Page 17 of Terms Of Un-Endearment
My wheels are turning, though, and I reckon I’ve found a way around that. Dad’ll be mad at first, but in the end, I reckon he’ll be pleased to see a bit of mongrel in me.
An image of Piper’s watering eyes when she admitted she had nowhere else to go pops into my head, but I shoo it away. She’ll be able to find somewhere to stay. She grew up in LA. She knows her way around, and from what I saw today, she’s not a kid. Piper Quinn knows how to take care of herself and has her mummy to help her out if she needs it.
But the idea I’ve got cooking will save me from being the bad guyandprovide her a place to stay.
Spoiler alert: it won’t be at the beach house.
Chapter 8
Piper
Iwake up to a call from Mom. It’s only six am, but I’m still on New York time, so my body thinks I’ve slept in.
“Hi, Mom.” I climb out of bed with a yawn. As long as I’m up early, I might as well sit on the back patio with a cup of coffee while I figure out my Plan B.
“Sweetie, my reception is terrible, but I wanted to make sure you found somewhere to stay last night.” Mom’s phone crackles with static.
“Actually, Archie is letting me stay here for the weekend.”
“What’s that?” Mom yells. “You’re breaking up.”
“I’m at the beach house for the weekend,” I say slowly and loudly. “I’ll get a hotel on Monday.”
In the long pause that follows, I tuck my sketchpad under my arm, grab my toolbox of pencils and markers and head downstairs.
I think I’ve lost Mom until I hear a static, “Joe says not to leave. Possession is nine-tenths of the law—he's on the phone with my lawyer.”
For a second, I’m not sure I heard her right, but then her voice comes through loud and clear. “Do not leave that house! Malcolm isnotgetting out of this settlement!”
She wants me to refuse to leave?
“Archie’s name is on the deed, Mom. The house isn’t Malcolm’s. I can’t just stay. I’d be trespassing.” I haven’t forgotten Archie’s threats from last night.
The answer I get is too static and broken to understand before the line goes dead.
As I walk to the patio, I stare at my phone, hoping for a text from Mom. Or a telegram. I’d even take Morse code—I wouldn’t understand it, but it would make more sense than what Mom just told me.
She wants me to be a…squatter?
Finally, a message pops up:
Sorry, bad reception. Stay at the house. My attorney will inform Malcolm.
Don't give into them!
I respond:
That’s sooooo awkward. I don’t want to get in the middle of this.
She doesn’t respond.
Fan-tastic.
This is what things have come to with Mom and Malcolm? I’m supposed to just move in—uninvited—with the ex-stepbrother I can’t stand?
No, thank you.
Even though we did have a moment yesterday. Well, sort of.
