Goldfish and Ghost Signals

The cable cut out right as Jake leaned in for what was definitely going to be my first kiss.

"Are you kidding me?" Jake groaned, throwing himself back against my couch. I was equally frustrated, though mostly because I'd spent forty-five minutes perfecting my eyeliner and now there was zero chance he'd notice the effort. The storm outside knocked out the WiFi, then the TV, leaving us in awkward half-darkness.

My brother's goldfish, Bubbles, chose that moment to do a dramatic flip in his bowl on the coffee table. Jake stared at it like it had personally insulted him.

"Your house is so weird, Maya."

Before I could defend my family's honor, my mom's ancient beagle, Toast, wandered in and vomited directly beside Jake's pristine white sneakers. Jake scrambled up like he'd witnessed a crime scene.

"I should probably go. The storm, and... all of this."

He dipped—literally dipped, like he was dodging a bullet—past Toast and disappeared out the front door. I stood there in my living room, listening to the rain hammer the roof, suddenly aware of how badly I'd wanted Jake to like me and how little I actually liked him.

The power flickered. I sat cross-legged by the coffee table, watching Bubbles swim lazy circles in the gloom. Toast flopped down beside me, resting his head on my knee like nothing had happened. Outside, someone's car alarm cut through the rain.

Here's the thing about almost-kisses that don't happen: they clarify everything. I'd spent three weeks trying to impress someone who thought my goldfish was weird and my dog was gross. Meanwhile, Toast was currently being the emotional support human I needed, and Bubbles was just living his best fish life without caring about storm warnings or boys with fragile egos.

I turned on my phone's flashlight and danced around the living room to no music while Toast barked along. The cable came back around midnight, but I didn't turn on the TV. Some signals are better left disconnected.