Page 147 of Terms Of Un-Endearment
“What are you talking about?” Britta is almost as irritated with her husband—myformerbest mate—as I am. “What could he do that’s bad enough to deserve this?” She waves her hand in the direction of the abomination on top of my head.
“Can I have my hat back now?” I tug it away from her and put it back on. Maybe I’m not sorry they’re moving out.
“Where to start?” Dex grins at me. “The time you tricked Piper into eating so much Vegemite she puked? Or when you introduced her to Rhys as ‘my annoying stepsister who has a massive crush on you’?”
“That’s not what I said.”
At least I hope not.
“Archie, you did that?” Britta sends me a disappointed look from across the room.
And I can’t even argue, can I? I legit couldn’t stand Piper back then. Or, possibly, it was more that I couldn’t stand what she stood for—Dad fawning over her like she hung the flamin’ moon. Hard to untangle now. Especially considering the fact that every time she looks at me, a zing of something shoots down my spine and settles in my belly. I’m not sure what it is, but it’s not what I felt about her ten years ago. But this isn’t exactly the moment to start pulling at threads to unravel the past from the present.
“That’s just the tip of the iceberg, Britt. Archie was a bit of a bully to Piper.” Dex still moves slow, thanks to his injury, but he’s sure quick when it comes to throwing me under the bus. I’ve got no choice but to defend myself.
“That was a decade ago. She’s the one picking on me now. The worst I’ve done to her is hide the coffee.” I realize my mistake as soon as the words are out of my mouth. I meant to admit to the mildest of my crimes.
I’ve done the exact opposite, considering my audience of two complete coffee snobs.
Britta stops what she’s doing and stares at me. “Youhidthe coffee? What is she supposed to drink in the morning?”
I shift awkwardly, wishing I had something to do besides stand in the doorway. “She bought some instant stuff at the Sev,” I mumble.
“Oh, mate…” Dex sighs like I’ve just revealed I have a terminal disease.
Britta’s eyes narrow. “Is she drinking Folgers? Are you forcing her to drinkFolgersevery morning when she could be drinking my blends?”
I shake my head slowly. I’ve dug my own grave with this one. I may as well climb in. “I think it’s Dunkin’ brand.”
“That’s not better, mate,” Dex mutters softly.
Britta answers with a noise that’s part growl, part moan, but at least she’s gone back to taking pictures off the wall instead of glaring at me. “Was the purple a temporary color or permanent dye?”
“Temporary, but?—”
“I would have made it permanent,” Britta cuts in. She takes the pic of Dex with his WSL trophy from his Finals win last year off the wall. “You should have waited for it to wash out.”
“Apparently my hair takes color really well or something. Juan worried it wouldn’t wash out completely. My choice was to strip it or shave it.” I turn and flip on the ceiling fan. It’s hot in here, and the beanie doesn’t help.
“You realize the blond is going to last months, right?” She wraps Dex’s picture in paper, then points to a flat box, all sympathy for me gone. “Put that together, please.”
I’ve never been so happy for a job to do. The glare of the metaphorical spotlight I’m under is more uncomfortable than any actual spotlight I’ve been in.
“Juan is going to darken it in a few weeks and help with the grow out.”
I triple tape the box. The tape holder thing is loud enough to fill the space in the conversation that would otherwise be full of more questions and comments I’m keen to avoid.
“Send Piper into Frothed tomorrow. I’ll make her coffee and comp her a bag of whatever roast she wants.” Britta exchanges my finished box for another flat one to tape.
“Will do.” I hope that means Britta is willing to forgive me.
But amIwilling to forgive Piper? She’s not getting to Frothed before work without me driving her there.
“You’re moving everything today?” I ask, circling back to where the conversation started before going haywire.
“We found a place move-in ready.” Dex drops a stack of T-shirts into the open suitcase on their bed. “It’s best we get out of your hair.”
“Nobody’s asking you to do that,” I say.
