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I haven’t been called shy since I was a kid.
Zahra: That’s all right. Maybe one day.
Me: Are you this hopeful about everything?
Zahra: Sure. Why not?
Me: Because life isn’t always rainbows and sunshine.
Zahra: Of course not. But how can we appreciate the sun every morning if we don’t live through the dark?
What kind of drugs does she take?
My phone buzzes again as if the silence scares her.
Zahra: What’s your name? You know, so I can put a name to a face.
I’m experiencing my personal hell. Turns out Zahra is a back-to-back serial texter.
Me: Except you don’t have a face.
Good job stating the obvious. My poor attempt at a joke falls flat, and I’m reminded yet again why I don’t bother with them to begin with.
Zahra: Duh. But for now, I’ll just picture you as a young James Dean.
James fucking Dean? What kind of old-school shit does Zahra watch? James Dean was someone my grandpa used to talk about.
My fingers fly across the screen before I consider the repercussions of having a conversation that has nothing to do with work.
Me: I’m sorry. How old are you?
Zahra: HAHA.
I’m filled with some kind of warmth at the idea of making her laugh. I frown at the sensation.
Zahra: To be fair, my parents are into retro and iconic American things. It was their dream to move here when they were kids, so I’m afraid James Dean is only the tip of the iceberg. Don’t get me started on my love for vintage clothing stores and Elvis Presley.
That’s something I can relate to. My grandpa was the same way about American pop culture. He was always obsessed since he immigrated here from Ireland with nothing but a single suitcase and a dream to draw.
My chest pinches and I shove the memory out of my mind.
Zahra: I even taught myself to play the ukulele to impress my parents.
Zahra: I’m quite terrible though, much to my dad’s disappointment.
I come to the realization I’m entrusting my livelihood in the hands of someone who happens to be the most bizarre person I’ve ever met. Zahra is a risk as much as she’s an investment. Like putting a million dollars into pe
Zahra: …so do you plan on telling me your name now or do you want me to guess?
Zahra: I can pull up a baby-naming website and get cracking. We can even make it into a game.
God, no. Who knows what kind of messages I would open myself up to?
Me: You can call me Scott.
Scott? What the fuck are you doing?
I exit the conversation before I have a chance to say anything else. That was enough crazy for me. I’m not the kind of person who does something as spontaneous and asinine as creating an alter ego to speak to someone. Talk about pathetic.
But that’s all you’ve ever been. A disappointment who doesn’t deserve the Kane name in the first place.
I roll over and shove a pillow over my ear as if that can erase the voice from my past.
It’s been years. You’re not that same rejected kid anymore.
But no matter how many times I tell myself that, nothing is good enough in my eyes. Every time I accomplish a difficult task, I’m already searching for the next obstacle to overcome. To show my father and anyone who doubted me that I turned my weaknesses into strengths.
Shy? I choose my words wisely, turning them into a feared weapon.
Weak? I let thousands of useless employees go to improve our bottom line.
Pathetic? I built my own reputation in the corporate world that has nothing to do with my last name. It might not be a pretty one but it’s exclusively mine, and nothing my father says or does can take that away from me.
I’m not a disappointment anymore. Not today and certainly not ever again.
There’s only one loose end getting in my way of ensuring my time at Dreamland is smooth and scandal-free. And I plan on keeping a close eye on her.
I check my messages in the morning. I expected maybe one or two messages from Zahra but she surprised me again with a total of five.
Zahra: Scott. Okay. A bit basic but I like it.
The next text was sent ten minutes after the previous one.
Zahra: I see I might have scared you off. It’s okay. My mom taught me if you put food out for stray cats, they’ll keep coming back.
Zahra: Not that I think you’re a stray cat!
She includes a facepalm emoji next.
Zahra: Anyway, I pretty much solidified how weird I am and why I fail at online dating apps! So I don’t blame you for ru I find her embarrassment strangely entertaining. Her last message came in fourteen minutes after the other one. It’s like she wanted to end everything on a positive note because she’s a damn ray of sunshine ruining my perfectly dreary day. Zahra: Have a nice life! I consider my situation. The easy option would be to ignore all her messages and label her as the strangest person I’ve ever contacted. She’s disgustingly friendly and trusting with someone she’s never even met before. Who are you to call her strange? You count ten words or fewer as a successful conversation. Only because I’m the guy who prefers to stand in the shadows, letting my work speak for itself. My curiosity about Zahra’s hidden side wins over my sensible rationale. I type up a response before I back out and do something worthy of my time. Me: Do you always talk to yourself? The bubbles appear and disappear twice before a new message pops up on my phone. Not that I was waiting around and staring at my phone or anything. Zahra: Well, let’s pretend none of THAT happened. Okay? Okay. For the first time in a long time, a smile spreads across my face before I have an opportunity to kill it.