Papaya Summer Rules

Maya's fedora sat tilted on her head, collecting sweat under the July sun. It was her armor—her mom's vintage hat that said 'I'm quirky, I don't care what you think' even though she definitely cared what everyone thought.

Especially now.

The pool party was in full swing. Someone's older brother was blasting music that rattled the tropical decorations. Real palm trees in planters dotted the patio because Jordan's parents were extra like that. Maya checked her iPhone for the fiftieth time. No new notifications. No texts from Chloe, who'd ghosted her three days ago for no reason.

Three years of friendship down the drain because Maya had accidentally liked the wrong Instagram post. Whatever.

"Want some?" A voice appeared beside her. Jordan himself, shirtless, holding a plate of cubed fruit. "My mom went full tropical. It's actually good."

Maya's heart did that embarrassing flutter thing. "What is it?"

"Papaya." He grinned, all white teeth and easy confidence. "Ever had it?"

"No." She took a piece, palm sweating against her phone case. The moment her teeth sank in—sweet, musky, totally unfamiliar—she almost gagged. But Jordan was watching, so she swallowed.

"Good, right?" His eyes crinkled.

"So good," she lied.

"Maya!" Someone called from the pool. "Truth or dare!"

This was it. The moment everyone remembered she existed. The moment she could either shrink back to her solo chair or actually live for once.

She looked at Jordan, at his easy smile, at the papaya on his plate. At her phone screen, dark and silent. At Chloe across the pool, laughing with someone else.

"Coming!" Maya called back. She pulled off her hat, letting her frizzy hair free. The air hit her scalp. She felt naked and powerful and terrified.

"Thanks for the fruit," she told Jordan.

"Anytime," he said. "Hey, you coming in?"

"Yeah." Maya grinned. "Yeah, I am."

The papaya had been terrible. But this—this terrifying, wonderful moment of being seen—was everything.