Page 54 of Terms Of Un-Endearment
That thought whirlpools around my brain as I drive back to the beach house., threatening to suck me into a very dark place.
Piper’s opened my eyes. Not just about Dad cutting her off, but the fact that the people he spends the most time with are people similar to him—super wealthy. I wonder if that’s what’s made him change so much. He’s surrounded by people who can buy anything they want, so they think they’re entitled to whatever they want, whether it’s for sale or not.
Dex and Frankie have both warned me that I shouldn’t count on Dad keeping his promises. Mum too, with what I know now about their divorce. I’m a bit red-faced that Piper’s the one who’s finally convinced me I should question most of what Dad says.
I walk inside from the garage and tear the beanie off my head. I go straight to the gym and grab a board. I’ve got to get out of my head, and the only place to do that is in the ocean.
I don’t want to think about Dad anymore, or this house, or Piper.
Especially Piper.
Once I’ve got my wetsuit on, I carry my board across the cool sand. The sun still hangs low in the sky, but the air is already warm despite the early hour. The wave is perfect. Large enough to distract me from my thoughts, but not so big that I’m risking a serious wipeout.
I paddle out. Only a half dozen surfers are out today since it’s not a weekend, so there’s not much of a lineup. I’ll be able to take as many waves as I need to clear my head.
Except on the first wave, I’m barely up before I make a rookie mistake and fall. On the next one, I drop in on another surfer, something I haven’t done since I was a rookie. The third wave is stellar, with a perfect crest, but I pop up too late and miss it.
After that, I miss wave after wave. I can’t get my mind off Dad, the house, or Piper.
Especially Piper.
After an hour, I give up and head back in. I rinse off in the outdoor shower—same as I always do—except now I can’t help reliving my naked run inside or the cold shower or the purple hair.
As if I didn’t have enough on my mind, when I check my mobile, I’ve got a voicemail from Sybil. I put my board up, then press play and listen to her robot voice while I walk upstairs.
“Archibald, your father’s asked me to check on your progress with your business proposal. He’d prefer it sooner rather than later so we can move forward with the transfer of the deed.”
Behind her monotone is a mountain of subtext. Dad’s already putting pressure on me to finish my proposal in less time than he’s agreed to. But if he’s going to approve it, my work will have to be something better than I can do in two weeks. Sybil didn’t say anything about Dad being anxious to see it or even move forward with it.
Yeah, nah, his only concern is me signing over the deed.
Anger coils in my chest, ready to strike. Dad’s my target but aiming for him will only hurt me. So, I dig into my business proposal instead, turning my anger at Dad’s lies and lack of confidence in me into motivation to prove him wrong.
I work for five hours straight—stopping only long enough to DoorDash a sandwich for lunch and place my order at Kenzo for the sushi Dex and Britta will pick up on their way over for the game later. I research and gather data, create a few graphs, and gain more confidence in my ability to prove to Dad that Bombora is solid. My folders for the four areas of focus—Market Research, Earnings Predictions, Branding, and Investment Costs—all have good information in them by the time my brain taps out for the day.
When I finally message Sybil, I’m able to report I’ve got a detailed outline of my proposal and notes for my PowerPoint presentation. There are still gaps to fill, but I’m pretty chuffed about what I’ve got so far.
I stand and stretch out my shoulders, they’re tight from all this sitting. I’m making progress. The last time I felt a sense of accomplishment this huge was when Dex won the WSL championship. But putting together the data and research for Bombora ismyaccomplishment. No one else’s.
I feel good. Like maybe I’ve found my purpose. At the same time, I’m bothered that I hope I’ve done something that will please Dad. I wish I could say I’m holding that hope because I need access to my trust, but it goes deeper than that. I’ve always been keen to please my dad. I don’t know how to stop feeling that way.
As if on cue, the Imperial March blasts from my phone.
I suck in my breath and answer. “Hi, Dad.”
“Archibald, Sybil says she’s received your proposal. Well done finishing so quickly,” he says with enough enthusiasm to shake off some of my nervousness about talking to him, until I realize what he’s said.
“Yeah, nah, Dad. It’s a more detailed outline than the first one I sent to you, but I’ve still got work to do. I need a bit more time, actually, to really perfect it. I’ve got a mountain of research, and I’m almost ready to put together a PowerPoint.” I match his enthusiasm while also bracing myself for any disappointment that may follow.
“Huh…I was hoping you’d be further along. I’ll take a look at what you’ve sent. If it looks good, you can finish the proposal when you get back.”
“Back where?” I ask, while trying to catch the thread I’ve lost in this conversation.
“Brisbane,” he says matter-of-factly. “Cynthia’s lawyers are putting pressure on me to finalize everything. I’m in New York right now, but I’ll have Sybil book you a flight for Monday. Tuesday at the latest. I’ll meet you there.”
I haven’t braced myself enough. His dismissiveness takes me out like the rogue wave that ended my surfing career.
“It hasn’t been two weeks. You said I had two weeks.” The excited eight-year-old is gone, but the one too eager to please is present and accounted for.
