Chapter 8: The Video Call and the Empty Bed
The call had been scheduled for nine.
By nine-forty, Elliot had checked his phone eleven times. By ten, he'd stopped counting. The laptop sat open on his desk, the blue glow of the screen painting his face in ghost light. He'd cleaned his room—an act of optimism he now regretted. The boxes were stacked in the corner. The fairy lights were on. He'd even put on a clean shirt.
Maya had been gone for three weeks.
The first week, they'd talked every night. Long calls that stretched past midnight, her voice tinny through his speakers, her face pixelated but present. She'd told him about the internship—the field work, the data collection, the way the sun set over the wetlands like something out of a documentary. He'd told her about Adaeze's kitchen. About the book. About the way the house felt too quiet without her crashing through it.
The second week, the calls got shorter. Five minutes instead of thirty. Her replies to his texts came hours late. He told himself it was the time difference. The schedule. The exhaustion.
The third week, silence.
He'd sent her a meme on Tuesday. She'd hearted it but didn't respond. He'd sent a text on Wednesday asking how the research was going. She'd said "good" and nothing else. He'd called on Thursday. She hadn't picked up.
Now it was Friday. And she was finally calling back.
The screen flickered. Her face appeared.
She was somewhere loud. A bar, maybe. Or a party. The background was a blur of neon and shadow, bodies moving in and out of frame. Music thumped—bass heavy, indistinct. She was flushed. Her eyes were glassy.
"Hey!" she shouted over the noise. "Sorry I missed your call!"
"It's fine."
"What?"
"I said it's fine!"
She laughed at something someone off-screen said. Turned her head. Her attention drifted like a leaf in a current.
Elliot's jaw tightened.
"Where are you?" he asked.
"What?"
"Where are you?"
She looked back at the camera. Blinked.
"Some bar. My roommate's friend's birthday. I don't know." She shrugged. "It's loud."
"I can tell."
She took a drink of something. Her eyes wandered again.
"Maya."
"Yeah?"
"When are you coming back?"
The question hung there. Static between them.
She looked at him. Really looked. For the first time in weeks.
"I don't know," she said.
"What do you mean you don't know?"
"I mean—" She sighed. Ran a hand through her hair. "I've been thinking."
The words landed like a punch to the sternum.
"About what?"
"About us." She looked away. Looked back. "About what we are. About whether I'm—" She stopped. Started again. "I don't know if I'm ready for something real, Elliot."
The floor dropped out.
He felt it—the freefall, the vertigo, the way the room tilted. He gripped the edge of his desk.
"What?"
"I'm not saying—" She closed her eyes. Opened them. "I'm just saying I've been thinking. About what I want. About what I'm capable of."
"You're capable of everything."
"Don't do that."
"Do what?"
"Be nice." Her voice cracked. "Don't be nice right now."
He didn't understand. He didn't understand anything.
"Maya. I love you."
Silence.
The music kept playing. Someone laughed in the background. The world kept spinning.
She stared at him through the screen. Her face was unreadable. Her eyes were wet.
"I know," she said.
And hung up.
The screen went dark.
Elliot sat there. The laptop hummed. The fairy lights twinkled. The city traffic murmured outside his window like nothing had happened.
He didn't move.
The silence pressed in. Heavy. Suffocating. He could hear his own heartbeat—slow, deliberate, like a countdown.
He thought about calling her back. Thought about texting. Thought about driving to the airport and buying a ticket to wherever she was and finding her and making her explain.
He did none of those things.
He just sat there. In the dark. Staring at the blank screen.
The blank screen stared back.
He didn't know how long he stayed like that. Minutes. Hours. The light from the laptop faded. The fairy lights blurred. His phone buzzed once—a notification, not a call—and he didn't check it.
He thought about Daniel.
He thought about the voicemail. The one he'd never deleted. The one he still listened to sometimes when he couldn't sleep. Daniel's voice, tinny and distant, saying "Hey, man, call me back when you get this. I've got something to tell you."
He'd never called back.
He'd been busy. He'd been tired. He'd been writing a paper on Kierkegaard and he'd thought, I'll call him tomorrow.
Tomorrow never came.
And now—
A knock.
