Page 10 of Shy Girl

Oh. Hi. Yes, I’m fine.I sent it, then immediately regretted how stiff it sounded, like I was brushing him off, when in reality, I was curious—about him, about why he was texting me, about what kind of person Thomas was when he wasn’t hunched over his desk like a turtle in a sweater vest.

The reply came faster than I expected.

Good. Care to meet for a drink sometime?

It felt like a trap, but a kind one, wrapped in soft words and good intentions. I wondered if Thomas had always been into me, if he’d spent those years sitting in his corner of the office, watching me and waiting for his moment. Or maybe my sudden disappearance had triggered something in him. Humans are like that. Always craving someone when they’re no longer accessible to us.

The thought of seeing Thomas at a bar made me laugh hard so I agreed to meet him for a drink a few nights later. He was waiting for me outside, looking nervous, his hands stuffed in the pockets of his slacks like he didn’t know what else to do with them. He smiled when he saw me, a hesitant, lopsided thing that made my chest ache in a way I didn’t want to examine too closely.

“I’m glad you came,” he said, holding the door open for me. His voice cracked, just a little, and I thought about how much courage it must have taken for him to text me. I liked how it made me feel. I carried that feeling with me the entire night.

Thomas was endearing. That’s the word I kept coming back to. When I thought about it, I had always found him endearing.He reminded me of Sunday mornings, of lemonade stands, of a doe running in a field of flowers. He was small and innocent. Like he’s never had a real bad thing happen to him ever.

He pulled out my chair and asked me questions about my life like he really wanted to know the answers. I liked the way he laughed at my jokes, even the bad ones, his shoulders shaking with a quiet kind of joy that felt private, like it was meant just for me.

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We only dated for a few months, but I still liked him the best out of everyone. He sat with me in my storm, quiet and steady, like he believed it would pass if we waited long enough. But I was afraid he’d eventually see through me, past whatever charm or wit I was holding up like a shield, and find out that underneath it all, I was empty. I didn’t want him to see that. So I left before he could.

In the end, I didn’t know what to do with someone like Thomas. Someone who wasn’t trying to take from me, who wasn’t angling for control or dominance or whatever it is most men want when they talk to a woman. He was just Thomas, soft and awkward and sweet in a way that felt dangerous because it made me want to trust him. The reality of it was that he was too perfect, and I was afraid. Thomas had this earnestness, this unrelenting goodness that made me feel like I was being held up to some kind of light, one I didn’t want to be seen in. I was too morose, too nihilistic for someone like Thomas. Even though he never said it, I knew deep down he wanted to motivate me, to pull me out of the pit of despair I was digging myself deeper into.

How many jobs have you applied for today?

A few.

You’ll get one, Gia. I know it.

But I didn’t want that. I wanted to sleep. I wanted to ruminate. I wanted to sink. And I couldn’t stand the idea of him watching me do it.

Sometimes I think about where my life would be in the future if I had not ghosted Thomas. Married, probably. We’d have a quiet ceremony, no more than thirty people since both of us don’t like too much attention. He’d cry at the altar, and I’d laugh, wiping my tears with a tiny, delicate handkerchief. Two very well-behaved children would follow, kids with his soft eyes and my Type A personality. The kind of family you see in Hallmark commercials, staged but serene, everything in its right place.

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I used to think about him in the middle of the night. I’d imagine reaching out to him. A message, a call, something to tell him that I’m sorry, that he didn’t deserve to be ghosted by me and that I was treacherous for doing such a thing, and that I’ve thought about him more than I want to admit.

But I let it go. Again and again, I let it go.

I don’t have a type. Before Thomas, there was Joshua, a handsome Black gentleman I met on Tinder. I hate apps. I want to meet people the old-fashioned way, the way the good lord intended before we started outsourcing our chemistry to algorithms—in coffee shops, bookstores, catching someone’s eye across a crowded room and feeling that rush, that pull. But that night, I felt restless, frisky, like I’d been locked in a room with no windows for too long.

Joshua was a banker and liked old cars and old music, constantly raving about Prince and Jimi Hendrix and Tom Petty.

He was kind but casual, the kind of man who didn’t prod. He didn’t ask a million questions, didn’t make me perform my pain or dress it up like it was interesting. But in bed, hesoftened, opened up, as though touching another person gave him permission to touch something inside himself. I liked that about him—how there was a version of himself he only let out during intimacy.

It lasted exactly three months. All my relationships are short. Bright and burning, and then nothing.

I wasn’t keeping track, I never do, but I know we lasted exactly three months because it was during the summer, and I remember the feeling of him fucking me while it was bright and hot outside, how wrong it felt, having sex with the sun still out. I remember how much he sweat on me and how much I liked it. It felt illicit, hot. I remember it lasted exactly from June twentieth to September twentieth and I thoughtoh how perfect that ishow it took me exactly

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three months to find out that he had a kid. He didn’t tell me; he let me find out when I searched his name and found his Facebook.

There were at least a dozen of pictures of him with food, holding up giant sandwiches the size of his head, hovering over enormous plates of barbecue and sitting at hibachi style restaurants, always grinning wildly, always ready to dig in. He was one of those men who thought liking food was a personality trait. I scrolled past those photos with my eyes closed. They weren’t attractive, and I didn’t want to lose my lady boner for him. There were more photos of him at family outings, snapshots of him on a boat with his boys, all shirtless and gleaming. I watched a video of him doing a backflip off the boat and into the water four times. Suddenly my lady boner for him was stronger than ever.

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