Chapter 9: The Bathroom Mirror Session
The bathroom was small. Too small, really—the kind of apartment afterthought where the sink was basically in the shower and the toilet paper got damp if you didn't close the lid. But the water was hot and the pressure was decent, and right now that was all that mattered.
Adaeze reached past him. Turned the knob. Steam started curling up almost immediately, fogging the mirror, softening the edges of everything.
"Get in," she said.
He didn't need to be told twice.
They stripped each other down—not fast, not frantic. Slow hands. His fingers found the hem of her shirt, pulled it up and over her head. She stood there in a plain cotton bra, no pretense, and he kissed the curve of her shoulder while he unhooked the clasp.
She got his belt undone. His jeans. They pooled around his ankles and he kicked them away.
"This is very romantic," he said.
"Shut up."
She stepped out of her underwear. He did the same. Then they were both naked in the flickering fluorescent light, and she was looking at him like she was seeing him for the first time.
"What?" he asked.
"Nothing. Just—" She shook her head. "Get in."
The shower was barely big enough for two people. They made it work.
The water hit his back, hot enough to sting. He hissed. She laughed.
"Baby," she said.
"I'm not a baby."
"You're a baby."
She reached around him. Grabbed the bar of soap. Worked up a lather in her hands.
"Hold still," she said.
He held still.
She started at his chest. Slow circles, her palms flat against his skin. The soap was cheap—something from the grocery store, vaguely floral—but it smelled like her now. He'd never smell it the same way again.
Her hands moved lower. Over his stomach. Across his hips.
"You're tense," she said.
"I'm fine."
"Liar."
She wrapped her fingers around his cock.
He sucked in a breath.
"See?" she said. "Tense."
She stroked him. Slow. Deliberate. Her thumb swiped over the head and he felt his knees buckle.
"Adaeze."
"Yeah."
"Fuck."
She smiled. Kept stroking. Long pulls from root to tip, her grip tight enough to make him see stars. The water ran down his chest, his back, his legs. Steam filled the small space like smoke.
"That feel good?" she asked.
"You know it does."
"Say it."
"It feels good."
"Say it better."
He grabbed her wrist. Stopped her. Pulled her closer.
"It feels like you're trying to kill me," he said.
She laughed. Soft. Real.
"Not yet," she said.
She turned around.
Just like that—spun in the tight space, her back to him, her ass pressed against his cock. The contact made him twitch. She reached back with one hand and spread her cheeks, just enough to let him feel the heat of her.
"Fuck," he said again.
"Touch me."
He reached around. Found her cunt with his fingers. She was wet—slick and hot and not just from the shower. He slid one finger inside her and she moaned.
"More."
He added another. Curled them up. She gasped and braced her hands against the wet tile.
"There," she said. "Right there."
He worked her from behind. Slow at first. Then faster. His thumb found her clit and she jerked.
"Elliot."
"Yeah."
"Now."
He pulled his fingers out. She made a sound—frustrated, needy. He didn't make her wait.
He lined himself up. Pushed in.
She was tight. Hot. Wet with water and want. He sank into her inch by inch, slow enough to feel every part of her, and she let out a long, shaky breath.
"Good," she said. "That's good."
"Tell me when."
"Go."
He moved.
The angle was awkward at first—too short, too close, the shower walls pressing in. But then she leaned forward, hands flat on the tile, and the angle changed. He could go deeper. Fuck her properly.
The water pounded against his shoulders. The mirror was completely fogged now, a white blank, but they could still see themselves in the reflection. Shadows. Outlines. The shape of her bent forward, the shape of him behind her.
She wiped a streak across the glass with her palm.
Now he could see her face.
She was staring at him. Watching. Her mouth open, her eyes dark.
"Don't stop," she said.
"I wasn't going to."
He fucked her slow. Deliberate. Every thrust deliberate. He wanted to feel her—really feel her—not just the fast, angry thing from that first night. This was different. Slower. Deeper.
She moaned. Loud. The sound bounced off the tile, filled the small room.
"That's it," she said. "Just like that."
He braced one hand on the wall next to hers. With the other, he reached around. Found her clit.
She jerked.
"Fuck—"
He rubbed tight circles while he thrust. Watched her face in the mirror. Watched her eyes roll back. Watched her mouth go slack.
"Come on," he said. "Come for me."
"Don't tell me—"
"Adaeze."
She clenched around him. Hard. Her whole body shuddered and she made a sound—not loud, not quiet, something in between—and he felt her come undone.
Her legs nearly gave out.
He caught her. Arm around her waist. Holding her up while she rode it out.
"I've got you," he said.
She panted. Nodded. Didn't speak.
He kept going. Slower now. Gentle. Every thrust a small mercy. The water had started to cool but he didn't care. Didn't care about anything except the feel of her, the tightness of her, the way she was still trembling.
