Page 71 of Roommating

“The toilet.”

I lift my head. “Can’t you use Marcia’s?”

“Technically, but you look like you could use a break.”

I want to argue with him, but my back is aching. He’s right. Idoneed a break. I stand. “Thanks.” It kills me to say the word, but it just slips out.

“It’s a hard-knock life,” he says before closing the door in my face.

I go to my room and do toe touches, cat-cow, and other stretches to loosen up while Adam does his business. Even though everything hurts, there’s a sense of accomplishment I can’t deny. Taking my cleaning up a notch is one way to show both Adam and Marcia how much I care about this apartment. I’m also going to ask Marcia if she wants to do a girls’ pottery paint night at Color Me Mine next week for some one-on-one bonding. I have more ideas up my sleeve but need to balance my time with school and work.

When Adam shouts, “Shit!” I fall out of my downward dog and race to the bathroom just as Marcia rushes out of hers.

“What happened?” We ask in unison as Adam peels himself off the bathroom floor.

“I slipped,” he says, rubbing his lower back.

“You…what? How?” Until now, he’s demonstrated more-than-adequate coordination skills.

“The floor was slippery.” He darts a glance my way.

My mouth drops open. Is he suggesting his slip had something to do with my cleaning efforts?

Marcia lightly holds his arms one at a time, twisting them from front to back to check for bruises. “Are your legs okay?”

“I’m fine, Grams,” he says, fake protesting the attention.

I barely suppress a groan. He’ssomilking this. More likely, he faked the fall to turn my cleaning into a bad thing.

I lift my chin in pride. “Like I told Adam, I’m scrubbing the tiles with a toothbrush… trying to get those hard-to-reach spots the mop can’t reach. I’m not sure why the floor was wet considering I was using powder floor cleaner.” I gesture to the carton of Spic and Span packets on the sink. I hadn’t wanted to shove my efforts in Marcia’s face because it would look disingenuous, but if Adam wants to do it for me, damned if I don’t use it in my favor. “I’m glad you’re okay though,” I say begrudgingly.Faker.

“That’s awfully sweet, but don’t bother,” Marcia says, patting my arm. “Scrubbing with a toothbrush isn’t worth it. The floor will be dirty again in a few hours and you’ll have nothing to show for it but achy joints and a dirty toothbrush. I’d know.” She laughs and kisses Adam’s head before returning to her room.

“Afor effort.” He does finger guns at me on his way out the door, seemingly completely recovered.

Alone again in the bathroom, I rub my achy joints with one hand and toss the filthy brush in the trash with the other.

Later that day, the apartment smells like peanut butter when I get home after work. Before I even drop my purse in my room, I walk into the kitchen expecting to find Marcia with a batch of cookies straight out of the oven. “Inject those cookies right into my…” I gulp as Adam, who’s facing the oven with his back to me, turns around.

His eyes light up. “Perfect timing. They’re ready.”

I take him in and blink. Then I blink again to confirm I’m seeing what I think I’m seeing. But yes, heiswearing an apron that says, “My favorite people call me Grandma,” and… I take a step closer… there’s also an adorable picture of Adam as a baby. I know it’s him, not only because he looks exactly the same now, just older, but because below the photo, it saysAdamin script.

He lowers his chin as if he’s forgotten what he’s wearing. When he meets my eyes again, he grins. “Can you believe my grandma saved this apron for almost twenty-five years?”

“Cute,” I say without emotion since I’m positive his decision to wear it today of all days is some psychological warfare shit meant to undermine my confidence for our battle. But Marcia loving Adam is not in dispute. Him being the better roommate to her is another story, though baking definitely counts as making an effort to prove he’s not a useless freeloader.

He turns his back again and bends to open the oven so his ass is practically in my face. I wonder if this too is psychological warfare, since his jeans fit like they were made especially for him by Adriano Goldschmied himself.

I quickly shift my gaze when he straightens his back and faces me again.

Placing a tray of peanut butter squares on the island, he says, “Peanut butter treats. Try one.”

I shake my head. “No thanks. I’m not hungry.” My mouth is salivating and I absolutely want one…two… but isn’t eating Adam’s treats like helping my opponent win? I’d be a traitor to my own team.

Adam leans against the island and smirks. “I know you want one. You’re practically eye-fucking them.”

I drag my gaze away from the treats and lock eyes with him. Heat pools below my belly. Until now, he’s only ever spoken a derivative of the word “fuck” in my company while he was fucking me.

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