11. Piper
Piper
A fter the shower incident, I barely see Archie for most of the day, which is fine by me.
I “saw” a little too much of him this morning, and I’m uncomfortable with how much I keep replaying the image of him in that towel.
Or towels . The man looks good in a towel, whatever size it may be.
Small…slightly larger…extra-large. He can pull them all off.
NOT THAT I WANT HIM TO!
I don’t. I swear .
At the same time, I don’t regret that the reason Archie was in that towel is my own fault.
On my list of accomplishments, near the top is not laughing in Archie’s face That feat took monumental strength.
Not only when he begged me to get him a towel but also when he thought the faucet was the source of hot water.
Honestly, I shouldn’t be surprised that Archie was today-years-old when he learned what a water heater is. Replaying the look on his face when I asked him where hot water came from makes me laugh out loud.
But then my mind skips to dangerous thoughts of Archie’s bare butt.
(Yes, I looked. Don’t judge). I fight them all day.
They circle my brain like a mouse taunting a cat, pouncing whenever I think I’m safe.
The only way to escape is to stay focused on the fact he’s trying to cheat Mom out of the beach house, and to literally escape being in the same room with him.
Better yet, I need to get out of this house altogether.
Which isn’t easy considering I don’t have a car or money to go anywhere.
Luckily, I’m within a couple dozen feet of the beach, which is free, close, and exactly what I need.
There’s nothing better than relaxing on the sand.
I grab the extra-large beach towel I had to search under to find the much smaller towel for Archie and spread it in a spot that’s close to the water and not too crowded.
I lie down and close my eyes, thinking I’ll sleep a bit. The sun is out, but the slight autumn breeze tempers the sun’s rays.
When I can’t sleep, I sit up and people watch. The beach is crowded today. As the afternoon wanes, families build bonfires to roast hot dogs; little kids dig holes that fill with water when the tide comes in; couples stroll on the sand holding hands; body boarders ride the waves.
Then there’s me.
All by myself.
I don’t even have a book, let alone someone to talk to. After a year with Nightmare Ashley talking nonstop, I should be grateful for the quiet. And I am. I’m just used to having more people around.
The sidewalks in New York are always busy, and even though they’re full of strangers, I knew the baristas at my local coffee shop, the clerk at my favorite bookstore, Miguel at the bodega on the corner.
I didn’t have many close friends in New York, but between school and my neighborhood, I had a community.
My two closest friends from school, Christian and Gwen, got jobs in New York right after graduation and are sharing an apartment now.
As I scroll through their Instagram pictures, I wonder if I should have moved in with them and avoided all this drama.
I thought I was ready to come back to LA, but sitting in the bright sunlight on an Autumn day makes me long for my favorite Max Mara camel coat I got at a sample sale and the Chloe boots I found at my favorite resell store.
While I question whether I’ve made the biggest mistake of my life coming back to LA, I offer smiles to the people enjoying themselves. They either don’t notice or pretend not to see me. When my skin begins to turn an uncomfortable pink, I know I have to go inside, even if it means facing Archie.
Fortunately, he’s gone. And I really shouldn’t feel as disappointed about that as I do.
In the downstairs bathroom, I notice he’s still using the skincare brand he did ads for a few years ago.
I wonder if they still give him free product or if he’s paying the ridiculous prices they charge.
My guess is the first, because it seems as though the people who need it the least are the ones who get the most free stuff, which only makes me more irritated with Archie.
With that in mind, I help myself to another one of his meal kits. Who knows? The company may be comping Archie, too.
After dinner, I watch a few episodes of “Emily in Paris” on my phone, scroll through TikTok, and sketch at the kitchen table, trying not to think about what Archie is doing or who he may be spending time with while I’m here alone.
When my eyes begin to water with fatigue, I go to my room.
It's only nine p.m., but midnight in New York, so, technically, not too early to crawl into bed the night before my internship starts. I’ve been so distracted by all this Forsythe nonsense I haven’t had time to stress about my new job.
I make up for lost time by over-stressing for the next two hours. Eventually, though, I fall asleep.
The next thing I know, my alarm is going off.
I throw back the bed covers and hit the alarm clock at the side of the bed, panicked that I’m late for my first day of work.
