Goldfish in the Deep End

The orange solo cup sat sweating in my hand, condensation dripping like my nerves. Marcus's pool party. The event of the season according to his Instagram stories, and I'd spent forty-five minutes hiding behind the snack table.

"You gonna swim or what?" Jenna appeared beside me, grabbing a handful of chips. She was everything I wasn't: confident, wore that stupid hat sideways like she owned the world, had already cannonballed into the deep end twice.

"Maybe," I mumbled.

Her dog—a chaotic golden retriever named Broccoli—shook water all over both of us. Jenna laughed. I wiped my face, trying to pretend my heart wasn't racing.

"You know what Marcus told me?" She leaned closer. "He said you're the only person who gets his goldfish obsession. Like, actually listens."

My stomach did that stupid flip thing. "He told you that?"

"Swear on my life." She bumped my shoulder. "So maybe stop hiding and go talk to him? He's by the palm tree, probably overthinking his outfit."

Marcus. The guy who'd carried a goldfish in a baggie home from the carnival last summer and named it Toast. The guy who once gave an entire presentation about why orange was objectively the best color. The guy I'd been lowkey obsessed with since seventh grade science when he'd let me use his favorite pencil.

I looked across the deck. Sure enough, there he was, leaning against that fake palm tree his parents bought, looking anywhere but at the party. His solo cup was crushed slightly at the rim—a nervous habit I'd noticed months ago.

Jenna was already walking away, high-fiving someone. Broccoli was barking at a floatie.

I took a breath. Dropped my untouched cup on the table. And walked toward the palm tree and the boy with the crushed cup and the heart I was pretty sure was racing just like mine.