The Papaya Incident

The humidity hit me like a wall as I stepped onto the pool deck. Marshall was there, of course, looking stupidly hot in his swim trunks, laughing at something Jessica said. I clutched my contribution to the party bring-and-share like it was a lifeline.

"Hey, Maya! What did you bring?" Tyler called out, because Tyler has zero chill.

"Papaya salad," I said, trying to sound like someone who casually brought papaya salad to a pool party instead of ordering pizza like a normal person. My therapist said I needed to step out of my comfort zone. This was not what she meant.

Marshall's dog, Buster—a golden retriever with zero boundaries and too much love—came bounding over. I froze. This was it. The moment I'd been replaying in my head for three weeks.

"Hey, buddy," I said, kneeling down, because apparently flirting with someone's dog was my strategy now.

Buster did not care about my carefully curated opening line. Buster cared about the spinach leaf stuck to my ankle from my earlier attempt at eating healthy and adulting. He lunged.

I stumbled back. Time slowed down, the way it does in movies right before everything goes wrong. The papaya bowl tipped. The whole thing splashed into the pool.

I stared at the water, watching pieces of fruit drift apart like my dignity. The pool went silent.

"Your papaya," Jessica said, and I braced myself, but then she started laughing. "It's having a moment."

Marshall jumped in after it.

"What are you doing?" I asked, mortified.

"Saving your salad," he said, surfacing with a handful of papaya. "Can't let good food go to waste. Plus, my dog's already traumatized enough people today."

He was waist-deep in chlorinated water, holding soggy papaya, smiling at me like I hadn't just committed social suicide.

"Next time," he said, "maybe we just order pizza?"

"Next time?" I echoed.

"Yeah. You, me, Tyler. Buster can come too. He promises not to attack your ankles."

I realized something, standing there in my swimsuit while my papaya floated away behind Marshall. Sometimes the worst moments aren't endings. They're just really awkward beginnings.