More Than a Memory by Marie James Page A

arousal at being forced to listen to them all night still swims in my gut as I get up and head to the bathroom to shower. Anticipating them sleeping late, even though Bryson has class, makes me scramble out of the room, hoping to be finished before they wake up.
    As soon as I reach the bathroom, Bryson’s low moan sounds out from the other side of the door. I stand in the hall, foot tapping while I wait for them to emerge. Minutes later, I come face to face with Bryson and his plaything in the narrow hallway. Her giggle may be the same, but the realization that there’s a reason she wears so much makeup makes me feel slightly better about myself. I shouldn’t take pride in the fact that once her pounds of cosmetics are washed down the drain and the product is rinsed from her hair, she’s nothing more than average. Splotchy skin and a rat’s nest on her head is not how she looked when she sauntered in with him last night.
    “Morning,” he says as I flatten myself against the wall, waiting for them to pass. The post orgasmic flush to his cheeks makes me envious of her for a split second.
    He slaps her ass when she stops to talk to me, urging her back to his room without saying a word. I don’t even bother gawking at him in nothing but a low-slung towel around his hips. Most of the appeal he had the last time I saw him in nothing but a towel is overpowered by disgust and pain. I’m more focused on my towel wrapped around her rail-thin body. I bite my tongue against the snide comments I want to make and close myself into the bathroom. The small room is complete mayhem. Her discarded lace panties on the floor are more than I can deal with right now. I immediately turn around and go back to my room, refusing to clean up his mess. As if the sex marathon last night wasn’t enough to deal with.
    Shortly after I return to my room, I hear both of them leave and a sense of relief washes over me. I specifically stated in my rules there would be no sex in the living room, but I didn’t realize I needed to list all the common areas in the apartment. I make a mental note to send a revised list to him.
    I pace for what seems like forever. Unable to forget about the condition the bathroom is in, I huff and leave the room, heading to the kitchen for cleaning supplies. After donning yellow kitchen gloves that go all the way up to my elbow, I attack the bathroom with fury.
    I toss her panties in the trash, and break the rule about invading his space when I open his bedroom door and scoop my towel off the floor. Out of spite, I toss it into the trashcan along with her discarded lingerie. Who the hell leaves a guy’s apartment wearing fewer clothes than they arrived in?
    I’m on my knees, spray bottle of cleaner and scrub brush in hand, when I feel him in the doorway. Ignoring the fact that he’s here when he should be at school, I continue to scrub the tub.
    “What the hell are you doing?” His voice is gruff, the playfulness that usually marks it nowhere to be found. Why he’s angry at me, I have no idea. I’m not the one who kept him up all night and left the bathroom disgusting.
    “Cleaning the damn tub. I can’t shower knowing you and that girl were fucking in here.” The heat of my anger crawls up my neck, flushing my cheeks, and the tops of my ears burn as my blood begins to boil.
    “That’s ridiculous, Liv.”
    “Don’t call me that,” I snap, my back still facing him. Yesterday, the nickname was endearing. Today, it just grates on my last nerve.
    “We didn’t have sex in the shower, Olivia ,” he says, emphasizing my name in anger.
    “Sure as hell sounded like it,” I mutter, spraying more bleach in the tub.
    “Why were you listening to what we were doing in here?” he spits.
    “Kind of hard to miss, Bryson. The walls are thin. You know that as much as I do.”
    “I sure as fuck do!” His anger is misplaced. Maybe his plaything wasn’t as good of a time as he had hoped. “I was forced to listen to you