Sharp. Insistent. Three raps on his bedroom door.
He didn't answer.
Another knock.
"Elliot."
Adaeze.
"I know you're in there."
He stared at the door. Didn't move.
"I saw the light go off. And I heard you pacing earlier. And I—" She paused. "I'm coming in."
The door opened.
She stood in the doorway. Sweatpants. T-shirt. Hair loose around her shoulders. Her face was soft with concern.
"Hey," she said.
He didn't respond.
She stepped inside. Closed the door behind her. Looked at him—really looked—and something in her expression shifted.
"What happened?"
He opened his mouth. Closed it. The words wouldn't come.
She crossed the room. Knelt in front of him. Put her hand on his knee.
"Elliot. What happened?"
"She—" His voice cracked. He tried again. "She doesn't know if she's ready."
Adaeze's jaw tightened.
"She said she's been thinking. About us. About whether she wants something real."
"And what did you say?"
"I told her I loved her."
Adaeze waited.
"She said 'I know.' And hung up."
The silence stretched. Thick. Suffocating.
Adaeze's hand tightened on his knee.
"She's an idiot."
He laughed. It came out broken. Hollow.
"Yeah."
"No, I mean it. She's an idiot. And she's scared. And she's—" Adaeze stopped. Shook her head. "Fuck her."
"Adaeze—"
"No. Fuck her." She stood up. Started pacing. "You've been here. Every day. Waiting by your phone like a fucking puppy. And she—" She gestured at the laptop. "She goes to a bar and gets drunk and tells you she doesn't know?"
"It's not that simple."
"It is that simple." She stopped. Looked at him. "She's scared, Elliot. And scared people do stupid things. But that doesn't make it okay."
He stood up. His legs felt weak. His chest felt hollow.
"I don't know what to do."
Adaeze stepped closer. Close enough that he could smell her—lavender and soap and something underneath that was just warm.
"You don't have to do anything," she said. "You just have to feel it."
"I don't want to feel it."
"Too bad."
He looked at her. The soft curve of her jaw. The way her eyes held his—steady, unwavering.
"I need to feel something else," he said.
The words came out before he could stop them. Raw. Honest. Desperate.
She didn't flinch.
"Okay," she said.
"Adaeze—"
"I said okay."
She kissed him.
Not gentle. Not soft. Hard. The way he needed it.
He grabbed her waist. Pulled her against him. Her mouth opened under his. Her tongue found his. She tasted like coffee and something sweet.
He walked her backward. Her back hit the wall. The thud was satisfying—real—and he pressed into her, his body pinning hers.
"Elliot," she breathed.
He didn't answer. Just kissed her harder. His hands found the hem of her shirt. Pulled it up. She raised her arms and let him take it off.
Her skin was warm. Flushed. He cupped her breasts—full, heavy—and she arched into him.
"Fuck," she said.
He pulled off his own shirt. Tossed it. His hands went to her waist. Her sweatpants. He shoved them down. Her underwear too. She kicked them off.
She was naked. He was half-hard and aching.
"Wall," she said. "Now."
He lifted her. She wrapped her legs around his waist. Her cunt pressed against him—hot, wet, ready.
He fumbled with his jeans. Shoved them down. His cock sprang free.
"Condom," she said.
"Fuck."
"Nightstand."
He carried her to the bed. Dropped her. Grabbed the condom. Rolled it on.
She pulled him back. Her legs wrapped around him again. Her nails raked down his back.
"Now," she said. "Fuck me now."
He pushed inside.
She was tight. Wet. Hot. Her cunt gripped him like a fist.
"Fuck," he groaned.
"Harder."
He obeyed.
The bed slammed against the wall. The headboard rattled. She met him thrust for thrust—her hips rising, her nails digging into his shoulders.
"Harder," she said again.
He gave her everything. The anger. The grief. The silence. All of it.
She took it. Her teeth found his shoulder. Bit down. Hard enough to bruise.
He didn't care.
"Fuck," he said. "Fuck. Fuck."
She was moaning now. Loud. Unashamed. Her hand snaked between them. Found her clit. Rubbed.
"Come for me," he said.
"Shut up."
