Papaya Palm Promises

The backyard party reeked of coconut wax and desperation. I leaned against the swaying palm tree, nursing a lukewarm soda, watching Jake's mom set up her famous papaya smoothie station like it was a five-star bar.

"Try some!" Jake shouted, already two drinks in. "It's exotic, Mia! Live a little!"

I hated papaya. I hated smoothies. I mostly hated that I'd let Maya talk me into coming when I could've been rewatching our show for the seventh time.

Then Marcus appeared beside me, and my palms went instantly sweaty. Marcus, who'd sat behind me in bio since September. Marcus, who I'd had exactly four conversations with, all about enzymes.

"Hiding?" he asked, leaning against the palm tree.

"Strategically positioning," I corrected.

He laughed, and the sound was warm. "Jake's been trying to get me to drink that papaya stuff for an hour. He thinks it makes him cultured."

"He thinks Crocs are high fashion."

"Fair." Marcus turned to me, suddenly serious. "Want to know something wild?"

The air between us felt charged, like the moment before lightning strikes.

"There's this moth—the sphinx moth—that only pollinates papaya flowers. It's like this whole secret relationship happening in the dark while everyone's sleeping."

I stared at him. "You know a lot about moths."

"I know a lot about things that matter." His fingers brushed mine, lightning-fast and intentional. "Like how you've been writing in that notebook all year, and I've been wondering what's in it."

My heart did something genuinely illegal.

"Stories," I said barely above a whisper. "I write stories."

"Yeah?" Marcus stepped closer as thunder rumbled in the distance. "Maybe sometime you could tell me one."

"Maybe."

"Maybe isn't a no."

"Maybe isn't a yes either."

He grinned. "I'll take my chances." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a slightly battered pencil. "For the stories."

As I took it, his fingers lingered. The storm broke overhead, lightning fracturing the sky, and somewhere Jake yelled something about saving the smoothies.

But I didn't care about the smoothies or the party or Maya abandoning me for the cooler crowd. I was busy thinking about sphinx moths and papaya flowers and the way Marcus looked at me like I was already a story worth knowing.

"Next Friday," I said. "I'll tell you a story."

"I'll bring my notebook," he promised.

Some things are worth coming out of hiding for.