Goldfish in the Kitchen Sink

My phone buzzed against my thigh — seventh time in ten minutes. Grace wanted an ETA, Chloe needed help finding Emma's house (seriously, how did she get lost three blocks from her own neighborhood?), and someone from Spanish class was livetweeting the party like it was the Met Gala.

I leaned against the kitchen island, heart doing somersaults. First house party. Sixteen years old, and finally invited to something that didn't involve board games and my mom's famous punch.

The kitchen smelled like tropical fruit mixed with something distinctly teenage — a combination of cheap body spray and anticipation. Someone's mom had arranged papaya slices on a fancy platter like we were at a wedding instead of a Friday night blowout. I'd never actually tried papaya. It looked suspicious, all soft and orange like something that would betray me instantly.

"You gonna stare at it all night or actually eat some?"

I jumped. A guy stood there, dark hair falling over his eyes, holding a red Solo cup like it contained something way more interesting than whatever fruit punch concoction he'd poured.

"I'm, uh, contemplating my life choices," I said, because apparently my brain had short-circuited.

He laughed. "Fair. That papaya's seen better days. Also, I'm pretty sure Emma's dog was eyeing it earlier, so..."

As if on cue, a golden retriever wandered in, tail wagging like it was paid to be there. The dog sat next to the guy and looked at me with eyes that said, "I know you're nervous, it's cool."

"This is Buster," the guy said. "He's basically the reason I came. My dog died last month and I'm going through withdrawal."

"Oh my god, I'm so sorry —"

"Nah, it's cool. She was old. But yeah, I'm Miles, by the way. And you are?"

"Luna."

"Luna." He nodded like he was testing it out. "Nice. Also, for what it's worth, you look way less terrified than you did when you walked in. I noticed. I notice things. It's a curse."

My face heated up. "That obvious, huh?"

"Only to people who spend way too much time overthinking social interactions," he said. "Want to get out of here? There's a goldfish in the bathroom that's been giving me existential crisis energy all night."

I blinked. "A goldfish?"

"His name is Gerald. He keeps swimming to the left side of his bowl and staring at the door like he's waiting for something better to come along. I feel seen."

I laughed — actually laughed, not that fake polite laugh I'd been using all night.

"Show me Gerald," I said.

Miles grinned, and Buster trotted after us like we were about to go on an adventure instead of just investigating a fish that probably didn't care about our teenage angst.

My phone buzzed again. This time, I ignored it.