Electric Palms

My palms were sweating so bad I could practically water plants with them. Which was exactly why I did NOT want to be at Elena's end-of-summer blowout, but apparently my social life needed "expanding," according to my best friend Sam, who had literally dragged me here.

"You're hiding behind the snack table AGAIN," Sam appeared beside me, eyeing my solo cup like it contained the secrets of the universe. "Live a little, Kai."

"I am living," I protested. "I'm hydrating. Responsibly."

Someone had brought those weird tropical fruits that nobody actually eats but always look aesthetic in photos. I grabbed what I thought was a mango slice and took a bite, immediately regretting every life choice that led to this moment.

"That's papaya," a voice said. "It's an acquired taste."

I turned around and there was Jordan, looking unfairly good in that way where you know they're aware of it but trying not to make it obvious. My face did something incredibly smooth where it forgot how to human expressions work.

"Oh," I said intelligently. "Thanks."

"I can't believe you just bit into it like that," Jordan laughed, and the sound hit different than I expected—genuine, not mean. "Most people pretend to try it and literally feed it to their dogs when nobody's watching."

"I mean, I still might," I admitted, and Jordan's eyes lit up like that was the right answer.

We talked for twenty minutes about everything and nothing—school starting in two weeks, how Ms. Rodriguez's geometry class was basically a universal trauma bonding experience, the way both of our parents were doing that weird thing where they suddenly wanted us to be more "involved" in family activities.

Jordan's phone buzzed. "My ride's leaving. You need a lift?"

Before I could answer, the sky opened up. Not normal rain, but that aggressive Florida summer storm stuff where you question every decision you've ever made that led you to be outside without emergency shelter.

We ran for Jordan's sister's car, hair plastered to our faces, laughing like absolute maniacs. A flash of **lightning** turned the whole parking lot purple-white, and Jordan grabbed my hand to pull me toward the car, and my heart did that thing where it forgot its job.

"Wait!" someone called from the porch. "We're doing palm readings! Five bucks!"

"Hard pass," Jordan yelled back, squeezing my hand. "I don't need someone telling me my future. I'm good with making it myself."

But something had already shifted. The way Jordan looked at me in that purple lightning flash—like they were seeing something worth waiting for—had rearranged everything.

Later, under the carport waiting out the storm, neither of us wanted to be the first to let go.

"So," Jordan said, palm still pressed against mine. "About that papaya..."

"Never speak of it again."

"Deal. But I'm thinking maybe next time we try something actually good."

"There's gonna be a next time?"

Jordan's grin was slow and real. "Yeah. There's definitely gonna be a next time."

Sam texted me at midnight: so I heard you finally left the snack table

I didn't even care that I'd been that obvious. Some moments hit you like lightning—unexpected, overwhelming, and illuminating everything you didn't even know you were looking for.

My palms weren't sweating anymore. They were busy holding onto something worth keeping.