Goldfish Summer

The plastic bag sloshed against my leg as I power-walked away from the scene of my social demise. Behind me, the carnival booth where I'd spent three weeks' worth of allowance on a goldfish named Neptune was already drawing its next victim.

I'd come with the crew. You know the type — the ones who make everything feel like a performance. I'd wanted to impress Riley, whose laugh could make my chest feel like it was filing itself with warm cotton.

"You really bought it?" Riley had asked, eyes wide with that perfect mix of amusement and judgment. "That's literally iconic."

But then Chase — my former everything, now dating my ex-bestie — had shown up with his new golden retriever puppy. Because of course. The dog, all chaotic energy and wagging tail, had knocked into a display of prize bowls. Shattering glass everywhere. My crew had scattered like roaches.

I'd stood there holding Neptune in his bag, frozen, while the carnage workers glared. Riley's group moved on to the ring toss without waiting.

Now I was walking home alone, at 9 PM on a Friday, carrying a fish that probably had three days of life expectancy.

An orange streetlamp flickered overhead as I passed Mrs. Gable's house. Her cat, a calico menace named Pumpkin, sat on the porch like it owned the entire neighborhood. The cat's eyes tracked me, glowing.

"Don't even think about it," I told the cat.

Like the universe had personally coordinated my humiliation, rain started falling. Not a gentle sprinkle — full-on dramatic downpour. I started running, Neptune sloshing against my thigh, my slide-out sandals slapping the pavement.

A car slowed beside me. Riley.

"Need a ride?" Riley called through the passenger window, rain plastering dark hair to their forehead.

I hesitated. Everything in me wanted to say no, to preserve whatever dignity I had left.

"Yeah," I heard myself say.

The car smelled like vanilla and anxiety. Neither of us spoke for two blocks.

"So," Riley said finally. "Neptune?"

I laughed. It came out way too loud. "I know, right? Most impulsive decision of my life."

"It's kind of brave, though."

I turned. Riley was watching me, not the road.

"What's brave about wasting twenty dollars on a fish that'll probably die before I'm sixteen?"

Riley smiled, and something in my stomach did a backflip. "You committed to the bit. Everyone else would've played it cool. You went all in."

I looked at Neptune, swimming tiny frantic circles in the bag.

"Yeah," I said. "I guess I did."

"My house is close," Riley said. "We could... set him up properly? I have an actual tank from when I went through my marine biology phase."

Neptune survived three years. Riley and I made it to two months before Riley moved away. But sometimes, when I see an orange sunset or a cat watching from a porch, I remember running through rain, and how the best decisions are the ones that make absolutely no sense.

Also: never let your ex bring a dog anywhere. Ever.