Kait
. . .
I’m pacing my childhood bedroom like a caged tiger, counting down the minutes until Josh pulls up.
Finals week is a distant memory, my thesis is submitted, and all I can think about is seeing him—my surfer boy in Vermont snow, ready to tackle Christmas with me, my family, and our chaotic Friendsgiving crew.
My room looks like a department store exploded: scarves, boots, and enough sweaters to outfit a small army.
I’m in jeans, a thermal that hugs my curves just right, and a knitted sweatshirt.
My phone buzzes.
Outside. Brought reinforcements. Don’t leave me hanging with your dad’s death stare.
I grin, grab my coat—a puffy monstrosity that makes me look like the Michelin Man—but keeps me warm, and bolt downstairs.
Mom’s in the kitchen, humming “Jingle Bell Rock” while wrapping presents.
Ryan’s sprawled on the couch, playing Call of Duty and yelling at the TV.
Dad’s in his recliner, newspaper open, but I catch the glint in his eye—he’s been waiting for this moment since Josh’s breakfast ambush the last time I was home.
“Josh is here!” I call, yanking on my boots.
Mom pops her head out, flour on her cheek. “Tell him to come in! It’s freezing!”
I’m already at the door, heart doing that annoying fluttery thing it’s been doing since Friendsgiving.
I swing it open, and there he is—leaning against his rental SUV, snowflakes catching in his dark hair, wearing a shearling jacket and a green flannel that makes his eyes pop like emeralds.
He’s holding a bouquet of roses—deep red, wrapped in brown paper, tied with twine—and his grin is pure trouble.
“Kait,” he says, striding up the walkway like he owns the place. “Ready to run away with me?”
“Born ready, I’ve missed you.” I launch myself at him, and he catches me one-armed, the other clutching the flowers. Our kiss is quick but electric, his lips cold from the air, warm where they meet mine. I taste peppermint and possibility.
Mom’s voice floats from the doorway. “Josh! Get in here before you freeze!”
He pulls back, winking. “Duty calls.” He follows me inside, kicking snow off his boots. The living room smells like pine from the Christmas tree and cinnamon from Mom’s cookies. Ryan pauses his game, eyeing Josh like he’s sizing up a worthy opponent.
“Sup, bro,” Ryan says, fist-bumping him. “You bring the surfboard?”
“Left it in LA,” Josh says, grinning. “Didn’t think it would pass as a snowboard.”
Dad’s still in his recliner, newspaper lowered, one eyebrow arched like he’s a judge at the Supreme Court of Grumpy Dads. Josh doesn’t flinch. He steps forward, offering the second bouquet he’s been hiding behind his back—sunflowers, bright and bold, Mom’s favorite.
“Mrs. Jamison,” he says, all charm, “these are for you. Thanks for raising the best girl I know.”
Mom practically melts, clutching the flowers to her chest. “Oh, Josh! You’re too sweet! Look at these! Kaitlyn, isn’t he just darling?”
I roll my eyes, but I’m grinning. “He’s alright.”
Dad clears his throat from kitchen entryway, and the room stills like we’re in a Western showdown. Josh turns, meeting his gaze head-on. “Mr. Jamison. Good to see you again, sir.”
Dad shirt strains over his lumberjack shoulders. He eyes Josh, then the sunflowers, then me. His lips twitch—almost a smile. “You’re picking her up for this dinner thing?”
“Yes, sir. Burger Bonanza, then The Rusty Nail. Whole crew’s meeting up. I’ll have her home by… reasonable o’clock.”
Dad grunts, but it’s softer than his usual I’ll bury you in the backyard grunt. He glances at the flowers in Mom’s hands, then at me clinging to Josh’s arm like a koala. “You treat her right.”
“Always,” Josh says, and there’s no smirk now, just steel.
Dad nods, a single, sharp dip of his chin. “Good. Don’t make me regret allowing you back in this house.”
Mom swoops in, hugging Josh so hard the flowers nearly lose petals. “You kids have fun!”
Ryan snorts from the couch. “Yeah, and don’t let Josh get eaten by a moose.”
“Moose are chill,” Josh says, grabbing my suitcase. “It’s the dads you gotta watch.”
Dad’s lips definitely twitch this time. I swear I see approval in his eyes as he settles back into his recliner, newspaper up like a shield. Mom’s already in the kitchen, cooing over her sunflowers.
I drag Josh out before Dad changes his mind. In the driveway, he pulls me into another kiss, snow falling soft around us.
“Your dad didn’t kill me,” he murmurs against my lips. “I’m calling it a Christmas miracle.”
“Mom’s flowers sealed the deal,” I say, stealing his beanie and pulling it over my ears. “You’re officially golden.”
Josh slides into the driver’s seat, hand finding mine as we pull out. The snow’s thick, the road slick, but with him beside me, it feels like we’re unstoppable.
Burger Bonanza is flashback to the 1980’s, the parking lot a winter wonderland of snowbanks and Christmas lights strung like a drunk electrician’s masterpiece.
The giant plastic cow on the roof is wearing a Santa hat and sunglasses, because why not?
The air smells like fryer grease and roasted nuts from a cart nearby, and the snow’s piled so high around the yellow school bus play structure out back that kids are sledding down it on cafeteria trays.
Our friends are already here, in the biggest booth of the place.
Ainsley’s wearing a red beanie and a coat that looks like it add no warmth, waving both mittened hands.
Pete’s beside her wearing a t-shirt because he rarely gets cold.
Beth’s got a flask peeking out of her pocket, her scarf painted with tiny middle fingers, the same one she bought when we went shopping.
