Papaya Lips and Dead Batteries

I felt like a total creep, basically a low-key spy watching Jordan's location dot move closer to the food court. My iPhone 7—with its cracked screen and battery that died at 47%—was my only connection to him these days. We hadn't spoken since The Incident.

"You're staring again," said Riley, stealing a fry from my tray. "Just text him already."

"I can't. He probably hates me."

"Bro, you literally gave him CPR on his choking papaya wedge. That's not hate. That's trauma bonding."

I cringed. The papaya. The exotic fruit his health-nut mom packed him that he'd never tried before. He'd taken too big a bite, started choking, and I'd instinctively jumped behind him, wrapped my arms around his waist, and thrust upward like I'd seen in movies.

He'd spewed papaya chunks all over the orange cable knit sweater I'd thrifted specially for his birthday party that weekend. The sweater was ruined. The moment was ruined. He'd mumbled something and practically sprinted away.

Now here he was, walking toward me, wearing that same orange sweater—clean now, obviously.

My phone died. Great.

Jordan stopped at my table. "Hey."

"Hey," I squeaked.

"So," he rubbed the back of his neck. "I got you something."

He placed a bright orange papaya on the table. My favorite fruit. How did he know?

"Also," he pulled a brand new charging cable from his pocket, still in the package. "I noticed yours is frayed. Like, basically a fire hazard."

Riley made a sound that was 80% giggle, 20% snort.

"And," Jordan continued, his ears turning the same color as his sweater, "I was wondering if you'd want to sit with me at lunch tomorrow? Instead of... you know... spying on me from across the cafeteria like a weirdo?"

My face burned. He'd NOTICED.

"Only if you promise not to choke on any tropical fruits," I managed.

Jordan's smile was worth every awkward second. "Deal."