Page 12 of Shy Girl

I type the message, hit send, and set the phone down on the table like it might bite me. My hands fold themselves neatly in my lap, a gesture meant to look calm, but my knees are bouncing under the table, my body already betraying me. Two seconds later, the restraint dissolves. I snatch the phone back up, thumb stabbing at the refresh icon like it owes me something.

The notification comes through faster than I expect, and his response is immediate:

What? Already? You’re incredibly early. Lol.

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The shame pools hot in my chest, sharp as a knife edge. My thumbs move again, this time careful, cautious:

I was anxious I’d be late haha. Sorry.

I refresh again, holding my breath until his next message appears, like a magician pulling a coin from behind my ear:

No worries. I was just hopping in the shower. I can be there in twenty minutes.

Relief washes over me, cold and fleeting, but I let it settle into my muscles for a moment. My shoulders loosen, my breath evens out.

I set the phone down, face up this time, and force myself not to pick it up again.

Exactly twenty-one minutes later, the door opens, and he walks in. He’s taller than I imagined, his salt-and-pepper hair catching the dim light, his face lined but sharp, the kind of handsome that comes with age and effort. His grey t-shirt and jeans are unassuming, understated, and somehow that makes me feel less self-conscious about my own outfit.

The black watch on his wrist stands out, sleek and practical, like it’s a part of him. I like men who wear their time like a badge, who carry it around on their bodies like they might lose it if they’re not careful.

I stand too quickly, the wooden chair scraping loudly against the floor, and his smile spreads wide across his face, easy but intentional. He hugs me strangely—three quick firm pats on the back—like I’m his buddy, like he’s congratulating me for winning a football game.

“Hi,” I say, the word coming out smaller than I want it to, and as he pulls back and smiles at me I think,maybe this will be okay. Maybe.

He slides into the seat across from me, his arms spreading out along the back of the booth like he owns the place, like the table between us is his territory, and I’m just here visiting. His mouth is slightly open. His eyes settle on me, and I feel exposed under his

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gaze, like he’s collecting data, measuring me against something I can’t see.

“You are even more beautiful in person,” he says, his voice low, tinged with surprise. “My God.”

The words hit me like a sudden gust of wind, unbalancing me before I’ve even had a chance to find my footing. My brain goes into its usual loop:Do I look that different from the pictures? Did I overdo it or underdo it? Is my hair okay? Should I have worn something else?

But I force the thoughts down, swallowing them like bitter medicine. Instead, I smile—a smile calibrated to look effortless. He doesn’t need to know how much effort it takes to seem effortless.

I cross my legs, my right ankle resting just above my left knee, the way I always do when I want to project calm, collected competence. His eyes are still on me, not judgmental, but assessing, like he’s trying to see past the mask I’ve so carefully constructed.

The space between us feels heavier than it should, the kind of weight that comes from too much thinking, too much planning. It’s not fear. It’s the constant awareness of all the ways this couldgo wrong. My fingers tighten around the edge of the table, and I tell myself to relax.

But I can’t. Even relaxing feels like something I need to get right, something to break down into actionable steps. Inhale. Exhale. Shoulders back. Smile steady. Speak carefully. Don’t say too much, don’t say too little.

“You really think so?” I ask, my voice steady, but I know that there’s a slight edge to it. I don’t know how long it’s been since he last spoke but I say it anyway. I sound rehearsed, even to myself. He nods, leaning forward a bit, his eyes darkening with sincerity.

“Yeah,” he says. “More beautiful than I expected.”

I feel a strange surge of discomfort, a rush of warmth, and I think—Why does this make me nervous?It’s not the compliment. No, it’s never about that. It’s the fact that he’ssaying it, and suddenly,

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I’m overwhelmed by the pressure of making it all fit, like he will suddenly look at me and change his mind.

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