The alarm doesn’t stop, and as the time on the clock registers in my brain, I realize the ringing isn’t from the alarm clock.
It’s midnight. I’ve only been asleep an hour at the most.
An automated voice follows the blaring sound, repeating Fire. Fire. Fire. Vacate the premises. Fire. Fire. Fire. Vacate the premises.
I grab a sweatshirt from the bottom of my bed and rush into the hallway. The alarm on the ceiling just outside my doorway is flashing, and even though there’s no smoke anywhere that I can see, let alone fire, my body is in panic-mode. I don’t know what to do.
Archie's door opens. He walks into the hallway wearing board shorts and no shirt, his hair normal-messy rather than sleep-messy, looking wide awake and unconcerned.
And maybe I’m seeing things, but there’s definitely a smile on his face, even if there’s not one on his lips. "Sometimes it does this when there are bonfires on the beach," he says. "It's pretty sensitive. Go back to bed. I'll fix it."
He jogs down the stairs and disappears, and in less than a minute, the alarm stops. Because, apparently, the source of hot water is a mystery to him, but the alarm system he knows all about.
I wait outside my room for him to come back while my heart calms and my brain fully catches up.
“Really sorry about that,” he says when he gets to the top of the stairs. “I shut it off, so it should be fine now.”
“Unless there’s an actual fire,” I mutter as I turn back to my room.
Archie huffs a laugh. “I didn’t dismantle the whole thing. We should be safe from any fires or any more rude awakenings.”
My head shoots around with the emphasis he puts on rude awakenings, but he’s already turned back to his room.
I've barely fallen asleep before the voice is back, ordering me to evacuate. I don’t rush into the hall again, but I swear, the longer I stay in my bed, the louder the fire warning gets.
Finally, I shuffle across the room and open my door, not surprised to see Archie there, his head tilted back, staring at the flashing alarm on the ceiling.
"Sorry. Like I said, it's pretty sensitive." His gaze stays glued to the alarm, as though he might be able to shut it off if he wins the stare down.
After a few more seconds, he sighs, then disappears down the stairs again. He does whatever magic he did the first time, and the voice goes off.
He didn’t...do this on purpose, did he? The night before my internship?
He wouldn’t, would he?
I go back to bed before he makes it up the stairs. If he’s doing this on purpose, I’m not going to give him the satisfaction of seeing how irritated I am.
The alarm goes off three more times during the night, so by the time my actual alarm buzzes at six a.m., I’m even more tired than I was the night before. I roll out of bed and make my way downstairs. A shower isn’t going to be enough to wake me up. I need coffee. Lots and lots of coffee.
I smell the kitchen before I get there, but when I turn the corner, my mouth drops open. The kitchen I left spotless after making my dinner is a disaster. Visually and olfactorily. I don’t need to guess who is responsible for this.
The pungent odor is easily traceable to a torn-open, half-empty bag of microwave popcorn on the counter, surrounded by charred black pieces of popcorn.
I scoop them back into the bag which has even more burned pieces inside, then carry it to the outside garbage and leave the back door open when I come back.
I’m tempted to search for air freshener, but since I’m not going to be home today, I’ll let the ocean breeze carry away some of the stink.
Archie can handle the new smoothie mess he made, the empty fast-food wrappers on the counter, and whatever he’s spilled on the floor that I’ve stuck to twice.
Except, he won’t.
I’ve been here less than forty-eight hours, and I already know he’s a slob.
Unless that’s an act to irritate me…which seems possible.
Because how can any adult just walk away from this mess?
Does he really not see it? Or smell it? Who does he think is going to clean it up if the housekeeper—who hasn’t been here since I showed up—is gone?
I don't have answers to any of those questions, except the last one.
Me.
Archie expects me to clean up his mess after waking me up five times last night.
That wasn’t an accident, I’m sure of it.
And his rude awakening wasn’t an innocent turn of phrase.
He used to do the same thing when I was a kid, and he’d casually mention LBP, like I was too dumb to know he was talking about me.
Well, Archie’s in for his own rude awakening if he thinks I’ll be his housekeeper. Nope. I refuse. I spent an entire year cleaning up after Nightmare Ashley. I'm not doing it with Archie. No matter how much I’m itching to wipe everything down again and toss the empty beer bottle tipped on its side.