Terms Of Un-Endearment (Love in LA #2)

1. Piper

Piper

T he most important lesson I’ve learned from my mother, Cynthia Quinn Lopez Forsythe soon-to-be Richmond, is that a woman who lets a man define her life ends up losing everything. Mom has given up everything for men. And they’ve always left her for something—or someone—new.

I’m not making that mistake. Ever.

So, no one should be surprised that I’m reluctant to accept anything connected to Malcolm Forsythe, my soon-to-be ex-stepdad.

Not even a twelve-million-dollar beach house a short bus ride away from my hard-fought internship in a city with a severe housing crisis.

I’ve sworn for years that I’ll make it on my own, but unless one of the three dozen LA landlords I’ve reached out to in the last few weeks calls me back today, I’ll be showing up broke and homeless.

Which is why I haven’t ended this call with Mom, even though I’ve already said no to her offer to stay in a free beach house—the only asset she’s taking from her marriage to Malcolm. Necessity is the mother of compromising high ideals—or something like that—and I’m out of options and ideals.

“Piper, for goodness’ sake, you won’t be staying in Malcolm’s house; you’ll be staying in my house,” Mom says, followed by a muffled, “Not so short, Kelly. Joe likes them long.”

Of course she’s calling me from the nail salon. I should have known.

I tuck my phone between my shoulder and ear as I yank open the top drawer of my dresser.

I haven’t seen my AirPods since Ashley, my nightmare roommate, “borrowed” them last week.

No way am I broadcasting this conversation on speaker.

The last thing I need is for Ashley to hear anything about me living in a bougie beach house in South Bay.

She’ll show up for a “visit,” and I’ll have a squatter situation on my hands.

I drop clothes into the suitcase at my feet that takes up most of the floor space in my room that’s technically a walk-in closet. “If you’re not getting any money from Malcolm in the settlement, then you’re going to need the house. You can sell it or rent it out.”

“You need somewhere to stay more than I need an income. I’ve got Joe to take care of me, honey.”

“That’s what you said about Malcolm. And Ricardo.” I don’t add my father to the list. I’ve never met him, but I’m sure his promises were just as empty.

“Joe is different,” Mom says, her voice drifting into that sugary dreamland where love lasts forever—again.

“And rich.”

Did I say that out loud? Mom’s silence makes me think I did.

“He’s not rich,” she says, finally.

What she means is that Joe only has millions of dollars, not billions, like Malcolm.

“The point is…” I shove the drawer closed, and it slips off the track. I catch it and try to wrestle it back in. “Based on past history, you should play it safe, Mom.”

One more shove and my glasses slip down my nose while the drawer splits down the middle.

Furniture from a box isn’t known for its quality, but that’s all I’ve been able to afford while attending Parsons in New York.

Good thing I wasn’t planning on taking anything besides my clothes and my sewing machine home to LA.

I was hoping, though, to get ten dollars for the dresser off Marketplace.

“You’re not going to change my mind, Piper…Ouch! Careful, Kelly!”

I doubt Kelly has hit any rawer nerve than I have, but if I keep pushing Mom, her poor nail tech is the one who will take the heat.

I tuck a pile of shirts in my suitcase as Mom enters round three of repeating how she’s going to solve my problems. What she doesn’t say is that, in the process, she’ll feel like a good mother.

“I’ll be fine for the next six months while you intern at Valente,” Mom repeats, “and honestly, Piper, I know LA. What else will you do? The beach house is your only good option.”

I sigh, finally ready to surrender. At least I tried, for her own sake, to talk her out of giving me the beach house.

But for my sake, I've never been so grateful for my mother's stubborn nature. Even if I only stay in the house—which will always be Malcolm’s house in my mind—for a month or two, it gives me time to figure something out.

“When, or if, you’re ready to move on when this internship ends,” Mom continues, “I’ll decide what to do with the house.” Then… “a little shorter, Kelly.”

The faint whir of a nail file fills the silence. “Anyway, I’m having too much fun renovating Joe’s place in Kauai to step foot in Malcolm’s love nest any time soon.”

I let out a short laugh. The sour note she hits on the word “love” sums up my feelings regarding it, too. “I’m glad you’re having fun, Mom. And I appreciate you want to help.”

“Sweetie, it’s more than that,” Mom says, her tone more serious, which catches my attention.

Serious moods are rare with Mom. “The reason I dropped my fight for alimony and a stake in Malcolm’s company and agreed to just the house in South Bay is for you .

I want you back in LA, and South Bay is the perfect place for a young, single, beautiful girl to meet someone. ”

I pull my phone away from my ear, so Mom won’t hear me roll my eyes.

