Papaya Fox Summer

I'd been running for twenty minutes straight, my lungs screaming, when I finally collapsed behind the 7-Eleven. My phone had been blowing up with texts since the party—an unfortunate series of events involving karaoke, someone's crush, and my complete inability to read a room.

"You good?" A voice overhead.

I looked up to see Felix perched on the dumpster, eating papaya from a plastic container with a fork. We'd had exactly one conversation freshmen year, when he'd asked to borrow a pencil and never returned it. Now he was a senior, art student, impossibly cool.

"Just getting my cardio in," I lied, wiping sweat from my forehead.

"That's what everyone says when they're doing a emotional run." He hopped down, offered me a papaya slice. "Want? My mom's obsessed with farmers markets."

I took it. Sweet, slightly awkward, exactly how I felt.

"I'm literally nobody," I said. "Why are you being nice to me?"

Felix laughed. "Dude. Everyone calls you Fox. You know why?"

I shook my head.

"Because you're always running from stuff." He popped another papaya slice in his mouth. "Cross country. That time you literally sprinted away from that awkward situation in chem lab. Even your walk—always moving, never stopping."

I stared at him. "That's not a compliment."

"It's observation." He held out his hand, palm up, paint stains on his fingers. "I'm doing portraits after school tomorrow. You should come. Just sit. No running."

I took his hand. "Weird flex, but okay."

"You know," he said, walking toward the school, "my sister says papaya tastes like regret."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"That sometimes things are exactly what they look like." He grinned. "And sometimes they're just fruit."