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I’ve decided to straighten my hair, and regret has already settled in my chest. The flat iron hums in my hand like a living thing, accusatory in its heat. Each strand of thick, curly hair protests the transformation, the pull of the iron against my scalp feeling tender, raw, as though my hair itself is fighting back. I force it into submission, strand by strand, the tulle-like stiffness of straightened hair falling too heavy against my neck, reminding me with every tug that I’ve made a mistake.

This was my first misstep, and it’s eating the time I’d carefully set aside to prepare. The seconds fall like tiny failures as I watch the clock tick toward inevitability. Each pass of the iron feels slower than the last, and already, I know—I’ll be late. Not by much, but enough to matter. Enough for him to notice. Enough for him to judge. I can picture his face: the subtle downturn of his mouth, the tightening of his jaw. The silent calculation that I’m careless, disorganized, not worth the effort.

My reflection glares back at me from the mirror, wide-eyed and frantic, my trembling hands betraying the tension coiling in my stomach. Maybe I should’ve asked Nathan to meet closer to where

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I live; picked a place I know, a place I wouldn’t have to rush to. But I didn’t. I wanted to seem agreeable, unbothered. Easy.

Now I’m paying for it with an hour-long drive to some café I’ve never heard of. It’s 11:15. I pause, running the numbers in my

head. An hour and forty-five minutes to get there. Subtract the parking. Subtract traffic. Subtract the inevitable eight minutes I’ve already lost trying to straighten one strand of my hair.

The countdown looms. Late. I will be late.

The last strand of hair falls flat against my shoulder, and I click the iron off with a finality that leaves the air buzzing in its absence. My pulse thrums in my ears as I head to my room, each second slipping away like sand. My outfit is simple: black jeans, a white fitted t-shirt. Neutral. Effortless. Not too much, not too little. I glance at the dress hanging in my closet, the one that makes me feel good; confident. A dress meant for dinner, not coffee. A dress for later, if this goes anywhere at all.

I tuck a piece of my newly flattened hair behind my ear, fingers moving on autopilot, and look at myself in the mirror for two seconds—long enough to check my appearance but not long enough to find something I don’t like. The clock reads 11:30. For a moment, relief flickers through me. I might still make it. But I know better than to trust moments like this.

I grab my bag and bolt. The doorframe catches my shoulder as I move too fast, my feet slapping against the pavement with the urgency of someone who’s already late in her mind. The sunlight outside is too bright, the kind of sharp that feels like punishment. And then—a metallic blur. A Buick. The blare of a horn shreds the air, sharp and hot, as I stumble out of its path. I don’t stop to apologize, don’t stop to look back. The car rolls past, its driver’s frustration hanging thick in the air. I keep moving.

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Somehow, I arrive downtown at 12:45. My feet carry me forward, automatic, toward the address Nathan gave me.

O’Malley’s is nothing like I imagined. Not the light, airy café I had pictured, but a pub, dark and polished, with the faint smell of fried food and spilled beer lingering in the air. I hesitate at the door, feeling the weight of the place pressing against my chest. It’s not right. This is not what I prepared for.

I slip inside anyway, scanning the room for a table in the back, somewhere quiet, somewhere I can disappear. The laughter spilling from the bar feels too loud, too much. All the back tables are taken so I opt for a table in the middle, pulling my phone from my bag. I scroll back through Nathan’s messages, the word coffee staring back at me like an accusation. He definitely said coffee. The word is there, clear and unambiguous.

I glance down at my outfit. Jeans, t-shirt, black loafers. All wrong for this space. If I’d known, I might’ve worn the dress. The one in my closet that clings in all the right places. Maybe a red lip, something to assert my presence, to say, I am here, and I am something.

But it’s too late for that now. The air feels heavy, the light too dim, and I sit there, waiting, pretending I don’t feel the sweat gathering at the back of my neck.

Here.

I type the message, hit send, and set the phone down on the table like it might bite me. My hands fold themselves neatly in my lap, a gesture meant to look calm, but my knees are bouncing under the table, my body already betraying me. Two seconds later, the restraint dissolves. I snatch the phone back up, thumb stabbing at the refresh icon like it owes me something.

