8. Piper
Piper
I wake up to a call from Mom. It’s only six am, but I’m still on New York time, so my body thinks I’ve slept in.
“Hi, Mom.” I climb out of bed with a yawn. As long as I’m up early, I might as well sit on the back patio with a cup of coffee while I figure out my Plan B.
“Sweetie, my reception is terrible, but I wanted to make sure you found somewhere to stay last night.” Mom’s phone crackles with static.
“Actually, Archie is letting me stay here for the weekend.”
“What’s that?” Mom yells. “You’re breaking up.”
“I’m at the beach house for the weekend,” I say slowly and loudly. “I’ll get a hotel on Monday.”
In the long pause that follows, I tuck my sketchpad under my arm, grab my toolbox of pencils and markers and head downstairs.
I think I’ve lost Mom until I hear a static, “Joe says not to leave. Possession is nine-tenths of the law—he's on the phone with my lawyer.”
For a second, I’m not sure I heard her right, but then her voice comes through loud and clear. “Do not leave that house! Malcolm is not getting out of this settlement!”
She wants me to refuse to leave?
“Archie’s name is on the deed, Mom. The house isn’t Malcolm’s. I can’t just stay. I’d be trespassing.” I haven’t forgotten Archie’s threats from last night.
The answer I get is too static and broken to understand before the line goes dead.
As I walk to the patio, I stare at my phone, hoping for a text from Mom. Or a telegram. I’d even take Morse code—I wouldn’t understand it, but it would make more sense than what Mom just told me.
She wants me to be a… squatter ?
Finally, a message pops up:
Sorry, bad reception. Stay at the house. My attorney will inform Malcolm.
Don't give into them!
I respond:
That’s sooooo awkward. I don’t want to get in the middle of this.
She doesn’t respond.
Fan- tastic .
This is what things have come to with Mom and Malcolm? I’m supposed to just move in—uninvited—with the ex-stepbrother I can’t stand?
No, thank you.
Even though we did have a moment yesterday. Well, sort of.
I had no idea Archie didn’t think of himself as a real actor.
He’s always seemed veeeeery confident in who he is.
I’ve never heard him give Malcolm credit for his career and fame.
But yesterday, Archie actually seemed…I don’t know…
vulnerable, maybe? Still not quite aware of how good he has it, but with a few more baby steps, he could be.
I might suggest cleaning up after himself as the first baby step.
When I walk into the amazing chef’s kitchen that I cleaned meticulously before climbing into bed last night, traces of Archie are everywhere.
The fancy espresso machine is spotted with milk.
Drops of coffee are splattered on the counter.
An open carton of milk is on the white stone counter.
The slightly ajar fridge door is beeping angrily.
I sigh and set my supplies on the kitchen table.
I’m not sure where Archie went after showing me to Frankie’s room last night, but he was gone when I came downstairs later.
I spent nearly an hour washing the dirty dishes he’d left in the sink and around the kitchen, including the blender caked with dried kale and a plate with cheese stuck to it—so gross.
I also wiped up the almond milk he’d spilled, and the kale leaves that didn’t make it into his smoothie.
I had planned on Doordashing something for dinner, but I discovered the fridge stocked with organic meals from some kind of food service.
The Mediterranean salmon dish looked especially delicious with a best by date of today.
Rather than wasting good food and ordering in, I heated the salmon for myself, cleaned up my own—minimal—mess, and then went to bed where I slept like a baby.
I doubt Hurricane Archie will notice the meal is gone, but I’ll Venmo him once I see him.
If I really wanted to find him, all I’d have to do is follow his path of destruction. He mentioned housekeepers yesterday, but I wonder how often they come. Not daily, that’s for sure.
I could wait for them to show up to pamper the poor little rich boy.
Instead, I find a dishcloth and wipe down the espresso machine.
Archie’s letting me stay for the weekend.
I’ve helped myself to his food. The least I can do is keep things clean.
And, honestly, after two years in a tiny Greenwich kitchen, and two in the dorms at Parsons before that, cleaning a high-end kitchen like this is very satisfying.
A space this beautiful needs to sparkle.
I’ve almost accomplished my goal when Archie startles me with a, “Hey.”
I gasp and turn to face him, then have to hold back a second gasp. Does Archie own any shirts? How many more times am I going to have to pretend not to be distracted by his bare chest and six-pack?
Or is it an eight pack?
I force myself not to count. “Uh, hi. Do you want some breakfast? I’ll make some eggs, if you don’t mind me bumming food off you until I can get to the grocery store.”
“Sure. Help yourself.” Archie’s gaze bounces around the room, hitting everything but me. "I’m not sure what we’ve got in the fridge. I've only been back since yesterday morning."
“Well, you've got a lot to choose from.” I open the fridge wide to let him see the stocked shelves. “I owe you for one of the dinners I helped myself to last night.”
“You don’t owe me anything.” He glances into the fridge, then raises a shoulder in a shrug. “I guess I forgot to cancel the meal service when we were gone. Housekeeper must have put it away.”
“Yeah. That makes sense,” I say, even though it doesn't. Who forgets to cancel food being delivered? That’s like throwing money in the garbage.
“Do you think your housekeeping service might have been canceled? Mom said that the utilities and taxes and things were paid up for a year, but she didn’t know about the cleaning service. ”
“No clue,” he says with a shrug and a bit of a dazed look. I guess if he didn’t know he was supposed to sign over the deed to the house, he probably hasn’t been told about anything else to do with the house.
“No worries. I’m happy to help out while I’m here.”
Archie looks around for the first time, noticing—or maybe, wondering—who's cleaned up after him. “Cheers. Yeah, that'd be great. The two of us won’t make much mess.”
One of us won’t anyway, I think to myself before I take out the organic carton of eggs and the milk, then find a bowl. “Scrambled eggs okay? With some toast?” That’s about the extent of what I know how to cook without step-by-step directions.
Archie nods and stuffs his hands into the pockets of his sweatpants before wandering to the table.
I haven’t forgotten Mom’s order that I stay here. The idea of squatting makes me queasy, and I don’t want to be in the middle of this, but...I have an internship and nowhere else to go and there’s all this free food.
I don’t know what to do, but I don’t need to decide right now.
Not with Archie and his abs a few feet away.
"So, are you always up this early?" I ask. I hate awkward silences.
Archie shrugs. “Yeah, mostly. Surf is usually best in the morning and it’s a hard habit to break. What about you?”
“Not always, but my body is still on New York time." I beat the eggs and a splash of milk together. “Do you have salt somewhere?”
“Probably.” He crosses the kitchen to open a cabinet. “Maybe in here?" It’s full of glasses, so he searches in the next cabinet.
Meanwhile, I try the cabinet to the right of the stove, where it makes sense to keep salt and pepper.
"Found it," I tell him, wondering how he doesn’t know where the salt is in his own house.
"I'll find the bread." Archie, suddenly helpful, saunters to the fridge where, after a cursory search, he does not find 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 an oops look.
“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 recognize some of 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.”