The Zombie Cable Summer

The first time I saw him, I was drowning in a fruit arrangement—literally holding a papaya the size of my head—and wearing a sun hat that made me look like a suburban mom on vacation. Not exactly the vibe I was going for.

"Nice hat," Jake said, and the crinkle around his eyes told me he was definitely laughing at me, not with me.

"It's called sunscreen, you should try it sometime," I shot back, channeling confidence I definitely didn't feel. Because Jake Santiago was the kind of guy who made football jerseys look like high fashion, and I was the girl who spent her summer working at her aunt's tropical café instead of partying at the beach house like everyone else.

By "everyone else," I meant the group chat that wouldn't stop posting aesthetic palm tree sunset pics while I spent my days explaining to tourists that, no, the papaya wasn't "just an ugly mango." My social life had officially entered zombie mode—dead on arrival, somehow still functioning.

The worst part? The cable TV in the break room played nothing but zombie apocalypse marathons. I'd seen every terrible iteration, every "run, they're coming!" scene, every questionable decision to split up when literally that never ends well. My shifts were basically sponsored by the undead.

Then Jake walked in with his friends one afternoon, and suddenly the uniform didn't feel so ridiculous.

"Wait," he said, pointing at the TV behind me. "You're watching Zombie Island? That cable movie from last year?"

"Unfortunately," I said. "It's my third time this week. My brain is officially mush."

"That's actually iconic," he said, and something about the way he leaned against the counter made my heart do this annoying little flutter thing. "I tried to watch it but fell asleep. Does it ever get good?"

"Debatable," I said. "But the guy with the eyepatch makes some questionable choices."

"You're going to have to tell me about them," he said, and suddenly I wasn't just the papaya girl anymore.

The next few weeks became this blur of Jake coming by during his lunch breaks, both of us making fun of zombie movies while I pretended to work. Maya and her squad kept posting their perfect beach days, and honestly? I didn't even care anymore.

"So," Jake said one afternoon, spinning a stool like he owned the place. "There's this party at the beach house tonight..."

"And?"

"And I was thinking maybe you could actually show up this time? Instead of living through other people's posts?"

The hat came off. The apron stayed behind. And for the first time all summer, I wasn't watching my life through someone else's lens—I was actually living it.