Every so often she’d try one of those apps that sent her daily affirmations and genial encouragement, but she found their friendly typefaces and hand-drawn platitudes easy to ignore. She knew she wasn’t the only young woman to feel disappointing, because social media was filled with badasses insisting all bodies were good bodies and urging her to reject the patriarchy, but then she felt ashamed of not being stronger and shallow for caring what other people thought. It’s hard to love yourself while simultaneously striving to become the best you you can be, which implies your current version could use some work. Laura couldn’t decide what was worse—the mental contortions needed to balance these competing self-images or the emotional pretzeling required to feel happy about it.

She heard Must-Be-Bob go into their shared bathroom down the hall and then, later, the front door open and close. She scuttled down the hall herself, clutching her new towels with their tags still attached. The bathroom was still slightly steamy, with some droplets of water on the shower door and a faint scent of cedar and lemon. The room itself was very simple. White subway tile, a gray stripe, a built-in shower tiled in the same gray. A large mirror hung above the sink, with glass shelves on either side. One side was empty; Laura assumed it was for her.

She wasn’t going to look at his stuff.

She looked.

There wasn’t much to look at. Ibuprofen, still with a seal on it. A razor that looked old and battered. One of those actual shave brushes with a bowl. Laura concluded either he was old-fashioned or his grandpa had given it to him and he was sentimental.

She looked at the things she’d bought for herself at Target. Toothpaste, toothbrush, shower gel, shampoo, conditioner . . . etc. None of it purchased with the thought it might be on display. Fortunately, she’d also grabbed a big pouch to keep it all in, so she’d leave the shelves bare and remain a mystery to him. Her mouth twisted wryly at her assumption he’d give her more than a passing thought.

She showered and dressed, pausing to look at herself naked in the mirror. She looked better; a little roundness was coming back, softening the lines of muscle. She ran her fingers over her scars, which covered the side of her torso, with others on her hips and knees. There were more on her back she couldn’t see, and several under her hair, but she didn’t need to see them to know they were there. For a while now she’d been able to look at her scars and be grateful, but some days her grasp on gratitude was slippier than others. She leaned forward and examined herself closely in the mirror.