"Come for me, Adaeze."
"Fuck—"
She came. Her body convulsing. Her cunt milking him.
He followed. One final thrust. Deep. His orgasm tearing through him—raw, furious, broken.
He buried his face in her neck.
Didn't cry.
Just breathed.
She held him. Her arms wrapped around his back. Her legs still around his waist. Her breath warm against his ear.
"She's an idiot," she whispered.
He didn't answer.
They stayed like that. Tangled. Sweaty. The weight of everything pressing down.
Eventually, he pulled out. Rolled onto his back. Stared at the ceiling.
She turned on her side. Looked at him.
"You okay?"
"No."
She nodded. Didn't push.
The fairy lights twinkled above them. The city hummed outside.
He didn't count the hours.
He just lay there. In the dark. With her.
And when sleep finally came, it came like a mercy.
The mattress dipped where she'd been.
Elliot woke to the smell of coffee and the sound of the shower running. His body ached—shoulders, back, the place on his neck where Adaeze had bit him. He touched it. Felt the raised skin. A bruise forming.
He stared at the ceiling. The fairy lights were off. The sun was up.
The laptop was still open on his desk. The screen was black.
He didn't look at it. Didn't think about the call. Didn't think about Maya's face when she said "I know" and hung up like it was nothing.
Instead, he thought about Adaeze. The way she'd held him after. The way she'd said "she's an idiot" like it was a fact and not a comfort. The way her nails had raked down his back, leaving marks he could still feel.
The shower stopped. A minute later, the bathroom door opened.
Adaeze appeared in his doorway. Towel wrapped around her body. Hair dripping down her shoulders. She looked at him—no awkwardness, no regret.
"You're up," she said.
"Yeah."
"Coffee's made."
"I can smell it."
She didn't move. Just stood there. Water dripping onto the floor.
"You okay?" she asked.
He thought about it. The question deserved honesty.
"I don't know."
She nodded. Like that was an acceptable answer.
"Come eat something."
She disappeared down the hall.
He got up. Pulled on sweats. Followed her.
The kitchen was different now. Finished, mostly. The cabinets were hung—the ones they'd saved, sanded down, stained a warm honey color. The walls were painted. A new counter sat where the old one had been.
Adaeze was at the stove. Eggs. Toast. She'd put on clothes—shorts, a tank top, hair still wet.
She didn't look at him when he sat down.
"Adaeze."
"Don't."
"Don't what?"
"Don't make it weird." She flipped the eggs. "It's not weird."
He watched her. The way she moved. Calm. Steady. Like nothing had changed.
"It doesn't have to mean anything," she said. "Last night. It can just be—"
"Stop."
She turned. Looked at him.
"It meant something," he said.
She didn't answer. Just set the plate in front of him. Sat down across the table with her own.
They ate in silence.
The eggs were good. Scrambled with cheese. The toast was burnt on one side. He ate it anyway.
"You want to talk about it?" she asked.
"No."
"Okay."
She didn't push. Just ate. Drank her coffee. Read something on her phone.
He watched her. The way the morning light caught her face. The way she didn't fill the silence with words. The way she just let him be.
"I don't know what I'm doing," he said.
She looked up.
"With my life. With Maya. With—" He gestured vaguely. "This."
"This?" Whatever we are."
She set down her phone. Folded her hands.
"We're two people who fucked," she said. "That's what we are."
"It's not that simple."
"It can be."
He shook his head.
"You're the one who said it," she said. "Last night. You said you needed to feel something else."
"I did."
"And?"
He thought about it. The way her body had felt against his. The way she'd held him after. The way he'd slept through the night without dreaming.
"I felt something," he said.
"Good."
"But I don't know what it was."
She nodded. Slow. Like she understood.
"Then don't name it," she said. "Just let it be."
She stood up. Took her plate to the sink. Washed it.
He watched her back. The curve of her spine. The way her shoulders moved.
"Adaeze."
"Yeah."
"I'm not using you."
She turned. Looked at him.
"I know."
"You're sure?"
"I'm sure." She dried her hands. "I've been used before. This isn't that."
"What is it, then?"
She walked over. Stood behind his chair. Put her hands on his shoulders.
