Papaya Summer

Maya pressed her back against the supermarket aisle, her orange converse squeaking against the linoleum. She wasn't technically stalking him, but she'd been strategically positioned near the produce section for ten minutes, watching Jake debate between two papayas like his life depended on it.

This was pathetic. She was pathetic.

"Need help?" The voice came from behind her.

Maya jumped, knocking over a display of mandarin oranges. They rolled everywhere like tiny escaped prisoners.

Jake stood there, grinning, holding two papayas. "I saw you spying."

"I wasn't—" Maya started, then stopped. Why lie? "Okay, yeah. I was. Sorry."

"It's cool." He held up the papayas. "My mom's making this tropical smoothie thing for her yoga retreat. Never bought papaya before. They seem kinda... suspicious?"

Maya laughed. "Suspicious fruit. That's a new one."

"What? They are. Look at them." He pointed. "All orange and speckled like alien eggs."

"They're actually really good," Maya said, then immediately regretted it. Now she sounded like a papaya enthusiast. Which she wasn't. She'd never even tasted papaya.

Jake's eyes lit up. "Yeah? You've had it?"

"Sure," Maya lied smoothly. "All the time. My abuela makes papaya salad. With lime and chili."

Her grandmother was Polish and had never seen a papaya in her life.

"That sounds... actually amazing?" Jake stepped closer, lowering his voice. "Hey, you want to help me pick the right one? Since you're like, the papaya expert?"

Maya's heart did something stupid and fluttery. "Only if you admit you were watching me first."

Jake's grin widened. "Touché."

They spent twenty minutes in the produce section while Maya improvised papaya knowledge and Jake pretended to believe her. When he finally left with his chosen fruit—"the one that feels like a slightly ripe avocado," she'd told him authoritatively—Maya stayed behind, still leaning against the orange crates.

Her phone buzzed. Unknown number.

"Papaya expert says you owe me a taste test of your grandma's recipe," Jake had texted.

Maya smiled, already googling papaya salad recipes, already planning how she'd explain this to her very Polish grandmother. Maybe she'd start with the truth: sometimes you spy on boys in supermarkets, sometimes you lie about exotic fruit, and sometimes—just sometimes—it all works out anyway.

The oranges were still rolling across the floor. Maya left them there. Some messes were worth making.