I let out a sigh and try to calm my nerves. It’s just a normal conversation. I write back to him: “I’m fine. I just woke and am getting ready for work. How about you?”

        I frown, is his shop actually popular? I can’t imagine people buying those potions when they could just go to a pharmacy and get medicine that promises to do the exact same thing. I don’t type that out though, instead I message him: “Being busy is better than sitting around and doing nothing though, right?”

        He replies quickly with, “Lol, you sound like one of my friends. He’s always berating me for being lazy.”

        I bite my lip. How do I respond to that?

        “Nothing interesting. I had two for sleeping, a few for arthritis, and one for eyesight.” He replies.

        He adds on in another text, “I also had a tarot reading that ended badly.”

        How does a card reading go badly? I can’t resist the urge to ask and find out more, “Did you predict someone’s death?”

        “No! Lol, I had a pregnant woman.” I frown, but more texts come in explaining the situation.

        “She wanted to know the future of the baby”

        “Which is stupid because I can’t read someone who doesn’t technically exist yet.”

        “And when I told her as much she got mad.”

“Oh, sounds frustrating.” I text back. I hope he didn’t actually tell an expecting mother that she’s stupid though. That would be really bad customer service. I try to console him anyway. “If it makes you feel better I’ll probably have a relatively boring night.”

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“Isn’t that a good thing though in your line of work?” I can picture his teasing smile as he writes that and I find myself smiling in return. He’s not wrong though, the less work I have means the less murders and deaths there are.

“I guess…”

“But it’s still boring.”

        If I was working the ER I’d be hopping all over the place. Emergency rooms are always busy no matter the time of day. I remember when I was a little kid my dad worked as an ER doctor. He was always getting called into the hospital in the middle of the night. Some nights he’d even just spend the night there. My mom would constantly get into arguments with him about it. She always demanded that he switch to a less demanding position, but he always fought back by saying that the hospital needed him. I think the job just helped fuel his ego and that’s why he stayed on it for so long.

        The little ping my phone gives out draws my attention back to the present. I read Ray’s text and my stomach does a little flip. No, no, no. I’m definitely not ready to be going out again.

“It’d be better if it was one of my days off.” I tell him in an attempt to push back the date just a little.

I wouldn’t mind hanging out with Ray again, just not so soon. I need to time to recover and time to get used to the idea of hanging out with him. And besides it really would be better to go out on a day off. It’d been exhausting going out right after one of my shifts. I’d barely been able to form a coherent thought.

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        “Oh, you’re right sorry!” He messages me back. “I’m being pushy again.” An image of him from this afternoon pops into my mind of him apologizing for supposedly making me uncomfortable. “Just text me whenever you want to go out again.” He also adds on, “It doesn’t have to be eating or anything like that either. We can do whatever you want!”

I breathe out a sigh of relief. I like this side of Ray. He’s very considerate and always tries to respect my boundaries. Going out with him really wouldn’t be that bad, except… Subconsciously though my fingers begin to trace along one of my scars. I wonder how he feels about transgender people. Will he still like me if I tell him the truth? A minute has ticked by with me lost in thought before I suddenly realize that I haven’t replied to him yet.

“Thank you. I’ll text you when I have time to hang out again.” I quickly type out and mash the send button. I breathe out a sigh of relief, feeling like I’ve just overcome a great obstacle, but then silently berate myself. It was just texting. It barely even counts as a real conversation.

I look around at my apartment. I live like a hermit. I know I should really talk to someone about my anxiety, see a therapist or counselor, but the idea makes my stomach do flips. I’ve had too many bad experiences with doctors. I stare down at my phone again and before my brain can give me a million reasons why I shouldn’t I text Ray again I type out one more message:

I find myself grinning at Ray’s earnestness. It really wouldn’t be so bad being friends with him. My smile fades though after a second when I realize what I’ve done. I just told him we could hang out and he said we could do whatever I wanted this time, but I have no idea what we