Page 7 of Shy Girl

I nod and hand him the bag. He opens it, pulling the sweater out with long, dirty fingers, holding it up to the light.

“Whoa,” he says, a grin breaking across his face. “This is... wow.”

“It’s nothing,” I say quickly. “Just, you know, in case it gets cold.”

He holds it up to his chest, the green fabric looking almost luminous against his tanned skin. “This is dope,” he says, his voice warm. “I haven’t worn a sweater in years. I didn’t think I’d need one, but... yeah, this is cool. Thanks.”

I shrug, trying to look like it isn’t a big deal, but something about his gratitude feels bigger than the moment. He slips the sweater over his head, and it fits almost perfectly, the sleevesjust a little too long, the way I like them. He stretches his arms out, letting the fabric settle.

“Fits like a dream,” he says, spinning in a slow circle. “You should sell these or something. Make a fortune.”

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I laugh. “Yeah, I don’t think the world’s ready.”

Turtle grins, his teeth beige and uneven. “The world’s never ready for anything good,” he says, kicking the hacky sack back into the air. I turn around to head back to my apartment.

Before Turtle disappeared, I would bring him sandwiches, ham and cheese or peanut butter and jelly wrapped in plastic, little baggies of chips, sometimes cans of Coke. I’d slip them out of my tote, trying not to look like I cared too much, and hand them over like it was nothing. Turtle always smiles, always says thanks, his voice loud and booming like sunshine. He sits cross-legged in the grass, pulling the sandwich out and taking slow, deliberate bites, like he’s stretching the moment, savoring it. “What’s your name, girl?” he asks, crumbs clinging to his lips.

I tell him, and every time, he nods like it’s the first time he’s heard it even though I’ve told him several times. “Gia. Cool name,” he says, and I laugh. My name sounds different when he holds it in his mouth. Like something exotic; like art.

He doesn’t care about names, not in the way most people do. Names don’t mean anything to Turtle; it’s the presence that matters, the body in front of him, the food in his hands, the hacky sack bouncing in the air.

Turtle talks like a man who’s seen the end of the world and decided it wasn’t worth reporting. He stretches out his words, rolls them around like he’s savoring the weight of them before he lets them go. His sentences twist in ways that don’t always makesense, but I follow them anyway, like a dog chasing a scent it doesn’t recognize.

Sometimes I’ll say something ordinary—The weather’s been weird lately—and he’ll look at me like I’ve just handed him a riddle. “Weird is good,” he says, kicking his hacky sack into the air, his bare foot arcing up like it’s part of some slow, sacred dance. “Weird

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means the world hasn’t gotten too comfortable. Comfortable is dangerous. Comfortable keeps you asleep when the house is on fire.”

I never know how to respond to him. He speaks in riddles, and I don’t always have the patience to solve them. But his voice is warm,

laced with something quiet and knowing, like he’s peeling back a layer of the universe and letting me see inside.

“Why do you keep bringing me food?” he asks one day, tilting his head as I hand him a sandwich wrapped in wax paper.

“I figured you could use it,” I say, shrugging.

He nods, his dreads swaying like a curtain, and takes a bite. “You’re feeding the wrong part of me,” he says, his words muffled by peanut butter and jelly.

“What does that even mean?” I ask, laughing despite myself.

He points to his head, then his chest. “This part’s starving,” he says, tapping his temple. “And this part’s drowning.” His hand lingers over his heart for a moment, his eyes clouding with something dark and distant.

I want to ask him what he means, but the moment slips away before I can grab it. He’s back to his hacky sack, his body moving like the laws of physics bend for him, and I know he won’t answer me if I push.

“Why do you call yourself turtle?”

“Cause everything I need I got on me. Everything I need is here.” He pats his worn army green backpack next to him, and then points to his heart.

Turtle doesn’t believe in small talk. Every question he asks is a thread, and he tugs until he unravels something raw.Why do you read so much? Why don’t you have kids? What’s the worst thing you’ve ever done?

Sometimes I try to flip the questions back on him, but he dodges them effortlessly, like he’s been running from himself for years. I’ll

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