"It's whatever we need it to be," she said. "Right now. In this moment."
He reached up. Covered her hand with his.
"Okay."
She kissed the top of his head. Then walked away.
"I'm going to work on the trim," she said. "You want to help?"
He looked at his laptop. Still on the desk. Still dark.
"Yeah," he said. "Let me get dressed."
The trim took all morning. They worked side by side—measuring, cutting, nailing. The rhythm of it was soothing. Mindless. He didn't think about Maya. Didn't think about the call.
He thought about the way Adaeze hummed while she worked. The way she stuck her tongue out when she was concentrating. The way she said "pass me the hammer" like they'd been doing this for years.
At noon, she made sandwiches. They ate on the back porch. The sun was warm. A breeze rustled through the trees.
"You know," she said, "I used to think I'd never be happy again."
He looked at her.
"After the divorce. After everything." She bit into her sandwich. "I thought that was it. That I'd had my shot and I blew it."
"What changed?"
She chewed. Swallowed.
"I don't know. Time, I guess. Or maybe just—" She shrugged. "Fake it till you make it."
He laughed.
"What?"
"Nothing. Just—you're the only person I know who'd give me that answer."
She smiled. "What did you expect?"
"I don't know. Something profound."
"I'm not profound. I'm practical."
"That's better."
She tossed a crust at him. He caught it. Ate it.
They sat in the silence. The comfortable kind.
"You're different," she said.
"Different how?"
"I don't know. Lighter. Like you're not carrying something anymore."
He thought about that. The weight he'd been carrying. The grief. The fear. The endless spiral.
"I think I'm letting go," he said.
"Of what?"
"Maya. Daniel. The idea that I need to have everything figured out."
She nodded. Didn't say anything.
"You're not going to tell me it's about time?" he asked.
"No."
"Why not?"
She looked at him. "Because it's not about time. It's about you. When you're ready, you're ready. No one else gets to decide that."
He looked at her. Really looked. The way the sunlight caught her eyes. The way she held his gaze without flinching.
"I think I'm ready," he said.
"For what?"
He didn't answer. Just leaned over. Kissed her.
She kissed him back. Soft. Slow. Nothing like last night.
When they pulled apart, she was smiling.
"Okay," she said.
"Okay."
She stood up. Held out her hand.
"Come on," she said. "We've got trim to finish."
He took her hand. Followed her inside.
They worked until the light faded. The trim went up. The kitchen looked almost finished.
He didn't count the hours.
He just lived them.
That night, they ordered pizza. Ate it in the living room. Watched something stupid on TV.
She fell asleep on his shoulder.
He didn't move. Just held her. Felt her breathe. Listened to the quiet of the house.
His phone buzzed on the coffee table. A text from Maya.
"Can we talk?"
He looked at it. The words. The name.
He didn't feel anything.
Not anger. Not sadness. Not even relief.
Just—nothing.
He turned the phone face down. Didn't respond.
Adaeze stirred. Mumbled something. Her hand tightened on his.
He kissed her hair. Closed his eyes.
For the first time in months, he slept without dreaming.
The next morning, he woke alone.
Adaeze was gone. But her coffee mug was in the sink. Her sweatshirt was draped over the chair. Her smell was on his pillow.
He smiled.
He got up. Made coffee. Opened his laptop.
The document was still there. Waiting.
He started typing.
Not about Maya. Not about the call. Not about the silence.
About Adaeze. About the way she said "okay" like it was the most important word in the world. About the way she held him without asking for anything in return. About the way she made him feel like he was already whole.
He wrote until the words ran out.
And when he finally stopped, he realized something.
He hadn't thought about Maya all day.
Not once.
The realization didn't hurt. Didn't shock him. It just was.
He saved the document. Closed the laptop.
Adaeze came home at noon. Groceries in her arms. Hair windblown. Face flushed.
"Hey," she said.
"Hey."
She set the bags on the counter. Looked at him.
"You look different."
"I feel different."
She tilted her head. "Good different?"
"Good different."
She smiled. Walked over. Kissed him.
"What do you want to do today?" she asked.
He thought about it. The whole day stretched ahead. Empty. Full.
