Page 75 of Shy Girls Can't Date Rockstars
I wave him off and lift the burger. I picture Dad sitting beside me, having ordered the craziest thing on the menu. The corners of my mouth curve upward ever so slightly, and then I take a bite.
And it’s good.
Really good.
With Dad beside me, humming to himself, I finally taste real ingredients and flavor.
Ryder watches me take another bite. “You’re actually eating.”
I swallow. “You told me to.”
“Yeah, but you’re doing it.” He picks up a fry. “Is it because it’s not fancy food?”
“What?”
“Mrs. Gallagher’s cooking. It’s all gourmet stuff, right? Maybe you’re not used to that.” He gestures at his burger. “I wasn’t. It took me a while to adjust when I moved in. All that rich food every night.”
I set the burger down carefully. “That’s not it.”
“No?”
“My parents were incredible chefs. They ran a catering business, and everything they made was...” I struggle for the right words. “It was art. Every meal was special.”
Ryder goes still, processing this.
“They taught me to appreciate real ingredients. To taste the difference between fresh herbs and dried, and to understand why certain flavors work together.” My throat tightens. “Food wasn’t just fuel. It was love.”
“And now?”
“Now good food just reminds me they’re gone.” The admission comes out quieter than I intended. “Every bite at Miranda’s tabletastes like everything I lost. Mrs. Gallagher’s cooking is amazing, but it just... it makes me remember.”
Ryder leans back, understanding settling over his features. “So you’re punishing yourself with junk food?”
“I’m not…”
“You eat chips and chug energy drinks. Skip meals. Barely touch dinner.” His voice isn’t judgmental, just observational. “Good food fuels your grief, so you avoid it.”
I grab another fry, defensive. “I guess it’s something my therapist will want to discuss in my mandatory shrink session.”
“You’re seeing someone?”
“Social services organized grief counseling.” I shrug as if it’s nothing. “Once a week until they decide I’m functional enough to stop.”
“Is it helping?”
“I learned the breathing thing. Four counts.” I take another bite of the burger to avoid his eyes. “That’s about it.”
Ryder doesn’t push. Just picks up his own burger and eats. I almost want to ask him how he knows about it. When I was having my panic attack in the library, he suggested it. But it's too close to the topic of therapy, and that's an area I do not want to discuss.
While the sun sets behind the mountains, I make it about a quarter of the way through before setting it down.
“Okay,” Ryder says, sliding the tablet across the table. “You can read now.”
I wipe my hands on a napkin and unlock the screen.
The essay loads, and I scan the first paragraph, expecting the worst.
But it’s... not bad.
