Page 13 of Terms Of Un-Endearment
I walk the Promenade that parallels the beach to the Breakwater neighborhood. I’ll have my choice of restaurants there. The air smells crisp and fresh, like everything’s been rinsed clean from the rain. Waves are flat and creep to the shore with a soft, lulling sound that settles my nerves.
Just as I’m feeling chill again, my mobile plays “The Imperial March” fromStar Wars, another Frankie ringtone setting.
This call I answer right away. Dad rarely rings me.
“Archibald,” he says on top of my hello. “Why haven’t you signed the documents I sent?”
“Dex and Britta don’t have anywhere to live yet.” I leave out I’ve ignored opening the package with the docs in it that Sybil sent. Dad’s always liked Dex. Giving him and Britta a bit of time to move out is my best play for convincing DadIneed more time.
“Sybil can make some calls and get him a place. I need those papers signed.”
I’ve used the wordnobefore, but I can’t remember if I’ve ever used it with Dad. Worse than that, my throat has gone dry and,suddenly, I can’t remember how to sayno. Even if I could, Dad doesn’t understand the meaning of it.
But I can’t just walk away from the house, my mates, and LA without a fight.
I step from the path onto the sand and take a deep breath. “I can’t sign them. Not yet.”
“Not yet?”
“I need more time to figure things out.” My chest tightens, cutting off my breath.
“More time? Mmm.” In the quiet beat that follows, hope skitters around the edges of my mind.
“I’ll give you the weekend. Any longer and you can figure out how to pay for that house and everything else on your own,” he says brusquely.
And hope slinks away.
Dad’s tightened the leash, and if he’s talking about my allowance and trust, well, he’s willing to go pretty tight.
“I understand,” I say, giving him the only acceptable answer he’ll take.
He ends the call.
I stare at the ocean, willing the waves to regain their strength so they can crash on the shore.
But I don’t have that kind of power. I don’t have any power, really. Not with Dad.
Resentment creeps up my chest, but I push it back like I do every time I recall the money I should have from my years on “Surf City High.” Instead, my earnings from the show and a few skincare ads that followed are tied up in a revocable trust Dad controls until I’m thirty, at which point I become the trustee and can do what I want with the money.
When he first put it together, I was sixteen—a young bloke who didn’t know bugger all about managing finances. Now, at twenty-eight, it’s obvious the trust is more about managing methan my money.Controllingme. As the current trustee, Dad can change the terms any time he likes. He could decide tomorrow that I have to wait until I’m thirty-five to get access to the trust.
Or, worse, he could do like he did to Frankie and make sure I never gain control of what I’ve earned.
With my own money tied up, Dad’s supplied me with an admittedly generous allowance that supplements what I’ve made from coaching Dex these last few years. I’ve used the funds to help my mates, to pay for travel, to build a life in LA. But without that allowance, I’m...broke. I break into a cold sweat at the thought.
Money has never been something I worry about. I’m not keen on starting now.
But I’m not keen on working for Dad either. And with Dex’s dream of winning a second World Surf League championship on hold, I’d like to try to make my own dream come true.
The irony is, I figured out how to get Dex his first WSL championship, but I have no idea how to make my own dream come true.
Not without Dad’s money.
I walk a bit further, but the convo with Dad has stolen my appetite. I detour back to the sand and find a relatively dry spot to sit.
What I need is my own coach, and I know exactly who that should be. If anyone can help me figure out my life, it’s my twin.
She answers on the first ring. “Hey, Arch. You caught me on break.”
