Summer Courts and Salt Water

The papaya sat on the poolside table like some tropical dare — all neon orange and impossible to ignore. Summer before freshman year, and somehow I'd ended up at the rich kids' complex, watching from a lounge chair like the human embodiment of awkward.

"You gonna try that or just stare at it?" Jace said, dropping his padel racket onto the concrete with a clatter. He was the kind of effortlessly cool that made my stomach hurt — tank top, chain, grinning like everything was one giant joke we were all in on.

I shrugged. "Not really a fruit guy."

"Your loss." He scooped up a slice, juice dripping down his wrist. "This stuff's basically sunshine in food form. Try living a little, Romero."

We'd been weirdly thrown together at the resort courts — both stuck in that summer limbo between middle school whatever and high school everything. My parents had signed me up for padel lessons like they were trying to purchase my social life. Jace was just there because his family owned a membership.

The swimming pool shimmered behind us, all turquoise promise and muffled laughter. Someone screamed "CANNONBALL" and water slapped the deck. My chest did that thing where it felt simultaneously too tight and too empty.

"You're quiet," Jace said, suddenly next to me on the neighboring lounge. "Like, weirdly quiet. You got thoughts or are you just buffering?"

I laughed despite myself. "Buffering. Definitely buffering."

"Same." He leaned back, sunglasses sliding down his nose. "This whole summer's just... waiting room energy, you know? Like we're stuck in some loading screen until high school actually starts."

"Yeah," I said, surprised by how much I meant it. "Like we're supposed to figure everything out but nothing's actually real yet."

"Exactly." He gestured toward the courts. "You gonna finish our padel match or surrender dramatically?"

"Depends. Is there gonna be more fruit taunting?"

"Only if you earn it." He grinned, and something shifted — not suddenly perfect, not magically transformed, but less lonely. The pool kept splashing, the papaya kept being weirdly bright, and we walked back toward the courts.

Friendship, I realized then, wasn't about being cool or fitting in or any of the performative crap I'd been obsessing over. It was about showing up and being slightly less alone than you were five minutes ago.

"First to eleven," Jace called out, spinning his racket. "And don't think I forgot you bailed on the papaya. That's gonna cost you."

"Yeah, yeah." I picked up my own racket, feeling something like real. "Bring it."