Papaya Kisses at Midnight

The chlorine from the pool still clung to my skin as I sat on the backyard lounge chair, nursing a papaya my mom had sliced up earlier that evening. It was supposed to be the summer blowout party—everyone from sophomore year was supposed to be here, having the time of their lives.

Instead, I was watching my ex-best-friend Sarah laughing with the popular crowd by the deep end, her sparkly bikini catching the patio lights. Three months ago, we'd been running through the neighborhood together every morning, training for cross country. Now she wouldn't even make eye contact with me.

"Hey, mind if I crash here?"

I jumped. It was Leo, that quiet guy from my English class, holding his dog—a golden retriever mix with the most derpy expression ever—by a leash. His chocolate lab, Buster, was practically vibrating with excitement, probably smelling the papaya in my hands.

"Sure," I said, surprised he was talking to me. Leo was cute in that distracting way where you notice him but never actually speak to him.

"Buster LOVES fruit," Leo explained as the dog stuck his nose in my direction. "We're running late to everything tonight. My cousin's party got busted, then we ended up here somehow."

"Some party," I said, gesturing at the scene before us. "Everyone's pretending to have fun while secretly checking their phones."

Leo laughed. "Real. Hey, want to get out of here? There's this spot by the creek where we can actually talk without screaming over the music."

Something about the way he said it—no pressure, no weird pickup vibes, just genuine interest in conversation—made me say yes before I could overthink it.

As we walked away from the party, Buster trotting happily between us, I realized I hadn't felt this light in months. The papaya sweetness still lingered on my tongue, and for the first time all summer, I was excited about what might happen next.

Maybe this night wouldn't be so terrible after all.