Page 27 of Shy Girl

I glance toward the dessert table, where the cake stands like a trophy. It’s shaped like a train, its details so intricate it looks like something from a magazine. Liam doesn’t care about the cake. He’s still bouncing, his shoe finally flung off, his laughter floating through the air.

“It’s beautiful,” I say.

Kennedy beams. “I wanted something memorable, you know? Something that says,‘You’re special.’”Her voice dips into a conspiratorial whisper. “You’ll understand one day.”

I smile, tight-lipped, and take another sip of my tea. The sugar grates against my teeth at the thought. Do I even really want a child? A family? The notion of it is so far removed from my current life that the thought almost feels illegal, like I shouldn’t be allowed to think about these things.

The party churns on around us, the soundtrack of children screaming and some adults pretending to care, others caring way too much. I watch a woman who I vaguely recognize snatch her young daughter away from the bounce house with a bit too much force.Sweetie. Sweetie. Sweetie come here you’re getting too rowdy. Please put down your dress, you are not a boy.

Someone cranks up the Bluetooth speaker, and a pop song spills into the yard, its manufactured cheer adding more excitement to the scene. A kid starts crying, the sound sharp and piercing, and Kennedy’s head snaps toward the noise like a predator sensing weakness.

“Excuse me,” she says, standing again with the kind of grace that turns even basic movement into performance. She strides toward the chaos, her voice rising in a soothing coo that carries over the din. The other moms watch her, their faces carefully blank, but I see the calculation behind their eyes. They’re clocking her—her dress, her tone, the way she bends without breaking.

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I sit alone, my hands gripping the arms of the chair, the iced tea forgotten beside me. My gaze drifts back to Liam, his body a blur of motion, his hair a mess of sweat and joy. His freedom is something wild and untamed, something this backyard can’t quite contain. It’s the only thing here that feels real.

When I get home, the wordsI’m infeel heavier, like they’ve been waiting for me to notice their weight. I imagine Kennedy tucking Liam into bed, smoothing his hair, her life folding neatly into place like an average thirty-something- year-old woman. And then I imagine myself on all fours, barking, the collar around my neck a tangible reminder of the choices I’ve made.

I wonder how long I can keep these worlds from touching, how long I can keep their orbits from colliding. For now, they spin separately, unevenly, tethered only by the fragile gravity of my denial.

TWELVE

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I get readyfor the night, my movements as automatic as the hum of the refrigerator. I toss a few things into my bag—a purse, Chapstick, a hair tie—each one useless. Dogs don’t carry purses, and their lips don’t get chapped. I know this, but packing calms me, even as the absurdity of it scratches at the back of my neck. It’s not about utility. It’s about the ritual, the illusion of control, like cleaning a room before a fire burns it down.

I hadn’t thought I’d start tonight. I’d imagined a more traditional schedule—something solid and predictable. Eight to four. But Nathan was clear: it’s overnight, and it starts now. The wordnowsticks to my ribs, prickly and wrong, even as I pretend I don’t feel it. I grab my phone and type fast, thumbs skipping over each other.What should I bring?

His reply is instant.Nothing. Yourself.

I read it twice, then again. The words settle somewhere low, weightless but dense, like they’ve hooked onto the space between my lungs. No bag, no things, no armor. Just me.

I clean the kitchen to drown it out. I scrub until the counters

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gleam, not because they need it but because I do. I organize the dishes in the drying rack—big plates first, then the little ones, the mugs in a line like soldiers. I know I’ll be back by morning, but the work steadies me, makes me feel like this is just another night, just another thing that will end. I wipe down the last plate, and for a moment, I feel lighter, like I’ve hit a reset button somewhere deep in my head.

At the table, I open my laptop and stare at an email draft I’ve been avoiding. It is addressed to the woman who called me about the courtroom stenographer interview. I type without thinking, fingers moving as if possessed:Hello, after much consideration, I have chosen not to attend the interview tomorrow. Thank you for the opportunity.

I hit send too fast, like pulling the trigger before you’ve aimed. The regret blooms immediately, settling heavy in my stomach. The courtroom job wouldn’t pay much at first, but it would’ve built to something stable, something honest. But Nathan’s offer—weekly cash, no questions—dangles in my head like a carrot tied to a stick. I can’t stop imagining the bills in my hand, their crisp weight. It feels real in a way the future never does.

I cling to that vision as if it’s already mine, let it carry me to the bathroom. The water is scalding, almost punishing, but it feels good to have control over something. I shave slowly, the razor gliding over my legs and bikini line. My thoughts drift to Nathan, to the cage, to the terms. Sex seems inevitable. I tell myself it’s just part of the arrangement, part of the job. I have ruined myself for far less. It’s nothing I can’t handle.

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When I step out of the shower, the steam clings to my skin. I pull my hair into a tight bun, practical and clean. No makeup—it doesn’t feel right to look polished. Dogs don’t wear eyeliner. I dress in a black t-shirt and yoga pants, clothes that don’t mean anything, that won’t get in the way. When I glance in the mirror, my reflection looks stripped down, utilitarian. I feel like I’ve stepped outside myself, like I’m preparing a mannequin for something it won’t remember.

I take a deep breath, hold it to the count of four, let it go. My heart drums against my ribs, but my hands stay steady as I grab my keys. I open the door to the cool night air and lock it behind me, double-checking the knob twice, pressing against it with my palm.

The walk to my car is slow, each step measured. I slide into the driver’s seat and grip the wheel, my knuckles whitening under the pressure. I sit there for a moment, listening to the silence, trying to feel normal. But nothing feels normal. Not the air, not my skin, not this moment, where the streetlights buzz faintly and the night seems to lean in, watching.

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