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Bex Silva sent a payment to your Venmo.
Naomi: Bex! You can’t do that!
Bex: I can and I did. Order yourself a treat, Naomi.
Naomi: Fine, I’ll join you in a Thai food binge.
Bex: Call whenever, I’m just in the kitchen.
Nerves ball up in my chest. I shouldn’t be nervous to spend time with her, but there’s something about Bex’s sheer confidence that intimidates me a little.
My phone starts ringing before I can build up the courage to press call.
“Hey!” Bex chirps happily when I pick up.
“Hey,” I reply, grateful she can’t see my goofy smile.
“I could hear you staring at your phone, so I just called.” She smirks, setting her phone down so I can see her over the stovetop.
“Sorry.”
“No need to apologize,” she says, waiving my apology off. “Did you order your dinner?”
“Not yet.”
“Do that,” she commands.
“Yes, ma’am.”
She hums in appreciation. “I could get use to that.”
The playfulness in her tone makes me giggle, and I’m grateful for the reprieve from my terrible day.
There’s a comfortable silence between us as I place my dinner order, grab a glass of wine, and settle in on the couch to wait for my food.
“All done?” Bex asks as I set my phone in the holder.
“Yup. Says it will be here in 30 minutes,” I reply.
Everything goes silent, but it’s not quite comfortable like it was moments ago. This version of quiet is tense somehow, like neither of us knows what to do next.
“You okay? You sounded off earlier.”
“Just a rough day. My advisor is putting a lot of pressure on me to pick a topic for my dissertation, but he keeps shooting down everything I suggest.” I sigh, letting my head drop to the back of the couch so I’m staring at the popcorn ceiling of my living room.
“Want to talk about it?” she asks carefully.
“Not really? Maybe?” I sigh. “I just . . . I want to do something meaningful, but I don’t know what.”
“Tell me what’s going on,” she says, her voice soothing some of my nerves that have been fraying all day.
I met this woman three days ago. I shouldn’t feel this comfortable opening up to her about everything going on in my life, all of my anxieties and fears. Yet, our conversation flows so naturally, which makes this kind of vulnerability possible with her.
I talk for the full thirty-ish minutes it takes for my dinner to arrive, her only responses being small noises of encouragement, empathy, and agreement. By the time I’m opening up my front door to grab my food, I’m feeling lighter for having unloaded some of my stress.
“Sorry for dumping all that on you.” I sigh to Bex as I unpack the bag. “I know that was a lot of shit you probably don’t care about.”
“Not at all, sweetheart,” Bex coos. “It sounds like you needed this.”
