Summer Palms

Maya's palms were sweating. Like, actually sweating through her cutoff shorts nervous. Which was ridiculous, because it was just Jordan's pool party. The same Jordan she'd known since seventh grade when he'd accidentally thrown a baseball at her face during gym class.

"You good?" Chloe whispered, adjusting her bikini top. "You've been staring at the diving board for five minutes."

"I'm fine," Maya lied. Her palms felt like they'd been marinating in humidity. "Just hydrating."

The truth? Jordan was finally single. After two years of dating Olivia—the queen of their high school's entire social hierarchy—he was back on the market. And Maya had been harboring a crush since that baseball incident (the bruise had faded, the feelings hadn't).

Jordan's family dog, Buster, a golden retriever with zero boundaries, chose that moment to shake his coat directly onto Maya's flip-flops. Gross, but also kind of perfect.

"Sorry!" Jordan appeared, shirtless, holding a suspiciously neon drink. "Buster loves you. That's his thing."

Maya's palms went into overdrive. "Cool. I love dogs. Like, a normal amount."

What was wrong with her?

Jordan laughed, and Maya's stomach did that thing where it forgot how to be an organ. "Wanna play pool volleyball? We need one more."

This was it. The moment. Maya wiped her palms on her shorts (subtly, she hoped) and nodded. "Sure. But I'm terrible at sports. Like, actually terrible."

"Perfect," Jordan said, his grin doing unfair things to her pulse. "Neither am I, and I play baseball."

They ended up on the same team, which Maya overanalyzed for the next hour. Every time Jordan high-fived her, their palms pressed together—warm, slightly chlorine-scented, real. Her anxiety melted into something else: giddy, terrifying possibility.

Later, as the sun set and everyone else was inside for pizza, Maya found herself poolside with Jordan. Buster was snoring on a lounge chair nearby.

"Hey," Jordan said, studying the water. "You know that baseball thing in seventh grade?"

Maya's heart seized. "Yeah?"

"I was showing off," he admitted. "Thought you'd think I was cool if I could throw hard."

Maya blinked. "You gave me a black eye."

"I know!" Jordan groaned. "I felt so guilty. But you were cool about it. You didn't even cry."

"I totally cried in the bathroom later."

They laughed together, and it wasn't nervous laughter anymore. It was real.

"Your palms are sweating again," Jordan noted, but he was smiling.

"Shut up," Maya said, but she was smiling too. "It's a medical condition."

"Sure it is." He paused. "Hey, we should hang out. Not at a party. Just, like, normally."

Maya's palms weren't sweating anymore. They were just warm. "Yeah. I'd like that."

Buster chose that moment to wake up and bark at absolutely nothing, startling them both into the pool. Fully clothed.

As they surfaced, sputtering and laughing, Maya thought: this. This was exactly what she wanted. Not some perfect romantic moment, but this—clumsy, unexpected, completely uncool. And Jordan's hand finding hers underwater, palms pressed together like a promise.