"I don't know," he said. "What do you want to do?"
She shrugged. "I don't know."
They stood there. The kitchen bright around them. The possibilities endless.
"Let's just be here," he said.
She nodded. "Okay."
And that was enough.
That was everything.
Adaeze moved first.
She pulled back from the kiss and looked at him—really looked, the way she did when she was measuring something in her head. Her thumb traced his jaw. Her eyes flicked over his face like she was reading a page.
"You're still thinking about her," she said.
"No."
"Liar."
"I'm not." He caught her wrist. Held it. "I'm thinking about you."
"Mmm." She didn't believe him. That was fine. He wasn't sure he believed himself.
She stepped away. Grabbed the grocery bags off the counter. Started unpacking—milk, eggs, a bag of apples, a carton of yogurt that looked like it had been on sale.
"You want breakfast?" she asked over her shoulder.
"Already ate."
"Eat again."
He watched her move. The economy of it—the way she opened cabinets without looking, the way she set things down in exact places. She'd been here three weeks and already knew the kitchen better than he did.
"Adaeze."
"Hm."
"Last night."
She stopped. Hand on the fridge door. Didn't turn around.
"I told you," she said. "It doesn't have to mean anything."
"I know what you told me."
She turned. Looked at him. Her face was carefully blank.
"What do you want me to say, Elliot?"
"I don't want you to say anything. I want you to listen."
She closed the fridge. Crossed her arms. Waited.
He didn't know how to say it. The words were there—jumbled, half-formed—but they wouldn't arrange themselves into something coherent. He thought about Maya. About the call. About the way she'd said "I know" like it was a period at the end of a sentence he hadn't finished writing.
He thought about Adaeze. About her hand on his knee. About the way she'd held him after.
"I don't know what I'm doing," he said. "With her. With you. With any of it."
"I know."
"That doesn't bother you?"
She shrugged. "Should it?"
"Most people would be bothered."
"I'm not most people."
He laughed. It came out rough. Unfinished.
"No," he said. "You're not."
She uncrossed her arms. Walked over. Stood in front of him.
"You're waiting for her to decide something," she said. "Whether she wants you or not. Whether she's ready or not. Whether you're worth the risk or not."
He didn't answer.
"But that's not how this works. You don't get to sit around waiting for someone else to tell you what you're worth."
"I know."
"Do you?"
He looked at her. The sharpness in her eyes. The patience underneath it.
"I'm learning," he said.
She nodded. Slow. Like that was enough.
"Good."
She kissed him. Quick. On the mouth. Then walked back to the groceries.
They spent the morning in the kitchen. Adaeze made a list of things they still needed to do—touch up the paint, install the backsplash, fix the drawer that stuck. Elliot wrote it all down. His handwriting was messy. Hers was worse.
At noon, they drove to the hardware store.
The place was bright and vast and smelled like lumber and fertilizer. Adaeze pushed the cart. Elliot followed. They argued about tile samples for twenty minutes.
"The white is too sterile," she said.
"The blue is too much."
"It's not too much. It's a statement."
"It's a kitchen. Not a statement."
She threw a tile at him. He caught it. Put it back on the shelf.
They bought the blue.
On the way home, she turned up the radio. Some old song—funk, heavy bass. She drummed on the steering wheel. Sang off-key.
He watched her. The way the sunlight caught her profile. The way she didn't care that she sounded terrible.
"You're staring," she said.
"You're singing."
"I'm always singing."
"I know."
She glanced at him. Something passed between them—small, private, unnamed.
She reached over. Put her hand on his thigh.
He covered it with his own.
They didn't talk about it. Didn't name it. Just drove.
Back at the house, they laid the tile. The work was slow—measuring, cutting, spreading adhesive. His knees ached. His back cramped. He didn't care.
Adaeze talked while they worked. About her ex. About the divorce. About the way she'd cried in her car for an hour after signing the papers.
"I thought I was broken," she said. "For a long time."
Elliot set a tile into place. Pressed it down.
"What changed?"
"I got tired of being broken." She shrugged. "One day I just—woke up. And I realized I could either spend the rest of my life mourning something that was already dead, or I could build something new."
