is barely a whisper. “I was so scared at Friendsgiving. Thought I’d see you and it’d hurt all over again.”
“I was terrified you’d throw a stale roll at my head.”
“I considered it.”
He chuckles, low and warm. “But you didn’t. And now I get to fall asleep knowing you’re wearing my sweatshirt and thinking about me.”
“Always thinking about you,” I admit, and it’s true.
Four years of trying to forget, and he’s been there in every quiet moment, every song on the radio, every starry night that reminded me of the quarry.
Even when I tried to date, no one ever measured up to Joshua Daniels, and so my relationships were short and infrequent.
“Same, Jamison. Every damn day.” His voice is softer now, sleep tugging at the edges. “Tell me something I don’t know.”
I think for a second, tracing the UCLA logo on the sweatshirt. “I still have the ticket stub from our first date. The drive-in. The Notebook. You spilled popcorn all over my lap and spent the whole movie trying to pick it out of my skirt.”
He groans. “I was smooth as hell.”
“You were a disaster. I loved it.”
“Still a disaster. Just better at hiding it.” A beat. “My turn. I kept the note you wrote me senior year. The one you slipped in my calc book. Meet me at the overlook. Bring fries. It’s in my wallet. Been there since the day you gave it to me.”
My breath catches. “Josh.”
“Truth, Kait. Always.”
We talk until my eyes are heavy and his voice is a sleepy murmur.
He tells me about his roommate’s snoring, the way the California air smells different after snow, the way he’s already counting down to New York.
I tell him about the crack in my ceiling, the way Kevin the succulent is definitely judging me, the way his sweatshirt makes my apartment feel less empty.
“I should let you sleep,” he says finally, but he doesn’t hang up.
“Five more minutes,” I whisper.
“Five more hours,” he counters.
We settle into silence, just breathing. His is steady, mine’s a little shaky. The city hums outside, but in here, it’s just us—connected by a phone line and a promise.
“Alright, night, Surfer boy,” I say, voice thick.
“Night, Kait. Dream of me.”
“Always do.”
The call ends with a soft click, but I keep the phone to my ear for a second longer, like I can hold onto his voice. I roll over, pull his sweatshirt tighter around me, and let the city lights blur through my tears. Two weeks. Finals. New York. Him.
Long distance starts now, but for the first time, it doesn’t feel like a wall.
It feels like a runway. And I’m ready to fly.