Page 19 of Terms Of Un-Endearment
"I'll find the bread." Archie, suddenly helpful, saunters to the fridge where, after a cursory search, he doesnotfind the bread.
“Maybe try the pantry.” I point to the tallest cabinet, which,surprise, is where the bread is located.
He sets the loaf on the counter next to me and pulls off the plastic tab. “I haven’t done much cooking lately. My job was to order groceries and meals—and cancel them.” His eyes dart to the full fridge before he gives me anoopslook. “I know where to find the kale, smoothie mix, and blender. That’s about it. Except the beer. Don’t have trouble finding that.”
A laugh escapes despite my best efforts.
The thing with Archie is that he’s got self-deprecation down to an art, which makes it really hard to hate him for being clueless. He’s still irritating, but at least he has enough self-awareness to recognizesomeof what he doesn’t know.
Fortunately, the toaster is on the counter, and he seems to understand how to work it. He drops two pieces of bread in the slots and presses the lever down, looking pleased with himself.
“Well done.” I fight the tugging at the corner of my mouth.
Archie, though, lets his smile free. “I’m smarter than I look.”
I laugh, hating myself a little for falling victim to his charm, while also enjoying this moment and the surprising lack of tension between us. All that will change, though, if I refuse to leave tomorrow.
“Who makes all those meals if you can’t even find the salt?” I wave the spatula toward the fridge, pushing away worries about my future as a squatter.
“Britta, mostly. She and Dex have been living here too. I hired a chef to come a few nights a week, too, so she doesn’t have to cook every night…” Archie trails off with an eye roll. “Though if Dad let the housekeepers go, he definitely sent the chef packing, too.”
“Britta?” I ask. “She’s Dex's wife?” I remember reading something online about Archie’s best friend getting married, but I haven’t seen Dex since the “Surf City High” era. He was always nice to me. “Where are they now?”
“Fiji for their honeymoon.” He leans against the counter, his hands on either side. “He’s recovering from a bit of an injury and they’re both rigid about his nutrition; that’s why Britta or the chef do the food prep and cooking.”
While he talks, Archie dips up and down on the counter, like he’s working his triceps. I think it’s an unconscious thing, not to show off the definition in his arms. They aren’t weight-lifter muscular, but lean and toned. And I really shouldn’t be getting distracted by them when I’ve got breakfast to make and a grudge to hold.
I pour the eggs into the pan and move them back and forth with the spatula. “I read about the accident. It sounded terrible. How’s the recovery going?”
“Slow, but steady. He’s started to surf small waves again. He’ll be back on tour, eventually.”
“He hasn’t been surfing professionally? How is he paying his bills?” I don’t follow surfing much anymore, but during my Surf City fangirl years—and even after—I followed it religiously. When a surfer drops off the competition circuit, so do his sponsorships and earnings.
Archie clears his throat. "Yeah, well, that’s part of why they live here, to save on living expenses. Dex hasn’t had many paychecks coming in the past nine months, but I’ve got...other income, so it’s worked out okay."
Though he doesn’t say it directly, I get the picture—he's been covering their living expenses. "That’s really generous of you." I mean it sincerely, as much as I hate to admit it. Archie is loyal to his friends. I’ll give him credit for that.
The toast pops, and I grab plates from a nearby cabinet. “Do you want to check the fridge for butter?”
He pushes himself away from the counter and walks toward the fridge. “Sure. I doubt we have any, but I reckon I can find the?—”
“—Don’t say?—”
“—Vegemite!” He finishes with a wicked grin, and I know he’s recalling the one time—at Mom’s insistence that we be one big happy family—we took a trip to Australia.
We went out for breakfast, and Archie insisted I’d love Vegemite. He spread a thick layer on a piece of toast for me. I took one bite and wanted to barf, but I knew that’s what Archie wanted. So I ate the whole thing, choking down a bite at a time, until I gagged and had to make a run for the bathroom.
I send him a warning look and his smile softens.
“Don’t worry. We’ve got butter somewhere. Britta loves the stuff,” he says before opening the fridge. “I reckon I should apologize to you for the Vegemite incident.”
“Ireckonthere’s a lot you should apologize to me for.” I slide the eggs onto the plates.
Archie closes the fridge and hands me a stick of butter. “Nah, yeah. I was a kid who didn’t know what to do with his emotions. I had a lot going on with my parents’ divorce and life in general. I’m sorry if your feelings got caught in the crossfire.”
I stare at him. It’s more of asorry you’re so sensitivethan an apology. But it’s something. Probably all I’ll ever get from Archie.
He strolls to the table while I butter the toast, cut it into perfect triangles, and add two pieces to each plate of eggs. I take Archie his plate then sit across from him. An uneasy quiet settles between us. I’m not sure we’ve shared a meal since the Vegemite incident.
