Sarah didn’t emerge until hours later.

Sarah didn’t emerge until hours later. I heard the door creak, the rustle of bedsheets, the soft thump as she landed on her feet. For a long time nothing happened—no footsteps, no morning routine. Then, finally, she appeared in the kitchen, blinking against the sunlight and wearing nothing but Wiley’s old, moth-eaten t-shirt, one of those oversized things that hung off her like a parody of modesty. The bottom hem barely cleared her thighs; it certainly didn’t cover the delicate, bruised skin at the top. Her hair was a wild, tangled halo, messy in a way that was almost ceremonial, like she’d taken a vow of depravity and wanted the world to see the evidence.

She didn’t say a word at first. She drifted to the fridge and opened it, letting the cold light spill out over her bare legs. I watched her grab the OJ, drink straight from the carton, then carefully wipe her mouth with the back of her hand like a child. She caught my eye, smiled shyly, and for a moment the world seemed to freeze in that awkward, perfect tableau—the two of us, separated by a kitchen island piled with the wreckage of last night.

I tried to think of something clever to say, something to break the ice, but all I managed was, “You’re late getting up.”

Sarah snorted, almost spitting orange juice onto the countertop. “Yeah, well, it was a late night for me.” The undertone in her voice was unmistakable: it was not just a late night, but an event, a marker, a line drawn in permanent ink. She lingered there in the kitchen, shuffling back and forth, not quite making eye contact, as if she couldn’t decide whether to apologize or gloat.

The smell hit me then—the sour, animal funk of Wiley’s cologne, cheap soap, and whatever raw chemistry had happened in that bed last night. It rolled off Sarah in a wave, eclipsing her usual, faintly floral perfume. I gagged, just a little, and she saw me do it, a flicker of mischief lighting her face.

“How can you stand it?” I blurted, gesturing not only at the shirt but at her hair, which looked like it had been used as a hand towel at a barbecue. I could see the glisten of yesterday’s mascara under her lashes and a bruise, still hidden from full daylight, blooming along her collarbone in a shade that matched her lipstick from the night before. “You didn’t have to wear his smelly shirt, you know.” The words came out more bitter than I intended—at least, that’s what I told myself. What I really wanted was to rip it off her, throw it into the street, and burn it like an effigy.

Sarah grinned, unrepentant, baring all her teeth. “I figured since I already reeked of him, might as well not ruin any more of my own clothes before I shower.” She leaned both hands on the table and perched her bare ass on the edge of the chair, legs folded under her, the cartoonishly large shirt gaping at the neckline.

She tapped her fingers nervously on the wood, then said, “So…”

And because I am not nearly as clever as I wish I was, I just stared at her, lips half open, until I realized she expected a question. I eventually found my voice and said, “So how was it?”

She gave me a nervous smile, as if she was as shamed of this as I was, as she whispered, “I know you heard.”

“I did,” I said. “But I want to hear you say it.”

Sarah “It was good.”

“Better than the time with me?”

She shook her head, as if clearing out water from her ears. “Please, don’t make me say it.”

“I already know the answer, but I still need to hear you say it.”

Sarah drew her knees up tighter, hiding half her face behind them. When she spoke, it was barely audible, a confession delivered to the linoleum. “You already know… so yes, it was.” The words seemed to land on her like hailstones: small, cold, impossible to ignore.

I prodded the wound. “So, it wasn’t better last time, because it was your first time? That’s what it was, right?”

She winced in shame, the way someone does when they hear their own voice played back on a recording. “No. It still could be. Maybe he was also better this time because it was our second time. You know, more practice means better experience.” There was something almost scientific about the way she said it, as though love and betrayal could be graphed on an x-y axis, as if repetition would breed perfection.

I tried to laugh, but it came out as a nervous cough. “Yeah, that could be it.”

Sarah smiled—a real one, not the performative smirk she’d flashed earlier. It was almost gentle. “See, let’s go do it right now, and you’ll see it’ll be the best I ever had.” She said it in a way that sounded like a joke, but her eyes didn’t leave mine. It was a challenge, a promise, and an apology all at once, and I couldn’t decide whether I was supposed to feel flattered, disgusted, or just incredibly horny.

Sarah smiled hopefully at me as crossed the room, bare legs flashing as she peeled off the shirt and tossed it onto the table between us. There was nothing underneath: no underwear, no bra, just her flushed, post-coital skin and the faint marks of Wiley’s hands on her hips. “You see this time will be amazing!”

I watched her as she padded down the hall toward the bathroom, her silhouette shrinking away with each step. The door shut behind her, and after a moment I heard the hiss of the shower and the thud of water against tile. I sat there, staring at the discarded shirt, thinking of all the times I have seen Wiley in that very shirt.

Then I stood, and for a moment all the anger and pain and jealousy burned off into pure anticipation. I stripped off my own clothes right there in the kitchen, letting them fall in a messy trail down the hall. By the time I reached our bedroom, my heart was pounding so hard I felt it in my teeth.

I walked into our bedroom, the room and the bed had a VERY strong odor of Wiley and his sweat. The sheets were rumpled, stained in places I didn't want to think about, and the pillows bore the indentation of two heads. Everything about this space felt foreign now, marked by his presence in ways I couldn't erase.

For a moment, I considered changing the sheets, but something stopped me. Maybe it was the urgency to prove myself, or maybe it was some twisted part of me that wanted the reminder of what I was up against. Either way, I lay down on those sheets, naked and waiting, heart hammering against my ribs.

When Sarah emerged from the bathroom, skin pink and gleaming with moisture, hair slicked back and dripping, she looked almost surprised to find me there. Steam billowed around her like a halo, and for a second I caught a glimpse of the girl I'd fallen in love with years ago.

"You actually did it," she said, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "Thought you might chicken out." she playfully laughs.

"I'm not a coward," I replied, though my voice betrayed me with a slight tremor. "You said this time would be amazing, so it will be!"

She approached the bed slowly, letting the towel fall from her body. I watched the droplets of water trace paths down her skin, following the curves I knew so well. When she climbed onto the bed, the mattress dipped beneath her weight, and I could smell the clean scent of her shampoo mingling with the lingering musk of Wiley that seemed embedded in the sheets.

I reached for her, pulling her against me, **** to erase every trace of him with my touch. But as I kissed her, as my hands moved over her body, I couldn't escape the comparison. Was I touching her the way he had? Was she responding the same way? Every moan, every shift of her hips felt like a test I was failing.

But I make it through it and have sex with Sarah.

It was clear that she was faking her enjoyment at first. Her moans sounded rehearsed, her movements mechanical. Anger flared in my chest.