Summers Don't Last Forever

The cable was out again. Of course. The one night Lucas was finally going to message me back on Insta, and my WiFi decided to ghost me completely. I stared at my phone, willing the signal bars to reappear like my life depended on it.

"You need chill," my older brother Jordan said, leaning against my doorframe with that annoying I-know-something-you-don't smirk. "You've been checking your phone every five seconds since Thursday."

"Shut up." I threw a pillow at him. He caught it effortlessly, jerk.

Our cat Luna slinked between his legs, tail flicking with judgment. Even the family cat knew I was being pathetic.

The real reason I couldn't chill: Lucas had invited me to play padel with him and his friends tomorrow. Padel. The sport I'd never played but suddenly pretended was my whole personality after watching three YouTube tutorials and buying a racquet I couldn't really afford. This was my chance – my chance to finally be part of the group instead of the girl who sat near them at lunch.

But then there was the water incident.

Earlier that week, I'd been practicing serving against the side of our house (ripped two shingles off, oops), when our neighbor's dog Buster – this chaotic golden retriever mix – bolted through their fence and straight through our sprinkler system. Water exploded everywhere, like actually everywhere. I tried to grab Buster but ended up slipping in the mud, completely drenched, racquet flying into a bush.

Lucas had been walking by. He saw everything.

I thought he'd laugh or worse – pretend he didn't see me covered in mud and sprinkler water, failing at life. Instead, he helped me up, handed me my racquet, and said, "Your form's actually pretty solid for someone just starting."

That's when he invited me to play.

So yeah. I needed the WiFi to work because I needed to confirm tomorrow, and I needed to not screw this up, and I needed –

"Mom says the cable guy's coming in an hour," Jordan said, already walking away. "Just text him when it's back. He's not gonna un-invite you because you replied two hours late."

Maybe he was right. Maybe it wasn't about the perfect response time or pretending to be someone I wasn't. Lucas had already seen me at my absolute worst – mud-soaked, mortified, holding a bent racquet. And he still wanted me there.

I put my phone down and petted Luna, who had finally decided to forgive me for the pillow incident. The signal could wait. Some things were more important than perfect timing.