Page 17 of Shy Girl

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The dress is laidout like an offering across my bed, a black body-hugging thing with a sweetheart neckline that grazes the knees. I smooth my hands over the fabric, checking for wrinkles I know aren’t there. It’s the dress I’ve been saving, the one reserved for something important, something pivotal, and tonight it fulfills its purpose.

I slip it on carefully, the ritual precise: left arm, right arm, zipper drawn slowly, the click of teeth locking into place. I examine myself in the mirror, turning slightly to the left, slightly to the right, ensuring the dress falls just as it should. I take in the curve of my waist, the line of my shoulders, and whisper aloud, “Perfect,” though I know I will check again in fifteen minutes.

I skip the flat iron this time, leaving my hair in its natural state—wild, spiraling, unpredictable. It feels wrong at first, the weight of the curls foreign against my face, but I tell myself it adds authenticity. I am not supposed to look too polished, I am supposed to look like a woman on the verge.

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The next task is: practicing my face. I sit before the mirror, testing expressions like an actress preparing for her role. Sad, but not desperate. Vulnerable, but not weak. My mouth curves downward

slightly, my eyes cast just enough to seem weighted with sorrow. I practice furrowing my brow, tilting my head. “Nathan,” I say

aloud, testing my tone. “I know we just met but I need help. I’m being evicted. I don’t know where else to turn.” The words sound too dramatic, so I adjust. “Nathan, I don’t know how to say this, but I’m in a tight spot financially. It’s humiliating to even ask, but I thought maybe...” My voice trails off, and I nod. That’s the one.

The preparation consumes me. My eyes flick to the clock every few minutes. Four hours until we meet. My hands itch for something to do, so I reapply my lipstick, blot, and reapply again. I rearrange the contents of my purse, ensuring everything has its place: wallet, phone, a compact for touch-ups, gum, a folded tissue for the tears I might summon if needed.

By the time I’m ready, the dress has been inspected ten times, the mirror rehearsals repeated until my expressions are muscle memory. I sit on the edge of my bed, rigid, knees together, hands folded neatly in my lap. I’ve allowed myself no room for error.

The hours crawl by, measured in small, compulsive tasks. I set an alarm for thirty minutes before I need to leave, then set a second alarm for ten minutes earlier, just in case. I refresh Nathan’s messages, though I know there’s nothing new. I rehearse my lines one more time, not because I’ve forgotten them but because I need to fill the silence.

By the time I finally step out the door, my mind is a well-oiled machine, every thought aligned in perfect sequence. My heels click on the pavement as I make my way to the car, the sound sharp, grounding. I’ve done everything I can to prepare, and yet a small, gnawing doubt lingers, whispering that it still might not be enough.

The restaurant stands in stark relief against the darkening sky, its signage orderly, illuminated in soft white.Gino’s.

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I park three spaces away, ensuring enough room to open my door fully without grazing the neighboring vehicle. My engine hums for an extra five seconds before I turn it off, giving me time to prepare mentally.

I glance at the clock on the dashboard. Six p.m. One hour early. I allow the minute to tick over to 6:01 before I exhale and settle back into the seat. My purse rests squarely on the passenger seat, the clasp aligned with the seam of the upholstery. I run through my checklist: lines memorized, appearance checked, arrival accounted for. Still, the anxiety simmers, so I rehearse again.

“Nathan, I need to talk to you about something.” Too abrupt. I try again, softer this time: “Nathan, I’m in a difficult situation, and I don’t know who else to turn to.” That feels closer, but I repeat it three more times to ensure it sticks.

My phone sits untouched for exactly four minutes before I pick it up, opening the sugar daddy app as a way to occupy the idle time. Notifications spill across the screen: messages from men I haven’t responded to, each one marked with a timestamp. I click into the first out of habit, scanning his profile for inconsistencies. He claims to own three properties in Dubai, but his photos look suspiciously like stock images. I delete the message without responding.

The next profile is more convincing. A CFO with a taste for fine art. I craft a response. playful but detached, careful not to betray any real interest.

Sounds interesting. What kind of art do you collect?

I hit send and the regret is immediate, sharp, like the sting of a paper cut you don’t see coming. The question feels too much, too eager—a small betrayal of the indifference I was trying to cultivate. What does it matter what kind of art he collects? Idon’t care. Not really. But now I’ve turned the conversation into something that feels open-ended, something that requires care.

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The phone is heavy in my hand, a tether to something I can’t name but can’t quite let go. I imagine his answer before it arrives, the familiar script. He’ll list the artists, the pieces, each name a carefully chosen testament to his taste. Maybe he’ll mention Rothko, because everyone knows Rothko, or some obscure name I won’t bother to Google, a flex wrapped in pretense.

And then, the inevitable softening:I really love supporting local artists, you know? There’s something special about discovering someone before they make it big.The sentence will be just the right mix of virtue and vulnerability, a self-portrait painted with words that say,Look at me. Aren’t I good? Aren’t I generous?

I imagine him curating this response, arranging it like an exhibition of himself, and something tightens in my chest. Not anger, not quite, but something adjacent—a bitterness, a knowing. Men like him don’t just collect art; they collect admiration. They want to be seen not for who they are but for what they gather; like a large collection of Funko Pops or a room full of old sports memorabilia actually means something. Though collecting art isn’t as egregious my thoughts still remain the same:Very cool dude, but that doesn’t mean you’re a good person.

The clock on my dashboard reads 6:15 PM. I’ve only killed fourteen minutes. I cycle through the app again, responding to three more messages, all variations on the same theme: polite, aloof, calculated. My interactions are clinical, a way to fill the time, though I know they’re ultimately meaningless. Aftertonight, I tell myself, I won’t need this app anymore. Nathan is different. Nathan is endgame.

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