Chapter 6: Confrontation in the Mirror
The patio door slid shut with a soft thud, sealing me in the silent dark of the main house. My sandals made wet, slapping sounds on the tile floor, each step a reminder of the awkward, shorter stride, the unfamiliar sway in my hips. The turquoise bikini felt like a second skin of guilt, cold and clingy. I could still feel him there, an phantom ache and a slick, alien wetness between my thighs.
I didn’t turn on lights. I moved through the living room, a ghost in my own home, past the familiar beer can collection on the shelves that now seemed towering, the couch I used to sprawl across now looming like a landscape. My heart—her heart—hammered against my ribs, a frantic, birdlike rhythm.
The guest house was a separate entity at the back of the yard, a converted shed. My feet, so small in their size five sandals, navigated the dew-slick grass. The key was under the frog-shaped rock. My fingers, tipped with their perfectly manicured pink polish, fumbled for it. They felt stupid and weak.
Inside, it was dark and smelled of lavender and something sweet—vanilla. Sabrina’s scent. I locked the door behind me and stumbled straight for the bathroom, clicking the light on.
The fluorescence was a brutal shock.
There she was. In the mirror. Sabrina. Me.
Her face was flushed, high colour on those perfect cheekbones. Her lips—my lips—were swollen from Mark’s kisses, a darker pink than the polish on my nails. Her blue eyes were wide, pupils blown, the expression in them a wild cocktail of shock, shame, and a lingering, traitorous heat. A strand of long, wet blonde hair was stuck to her cheek.
I lifted a trembling hand. The reflection did the same. I touched my cheek. Her cheek. The skin was impossibly soft, like warm silk over fine bone. I traced the line of her jaw, so delicate it felt like it could shatter under my own touch. This was the face that had made Mark groan. This was the face that had twisted in a pleasure so intense it erased thought.
My hands went to the knots of the bikini. My fingers, clumsy with tremors, picked at the sodden ties at my neck and back. The top gave way. I let it fall to the tile with a wet slap.
My breasts—her breasts—spilled free, heavy and full. They jiggled slightly with the motion, a soft, weighty movement that was both fascinating and horrifying. They were so much… there. The air was cool on the tight peaks, making them pucker. I didn’t want to look, but I couldn’t stop. I cupped one in my hand. It filled my palm, warm and yielding, the nipple a sensitive bud against my skin. A jolt, electric and unwelcome, shot straight to my core. I dropped my hand as if burned.
I hooked my thumbs into the sides of the bikini bottom and pushed down. Peeling the damp fabric from between my legs was an intimacy more profound than anything Mark had done. It was an inspection. I stepped out of it, naked now except for the sandals.
I forced myself to look in the mirror, at the whole, stolen form. The body was a masterpiece of youth: the dramatic, impossible hourglass, the rail-thin waist flaring to surprisingly wide hips, the long, toned legs. It was like living inside a sculpture. And between my legs, the evidence. A faint redness. A tender, swollen feeling. A physical memory of being stretched and filled.
I was marked.
A wave of revulsion crested, followed immediately by a pulse of heat that pooled low in my belly. My body remembered the pleasure, and it yearned for a repeat. The contradiction was a nausea that had nothing to do with my stomach.
I turned on the shower, as hot as I could stand it, and stepped under the spray. The water beat down on my shoulders, which were narrow and sloped. I scrubbed at my skin with a loofah that smelled overwhelmingly of her, trying to erase the smell of chlorine and Mark and sex. But every movement was a reminder. The soap suds slid over curves I didn’t understand. The water ran in rivulets between my breasts. When I washed between my legs, my fingers, slick with soap, brushed over the sensitive folds. A gasp tore from my throat, my knees buckling slightly. The contact was a lightning bolt, a shocking echo of the orgasm that had dismantled me. I braced a hand against the tile, my smaller palm splayed flat, and wept soundlessly, the water disguising the tears.
Clean, raw, and trembling, I shut off the water. I wrapped a towel around myself, the terrycloth rough on my sensitized skin. It barely covered me, the top edge needing constant adjustment to stay over my breasts. I wiped the steam from the mirror.
The face looked back, clean and young and devastated.
What have I done? Justin’s thought screamed in the silent room. What am I?
The door to the bathroom creaked open.
I whirled, clutching the towel to my chest. Mark stood in the doorway, filling it. He’d pulled on his shorts but his chest was still bare, hair damp. He held two fresh bottles of beer. His expression was easy, satisfied, a man who’d had a good swim and something better afterward.
“Hey,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “Figured you might want one. You vanished.”
He stepped inside, letting the door swing shut behind him. The small bathroom became a closet, filled with his presence, his scent, the memory of his hands. My heart kicked into a frantic gallop. My skin prickled, heat flooding back to places that were still tender.
“I… I needed to shower,” I said, my voice a reedy whisper.
“Yeah.” He smiled, a slow, knowing thing. His eyes travelled over me, from my damp hair down the line of the towel to my bare feet. The pink nail polish on my toes looked obscene. He leaned against the sink counter, so close I could feel the heat radiating from him. He offered a bottle.
I didn’t take it. My hand, holding the towel, was white-knuckled.
His smile faded slightly, replaced by a look of concerned possessiveness. “You okay? I didn’t… we didn’t go too fast, did we?”
The question was so normal, so human, it was devastating. This was my friend. He was checking in. But he was checking in with Sabrina, about an experience I’d never consented to have.
My throat closed. I shook my head, unable to form words.
He misinterpreted the gesture. “Good,” he breathed, relieved. He set the bottles on the counter with a clink. His gaze was intense, focused on my face. “It was incredible, Sabrina. You’re incredible.”
He reached out, his finger tracing the line of my collarbone, a feather-light touch that burned.
Every neuron in my brain shouted to recoil. My body did the opposite. A shudder ran through me, a full-body tremor that was part fear, part awakening. The towel, tucked loosely, slipped. I grabbed for it, fumbling, but it was too late. It pooled in a damp heap at my feet.
I stood there, utterly exposed, in the harsh fluorescent light. His breath caught. His eyes darkened, drinking in the sight of me—all of me. The shame was a blizzard inside my head.
But my skin flushed under his gaze. My nipples tightened in the cool air. That traitorous ache between my legs returned, a hollow, wanting throb. The mirror at my back showed him staring, and me, this beautiful, broken thing, allowing it.
I didn’t move. I couldn’t. The paralysis was absolute.
Mark let out a slow, controlled breath. He didn’t touch me. Not yet. He just looked, his hunger a tangible force in the tiny room. “Jesus,” he murmured, more to himself than to me.
The click of the bathroom lock engaging was the loudest sound I’d ever heard.