Jack is on his phone, staring at the ceiling as if he’s hating the conversation.
We’re only missing Hope and Micah, who won’t be back home this year.
The diner’s a time capsule: checkered floors, red vinyl booths, a jukebox blasting “Sweet Caroline” like it’s 1985. The table’s littered with crayon buckets, menus sticky with soda, and a jukebox remote Beth and Pete are fighting over like it’s the One Ring.
“Order everything,” Ainsley declares, slamming her menu shut. “I’m eating my feelings in bacon.”
“Same,” Beth says, coloring a placemat Santa with devil horns.
I’m wedged between Jack and Josh, his hand on my thigh under the table, thumb tracing circles that make my brain short-circuit.
The server—a teenager with a nose ring and a vibe that says I hate my life—takes our order: double cheeseburgers with extra pickles, chili cheese fries that could clog an artery in one bite, onion rings the size of hula hoops, milkshakes in every flavor from vanilla to “mystery.” Josh gets chocolate with extra whipped cream; I steal his cherry before it hits the table.
“You’re a menace,” he says, kissing the whipped cream off my lip.
“Your cherry was begging for it,” I say, and the table loses it.
“Get a room!” Jack yells, tossing a fry that lands in Pete’s milkshake. Splash. Classic. “We don’t want to hear about anyones cherries.”
The food arrives in a grease-soaked avalanche, plates clattering, fries vanishing like they’re auditioning for a magic trick. Josh feeds me a bite of his burger—bacon, avocado, spicy sauce that sets my mouth on fire—and I moan so loud the family at the next table packs up and leaves.
“Foodgasm,” I declare, licking sauce off my thumb. “This is why I come home.”
Josh’s eyes darken, his hand squeezing my thigh, leaning into me. “Pretty sure I can make you moan louder.”
“Down, boy,” I laugh, swatting him. Ainsley chokes on her soda, Beth cackles, and Jack pretends to gag.
Conversation flows like the milkshakes—sticky, sweet, unstoppable. We talk finals, holiday plans, and, inevitably, us.
“So,” Beth says, leaning forward with a grin that screams spill, “you two. Long distance. How’s it working?”
I glance at Josh, his hand warm and steady on my leg. “It’s… good. Hard, but good. He was in New York last week, I’m in California after Christmas. FaceTime, text messages. You name it. We’re making it work.”
“Dirty text messages,” Josh says, deadpan.
“Scandalous,” Beth teases, but her eyes are soft.
Jack raises his milkshake. “To Josh and Kait, proving love can survive time zones and Josh’s terrible taste in movies.”
“The Notebook is a classic,” Josh protests, but he’s grinning. We clink plastic cups, whipped cream smearing everywhere.
The arcade calls post-burgers. Jack makes beeline for Pac-Man, screaming over high scores.
Pete and Ainsley dominate air hockey, yelling like it’s the Olympics.
Beth and I attempt Dance Dance Revolution, nearly taking out a kid in a Spider-Man beanie.
Josh hits up Skee-Ball, accumulating tickets that amount to practically nothing.
After a round of Dance Dance Revolution, I join Josh at Skee-ball, “You’re toast, Jamison,” he says, rolling a ball into the 10-point hole. Amateur.
“Please,” I scoff, nailing the 50-point slot. “I was Skee-Ball queen three years running.”
He leans in, lips brushing my ear. “Loser buys a next round of drinks at the bar.”
“Deal.” I win by a landslide, mostly because he’s distracted by my ass in these jeans. We cash in our tickets for a plastic dinosaur that Beth immediately claims as her “spirit animal.”
Outside, the snow’s piled high around the school bus play structure, kids screaming as they slide down the snowy slide on trays.
We take a group photo—everyone crammed together, cheeks red, arms linked, the bus looming like a yellow dinosaur behind us.
Josh’s arm is around my waist, my head on his shoulder, and I’m pretty sure this is what happiness tastes like—grease, snow, and him.
The Rusty Nail is a dive bar masterpiece: sticky floors, neon beer signs, a jukebox that only plays Springsteen, Shania, and the occasional Garth Brooks deep cut.
The pool table’s older than I am, and the bartender—a woman named Donna with a tattoo of a dolphin wearing a Santa hat—knows us all by name.
The girls claim the dance floor, kicking off boots, coats in a pile by the bar.
Ainsley’s twirling Hope to “Man! I Feel Like a Woman!”, Beth’s doing some chaotic flailing that’s half moshing, half ballet.
I’m in the middle, laughing so hard my sides hurt, when Josh appears, pool cue in hand, eyes locked on me like I’m the only person in the room.
“Dance with me, Jamison,” he says, pulling me close.
The jukebox flips to “I Cross My Heart” by George Strait, and the bar fades to background noise. It’s just us, swaying under flickering Christmas lights, his hands on my hips, my arms around his neck. He smells like burger grease, snow, and that cologne that makes my knees weak.
“You’re good at this,” I murmur, head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat.
“Only with you,” he says, kissing my hair. “You make me better.”
The song ends, but we keep swaying, slow and close, until Donna yells last call. Our friends are by the door, coats on, ready to roll. Josh and I are the last to leave, his hand in mine, snow crunching under our boots as we step into the cold.
“Vermont for Christmas,” he says, pulling me into one last kiss under the bar’s neon glow. “Then California. You and me.”
“You and me,” I echo, kissing him until the snow melts around us.
The night’s cold, the snow’s deep, but with Josh’s hand in mine, my dad’s grudging approval, and our friends’ cheers in my ears, I’m warm. Long distance is a beast, but we’re taming it—one burger, one dance, one kiss at a time.