Page 19 of Shy Girl

“So,” he says, leaning forward now, his arms resting on the table. “How’s your day been?”

MIA BALLARD66

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The question is simple, but it catches me off guard. For a moment, I forget the lines I’ve rehearsed.

“Good,” I say, my voice steady. “Productive.”

He nods, waiting for me to elaborate, but I don’t. Instead, I let the silence settle between us, watching him as he studies me. I wonder what he sees—if he notices the tension in my shoulders, the way my fingers rest too precisely on the edge of the table.

“Are you always this reserved? Always this...I don’t know how to explain it,” He waves his hands in the air like he’s casting a spell. “Stiff?” he finally lands on, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

I feel my cheeks flush, and I let out a soft laugh. “Sometimes.”

That’s not true. I’m always like this, but it’s an answer that satisfies him. He chuckles, and the sound makes me jump. For a moment, I forget why I’m here, why I’m doing this.

“So,” he sighs, leaning back slightly, his arms crossing over his chest in a way that seems relaxed but reads as controlled. His eyes search mine, and I know what’s coming before he even says it. “You said you needed help. I’m assuming this is about money?”

My stomach flips, and I feel heat creep up my neck, but I nod, forcing myself to maintain eye contact. The moment feels suspended, stretched taut, like the seconds before a rubber band snaps.

“Yes,” I say, the word crisp and singular, leaving no room for ambiguity. My voice is steady, but my fingers twitch under the table, itching to trace the grain of the wood or the edge of my napkin.

He tilts his head, studying me, and I feel like a specimen pinned under glass. His mouth twitches—not quite a smile, not quite a frown. “Okay,” he says, drawing the word out. “How much are we talking?”

SHY GIRL67

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I swallow, my throat dry despite the water I’ve been nursing. I’ve rehearsed this moment countless times, running through every possible reaction he might have, every tone he might use. “I’m behind on rent,” I say, voice steady. “A couple of days late. It’s twelve hundred dollars.”

Nathan’s brow furrows, his lips pressing together just slightly. His fingers tap the table once, a single, controlled motion. It’s not nothing. I watch him closely, cataloging every movement, every micro expression, like data in an experiment I don’t fully understand.

“And what happens after that?” he asks.

It’s not the response I expected. “What do you mean?”

“What happens next month? Or the month after that?” he says, his voice is the tone of someone accustomed to having the upper hand. “Do you plan to come to me every time you’re short?”

The words hit like a flat stone in my chest, sinking with no ripple. I hadn’t thought that far ahead—or I had, but I told myself not to; let future me worry about it.

“I’ll figure something out,” I say too quickly, the words tumbling over themselves. They sound hollow, even to me. “This is just... a rough patch.”

I consider telling him about the job interview, about the sliver of hope I’ve carved out for myself, but I keep it to myself. It feels too small to offer him, too flimsy to count as proof of anything.

He exhales through his nose and it sounds like a deflating ballon. He leans forward, his elbows on the table, closing the space between us, making me smaller by comparison. “Look,” he says, “like I said the other day, I don’t mind helping. But this”—he gestures between us, a vague motion that somehow includes the table, the space, the silence—“has to be clear. If this is about money, just say that. If it’s something else, I need to know that too.”

MIA BALLARD68

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“It’s about money,” I say, sharper this time. The words feel stark, naked on the table between us.

He nods, a slow, purposeful motion, like he’s weighing their truth. I feel a flicker of relief.

“Alright,” he says, finally. “We’ll figure something out. But I have something to show you before I decide to move forward with you.”

The sentence is a puzzle, heavy with implications I can’t yet name. I want to ask why he’s even on a sugar dating site if he doesn’t want things to be about money. The question hangs in my throat, thick and bitter, but I swallow it down, smoothing the napkin on my lap like a balm.

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