Page 3 of Shy Girl

tables are small enough that it feels like the people next to you are in your conversation. Kennedy is already there when I arrive, her dyed platinum blonde bob freshly cut, slicing clean across her cheekbones. Her lipstick is red—not just red, butvivid,the kind of color that demands attention and gets it. She waves when she sees me, her movements large and confident, like she’s pulling me into her orbit.

One time Kennedy and I sat in this same spot and watched a man get tackled by two officers for flashing some women walking by. He was wearing nothing but a long coat and looked like he was on meth. He clumsily ran from the cops only to be caught right away and when they tackled him to the ground, his trench coat had ridden up and you could see his white flat ass. Kennedy laughed so hard she spilled her drink, a gin and tonic that soaked the useless little cloth napkin they always put in front of you, the lime wedge sliding off the table and onto the floor. “This place is never boring,” she’d said, her voice loud enough for the horrified couple next to us to stop mid-sentence and look over.

We sit. The menus are comically oversized and smells faintly of citrus polish. A glass of white wine appears in front of her, golden and shimmering, while I stick to water. Kennedy orders a salad; I say I want nothing to our waiter who is so alien-like handsome he takes my breath away. Kennedy doesn’t ask what I want to drink. She already knows I’ll stick to water.

Kennedy leans forward, her elbows on the table, her energy pressing into the space between us. She’s waiting, her smile soft but expectant, the way someone smiles when they know there’s a secret and it’s only a matter of time before you spill. Her voice islight, casual. “What’s new, Gia?” she says, the question landing heavy despite its ease.

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I trace the edge of the menu, feeling the ridges beneath my fingers. The words sit in my throat for a moment before I let them out. I tell her. Not all of it, not the depth or weight, but enough for her to understand. Enough to shock her.

Her expression shifts, quick and electric. Surprise, amusement, something else I can’t place. Her glass of wine hovers near her lips, her head tilting slightly as she watches me like I’m an equation she hasn’t solved yet.

“Seriously, Gia?” she says, incredulous. “You?”

Her laugh breaks the space between us, warm and loud, a sound that should make me feel lighter but doesn’t. I straighten the glass of water in front of me, aligning it perfectly with the edge of the table. The reflection ripples, the surface broken by a tremor I don’t want her to notice.

I speak again, quieter this time. I tell her about the research, the precautions. How I’ve read every review, how I’ve weighed every risk. “I’ve thought this through,” I say, defensively. “I’ve even made a list of potential risks and how to mitigate them.”

Kennedy blinks, her mouth curving into a half-smile. “Of course you have,” she says, her voice softer now, almost fond.

The space between us feels heavier, filled with something unnamed. She leans back in her chair, studying me from a new angle, her glass clicking against the table as she sets it down. When she speaks again, her tone surprises me. There’s no judgment, no sharp edge. “Just... be careful,” she says. “I don’t want to have to come rescuing you.”

The words loosen something in my chest, enough for a laugh to slip out. It spreads through me like warmth, faint but steady.

The bistro hums around us—clinking silverware, murmured conversations, the dull thrum of ordinary life. The moment folds

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into itself, settling between us. When we part, I don’t feel lighter, not exactly. But I feel less alone in the weight of it, and for now, that’s enough.

THREE

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Back home,my life folds itself neatly into the borders of its routine. The front door locks first: one turn to the right, a pause, then back left to check, and right again. A ritual, a trinity of assurances that no one will enter without permission.

My shoes come off next. They align themselves precisely by the door, their heels touching and toes angled just so, forming a triangle of calm. The symmetry pulls me back to myself. I exhale, a long, slow release of air, as though I’ve been holding my breath all day.

In the kitchen, I retrieve the meal I’ve assigned to Tuesdays: a roasted chicken breast, a half-cup of steamed broccoli, and a neat, compact mound of white rice. The microwave is set for one minute and forty-five seconds—never more, never less. The seconds tick down with an unbearable slowness, each beep of the timer reminding me that even the smallest things follow rules.

I eat standing at the counter. My feet are planted shoulder-width apart, grounding me. Each bite is chewed with purpose, a steady rhythm—ten presses of my teeth before swallowing. My jaw moves like a metronome, keeping time in the stillness of the kitchen.

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When I finish, the plate is rinsed immediately. The plate slides into its place among others in the dishwasher, the fork and knife laid parallel, each slot in the silverware rack an invitation for order.

Then, the couch. The remote feels cool and solid in my hand as I press power.The Golden Girls’theme song humsthrough the living room, warm and familiar. This is when my brain finally quiets. The canned laughter is impersonal and safe, cushioning my thoughts like a pillow pressed gently against my face. Two episodes—exactly two, no more no less—before I rise, like clockwork.

The workout comes next. Thirty minutes with resistance bands, the motions as repetitive as dinner: pull, release, pull, release. My body works mechanically, but my thoughts continue their relentless loops. The overdue rent. The follow up email for a potential job I sent two days ago that hasn’t been answered. The job applications scattered across cyberspace like confetti thrown into the void.

Afterward, a shower. The water is nearly scalding. My skin blooms pink under the spray, and for a moment, I feel real. It reddens my skin, burns the surface, makes me feel tangible in a way I need. The soap I use smells of lavender, but it’s the heat that matters, the way it makes the world shrink to just this—just skin, water, and the steam that curls like a second body around me. The towel is folded when I finish, its edges even as I drape it back over the rack. Lavender lingers faintly in the air.

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