Friday Night Fried

Maya smoothed the brim of her dad's vintage fedora, checking her reflection in the hallway mirror. The hat was stupid—really stupid—but Jeremy liked vintage stuff, and Maya liked Jeremy enough to dress like a 1920s gangster for their third hangout. Not date. Hangout. Whatever.

"You look ridiculous," her little brother announced from the couch, not looking up from his game.

"Shut up, Leo."

Maya grabbed her phone charger, a frayed cable that only worked if you held it at a precise forty-five-degree angle. Her phone was at 4%—enough for Jeremy to text her his ETA, not enough for her to spiral by overthinking every potential conversation topic.

Outside, the summer air smelled like cut grass and impending disaster.

Buster, their golden retriever, launched himself at the screen door the moment Maya reached for the handle. "Sit!" she commanded, and Buster sat, tail thumping like a metronome on espresso.

Good boy. Great boy. Best boy.

Then Buster spotted the fedora.

What happened next occurred in slow motion: Buster lunged, Maya dodged, the hat sailed off her head, and in one graceful gesture of canine chaos, Buster snatched the fedora from midair and bolted down the driveway.

"BUSTER! NO!"

Maya sprinted after him, flip-flops slapping against pavement, cursing under her breath, realizing she was now chasing a dog through her neighborhood wearing sweatpants and a mascara-smeared face while her possibly-maybe-almost-boyfriend was due any minute.

Buster cornered into the side yard, tail wagging, hat clamped triumphantly in his jaw like a trophy.

Maya dropped to her knees. "Give it back, you furry little—"

"Need help?"

She froze. Jeremy stood at the gate, wearing a vintage Led Zeppelin tee and looking unfairly adorable. His gaze flicked from Maya's disheveled state to Buster to the thoroughly chewed fedora now dripping with dog slobber.

"Is that... my hat?" he asked.

Maya's face burned. "Your hat?"

"Yeah, I lent it to your dad last week. He said he wanted to look cool for his office party."

The silence stretched, thick and terrible. Then Jeremy started laughing. Not mean laughing—real, breathless, doubled-over laughing. Maya cracked first, then couldn't stop. By the time Buster abandoned the hat to lick Jeremy's face, they were both sitting in the grass, absolutely ruined, completely authentic.

"So," Jeremy said, wiping tears from his eyes, "movie night? My cable's out at my place anyway."

"Movie night," Maya agreed. "But you're bringing snacks."

"Deal."

Buster settled between them, chin on paws, thoroughly pleased with himself. The fedora lay forgotten in the grass, slobber-soaked and perfect.