When Everything Went Tropical

My palms were sweating. Again. Like, actually dripping onto my phone screen while I scrolled through Mia's Instagram. Three years I'd known her, and I still hadn't managed to say anything that wasn't "hey" or "cool" or "nice."

The monthly beach bonfire was tonight, and everyone was going. Even Chase, who literally wore the same hoodie for a week straight, was probably going. But me? I was stuck working at my uncle's tiki bar until close, serving flaming drinks to tourists who thought "aloha" meant "please ignore my child screaming."

"You look like a zombie," said Lily, my coworker who'd graduated last year and was somehow even more done with everything than I was. She was arranging orange slices on thirty shots for a bachelorette party. "Go. I'll cover."

"I can't—"

"Your uncle won't notice. He's too busy trying to convince everyone that papaya is an acceptable pizza topping." She shoved me toward the door. "Go. Before I change my mind."

I ran all the way to the beach, my backpack slamming against my spine, arriving just as the sun dipped below the horizon. And there she was. Mia. Sitting alone on a log, poking at the fire with a stick.

I sat down beside her without speaking. For a minute, we just watched the flames chew through driftwood.

"I tried a papaya once," she said suddenly. "Hated it. But I keep trying them, like maybe my taste buds will eventually get the memo that they're supposed to be sophisticated."

I laughed before I could stop myself.

"What?" She smiled, and my stomach did this thing that was definitely not medical.

"Nothing. Just. Same. With olives."

"Oh my god, olives are DISGUSTING. Why do people—"

A shout cut her off. Someone had brought a speaker, and suddenly the whole bonfire scene shifted. Everyone standing up. Phones out. That godforsaken cable TV show theme song started blasting—the one from the zombie apocalypse show everyone was obsessed with.

"Dance," Mia said, standing up and holding out her hand. Palm to palm. Skin to skin.

"I don't—"

"Neither do I. That's the point." She pulled me up. "Come on. Let's be terrible at this together."

And we were. We were absolutely terrible. But somewhere between stumbling over each other's feet and laughing so hard my chest hurt, I realized I hadn't checked my phone once.

Sometimes the worst nights turn into the best ones. Sometimes you eat papayas even when you hate them, just to see what happens. And sometimes, the person you've been three-years nervous to talk to is just as weird as you are.

I messaged her when I got home. "Tonight was fun."

She replied instantly: "The zombies are coming tomorrow night. Same place?"

I typed back: "I'll be there. With oranges this time. For the fire."

She sent a skull emoji. I fell asleep with my phone in my hand, palms finally dry for the first time all night.