The notification comes through faster than I expect, and his response is immediate:

What? Already? You’re incredibly early. Lol.

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The shame pools hot in my chest, sharp as a knife edge. My thumbs move again, this time careful, cautious:

I was anxious I’d be late haha. Sorry.

I refresh again, holding my breath until his next message appears, like a magician pulling a coin from behind my ear:

No worries. I was just hopping in the shower. I can be there in twenty minutes.

Relief washes over me, cold and fleeting, but I let it settle into my muscles for a moment. My shoulders loosen, my breath evens out.

I set the phone down, face up this time, and force myself not to pick it up again.

Exactly twenty-one minutes later, the door opens, and he walks in. He’s taller than I imagined, his salt-and-pepper hair catching the dim light, his face lined but sharp, the kind of handsome that comes with age and effort. His grey t-shirt and jeans are unassuming, understated, and somehow that makes me feel less self-conscious about my own outfit.

The black watch on his wrist stands out, sleek and practical, like it’s a part of him. I like men who wear their time like a badge, who carry it around on their bodies like they might lose it if they’re not careful.

I stand too quickly, the wooden chair scraping loudly against the floor, and his smile spreads wide across his face, easy but intentional. He hugs me strangely—three quick firm pats on the back—like I’m his buddy, like he’s congratulating me for winning a football game.

“Hi,”

I say, the word coming out smaller than I want it to, and as he pulls back and smiles at me I think, maybe this will be okay. Maybe.

He slides into the seat across from me, his arms spreading out along the back of the booth like he owns the place, like the table between us is his territory, and I’m just here visiting. His mouth is slightly open. His eyes settle on me, and I feel exposed under his

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gaze, like he’s collecting data, measuring me against something I can’t see.

“You are even more beautiful in person,”

he says, his voice low, tinged with surprise. “My God.”

The words hit me like a sudden gust of wind, unbalancing me before I’ve even had a chance to find my footing. My brain goes into its usual loop: Do I look that different from the pictures? Did I overdo it or underdo it? Is my hair okay? Should I have worn something else?

But I force the thoughts down, swallowing them like bitter medicine. Instead, I smile—a smile calibrated to look effortless. He doesn’t need to know how much effort it takes to seem effortless.

I cross my legs, my right ankle resting just above my left knee, the way I always do when I want to project calm, collected competence. His eyes are still on me, not judgmental, but assessing, like he’s trying to see past the mask I’ve so carefully constructed.

The space between us feels heavier than it should, the kind of weight that comes from too much thinking, too much planning. It’s not fear. It’s the constant awareness of all the ways this could go wrong. My fingers tighten around the edge of the table, and I tell myself to relax.

But I can’t. Even relaxing feels like something I need to get right, something to break down into actionable steps. Inhale. Exhale. Shoulders back. Smile steady. Speak carefully. Don’t say too much, don’t say too little.

“You really think so?”

I ask, my voice steady, but I know that there’s a slight edge to it. I don’t know how long it’s been since he last spoke but I say it anyway. I sound rehearsed, even to myself. He nods, leaning forward a bit, his eyes darkening with sincerity.

“Yeah,”

he says. “More beautiful than I expected.”

I feel a strange surge of discomfort, a rush of warmth, and I think—Why does this make me nervous? It’s not the compliment. No, it’s never about that. It’s the fact that he’s saying it, and suddenly,

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I’m overwhelmed by the pressure of making it all fit, like he will suddenly look at me and change his mind.

I shake my head slightly, just enough to release the tension in my neck. “I didn’t expect to meet at a place like this,”

I admit, my voice softening. “I thought we were meeting for coffee.”

He laughs, and it’s warm, easy, the exact kind of laugh that belongs to a middle-aged wealthy white man who’s never been

burdened by anything. “Yeah, well... I thought a pub would be more comfortable. Coffee's fine, but it’s kind of stiff, right?”

