Goldfish in My Palm

Maya's palms were sweating — actually historic levels of embarrassing — as she stood at the edge of the padel court.

"You good?" Jordan asked, spinning his racket like he hadn't a worry in the world.

"Never been more good," Maya lied.

Her iphone buzzed in her pocket. The group chat was probably discussing the party's drama — who said what to whom, who was playing stupid games with who's feelings. She ignored it.

The game started. Maya wasn't terrible, but Jordan had that effortless athletic thing going on — the kind that made you hate him a little, except he was also genuinely nice, which was somehow worse.

"Nice shot!" he called out when she finally got one past him.

And there it was again. The stomach flip. The thing she couldn't bear to admit she felt.

Her palms were still sweating. She wiped them on her shorts, trying to be subtle.

"You nervous about something?" Jordan asked during a water break. "Because you're playing like you're plotting murder."

"Maybe I am," Maya said, attempting mysterious and achieving awkward.

Jordan laughed, and it was the worst, best sound. "Fair. Fair."

The sun was setting now, painting everything gold and kinda magical in a way that felt like a setup. Everyone else had migrated to the patio, phones out, documenting the sunset like it wouldn't be there again tomorrow.

Maya stayed on the court, bouncing a ball against the fence. Rhythm. One, two, three.

"You coming?" Jordan called from the patio.

"In a minute."

She didn't move. Her hands stopped. The ball bounced one last time and rolled away.

She could feel it building — the thing she'd been pushing down all summer. The wanting without knowing exactly what she wanted. The being nobody in particular while everyone else seemed to have figured themselves out. The way her heart did that stupid thing whenever Jordan looked at her like she was someone worth seeing.

A goldfish darted through the aquarium inside the house — she could see it through the sliding glass door. Flash of orange, gone again.

Memory like a goldfish, her brother always said. But Maya remembered everything. Every embarrassing moment. Every time she'd said the wrong thing. Every missed chance.

She sat on the ground and traced patterns in the clay, palms open, waiting to catch something she couldn't name yet.

"Hey."

Jordan was standing there, actual real-life close.

"Hey," Maya said, because her vocabulary had abandoned her.

"You okay? You seem... I don't know. Something."

"I'm good," she said automatically. "Just thinking."

"About?"

She could say nothing. She could make a joke. She could change the subject and talk about literally anything else — the weather, the game, how his hair looked dumb.

She looked at her palm, at the lines crossing it like paths she might take.

"Just about how I can't bear how awkward I am," she said, and it came out easier than she'd expected.

Jordan's forehead did that crinkle thing. "You're not awkward. You're thoughtful. There's a difference."

"I don't feel thoughtful," Maya said. "I feel like everyone got the manual for being a person and I missed the memo."

"The manual's fake," Jordan said. "Nobody knows what they're doing. We're all just pretending."

"You don't have to pretend."

"What?"

"You." Maya looked at him directly, something she rarely did. "You're just... comfortable. In yourself. I don't know how to do that."

Jordan was quiet for a second. Then he sat next to her, not too close, not too far.

"That's not true though," he said. "I'm good at sports. I'm good at acting like everything's fine. But inside? I'm a mess. We're all messes."

Maya looked at the goldfish swimming behind him, oblivious and alive.

"Messy is okay then?"

"Messy's the only thing there is."

The patio lights flickered on. Someone laughed too loud. A song started playing with too much bass.

Jordan's hand was inches from hers on the ground. Palm up, fingers loose.

"You coming inside?" he asked.

Maya looked at everything and nothing all at once. The decision, like most decisions, had already been made — she was just catching up to it.

"Yeah," she said. "I'm coming."

She stood up, palms still sticky with summer, and followed him toward the light.