Page 9 of Terms Of Un-Endearment
“I’m so sorry.” I pick up one of the bigger pieces, not noticing the crack in the middle until it breaks in half, both sides falling to the floor despite my attempts to catch them. They completely shatter.
I crouch in front of the mess, not sure what to do. The thin glass is so fragile, I don’t dare touch anymore.
“Can you get me a box or something to put the pieces in?” I let my hair curtain my face so Archie can’t see how close I am to tears.
He doesn’t answer, but a second later he crouches next to me and picks up a bright blue piece of the vase. After turning it over once, he tosses it to the floor where it shatters into even more pieces. “It’s fine. I’ll sweep it up later.”
I stare at the newly broken shards. “This is art, Archie. You don’t throw it away.”
“It’s just stuff, Piper. Don’t worry about it.” He brushes his hands on his shorts.
I turn my gaze to him, not moving from my crouched position. I shouldn’t be shocked. I’ve known the Forsythes long enough to understand how their wealth keeps them from really valuing anything. When you have as much money as they do, everything is replaceable. Including people.
Slowly I stand. “I’ll clean it up. Where’s your broom?”
Archie stares at me like he doesn’t understand what I’ve said.
I sigh and walk past him into the kitchen, straight to a door I’m guessing is the pantry. Sure enough, there’s a broom and dustpan right inside the door. I find a plastic bag under the sink, and go back to the entryway where Archie hasn’t moved.
I sweep up the vase, trying not to think about how much it cost. As I empty the dustpan into the plastic bag, the hallway light catches a piece and reflects a cerulean ray on the wall. I am sick to my stomach about all of this—the house not being Mom’s, not having anywhere to go, breaking this beautiful vase, and Archie not caring about any of it.
I knot the bag and hand it to Archie. It kills me that something this beautiful is about to get thrown away, and I’m not going to be the person who does it. If the vase were mine, I’d make something out of the pieces—a mosaic or something. Maybe even jewelry.
“Thanks,” Archie mumbles. He tosses the bag to the bottom step before grabbing my luggage. “I’ll help you to your car.”
I stare at the bag of broken glass. At least the stairs are carpeted. Not that it matters if the vase gets any more broken before going in the trash.
I look back at Archie and find the only words he might understand. At least at a sentence level. He definitely won’t know what I mean in a real-life kind of way.
“I don’t have a car,” I say through clenched teeth.
“Oh.” He winces with surprise. “How’d you get here?”
“Well, I didn’tdrivefrom New York.”
I shouldn’t be so irritated with him. I’m the one who broke an expensive piece of art after storming into a house that doesn’t belong to my mother. I should be grateful Archie cares even less about the vase than he does about me. But things are all messed up in my head.
Why didn’t Mom tell me things weren’t actually settled?
Why did Sybil send the information ahead of the actual settlement?
Where am I going to go?
“I can drive you.” He grabs my bigger suitcase and wheels it closer to my other bag.
“I’ll call an Uber.” I pull the smaller suitcase to my side before he can grab it.
“That will take forever this time of day. Just let me drive you.” He takes the suitcase handle again, his fingers wrapping around mine.
I tug it back.
Archie doesn’t give in so easily and pulls harder, his hand tighter around mine now.
I pull harder back.
This may be the first time we’ve ever touched, and that thought shouldnotexcite me. Neither should the angry flash of gold in his green eyes or our game of luggage tug-of-war.
I can’t take the emotional tug-of-war happening inside me and fueled by his touch. I hate him. I don’t care that his touch feels more protective than threatening. I need it to stop. I needhimto stop.