"I'm close," he said.
"Come inside me."
He buried his face in her shoulder. Bit down on wet skin.
His orgasm hit hard. Ripping through him. He grunted her name against her shoulder—"Adaeze"—and she reached back, grabbed his thigh, held him there while he emptied himself inside her.
They stayed like that.
The water went cold.
Neither of them moved.
Finally, she laughed. Breathless. Unbelieving.
"Okay," she said. "Okay."
He pulled out. Stepped back. The cold water hit his chest and he shuddered.
"Cold," he said.
"Yeah."
She turned off the tap. The silence after was deafening.
They stumbled out. Grabbed towels from the rack—clean ones, he'd actually done laundry, tiny miracle. She wrapped herself up. He did the same.
They didn't speak. Just walked to his bed and collapsed.
Still damp. Still tangled. The sheets would be wet. He didn't care.
She curled into him. Her hair was dripping on his chest. Her leg slid over his.
"Best weekend ever," she murmured.
He kissed her forehead.
"We're just getting started."
She smiled against his skin.
Outside, the city hummed. Inside, the fairy lights twinkled. The room smelled like soap and steam.
He closed his eyes.
Didn't dream.
Didn't dream.
He woke to gray light and the smell of stale coffee. The sheets were tangled around his legs. His mouth tasted like something had died in it.
Adaeze was gone.
He reached for his phone. Eleven a.m. Three missed texts from his roommate about a frisbee scrimmage. One from his mom asking if he was eating. And one from Maya.
"Can we talk?"
Sent at 2:47 a.m.
He stared at it. The words didn't move. Didn't change. Just sat there on the screen, waiting for him to do something.
He didn't.
He set the phone face-down on the nightstand. Swung his legs out of bed. The floor was cold.
The shower from last night had left a ring of water around the drain. Towels on the floor. His jeans crumpled in a corner. The whole room smelled like sex and sleep and the floral soap from the grocery store.
He pulled on sweats. A t-shirt that might have been clean. Padded to the kitchen.
Adaeze was at the stove.
She'd showered again—her hair was damp, pulled back. She wore one of his flannels, sleeves rolled up. She was making eggs.
"Morning," she said without turning around.
"Hey."
"Coffee's made."
He poured a cup. Leaned against the counter. Watched her cook.
"You're up early," he said.
"It's almost noon."
"Still."
She shrugged. Pushed the eggs around the pan. They sizzled.
"You sleep okay?" she asked.
"Yeah. Actually."
"Good."
She didn't ask about Maya. Didn't look at his phone. Just cracked another egg into the pan.
He drank his coffee. Black. Too hot.
"Adaeze."
"Hm."
"Last night."
She turned. Looked at him. Her face was neutral.
"What about it?"
"I don't know. I just—"
"You don't have to explain anything."
"I know. I just want to."
She waited.
He set down his mug. Ran a hand through his hair.
"I'm not good at this," he said.
"At what?"
"Any of it. Relationships. Feelings. Being a person."
She snorted. Turned back to the eggs.
"You're fine," she said.
"I'm not."
"You are." She moved the eggs to a plate. "You're just scared."
"I'm not scared."
She raised an eyebrow.
"Okay," he said. "I'm scared."
She set the plate in front of him. Two forks. She ate from the pan.
"Sit," she said.
He sat.
They ate in silence. The eggs were good. Salted right. A little runny, the way he liked them.
"Are you going to text her back?" Adaeze asked.
He looked up.
"Maya. She texted you. I saw the screen."
"You looked at my phone?"
"It was right there. You left it on the counter."
He didn't remember doing that.
"I don't know," he said.
"You don't know."
"I don't know what I want to say."
Adaeze nodded. Chewed. Swallowed.
"Maybe you don't have to say anything."
"She asked to talk."
"So?"
"So—" He stopped. Fork halfway to his mouth.
"So you don't owe her anything," Adaeze said. "She hung up on you. She disappeared. She's the one who left."
"I know."
"So why are you the one feeling guilty?"
He didn't have an answer.
She finished her eggs. Set the pan in the sink. Poured herself more coffee.
"I'm going to check the mail," she said. "Take some time. Think."
She grabbed her keys. Walked out. The door clicked shut behind her.
He sat there. Alone.
The eggs were getting cold. He ate them anyway.
His phone buzzed. He picked it up. Another text from Maya.
"I know you're mad. You have every right to be. But I really need to talk to you."
He typed. Deleted it. Typed again. Deleted that too.
Finally, he wrote: "I need time."
Sent.
Then he put the phone in a drawer.
When Adaeze came back, she was holding a package. Box the size of a shoebox. Brown wrapping paper.
"This is for you," she said.
"What?"
"Someone left it by the door."
He took it. No return address. His name in handwriting he didn't recognize.
