Page 3 of Terms Of Un-Endearment
Ilovethe idea of Archie Forsythe being forced out of the beach house so I can move in. Mom should have led with that.
“It’s none of his business who’s living there, or Malcolm’s for that matter,” Mom says, all sympathy for Archie gone. “Their little trick to hide the house didn’t work. It’s mine, and I can do what I want with it.”
I think I like this version of Mom who doesn’t let Malcolm intimidate her.
We say our “love you’s” and Mom hangs up. I’ll talk to her again before she leaves on her cruise. In the meantime, I’m still processing. I fall back on my mattress, which lets out a small squeak of air.
In three days, I’ll be living alone for the first time, by the beach, working for the biggest designer in LA. With no rent to worry about, I can eat three meals a day, and none of them have to be Top Ramen.
A door slams, Ashley stomps around, slamming cupboards, and singing. Not badly, but loudly. After two years of living with a Broadway hopeful, I unwillingly know all the words to all the songs to all the musicals.Allthe musicals.
Zero out of ten. Would not recommend.
But her singing doesn’t bother me today.
The beach house isn’t mine, and I don’t want it to be, but in seventy-two short hours, I’ll have it all to myself.
Chapter 2
Piper
My first day back in sunny LA is going to be rainy. The turbulence as we land is the first clue. The slate-colored ocean and muted skyline are the second. The sky is heavy and dimly lit, like someone turned down the brightness dial on California.
I’d looked forward to watching the sunset from the back patio of the beach house, but by the time my Uber driver takes me from LAX to South Bay, the dark clouds open, setting loose heavy drops of rain. Slowly at first, then with the intensity of a crying toddler.
That should be a warning that things willnotgo as planned, but I use the code mom gave me to open the front door and roll my suitcase inside like there’s nothing ominous about rain in the middle of a Southern California September.
Also, this house is stunning! Its own version of sunshine.
The entryway glows with light wood floors, white paint, and lots of windows. The one bit of color in the foyer is provided by a Murano vase—probably an original—sitting on a small, black table just inside the entry.
Mom must have negotiated for all the furnishings in this place, or they’d be gone, right?
As I walk toward the kitchen, I can’t stop smiling. I actually get to live here!
A noise comes from a back room, and I freeze. The clanking and banging sounds like somebody could be breaking in, except there are more cameras and locks here than a high security prison. But then the noise is followed by an even more terrifying sound: Singing.
Really, really, terrible singing. Closer to yelling than anything musical.
And what kind of thief yell-sings while stealing? Not a very smart one, that’s what kind.
Or maybe it’s a cleaner who isn’t expecting anyone to interrupt their serenade?
Still, just in case itisa squatter or a thief or someone dangerous, I leave my baggage in the entryway, grab a sparkling-clean cast iron frying pan sitting on the stove, and follow the singing to a room down the hall from the kitchen.
I recognize the lyrics to Rachel Platten's "Fight Song," and then the voice sing-yelling comes sharply into focus. I'd recognize that grating Australian accent anywhere. Not only because I was a huge, albeit secret, fan of “Surf City High,” but also because it belongs to my least favorite character on and off the show: Archie Forsythe.
I peek into the room, which turns out to be a mini home gym—because,of course.Besides a row of surfboards neatly lined upright against one wall, the space is loaded with Pelotons, yoga mats and blocks, a Pilates reformer, and a gorgeous view of the Pacific Ocean through floor-to-ceiling windows. For a split second, I consider taking up a serious exercise regimen just to have a reason to use the room.
Butonlyfor a second because on the opposite side of the room, Archie—shirtless—is standing on a weight bench,headphones on, eyes squeezed shut, belting out, “I’ve still got a lot of fight left in me!”
There's no mistaking Archie's reddish-brown mop of hair or his lanky frame—although, if I'm being honest, he's filled out since the last time I saw him. Nicely, I might add. What I’m confused about iswhy he is here.He’s supposed to be gone. I’m supposed to be alone.
But…
I can wait a few more seconds to have those questions answered.
When Archie stops singing long enough to kiss both of his biceps, I laugh out loud, expecting him to hear me. But he goes right back to singing, totally oblivious to me. His music must be too loud, which only makes me laugh harder.
