Page 13 of Shy Girl

I shake my head slightly, just enough to release the tension in my neck. “I didn’t expect to meet at a place like this,” I admit, my voice softening. “I thought we were meeting for coffee.”

He laughs, and it’s warm, easy, the exact kind of laugh that belongs to a middle-aged wealthy white man who’s never been

burdened by anything. “Yeah, well... I thought a pub would be more comfortable. Coffee's fine, but it’s kind of stiff, right?”

I smile, but it’s more of a twitch; an acknowledgment that a sudden change in venue was fine and hasn’t thrown me completely off. I glance at my phone, but not in the desperate, obsessive way I usually do. I’m only checking the time, trying to control it, trying to keep it in line with my mental schedule.

What should I say next?

I breathe out slowly and return my focus to him, to Nathan, to this moment. I wonder, fleetingly, if he knows how much work this takes. Being me.

I take a sip of water, the glass cool against my lips. “So,” I start, my voice lower than I expect. “What are you looking for?”

I need to hear him say it. I need the words to make this real, to confirm that I’m not wasting my time. That I’ve made the right decision.

Nathan leans back in his chair, his arms crossing over his chest like he’s considering the weight of the question. The shift in his demeanor is subtle but tangible, the air between us tightening like a rubber band stretched too far. I’ve seen this before, the way people fold in on themselves when they’re caught off guard, when they’re forced into answers they’re not ready to give.

But I hold steady. I’ve spent too much time trying to make sense of this arrangement to back down now. This is what I signed up

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for. I take a slow breath, the taste of the pub’s faintly bitter air settling on my tongue. This is business, I remind myself. Nothing more.

“I mean, you’re here for a reason, right?” My voice is steady, even, the words measured like they’ve been rehearsed. “I just... I want to know what to expect. How much will I get paid for...this?”

The wordthishangs between us, awkward and unavoidable. It feels too blunt, but it’s out now, and I can’t take it back. I watch

him closely, studying the slight movements of his face. His lips tighten, the corners pulling in just enough to shift the balance of his expression. His fingers grip the edge of his glass, the subtle tension mirrored in his gaze.

“I—” he starts, but his voice falters. His brows knit together as though he’s trying to piece together a response that won’t land wrong. “I wasn’t expecting you to just...ask like that.”

I blink, the confusion blooming in my chest.Why wouldn’t I ask?I think. Isn’t that what we’re doing here? Isn’t that the whole point?

But I don’t let the confusion reach my face. I press it down, forcing my voice to stay calm, measured. “I’m just trying to understand the dynamics,” I say, the worddynamicsfeeling too clinical, too detached. “That’s what this is about, right? You want someone to...be with, and in return, I get money. It’s simple.”

The words fall flat like a bad joke, one that leaves a silence heavy enough to fill the room. He shifts in his seat, his discomfort clear, and for a moment, I feel it too—a flicker of guilt, sharp and intrusive. Not because I think I’ve said anything wrong, but because I can see it now, the subtle misalignment between what I’ve imagined and what he’s thinking.

“I don’t think you’re quite getting it,” he says slowly, his voice quieter now. “This isn’t just about money. At least not for me.”

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The irritation flares in my chest, quick and hot.Of course it’s about money.That’s the whole reason I’m here. That’s the whole reason we’re even having this conversation. Isn’t it?

“But you’re offering to take care of someone like me,” I reply, my voice careful but firmer now. “This is a sugar daddy arrangement. I’m here because I need support. I’ve been out of a job for five months, and my savings is gone.”

The admission sits between us, bare and uncomfortable. He doesn’t respond right away, and the pause feels like a knife in my chest, sharp and unyielding. I shift in my seat, crossing my arms over my chest, trying to shield myself from the weight of the

silence. “Are you not interested in the...financial part of this?” I ask, though the question feels more like a plea now, my voice softer, more unsure.

His eyes stay locked on mine, steady and searching. “I’m not saying I’m not interested in helping you,” he says finally, “But I don’t want this to be transactional. I want a connection. A real one.”

I blink, the meaning of his words sinking in like a weight dropped into water, rippling out in ways I can’t control. “Isn’t that what this is? Transactional?” I say, quieter now, the edge of confusion creeping into my voice. “You help me. I help you. We’re both getting something out of it.”

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