Page 115 of Girls Night
I pressedsendand waited. No response.
I made some more tea. Checked again.
No response.
I took a shower, letting the water flush away all my misery. I checked my phone.
No response.
Finally, around midnight, she messaged me. I was in bed, with Mittens on my stomach curled into a tight ball, her warmth anchoring me to the now.
The phone was in my hand in seconds as I read Devon’s text.
Devon: I’m a block away.
Relief washed over me, joy threatening to send me over the edge, an edge I hadn’t seen since high school. Along in its wake came the nerves and the fear of rejection. But for the first time in my life, I was willing to stand on that edge with my heart on my sleeve, no matter the result.
I didn’t bother changing out of my pajamas, just grabbed a pair of fluffy socks and called it good. My hair was down, probably a rat’s nest of bed-head from not drying it when I washed it earlier. But I didn’t care.
By the time I added water to the kettle and set the burner on, the door buzzed, signaling Devon’s arrival.
I took a deep breath and went to the door, letting her in. We stared at one another for a moment in silence. She looked different. Harder. Serious. Fiery.
She was gorgeous.
“Hi,” I offered.
“Hey.” She sighed and crossed her arms. “Nice socks.”
My toes wiggled as I looked down at my fuzzy, rainbowed feet. “Thanks.” When I looked back up, she was smirking. A good sign. “Tea?”
“Hell no. Got any pop?”
“Sprite or Dr. Pepper?”
The twinkle in her eye was downright flirtatious. “Oh, I like you. I’ll have the good Doctor, please.”
After I got our drinks and set them on the coffee table, I sat down next to her on the sofa, curling my legs under me. She mimicked my position once she’d taken a sip of her soda and placing her glass back gently on the table.
“So. Spill,” she said.
Ignoring my nerves, I cleared my throat. “I have agoraphobia.”
Her eyes widened. “Is it… terminable?”
“What?”
“Are you going to, you know, die from it? Oh My God, Mia, I’m—”
My laughter made her pause and she looked so confused I itched to capture her face with my camera. “No, no! I’m physically healthy. Agoraphobia,” I explained, sobering now, “is an anxiety disorder. It means I don’t go places. I… I barely leave my house. I get panic attacks, and they get so bad that I just… can’t go out.”
Something shifted in her expression, and what I thought might be pity, was understanding instead, maybe even a little bit of relief.
I continued. “Devon, it wasn’t about you earlier, about not wanting to go get drinks. It was me and my stupid problem. God, I’d love to go have drinks with you. Go anywhere with you. But… I just can’t. Not right now.” Feeling brave, I reached the distance between us and grabbed her hand. She didn’t pull away as I held onto it tightly.
“Oh, Mia, that sounds fucking awful.”
“Trust me, it’s hell. I have no friends, I don’t go out. I just work and hang out with my cat. I have an assistant that helps me out a few times a week, and a dad who lives in another state, who can’t always visit as much as I’d like. I’m a mess on most days.” I looked away, feeling embarrassed, knowing now that this woman beside me must think I’m a fruit cake, an eccentric hermit, nothing special, no one worth knowing.
