Page 15 of Shy Girl

I sink into bed, curling into myself, pulling the comforter tight around my body. The room is quiet, the air heavy with my unanswered questions. But I cling to the small, fragile hope that tomorrow, his message will come.

SEVEN

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The phone rings,through the quiet. My body jolts, reflexive, as if the noise itself has teeth. Phone calls are rare, uninvited things that don’t belong in the carefully built grid of my morning. My breath catches, my heart beating an uneven rhythm against my ribs as I stare at the screen. Unknown number. A puzzle I don’t want to solve.

Who could it be? Kennedy, her voice bright and demanding? My father, another plea smuggled in apology? Spam? A wrong number? Or something worse, something urgent, clawing at the edges of my day? My thumb hovers, the moment stretching taut, heavy with indecision. I let it ring, the tension building with each chime, until finally, I answer.

The voice on the other end is clear, formal, and unexpected. A job offer. A courtroom reporter position. The words land softly, almost tentative, before expanding, their weight settling in my chest. My thoughts scatter like startled birds, wings flapping frantic questions:Can I type fast enough? Can I fit in? Will they see the cracks in me before I even start?

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I push the doubts down, focus on the facts. “Yes, I’m interested.” The words are out before hesitation can sink its teeth in, my grip tightening around the phone like it might fly away.

The details come quickly—a preliminary interview, though the woman on the other end assures I’ve already landed the position just based off my merits alone. I studied to be a courtroom reporter in college, back when I thought my hands could keep up with the world, back when I believed in thepermanence of facts. I liked the precision of it—the way words became a record, how the right keystrokes could turn chaos into something neat and orderly. But I fell into accounting instead, something quieter, something that didn’t demand so much of my body. Numbers were easier than people, and they didn’t need me to listen so closely.

My breath evens out, the outline of possibility taking shape. Ajob.The thought lingers, solid and improbable. A flicker of hope.

When the call ends, I sit for a moment, the phone warm in my hand, the silence loud. That fragile swell of hope trying to push through the cracks. But the feeling doesn’t last. The buzz of a notification snaps me back, its vibration rippling through the table like an electric jolt.

Nathan’s name flashes on the screen.

My chest tightens, anticipation blooming sharp and fast, and I unlock the phone with a clumsiness that betrays me.

Hey Gia. I’m sorry about yesterday, I am interested in seeing you again.

The words are plain, unremarkable, but they hum with weight.I aminstead ofI’m—intentional, as though he’s rehearsed this, chosen the phrasing carefully. He thought about me. He decided to try again.

I let the message sit for a moment, its implications spinning out, infinite and dizzying. My response has to be right—engaged, but

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not overeager; warm, but not vulnerable. I type. Delete. Type again. The words finally come together, compact and safe:

Ok, sounds good. I’d like to see you again too.

I read it three times, scanning for errors, for subtext I didn’t intend. When I’m satisfied, I press send, my breath catching as the message leaves me. The phone rests on the coffee table now,

perfectly aligned with the edge, its stillness mocking the storm in my chest.

The day feels suddenly expansive, possibilities stretching out in parallel lines, neat and straight, waiting for me to dig in.

I pull out my notebook, the blank pages humming with potential. I settle into my couch and the pen moves with purpose, carving order into the chaos in my head.

For the job interview:What do courtroom reporters wear? Emphasize technical skills. Prepare for questions about accuracy.I underlinefirst impressionstwice and scribblepractice typing testin the margins.

For Nathan:What to wear. How to act. What to say.Everything will matter.

The cadence of my words. The ease of my smile. I list scenarios, circling the ones that feel right, marking the ones I’ll rehearse in front of the mirror.

The edges of the day feel sharp again, the mess contained. I breathe in deeply, let it out slowly, anchoring myself in the fragile structure I’ve built. A job offer. A message from Nathan. Two small certainties in a sea of unknowns. Two paths forward. For now, it’s enough.

By the time I close the notebook, the day feels structured, manageable; mine.

EIGHT

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