Page 9 of Shy Girl

MIA BALLARD33

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An hour later,his message comes through, the vibration rattling the coffee table like a pulse pulling me out of myself. My hand moves faster than my mind, snatching up the phone with a kind of reflexive hunger, the kind I’d stopped admitting but I still felt. The screen glows, and there it is:

Great! How far are you from downtown? We can meet for coffee there.

I read it twice, three times, as though it’s more profound than what it is. I tap his profile again, his main picture coming into focus: a placeholder white man with neatly cropped hair and a smile engineered to communicate effortlessness. The kind of man you pass in a park or a grocery store and immediately forget.

Except now, I don’t forget. I notice the slight sag of his eyelids, the tension in his jaw, the tightness of his smile. The way his face looks like it’s been worked on, chipped away at, sculpted into something just palatable enough to not scare away women. It’s nothing extraordinary, but I let myself linger anyway, replaying the vague softness of his words in my head.

I type quickly, clumsily:I’m not far at all... just an hour. I guess that’s kind of far for most people, but I like driving.

The lie comes out smooth, natural. I hate driving. I hate the way the road demands so much of you. I hate the lights, the traffic, the inevitability of being lost somewhere unfamiliar if you take a wrong turn. But I’m not about to say that. I hit send and watch the message dissolve into the thread.

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Immediately, my stomach tightens. I refresh the chat, compulsive and frantic, as though my eagerness might force his response into being. Nothing. I refresh again. Still nothing. The silence stretches, unbearable and personal, until my brain conjures the worst: that I’ve said something wrong, that my eagerness has slipped through and left him cold.

And then, finally, the phone lights up again. His reply is short, almost dismissive:

Haha ok then. Well, how about two o’clock at O’Malley’s?

I don’t know O’Malley’s. I’ve never been. But admitting that feels like a small failure, so I type back with urgency, my fingers moving too quickly:I’ll see you there at two!

When the message sends, I toss the phone onto the couch like it’s scorched, my chest fluttering with a dissonant mix of relief and panic. The room feels too small, too still. My body itches for release. I drop to the floor and start doing crunches, fast and hard, each movement biting into the muscles of my stomach. My skin feels tight, my breaths shallow, but I keep going until the ache becomes a steady rhythm.

When I stop, I’m shaking. My shirt clings to my back, damp with sweat. I peel it off and step into the bathroom, the steam rising before I even turn the water on. I crank the heat up as far as it will go, the first scalding spray hitting my shoulders and making me gasp. The sensation burns, sharp and grounding.

I close my eyes and let the water batter my skin. But it doesn’t wash him away. Nathan lingers—his face, his words, the careful restraint in his messages. I try to remind myself of the rules, the lines I’ve drawn in my head. This isn’t about him. It’s about money. About rent. About survival.

If he doesn’t offer anything substantial, I will walk away.

I say it to myself like a mantra.I’ll walk away.

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But then, the questions creep in, unbidden. What will it feel like to sit across from him, to watch him move in real time, to hear his voice? Will he be like the image I’ve built in my head, or something different? I have only known of his existence for one day and I already feel a strange obsession creeping in, settling deep in my bones.

I have a problem with men. I am either obsessed with them, or I want nothing to do with them at all, depending on the state of my life at the moment. Nathan goes into the obsessed pile.

Not so long ago it was Thomas. Thomas from work, Thomas with the long eyelashes and the clear baby-smooth skin, with the tiny Jewish fro that sat on his head like a crown. He reminded me of Michael Cera, or that other less famous guy that looks like Michael Cera. He wore messenger bags slung across his chest and sweater vests over collared shirts. He had brown eyes that looked too soft for someone in accounting and a voice that cracked sometimes when he got nervous.

We worked together for five and a half years, exchanging polite hellos and little else. He was the kind of guy who never said anything unless he was asked directly, and even then, his answers were short, just enough to keep the spotlight moving past him.

The text message came out of nowhere, it startled me because I hadn’t given him my number. Then I remembered—the employee group chat where all of our numbers were listed, laid bare for everyone to see whether we liked it or not.

Hey, this is Thomas. I’m sorry you got fired. I was wondering why I hadn’t seen you in a few days. Are you okay?

I stared at the message for a long time. Thomas had never shown any interest in me before. We’d exchanged maybefive sentences in all the time we worked together, and now, suddenly, he cared about my well-being? It felt suspicious, but also nice.

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