Lightning Fox Summer

The party was already mid when I arrived, fashionably late but mostly just anxious. My palms were sweating — classic. I wiped them on my ripped black jeans and headed for the kitchen, where some senior I didn't know was doing fake palm readings for five bucks.

"Next up," she called, gesturing to me. Everyone stared. I wanted to vanish.

"I got this," said Fox, sliding onto the stool next to me. Fox — real name Julian, but everyone called him that because he was somehow always three steps ahead, cunning in that way that made teachers suspicious and girls obsessed. He'd been the center of my covert orbit since seventh grade.

He flashed his phone screen at the palm reader. "Bitcoin. You can thank me later."

She sighed and turned to me. I extended my shaking hand. She traced my life line, then stopped. "Huh."

"Huh what?" My voice cracked. Humiliating.

"Nothing." But her eyes shifted to Fox, then back to me, and I swear she smirked.

Thunder rattled the window. Outside, lightning fractured the sky — purple, electric, perfect timing. The power flickered. Someone screamed. The kitchen went dark for exactly three seconds.

In that darkness, Fox's fingers brushed my palm. Just once. Casual. Maybe accidental.

"Your turn," he said when lights returned. But he wasn't looking at the palm reader anymore. He was looking at me, really looking, in that way that makes your stomach do that weird fluttery thing.

"You never told me your name," he said later, when we'd migrated to the porch, watching the storm paint the horizon in flashes.

"Layla."

"Layla." He tested it like it was something precious. "You know what the palm reader saw?"

I shook my head, pulse suddenly everywhere.

"Nothing," he said. "Because your future's not written. You're the kind of person who makes their own lightning."

Then he took my hand — palm against palm — and I didn't even care that I was sweating. The fox finally got caught, and somehow, impossibly, he'd chosen to be caught by me.