Page 122 of Terms Of Un-Endearment
A surge of protectiveness wells up inside of me. Whatever sympathy I had for Archie a few minutes ago is gone.
What is it with these Forsythe men? Do they really believe the world revolves around them? Malcolm has refused to settle with Mom for two years, and now Archie’s going to use this to his advantage?
I don’t think so.
While I listen to—okay,eavesdrop on—Archie’s side of the conversation, I consider my options. Should I confront Archie about manipulating the settlement? Should I tell Mom to get ready to go back to court and fight even harder? Should I get my stuff and leave without a word to anyone so that I’m not a part of this?
Archie walks toward the beach, and I lose the rest of the conversation.
I don’t know what my next move should be, so I do what works best to slow my brain when it’s racing. I open to the design I was working on last night before exhaustion got the best of me, then get my graphite pencil out of my toolbox. Designing and sketching always soothes me. Always has.
The same is true now. As I sketch out the lines and rough pattern of the dress and fill it in with the blue colors of the Murano vase Archie so casually tossed away, my thoughts slow. I gain focus and clarity.
If I leave, I’ll be giving Archie what he wants without a fight, and Mom’s lawyer will have to work up a new settlement while she’s in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. If I confront Archie, he might counterattack and make things worse—plus this truce between us goes away.
As much as I don’t want to be a part of this, I realize pretty quickly that my best option—I think—is to…squat.
Even the word sounds gross, but I don’t want things to drag on any longer than they have to and...well, I still need a place to stay. Mom and Malcolm have agreed to the house as a settlement. We are so close to being done—and Archie is the person standing in the way.
I take a breath, return the settings on my AirPods so that I can listen to some Billie Eilish while I draw, and consider what’s ahead.
A few minutes later, when Archie slides open the back door, I’m at the kitchen table, my leg pulled up on the chair, arm wrapped around my knee, my chin resting against it as I use a tangerine orange color to add dimension to my design. I’m as relaxed as a cat stretched out in a block of sunlight.
At least on the outside.
Inside, I’m a cat with tape stuck to its paw.
He drops into his seat and grabs his fork, sending me a quick smile. “Dad’s been on the phone with your mum’s lawyer. I guess we're sharing this place for the next two weeks.”
“Really?”
Archie doesn’t look at me. “Dad realized I needed more time to wrap things up here, but he didn’t want to throw you out.”
I scoff.Thatdoesn’t sound like Malcolm. Both would require empathy, and Malcolm lacks that chip. Archie’s done something to convince Malcolm to give him more timeandlet me stay.
I should be grateful. If I believed Archie was doing it from the goodness of his heart, I would be. But he’s angling for something—I just don’t know what. I do know that spending two weeks with Archie sounds as appetizing as the cold eggs on his plate.
I push up my glasses and look him square in the eye. “Two weeks? Or longer? Because you were supposed to be out yesterday.”
Archie’s self-satisfied smile disappears. “Two weeks. Everything will be settled for good by then.”
Settled? Can I trust that he means the original settlement, or is he still pushing a different agenda?
Archie shovels toast into his mouth while I pick out a darker shade of orange for some texturing.
I’m relieved I don’t have tosquat—gross—but as long as the house stays in Archie’s name, nothing is “settled.” Malcolm has been toying with Mom since the minute they met, and now Archie is playing his own version of the game. It sounded like Malcolm shot down his idea, but that could change at any time, and I didn’t hear the full conversation. If Malcolm changes his mind about giving Mom the house, I’m out of a place to live and Mom’s back in court.
Over the grating sound of Archie’s metal fork scraping across his plate, all I can think isI have to make Archie want to leavebefore the two weeks.Then an idea washes over me. Not just an idea, a plan.
I’m not powerless here. I won’t be tossed around by the whims of these narcissistic men. I know more than they think I do, and I’m smarter than either of them has ever given me credit for.
What I have planned for Archie will make himactuallyfeel sorry about the Vegemite…and so much more.
Chapter 10
Archie
Sunday morning I wake up with a start to a foghorn blaring. I'm an early riser, but five a.m. is ridiculous on a Sunday. I put a pillow over my face, which barely muffles the sound. The blaring continues steadily—the same pace, the same volume level—for about a thousand years before I toss the pillow aside and sit up.