"Is that what this is?" He gestured at the kitchen. "Something new?"
"It's a start."
He thought about that. The kitchen. The book. The way he'd woken up that morning without the weight in his chest.
"I think I've been mourning something that wasn't dead," he said.
She looked at him.
"Me," he said. "My life. The person I used to be. I've been treating myself like a ghost."
She didn't say anything. Just waited.
"But I'm not dead," he said. "I'm still here."
"You are."
"I don't want to be a ghost anymore."
She set down her trowel. Wiped her hands on her jeans. Crawled over to him—knees on the drop cloth, face close to his.
"Then don't be," she said.
She kissed him. Slow. Deep. Her hands cupped his face like he was something precious.
He kissed her back. Pulled her closer. She climbed into his lap. Her legs wrapped around his waist.
"Adaeze."
"Yeah."
"I want you."
"I know."
She reached between them. Unbuttoned his jeans. Pulled him out—already hard, already aching.
She stroked him. Slow. Deliberate. Her thumb swiped over the head.
"Fuck," he breathed.
"You like that?"
"You know I do."
She smiled. Slipped off her own shorts. Her underwear. She was wet—he could feel it—and when she lowered herself onto him, they both groaned.
She rode him. Slow at first. Then faster. Her hands on his shoulders. Her breath hot against his ear.
"Fuck me," she said. "Fuck me harder."
He gripped her hips. Thrust up into her. The angle was wrong—the position awkward—but neither of them cared.
She bit his shoulder. Hard. He felt the skin break. Didn't care.
"Come inside me," she said.
"I can't—"
"I'm on the pill. Come inside me."
He thrust once more. Twice. Then he was coming—his orgasm ripping through him—and she followed, her body clenching around his.
They stayed there. Tangled. Sweaty. The tile adhesive drying on the floor beside them.
"That was—" he started.
"Yeah," she said. "It was."
She climbed off him. Lay down on the drop cloth. Stared at the ceiling.
He lay beside her. Their shoulders touched.
"I don't know what we're doing," he said.
"Neither do I."
"You're okay with that?"
She turned her head. Looked at him.
"I'm okay with right now," she said. "I'm okay with this. Whatever this is."
He thought about Maya. About the voicemail. About the way he'd waited by his phone like a dog.
He didn't want to be that person anymore.
"Okay," he said.
She smiled. Closed her eyes.
They stayed on the floor until the light changed. Then they got up. Finished the tile. Ordered Thai food.
Ate on the back porch. Watched the sun go down.
"I think I want to finish the book," he said.
"What book?"
"The one I've been writing. The one about Daniel." He paused. "The one about me."
She nodded. "Good."
"You'll read it? When it's done?"
"If you want me to."
"I want you to."
She reached over. Squeezed his hand.
"Okay."
They sat there. The night settling around them. The stars coming out one by one.
He didn't count the hours.
He just lived them.
And when he went to bed that night—alone, because Adaeze said she needed her own space, needed to think—he didn't feel lonely.
He felt full.
The next morning, he woke early.
Made coffee. Opened his laptop.
The document was there. Waiting.
He started typing.
Not about Maya. Not about the call. Not about the silence.
About Daniel. About the voicemail. About the way he'd never called back.
About Adaeze. About her blue tile and her putty knife and her hand on his knee.
About himself. About the ghost he used to be. About the person he was becoming.
He wrote until the words ran out.
And when he finally stopped, he realized something.
He hadn't thought about Maya all day.
Not once.
Not until now.
And when the thought came, it didn't hurt.
It just was.
A fact. A memory. A part of him that would always be there.
He saved the document. Closed the laptop.
Adaeze knocked on his door. Two raps. Sharp.
"Yeah."
She opened it. Poked her head in.
"You okay?"
"Yeah." He stood up. Stretched. "I'm okay."
She looked at him. Really looked.
"Yeah," she said. "You are."
She stepped inside. Closed the door behind her.
"Come here," she said.
He went.
She kissed him. Soft. Slow.
"What was that for?" he asked.
"Nothing." She smiled. "Just because."
She took his hand. Led him to the kitchen.
The day stretched ahead. Empty. Full.
He didn't count the hours.
He just lived them.