I smile, but it’s more of a twitch; an acknowledgment that a sudden change in venue was fine and hasn’t thrown me completely off. I glance at my phone, but not in the desperate, obsessive way I usually do. I’m only checking the time, trying to control it, trying to keep it in line with my mental schedule.

What should I say next?

I breathe out slowly and return my focus to him, to Nathan, to this moment. I wonder, fleetingly, if he knows how much work this takes. Being me.

I take a sip of water, the glass cool against my lips. “So,”

I start, my voice lower than I expect. “What are you looking for?”

I need to hear him say it. I need the words to make this real, to confirm that I’m not wasting my time. That I’ve made the right decision.

Nathan leans back in his chair, his arms crossing over his chest like he’s considering the weight of the question. The shift in his demeanor is subtle but tangible, the air between us tightening like a rubber band stretched too far. I’ve seen this before, the way people fold in on themselves when they’re caught off guard, when they’re forced into answers they’re not ready to give.

But I hold steady. I’ve spent too much time trying to make sense of this arrangement to back down now. This is what I signed up

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for. I take a slow breath, the taste of the pub’s faintly bitter air settling on my tongue. This is business, I remind myself. Nothing more.

“I mean, you’re here for a reason, right?”

My voice is steady, even, the words measured like they’ve been rehearsed. “I just... I want to know what to expect. How much will I get paid for...this?”

The word this hangs between us, awkward and unavoidable. It feels too blunt, but it’s out now, and I can’t take it back. I watch

him closely, studying the slight movements of his face. His lips tighten, the corners pulling in just enough to shift the balance of his expression. His fingers grip the edge of his glass, the subtle tension mirrored in his gaze.

“I—”

he starts, but his voice falters. His brows knit together as though he’s trying to piece together a response that won’t land wrong. “I wasn’t expecting you to just...ask like that.”

I blink, the confusion blooming in my chest. Why wouldn’t I ask? I think. Isn’t that what we’re doing here? Isn’t that the whole point?

But I don’t let the confusion reach my face. I press it down, forcing my voice to stay calm, measured. “I’m just trying to understand the dynamics,”

I say, the word dynamics feeling too clinical, too detached. “That’s what this is about, right? You want someone to...be with, and in return, I get money. It’s simple.”

The words fall flat like a bad joke, one that leaves a silence heavy enough to fill the room. He shifts in his seat, his discomfort clear, and for a moment, I feel it too—a flicker of guilt, sharp and intrusive. Not because I think I’ve said anything wrong, but because I can see it now, the subtle misalignment between what I’ve imagined and what he’s thinking.

“I don’t think you’re quite getting it,”

he says slowly, his voice quieter now. “This isn’t just about money. At least not for me.”

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The irritation flares in my chest, quick and hot. Of course it’s about money. That’s the whole reason I’m here. That’s the whole reason we’re even having this conversation. Isn’t it?

“But you’re offering to take care of someone like me,”

I reply, my voice careful but firmer now. “This is a sugar daddy arrangement. I’m here because I need support. I’ve been out of a job for five months, and my savings is gone.”

The admission sits between us, bare and uncomfortable. He doesn’t respond right away, and the pause feels like a knife in my chest, sharp and unyielding. I shift in my seat, crossing my arms over my chest, trying to shield myself from the weight of the

silence. “Are you not interested in the...financial part of this?”

I ask, though the question feels more like a plea now, my voice softer, more unsure.

His eyes stay locked on mine, steady and searching. “I’m not saying I’m not interested in helping you,”

he says finally, “But I don’t want this to be transactional. I want a connection. A real one.”

I blink, the meaning of his words sinking in like a weight dropped into water, rippling out in ways I can’t control. “Isn’t that what this is? Transactional?”

I say, quieter now, the edge of confusion creeping into my voice. “You help me. I help you. We’re both getting something out of it.”

He sighs, the sound low and heavy, and looks down at his drink. For a moment, I think he might not answer, but then he looks back up, his eyes softer now, almost apologetic. “I didn’t sign up for a business deal, if that’s what you’re asking. I want someone who’s here because they want to be here. Not just because they need the money.”

