Page 160 of Terms Of Un-Endearment
I grab her arm. “Being done with this is exactly what I’m trying to do with the cash settlement. We want the same thing. If Dad gives your mum money instead of this house, you’ll have everything you need by next week.”
Her eyes drop to the hand I still have on her arm, and I slowly let it fall to my side. “If you want to put your trust in Malcolm, go ahead, but I don’t. Your cash settlement idea means going backwards, and Mom deserves to move forward. She wants the house. She shouldn’t have to cave because you suddenly want it too.”
Piper walks out before I can come up with a response. Not that I have one. Somehow, our conversation turned into an attack on Dad and me when what I want will be good for her and Cynthia, too.
I’m left questioning if Piper is right. Am I fighting her and Cynthia because I’m more likely to win than if I fight Dad? Those weren’t her exact words, but she implied it.
Maybe she’s right. Maybe Iamfighting them because the stakes are lower than fighting Dad.
If so, she’s also right about something else…
I’m like my dad in the worst possible way.
Chapter 20
Archie
The match is still going when I walk back into the main room. I grab a beer from the esky, then set it back down again before sitting on the couch next to Dex. No drink is strong enough to quiet the rising storm in my chest.
“Where’s Piper?” I ask after a few minutes. I don’t see her anywhere.
“She and Stella went upstairs,” Britta answers from the kitchen. “Whatever you talked about, she wasn’t happy.”
“Your little sister’s all grown up,” Rhys says with a beer bottle pressed to his bottom lip, and a smile I’m not keen on.
“She’s not my sister, and she’s still an irritating kid.” The words feel hollow. What I want to say is that he should keep his eyes off Piper, but I can’t say that without sounding either like the big brother I don’t want to be or the creeper who can’t stop thinking about his fake sister.
Britta plants herself on Dex’s lap and says, “You should be nice to her, Arch.”
“I’m trying. You might want to have the same conversation with her.” I point to my hair, and she laughs.
I’m deflecting, I know. But it’s that or admit to myself how much I thought about kissing her on that weight bench. I can’teven blame it on too many beers. Our conversation sobered me up fast.
“I don’t know her well enough to give that sort of advice,” Britta replies before cocking her head to the side. “When did you start using self-tanner?” she asks at the same time a collective groan rings out as the Geelong Cats score against the Brisbane Lions,myteam.
Literally mine—sort of. Forsythe Tech is their biggest corporate sponsor.
Then I realize what Britta has said. “What are you talking about? I don’t use self-tanner.”
She leans close to my face. “Archie, you’ve got a line right here where you stopped or didn’t spread it evenly.” Britta runs a finger across the bottom of my jaw.
I put my hand where she had her fingers, then dart to the bathroom. I’d noticed my face looked off this morning after my shower, but I thought it was the lighting in the bathroom along with being newly blond.
Now as I study my face in the mirror, I see exactly what Britta is talking about. I look like I got hit with a spray tanner. But how?
“Piper,” I growl, glaring at the mirror as if she might be on the other side of it.
In the reflection of the shower behind me, I see my face wash. I grab it and twist off the top. The smell is the first thing that’s off. I can’t believe I didn’t notice before. When I pour the liquid into my hand, it has a brownish tint to it.
I groan, then dump the entire bottle down the sink.
I’m not a vain bloke. I’m not interested in plastic surgery or trying to fix my many physical imperfections. But after I did a couple ads for this skincare brand and I’d used the free product they gave me for a year, I was sold on taking care of my skin. I know too many sun-damaged surfers not to. I don’t want to bemistaken for a dried-up sultana when I’m in my forties. I’m not too proud to admit I’ve got a strict skincare regimen.
And I’ve just poured a couple hundred dollars’ worth of it down the drain. Normally, I’d only be annoyed about having to re-order my product. But with Dad threatening to cut off my allowance, I’m starting to realize how dependent on him I am.
I’ve got nothing to wash off the tanner except hand soap. It’s useless. After a few scrubs, my face is red on top of orange and drier than the Simpson Desert. I stare at my face and hair in the mirror, growing angrier by the second.
I walk back into the main room and stand in front of the TV. My mates yell for me to move.
