Page 14 of Shy Girl

He sighs, the sound low and heavy, and looks down at his drink. For a moment, I think he might not answer, but then helooks back up, his eyes softer now, almost apologetic. “I didn’t sign up for a business deal, if that’s what you’re asking. I want someone who’s here because they want to be here. Not just because they need the money.”

The words feel like a hand closing around my throat, squeezing tight enough to make breathing hard. What did I miss? What’s

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happening here? I thought I understood the terms, the dynamics. I thought I knew what this was supposed to be.

“I’m just...not sure what you mean,” I say, my voice faltering, the faux confidence I walked in with unraveling thread by thread. “I signed up for this because I need money, Nathan. That’s all.”

His expression softens, but he doesn’t move, doesn’t reach out. “Okay,” he says quietly.

The pause that follows is suffocating, the silence wrapping around us like a fog I can’t see through. I look at him, my mind racing, spinning with thoughts I can’t untangle. I want to say something, anything to bridge the gap that’s opened between us, but the words won’t come.

So instead, I sit there, the weight of his gaze pressing down on me, wondering if I’ve already ruined this before it even started.

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When I get home,the first thing I do is strip. Each piece of clothing is peeled away, a silent shedding of the day. The pants, the fitted white t-shirt, even the socks—all folded into perfect squares and stacked neatly in my drawer, their edges aligned like soldiers standing at attention. The order calms me, gives shape to a day that feels jagged and unfinished.

My phone is a weight I feel even without touching it, humming just beneath my skin. I want to grab it, to refresh the app, to see if Nathan’s name has materialized on the screen. But I stop myself. Not yet. I cling to my routine, anchoring myself in its precision.

I wash my face, the lather cool and foamy in my hands. My fingers move in exact circles—three on the left cheek, three on the right, two for the chin. The rinse is cold, biting, sharp enough to pull me back into my body. I brush my teeth next, counting each stroke in my head. Ten on the left. Ten on the right. Ten for the middle. My mind drifts, replaying fragments of the day, Nathan’s voice curling in the corners of my thoughts.

He was strange. Not in a way that made me uncomfortable, but in a way that made him impossible to pin down. I replay the conversation, dissecting each word, searching for the misstep. Why had he gone stiff when I mentioned the financial arrangement? Why had something so transactional, so agreed upon, suddenly felt fragile when spoken aloud?

It should be simple: he wanted companionship; I needed money. A clean exchange. But the balance felt slippery, like trying to hold water in my hands. Every time I thought I understood the terms, they shifted, leaving me uncertain; unsteady.

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I finish my routine and sit on the edge of my bed, the sheets taut beneath me. My phone waits on the nightstand, its dark screen reflecting back at me. I reach for it slowly, the way you might approach something that could bite.

The first thing I see is another text from my father.

I’m sorry, Gia. I’ve stopped drinking. Sober six months now. I want to be in your life again. Please let me try.

The words land heavy, familiar in their emptiness. I’ve read this script before, each line an echo of something I’ve heard too many times. My thumb hovers over the message, but I don’t respond. I swipe it away like an itch, ignoring the sting it leaves behind.

I open the app. The messages are waiting—new faces, new profiles, new men casting their nets with curated charm and carefully posed photos. None of them are Nathan.

I scroll until I find him, his name steady in the list. My fingers hesitate before tapping his profile, enlarging his picture. It’s the one of him at his desk, the one where he looks the most real. He’s leaning forward slightly, his gaze focused on something just out of frame. There’s a stillness in his face, a quietness that feels like a balm against the noise in my head.

I stare at the photo longer than I should, tracing the lines of his jaw, the faint crease at the corner of his mouth, the soft streaks of gray in his hair. My chest tightens, my breath shallow. He feels close and impossibly far away all at once.

Please message me back.The thought presses into my mind, fragile and sharp. I press the phone to my lips, the screen cool and unyielding, as though the gesture might conjure him.

And then the tears come. Quiet, soft, the way they always do. They aren’t violent, aren’t messy. They slide down my cheeks in measured lines, a slow release that feels more ritual than reaction. I’ve cried like this so many times it’s become muscle memory.

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I kiss his profile picture once, gently, the way you might kiss a relic or a talisman. The phone feels cold and hollow in my hands, but the act feels necessary, a final step before I let the day go.

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