Page 3

The next day, I dress with purpose. A white turtleneck, pressed slacks, and a leather jacket that hugs my shoulders just right. Small gold hoops slide into my ears, neat and forgettable, the kind of thing no one second guesses, that no one will focus on. My hair is pulled into a high bun, tight against my scalp, clean and contained. In the mirror, I see someone who might pass for important; for brave.

Kennedy will lose it when I tell her. I’m the responsible one, the rule-follower. The one who color-coded the grocery list, who double-checked the tip at dinner, who carried an umbrella on a sunny day just in case. My life has always been defined by borders, neat lines I never crossed.

I’ve known Kennedy since college. Kennedy lives without borders. She’s messy, vivid, radiant. Her phone was always missing, her lipstick always smudged, her nights long and full of strangers she never felt the need to apologize for. Somehow, it’s always worked for her. She has a husband now, a garden overflowing with basil and kale, a dog that barks at everything, and a two-year-old

SHY GIRL 10

named Liam who laughs so hard his whole body shakes. She exists in sharp, bright colors.

Me? I exist in grayscale. I am thirty, alone, and unraveling quietly enough that no one’s noticed. Yet.

The bistro smells like roasted garlic and fresh bread. The windows are wide, the kind that let the whole street watch you eat, and the

MIA BALLARD 11

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, but vivid, 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 is light, casual. “What’s new, Gia?”

she says, the question landing heavy despite its ease.

SHY GIRL 12

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

MIA BALLARD 13

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.