Page 105 of Terms Of Un-Endearment
If I were still a kid in awe of, and a little afraid of, Archie, I'd slink away and let him have his dignity. Too bad for him, I'm an adult now, and he's in my house. Or, at least, my mom's house. So, I hold up my phone and press record.
I get another bicep kiss, plenty of singing, and some shouting about being “World Champion!” that I’m pretty sure isn’t part of the lyrics of the song. It’s good stuff. Whether I’ll actually use this against him remains to be seen, but I’m not above blackmail if the need arises.
When Archie stops singing long enough to push his sweaty hair out of his face, I assume the song is over. And while I’m tempted to get more blackmail footage, I drop my phone into my bag and tuck the frying pan under my arm, so I have both hands free to reward Archie with a loud, slow clap he’ll hopefully hear between songs.
His head whips around so fast he loses his balance. He windmills his arms, tipping forward and back on the bench, trying to regain his balance. Just as he’s about to fall, he gains enough equilibrium to hop to the floor. But not without crashing against the mirror.
I gasp and stop clapping long enough for him to straighten. He doesn’t seem to be hurt. Beyond his massive ego, anyway. Icover my mouth to muffle the laugh that escapes and regret that I stopped my video.
Archie pushes himself away from the mirror, then pulls back his shoulders before facing me. His face runs a gamut of emotions, moving from horror to surprise to humiliation, each a darker shade of red.
In a million years, I couldn’t have predicted this is how a reunion with my stepbrother would play out.
What a delightful surprise.
“P-Piper?” Archie sputters.
“Hello,Archie.” I push my glasses up my nose, hoping he doesn’t miss the middle finger I use to do it.
"It’s been a while. What are you doing here?" Archie picks up his shirt from off the floor and tugs it over his head, but not before my eyes follow the triangle of golden-red chest hair to his stacked abs.
Which is not my fault. I mean, my brain has been conditioned to tell my eyes to follow the direction of an arrow. Archie might as well have a blinking road sign on his chest that says Detour to Ab Town.
I swallow and force my eyes back to his. “I live here.”
He flinches. “Since when?”
“Since right now.” For a second, his surprised expression tempts me to be nicer. Then my brain replays the scene of my backstage humiliation. I roll my shoulders back and stand firm.
“The better question is, what areyoudoing here?” I ignore the glare he sends to scare me away. “Sybil said you’d be out by this morning.”
“Out of what?”
“This house.”
He turns away from me, but the mirror catches a flicker of pain in Archie’s expression. But it’s gone so quickly, I wonder ifI imagined it. When Archie faces me again, there’s only anger in his eyes.
“Yeah, nah. Think again,sis.” Archie crosses the room toward me so fast, I barely have time to move out of his way before he charges out the door. “Dad said Friday,” he calls over his shoulder.
“That’s today.” I follow him down the hall and into the kitchen, trying to keep up. He knows even better than I do Sybil is Malcolm’s henchwoman. If she’s said a thing is happening, it’s happening.
“I only got back from Fiji yesterday. Dad meant next Friday.” He yanks open the double wide fridge that blends into the surrounding cabinets, and the door blocks my view of him. But I don’t move.
I pull up Sybil’s email that Mom forwarded. When the fridge door closes, Archie faces me, holding one of those expensive electrolyte drinks that should be labeled Bougie-aide.
I hold out the phone to show him the email from Sybil with the house info. “You need to leave. This is Mom’s house now.”
His glare sends a flicker of unease through me. I’m nine-years-old again, excited to share space with my new big brother, only to be told to get out. The difference this time is that I don’t back down from Archie. And I won’t. Not anymore.
“That’s funny,” he says, with no humor in his tone. “Because the deed says Archibald Forsythe, notCynthiaForsythe. Definitely not Piper Quinn.” He brushes by me with a smirk and flops onto the big sectional in the family room, every action claiming this house as his own.
I hate the way he’s always treated Mom like an intruder in his life, and Ihatethat smirk. It’s the match to my dry kindling seconds away from becoming an uncontrollable wildfire. On the brink of a full explosion, my phone buzzes in my hand, and I remember I’ve already got revenge.
“You know what’s even funnier?” I walk around the sectional and stand in front of him.
He cracks open his drink, and a splash of red hits the white sofa, but he doesn’t notice. “No. Tell me. What’s even funnier?”
“The video I just took of you kissing your biceps while singing—if you can call it that, which, I wouldn’t. But I’m sure every Surf City High fan on TikTok would looooove to see what Archibald Forsythe is up to.” I call his smirk with one of my own and raise the stakes, toggling to the video and turning it to face him.