The words feel like a hand closing around my throat, squeezing tight enough to make breathing hard. What did I miss? What’s

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happening here? I thought I understood the terms, the dynamics. I thought I knew what this was supposed to be.

“I’m just...not sure what you mean,”

I say, my voice faltering, the faux confidence I walked in with unraveling thread by thread. “I signed up for this because I need money, Nathan. That’s all.”

His expression softens, but he doesn’t move, doesn’t reach out. “Okay,”

he says quietly.

The pause that follows is suffocating, the silence wrapping around us like a fog I can’t see through. I look at him, my mind racing, spinning with thoughts I can’t untangle. I want to say something, anything to bridge the gap that’s opened between us, but the words won’t come.

So instead, I sit there, the weight of his gaze pressing down on me, wondering if I’ve already ruined this before it even started.

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When I get home, the first thing I do is strip. Each piece of clothing is peeled away, a silent shedding of the day. The pants, the fitted white t-shirt, even the socks—all folded into perfect squares and stacked neatly in my drawer, their edges aligned like soldiers standing at attention. The order calms me, gives shape to a day that feels jagged and unfinished.

My phone is a weight I feel even without touching it, humming just beneath my skin. I want to grab it, to refresh the app, to see if Nathan’s name has materialized on the screen. But I stop myself. Not yet. I cling to my routine, anchoring myself in its precision.

I wash my face, the lather cool and foamy in my hands. My fingers move in exact circles—three on the left cheek, three on the right, two for the chin. The rinse is cold, biting, sharp enough to pull me back into my body. I brush my teeth next, counting each stroke in my head. Ten on the left. Ten on the right. Ten for the middle. My mind drifts, replaying fragments of the day, Nathan’s voice curling in the corners of my thoughts.

He was strange. Not in a way that made me uncomfortable, but in a way that made him impossible to pin down. I replay the conversation, dissecting each word, searching for the misstep. Why had he gone stiff when I mentioned the financial arrangement? Why had something so transactional, so agreed upon, suddenly felt fragile when spoken aloud?

It should be simple: he wanted companionship; I needed money. A clean exchange. But the balance felt slippery, like trying to hold water in my hands. Every time I thought I understood the terms, they shifted, leaving me uncertain; unsteady.

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I finish my routine and sit on the edge of my bed, the sheets taut beneath me. My phone waits on the nightstand, its dark screen reflecting back at me. I reach for it slowly, the way you might approach something that could bite.

The first thing I see is another text from my father.

I’m sorry, Gia. I’ve stopped drinking. Sober six months now. I want to be in your life again. Please let me try.

The words land heavy, familiar in their emptiness. I’ve read this script before, each line an echo of something I’ve heard too many times. My thumb hovers over the message, but I don’t respond. I swipe it away like an itch, ignoring the sting it leaves behind.

I open the app. The messages are waiting—new faces, new profiles, new men casting their nets with curated charm and carefully posed photos. None of them are Nathan.

I scroll until I find him, his name steady in the list. My fingers hesitate before tapping his profile, enlarging his picture. It’s the one of him at his desk, the one where he looks the most real. He’s leaning forward slightly, his gaze focused on something just out of frame. There’s a stillness in his face, a quietness that feels like a balm against the noise in my head.

I stare at the photo longer than I should, tracing the lines of his jaw, the faint crease at the corner of his mouth, the soft streaks of gray in his hair. My chest tightens, my breath shallow. He feels close and impossibly far away all at once.

Please message me back. The thought presses into my mind, fragile and sharp. I press the phone to my lips, the screen cool and unyielding, as though the gesture might conjure him.

And then the tears come. Quiet, soft, the way they always do. They aren’t violent, aren’t messy. They slide down my cheeks in measured lines, a slow release that feels more ritual than reaction. I’ve cried like this so many times it’s become muscle memory.

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I kiss his profile picture once, gently, the way you might kiss a relic or a talisman. The phone feels cold and hollow in my hands, but the act feels necessary, a final step before I let the day go.

I sink into bed, curling into myself, pulling the comforter tight around my body. The room is quiet, the air heavy with my unanswered questions. But I cling to the small, fragile hope that tomorrow, his message will come.