Fruit Stand Secrets

The bell above the door chimed, and I straightened up behind the papaya pyramid. Another boring Friday afternoon at my parents' grocery store, watching the fluorescent lights buzz while everyone else was at the mall.

"Does this look ripe?"

I looked up and froze. It was him—the bull. That's what everyone called Liam, not because he was mean, but because he charged through life like he was always late for something important. Varsity jacket, messy brown hair, that jawline that made half the sophomore class swoon.

"Depends," I managed, my voice doing that embarrassing crack thing. "When are you eating it?"

He grinned, and suddenly the bull wasn't so intimidating. "Tonight. My mom's making smoothies."

I picked through the pile until I found one with just the right give. "This one's perfect. Orange tomorrow, though."

"Orange?"

"Yeah, papayas turn orange when they're overripe. My abuelo says that's when they're sweetest."

He raised an eyebrow. "You're like a fruit spy or something."

I laughed, but my phone buzzed in my pocket—another notification from the fake account I'd made just to follow him on Instagram. Pathetic, really. Fifteen posts deep in digital stalking, and here I was, actually talking to him.

"Or something," I said.

The bell chimed again. This time, it was the orange delivery guy, dropping off a crate that was definitely NOT part of our order. The confusion broke the moment. Liam paid, flashed another smile that made my stomach do gymnastics, and left with his perfect papaya.

"Who was that?" My dad appeared from the back, looking way too interested.

"Nobody," I said, deleting the fake Instagram account. "Just a customer."

But something shifted. Maybe tomorrow I'd actually talk to him at school instead of just watching from a distance. Maybe the bull wasn't so scary up close.

And maybe, just maybe, I was done being a spy in my own life.