"Open it," she said.
He tore the paper.
Inside was a book. Worn cover. Cracked spine. The Collected Works of Kierkegaard.
He recognized it immediately. It was Daniel's copy. The one he'd borrowed sophomore year and never given back.
"What is it?" Adaeze asked.
He opened the front cover. A note was tucked inside. He unfolded it.
"Elliot—Found this in Daniel's things. Figured you should have it. I'm sorry for your loss. —Mrs. Vance."
He read it twice. Three times.
"Who's Daniel?" she asked.
He looked up. Blinked.
"His mother," he said. "She sent me his book."
"Who's Daniel?"
He set the book down. Ran his hands over his face.
"My roommate. From before. He—"
He stopped.
"You don't have to," she said.
"He killed himself. Two years ago."
The words sat there. Heavy. Real.
She didn't say anything. Just sat down next to him. Put her hand on his knee.
"I found him," he said. "In our apartment. I was the one who—"
He stopped again.
"I'm sorry," she said.
He nodded. Didn't trust his voice.
They sat in silence. The book between them. The eggs gone cold on the plates.
"I've been carrying this for two years," he said. "This guilt. This—I don't know. This idea that if I'd just called him back. If I'd just been there."
"You can't save everyone."
"I know."
"Do you?"
He looked at her. She was staring at him. Hard.
"I'm trying," he said.
She squeezed his knee.
"I know you are."
She stood up. Took the plates. Washed them. He watched her. The way she moved. The way she didn't try to fill the silence.
"You don't have to fix me," he said.
"I know."
"You don't have to stay."
She turned. Looked at him.
"I know," she said. "I'm staying anyway."
He didn't know what to say to that. So he said nothing.
She dried her hands. Walked over. Stood in front of him.
"You want to go for a drive?" she asked.
"What?"
"A drive. Get out of the house. Clear your head."
He thought about it. The apartment. The book. The phone in the drawer.
"Yeah," he said. "Okay."
They took her car. Old Honda. Cracked dashboard. She drove east, away from the city, until the buildings turned to fields and the fields turned to trees.
The windows were down. The wind was cold. She didn't turn on the radio.
He watched the landscape change. Felt something loosen in his chest. Not much. Just a little.
"Where are we going?" he asked.
"Nowhere."
"Is that a place?"
"It is now."
She pulled off at a rest stop. Small. Empty. A single picnic table facing a valley.
They sat on the table. Feet on the bench. The sky was huge and gray and endless.
"This is nice," he said.
"It's something."
She leaned into him. He put his arm around her. She smelled like soap and wind and something else. Something that was just her.
"I don't know what this is," he said.
"I know."
"I'm not good at—"
"You said that already."
"I'm saying it again."
She laughed. Soft.
"Okay," she said. "You're not good at this. But you're here. That counts for something."
He thought about that. The way she didn't ask for more than he could give. The way she just let things be what they were.
"It counts for something," he repeated.
"Yes."
They watched the sun move behind a cloud. The light changed. The valley got darker.
"I should probably call her back," he said.
"Probably."
"But not yet."
"No. Not yet."
She reached over. Took his hand. Held it.
And they sat there. Just the two of them. In the middle of nowhere.
Not fixing anything. Not deciding anything.
Just being.
When they got home, the apartment was dark. She turned on a lamp. He stood in the doorway.
"You want tea?" she asked.
"Sure."
She went to the kitchen. He went to his room.
The drawer was still closed. His phone still inside.
He opened it. One new text.
Maya: "I understand. Take all the time you need."
He read it. Set the phone on the nightstand.
Adaeze came in with two mugs. Handed him one.
"You okay?" she asked.
"I don't know," he said. "But I think I will be."
She sat on the edge of the bed. He sat next to her.
"You know what I realized today?" he said.
"What?"
"I spent two years trying to be someone Daniel would be proud of. Trying to live enough for both of us. And then Maya—she was like this bright thing. This distraction. Something that made me feel like I was moving forward."
"And?"
"And I think I was just running. From his memory. From my own future."
She sipped her tea. Said nothing.
"But today—with you—I wasn't running. I was just—"
He searched for the word.
"Here," he said.
She set down her mug. Took his. Set it next to hers.
"Then be here," she said.
She kissed him. Slow. Sweet. Nothing like the night before.
He kissed her back. Tasted tea and breath and something underneath.
She pulled back. Looked at him.
"No more running," she said.
He nodded.
"Okay."
She stood up. Took his hand. Pulled him to his feet.
"Come on," she said.
"Where?"
"To bed. To sleep. No expectations."
He followed her.
They stripped down. Crawled under the covers. She curled into him. Her head on his chest. Her breath warm against his skin.
"Elliot," she said.
"Yeah."
"You're not a ghost."
He closed his eyes.
"I know," he said.
