Page 18 of Shy Girl

At 6:35 PM, I glance up at the restaurant. Couples filter in and out with steady rhythm, the door swinging on well-oiled hinges. I imagine Nathan’s arrival: the sound of his shoes on the tile, the tilt of his head as he searches for me. My chest tightens.

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I check my makeup in the visor mirror, not because I suspect it’s flawed, but because I need to ensure it’s perfect. Lipstick, smooth. Foundation, even. I adjust the straps of my dress for the third time, though they haven’t moved. I’m stalling, I know, but the routine calms me.

At 6:50 PM, I take a final look at the clock, allowing a single deep breath before I step out of the car. My heels click against the pavement in even intervals, a rhythm that feels grounding. I push open the restaurant door and immediately all of my senses are pleased. It’s nothing like the trashy Italian bistro Kennedy and I go to, with its sticky vinyl seats, it’s loud pop-rock music always blaring over the speakers coupled with the back of the house kitchen screaming and cursing at each other.

Gino’s is dazzling, blurry, old Hollywood beautiful. It was a place where big deals were made, where political figures dined, all othem drunk on whiskey and laughing loud, it was a place where proposals were a show, they even made room for it— right in the middle of the restaurant where everyone can look on and clap andoohandawwfor the newly engaged couple. It was a place where groups of upperclass women who lied about how old they were turning gathered for birthdays, their pillowy lips blowing out bright, sparkly candles as they balanced giant garish tiaras on top of their heads. And it was precisely, the typeof place, where older wealthy men took their sugar babies for dinner.

I take a moment to adjust to the dim light, the ambient hum of conversation and then I approach the hostess stand with faux confidence, his name already forming on my tongue. “Reservation for two, under Nathan.”

She smiles, checks her list, and gestures for me to follow. My heart pounds in steady beats as she leads me to the table. The symmetry of the dining room, the soft clink of cutlery, the orderliness of it should soothe me, but it doesn’t. My chest feels

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tight, my thoughts spiraling into contingencies I haven’t accounted for.

I lower myself into the chair, smoothing my dress as I sit. I glance at my phone, refreshing Nathan’s last message even though I’ve already memorized it. My hands rest neatly on the table, fingers interlaced. I tell myself I’m ready, but the voice in my head whispers otherwise.

The restaurant hums with a steady rhythm: forks tapping porcelain, muffled laughter, the rise and fall of voices. I scan the room, cataloging every detail as if I’ll need to reconstruct it later. An elderly couple at the next table shares a dessert, their spoons clinking together lovingly. Across the room, a sweaty man who reminds me of the Pillsbury doughboy leans too far over his plate, his tie dangling dangerously close to a pool of marinara. His date, who looks fabulous in a emerald green dress doesn’t look impressed by him and I wonder for a second if we are kindred spirits.

My phone buzzes, jolting me. I look down and see Nathan’s message:

Hey, I’m here. Are you inside already?

The words are casual, unassuming, but they send a ripple through my chest. I type back quickly:

Yes I’m at the table near the back

No punctuation—it feels too stiff, too formal. I hit send, my thumb hovering for a split second longer than necessary, and then I set the phone down carefully, aligning it with the edge of the table.

I reach for my water glass, the condensation cooling my fingers. I take a sip, then another, spacing out the motions as if I can drink away the seconds. Two minutes pass, though it feels stretched thin, elastic and brittle. Then I see him.

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Nathan steps into the room, his eyes scanning the space with quiet purpose. He wears a crisp white shirt under a charcoal blazer, tailored just enough to suggest care without effort. His hair is freshly cut—short and neat, with the slightest hint of product that catches the light. The sides look sharper, newer, and I imagine him in the barber’s chair, leaning forward just slightly as someone

sculpted his edges. It’s the kind of detail that most people wouldn’t notice, but I do.

He spots me, and I feel it immediately—the tension in my shoulders, the way my stomach tightens as though bracing for impact. I place the glass back on the table, centering it exactly where it was before, as if this small act will heal me.

When he reaches the table, he smiles, his teeth slightly uneven in a way that feels disarming. “You look great, Gia,” he says, his voice warm but quiet, the compliment landing between us like something private.

“Thank you,” I say, my tone steady, rehearsed. “You, too.”

He sits down, adjusting the blazer as he does, and I notice the way his watch glints under the light. My eyes flicker to his hands—strong, capable, but not overly manicured. Everything about him feels curated, yet effortlessly so.

“I hope I didn’t keep you waiting,” he says, leaning back slightly in his chair.

“No, not at all,” I say. The hour I spent in my car suddenly feels distant, irrelevant.

The waiter appears dropping off two menus and Nathan orders a glass of bourbon whiskey. I decline a drink, sticking to water. I never drink. Alcohol feels too risky—too unpredictable. It also reminds me of my father.

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