Page 129 of Terms Of Un-Endearment
And maybe I’m seeing things, but there’s definitely a smile on his face, even if there’s not one on his lips. "Sometimes it does this when there are bonfires on the beach," he says. "It's pretty sensitive. Go back to bed. I'll fix it."
He jogs down the stairs and disappears, and in less than a minute, the alarm stops. Because, apparently, the source of hot water is a mystery to him, but the alarm system he knows all about.
I wait outside my room for him to come back while my heart calms and my brain fully catches up.
“Really sorry about that,” he says when he gets to the top of the stairs. “I shut it off, so it should be fine now.”
“Unless there’s an actual fire,” I mutter as I turn back to my room.
Archie huffs a laugh. “I didn’t dismantle the whole thing. We should be safe from any fires or any more rude awakenings.”
My head shoots around with the emphasis he puts onrude awakenings,but he’s already turned back to his room.
I've barely fallen asleep before the voice is back, ordering me to evacuate. I don’t rush into the hall again, but I swear, the longer I stay in my bed, the louder the fire warning gets. Finally, I shuffle across the room and open my door, not surprised to see Archie there, his head tilted back, staring at the flashing alarm on the ceiling.
"Sorry. Like I said, it's pretty sensitive." His gaze stays glued to the alarm, as though he might be able to shut it off if he wins the stare down.
After a few more seconds, he sighs, then disappears down the stairs again. He does whatever magic he did the first time, and the voice goes off.
He didn’t...do this on purpose, did he? The night before my internship?
He wouldn’t, would he?
I go back to bed before he makes it up the stairs. If he’s doing this on purpose, I’m not going to give him the satisfaction of seeing how irritated I am.
The alarm goes off three more times during the night, so by the time my actual alarm buzzes at six a.m., I’m even more tired than I was the night before. I roll out of bed and make my way downstairs. A shower isn’t going to be enough to wake me up. I need coffee. Lots and lots of coffee.
I smell the kitchen before I get there, but when I turn the corner, my mouth drops open. The kitchen I left spotless after making my dinner is a disaster. Visually and olfactorily. I don’t need to guess who is responsible for this.
The pungent odor is easily traceable to a torn-open, half-empty bag of microwave popcorn on the counter, surrounded by charred black pieces of popcorn. I scoop them back into the bag which has even more burned pieces inside, then carry it to theoutside garbage and leave the back door open when I come back. I’m tempted to search for air freshener, but since I’m not going to be home today, I’ll let the ocean breeze carry away some of the stink. Archie can handle the new smoothie mess he made, the empty fast-food wrappers on the counter, and whatever he’s spilled on the floor that I’ve stuck to twice.
Except, he won’t.
I’ve been here less than forty-eight hours, and I already know he’s a slob. Unless that’s an act to irritate me…which seems possible. Because how can any adult just walk away from this mess? Does he really not see it? Orsmellit? Who does he think is going to clean it up if the housekeeper—who hasn’t been here since I showed up—is gone?
I don't have answers to any of those questions, except the last one.
Me.
Archie expects me to clean up his mess after waking me up five times last night. That wasn’t an accident, I’m sure of it. And hisrude awakeningwasn’t an innocent turn of phrase. He used to do the same thing when I was a kid, and he’d casually mention LBP, like I was too dumb to know he was talking about me.
Well, Archie’s in for his own rude awakening if he thinks I’ll be his housekeeper. Nope. I refuse. I spent an entire year cleaning up after Nightmare Ashley. I'm not doing it with Archie. No matter how much I’m itching to wipe everything down again and toss the empty beer bottle tipped on its side.
I avert my gaze from the mess and go to the cabinet where I found coffee beans yesterday. But they're not there.
I search all the cabinets, with no luck, until I see ground beans spilled around the espresso maker tucked in the corner. Archie’s left a mess there too, and, apparently, taken the last of the coffee. Even though I remember the bag being pretty full yesterday.
I slam the cabinets shut, not even trying to be quiet, give up on coffee, and go upstairs to take a shower.
An hour later, I come back downstairs, wearing my favorite outfit and find Archie at the kitchen table, sipping from a steaming mug. The scent of the coffee wafts across the kitchen—as only a good roast can—almost masking the stink of burned popcorn. The aroma is strong enough to make me crave my own cup even more, but not quite strong enough to wake me up.
Archie sips loudly, and I glance around the kitchen to see if, by chance, there’s another cup for me. I don't see anything.
Holding back a sigh, I ask, "Is there any coffee left, or should I pick some up today?"
He peels his eyes away from his phone long enough to look down at his cup, as though it suddenly appeared there on its own, then looks at me. "Sorry. I didn't think you'd want any. But if you want to pick up a bag, that'd be gnarly. Frothed is only a few kilometers away and has the best brews. You tell them you know me, and they'll give it to you at a discount."
“I’ll keep that in mind.” I stare at the coffee cup Archie sips from. “But unless it’s on the bus route to and from Valente, I probably won’t make it. Where's the closest grocery store? I'll stop there on my way home tonight.”