And for the first time in a long time, he believed it.
He woke to sunlight.
Real sunlight. The kind that made the dust motes dance like tiny stars.
Adaeze was still asleep. Her arm draped across his chest. Her hair a mess. Mouth slightly open.
He watched her breathe.
He thought about Maya. About the text. About the time he needed. He thought about Daniel. About the book sitting on his desk. About the voicemail he still hadn't deleted.
He thought about the future. The one he'd been avoiding. The one he'd been too scared to plan.
For the first time, it didn't feel like a threat.
Adaeze stirred. Her eyes opened. Blinked.
"Hey," she said.
"Hey."
"Stop thinking so loud."
He laughed.
"Sorry."
She stretched. Yawned. Her shoulder popped.
"What time is it?" she asked.
"Early."
"Good."
She rolled over. Onto her back. Stared at the ceiling.
"I have to leave tomorrow," she said.
He turned. Looked at her.
"What?"
"I didn't tell you. The sublet. I have to move into my new place. For the spring semester. It starts next week."
He propped himself up on one elbow.
"Where?"
"Two miles from here. Off campus. It's a shithole but it's cheap."
"So you're not leaving leaving."
"No." She turned her head. Looked at him. "I'm not going anywhere."
He lay back down. The ceiling was gray. Then gold. The sun was moving.
"Okay," he said.
"Okay?"
"Okay."
She rolled into him. Put her head back on his chest.
"You're not going to make this weird, are you?" she asked.
"Too late."
She laughed. He felt the vibration through his whole body.
They stayed in bed until hunger drove them out. He made pancakes. She burned the first batch. They ate the second on the porch.
The sun rose higher. The city woke up. Cars passed. Birds sang. The world kept moving.
"I have something to do today," he said.
"What?"
"Call my mom. Finish the book. Take a walk."
"Heavy schedule."
"It's a start."
She nodded. Drank her coffee.
"And Maya?"
He thought about it.
"Not today," he said. "But soon."
Adaeze studied him. Then she smiled.
"Good."
She reached over. Took his hand.
They sat there. Quiet. Content.
Not running.
Just here.
The afternoon stretched out ahead of them. Full of nothing. Full of everything.
He didn't count the hours.
He just lived them.
And for now, that was enough.
Adaeze left after breakfast. She kissed him goodbye, soft and brief, and said she'd text him later. He stood in the doorway and watched her drive away, then went back inside and opened the drawer where his phone was.
Maya's text was still there. He read it again.
"I understand. Take all the time you need."
He typed a reply. Deleted it. Typed another. Deleted that one too.
Finally, he put the phone in his pocket without answering.
He thought about Daniel's book sitting on the desk. The cracked spine. The worn pages. He picked it up and opened to the first page. There was a note in the margin, written in Daniel's hand.
"To the things we can't control."
He stared at it. Two years and he'd never seen the inscription. Never bothered to look. He wondered what else he'd missed.
He closed the book and put it back on the shelf. Not ready. Not yet. But getting there.
The rest of the day passed slow. He called his mom. She was fine, worried about finals, glad to hear his voice. He told her he was okay. She believed him.
He took a walk. The neighborhood was quiet. Old houses. Overgrown lawns. A woman walking a pug. A kid on a bike.
He thought about the future. His senior year ending. The job he didn't have. The plans he hadn't made. The fear that used to paralyze him.
It was still there. In the background. A low hum of anxiety. But quieter now.
He came back to the apartment. Made dinner. Watched TV. Answered some emails.
Adaeze texted around nine. "You alive?"
He responded. "Barely."
She sent back a string of laughing emojis. He smiled at his phone.
At eleven, his phone buzzed again. Not Adaeze. Not his mom. Not Maya.
Unknown number.
"Elliot. This is Daniel's mom. Did you get the book? I'd like to talk if you have time. Call me."
He stared at the text. Then he sat down. Then he stood up. Then he sat down again.
His thumb hovered over the call button. He didn't press it. Not yet.
But for the first time in two years, he didn't delete it either.
He saved the number under her name.
Then he set the phone on the nightstand and lay down.
The ceiling was white. The fairy lights were off. The room was quiet.
He thought about ghosts. About the ones he'd carried. About the ones he'd been.
He thought about Daniel. About the note in the margin. "To the things we can't control."
Maybe that was the problem. Maybe he'd spent two years trying to control everything. Trying to be perfect. Trying to be enough.
Guilt. Grief. The endless spiral.
And then Adaeze. With her blue tile and her burnt eggs and her hand on his knee. With her "okay" that meant everything and nothing.
She wasn't a distraction. She wasn't a replacement. She wasn't a fix.
She was just her.
And for now, that was enough.
He closed his eyes.
The city hummed outside. The stars came out. The world kept spinning.
He didn't dream.
He just slept.