The Goldfish Prophecy

My palm was sweating so hard I thought I'd short-circuit Jordan's phone when he asked for my number.

"You okay, Maya?" he asked, leaning against the bleachers. His golden retriever, Barnaby, sat beside him, tail thwacking against my leg like a metronome marking time until I inevitably humiliated myself.

"Yeah, totally," I lied. "Just... hot."

Barnaby chose that moment to sneeze directly onto my Converses.

Nice. Real smooth.

Jordan didn't laugh. Instead, he sat down next to me, close enough that our elbows brushed. "So, about your mom being a palm reader..."

Here it came. The weird family interrogation. My stomach did that thing where it felt like I'd swallowed a live goldfish whole—flopping around, frantic and doomed.

"She's not actually psychic," I rushed out. "She just got certified online because she wanted extra income after the divorce and—"

"I think it's cool," Jordan said.

I blinked. "What?"

"Your palm." He reached out, gently turning my hand over. His fingers were warm, calloused from basketball. "Your lifeline's long as hell. That means you're gonna live forever, right?"

"That's not what it—"

"And your heart line." He traced it. "Someone broke it here, see? But it heals over. Stronger."

I stared at him. At his messy hair and the way his eyelashes caught sunlight and the fact that this was the same guy who'd sat behind me in sophomore English and never said a word.

"My mom says that stuff's bogus," I whispered.

"Maybe." Jordan looked up, meeting my eyes. "But she also says goldfish only have three-second memories, and my cousin's fish recognizes him whenever he walks in the room."

Barnaby whined, nudging my hand with his wet nose.

"What's your point?" I asked, heart hammering against my ribs like it was trying to escape.

"My point is." Jordan's thumb pressed against my palm, sending electric shocks up my arm. "Maybe the things everyone says are impossible? They're not. Maybe some things remember. Maybe some things heal."

"Jordan—"

"Maya." His voice dropped. "Can I read your fortune?"

"You don't know how."

"I know you're gonna say yes to dinner on Friday."

I looked at my sweaty palm in his hand. At the ridiculous, beautiful certainty in his eyes. At the way Barnaby had fallen asleep between us, snoring softly.

"Check your work," I said. "I might say yes to Saturday instead."

Jordan grinned. "I'll take those odds."