“Stop rolling your eyes!”

“How…?” I stammer, then catch myself. “I’m not!”

“You are, but don’t ignore my advice. South Bay is full of rich, young… ish bachelors. This is an incredible opportunity to make connections that could map the course of your entire life.”

“No pressure, though,” I mutter.

“Don’t be so cynical. If you want me to say I did this for me, too…fine. That’s true,” Mom continues. “I’m tired of fighting and even more tired of being tied to Malcolm’s purse strings.”

I’m touched that I even factored into her decision, but I can also see that she’s tying up loose ends, making sure I’m taken care of so she can sail off into the sunset without any guilt. Literally. She’s leaving on a three-month cruise with Joe in a couple of days.

Of course.

But…I’m grateful for what Mom’s done. She wanted to punish Malcolm for cheating on her, and she knew going after his money would be the thing that hurt him the most. Losing the beach house is a slap on the wrist for him, but Mom’s shown huge growth walking away from this fight.

“Okay, Mom, I’ll move into the beach house. Thank you.” This doesn’t make me dependent on her, I reassure myself. She’ll be able to leave on her trip feeling like a good mom, and I’ll have a place to stay.

“Sweetheart! I’m so glad.” Mom’s tone softens to the voice she uses when she’s her truest self. “Malcolm hurt you as much as he hurt me. We both get to move forward now.”

I sink onto the blow-up mattress I’ve called my bed for the past couple of years in this tiny Greenwich Village apartment.

A toilet flushes upstairs. The outer walls of this brownstone are brick, but every wall and ceiling is paper thin.

I won’t miss hearing everything that happens upstairs, downstairs, and everywhere in between.

And I’m not sad that I don’t have to figure out how to sell my broken-down furniture—or deal with my nightmare roommate anymore.

I’ve loved my time in New York, but everything besides my sewing machine and suitcases, I’ll leave here.

I’ll start fresh in a place that’s clean, furnished, and, most importantly, roommate-less. I’ll be there blissfully alone .

“Thanks, Mom,” I say again, softer now.

“You’re welcome…and if I’m wrong about Joe, then I’ll join you in South Bay, and we’ll figure out the next step together. How about that?” Mom laughs.

I smile. “It’s a plan. I do hope things work out for you, you know?” I stop short of mentioning her relationship with Joe specifically.

“Hope is a survival skill, and we are survivors,” Mom says. “But money sure makes surviving easier.”

I laugh. She’s not wrong.

“Sybil emailed me the information about the security system and the codes to get in. I’ll forward it to you,” Mom says.

“That’s a name I haven’t heard for a while. I can’t believe she still works for Malcolm.”

Mom huffs. “That old bat is the only woman Malcolm hasn’t slept with and the only one he’s been loyal to.”

“Now who’s being cynical?” I tease. Mom has always been jealous of Malcolm’s personal assistant, even though on the spectrum of sexy secretaries Sybil is much more Monster’s Inc Roz than Mad Men Joan .

“Hush. I’ve earned it after she helped Malcolm try to hide assets,” she teases back before continuing.

“He’s paid for a year’s worth of home insurance, taxes, and maintenance upfront as part of the settlement.

Oh! And Sybil promised Archie and his friends will be moved out by the time you get there. ”

I freeze. Archie lives there?

I haven’t seen Malcolm’s son in years, and that’s been intentional. Archie made it clear I didn’t belong in his world from the minute Mom and Malcolm married.

Archie was sixteen. I was nine, insecure and desperate to fit into Mom’s new life. And Archie? He made sure I knew I was just the annoying tagalong—his exasperated sighs and eye rolls said it all. Things never got better between us.

Malcolm gave the beach house to Archie to hide it from Mom, so it makes sense that he’s living there.

“Am I dry? Are you sure?” Mom’s not talking to me anymore, and if she’s not trapped in a massage chair, we’re close to the end of our conversation.

“You’re sure Archie will be moved out when I get there?” I ask.

“Absolutely certain. He’s signing over the deed today and Sybil promised he’ll be back in Australia by Sunday.

He’s going to work for Malcolm—poor kid.

” Mom’s breezy assurance is less comforting than the fact Sybil was involved with the details.

Nothing happens without Sybil. If she says it’s taken care of, it’s taken care of.

“Does Archie know I’ll be the one living there, not you?” I’m not sure how I feel about his knowing.

On the one hand, I’ve spent years not caring about what Archie thinks. On the other hand, I sort of like the idea of him moving out, so I can move in.

Actually, there’s no sort of about it.

I love the 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. All the 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.