20. Archie
Archie
T he match is still going when I walk back into the main room. I grab a beer from the esky, then set it back down again before sitting on the couch next to Dex. No drink is strong enough to quiet the rising storm in my chest.
“Where’s Piper?” I ask after a few minutes. I don’t see her anywhere.
“She and Stella went upstairs,” Britta answers from the kitchen. “Whatever you talked about, she wasn’t happy.”
“Your little sister’s all grown up,” Rhys says with a beer bottle pressed to his bottom lip, and a smile I’m not keen on.
“She’s not my sister, and she’s still an irritating kid.” The words feel hollow. What I want to say is that he should keep his eyes off Piper, but I can’t say that without sounding either like the big brother I don’t want to be or the creeper who can’t stop thinking about his fake sister.
Britta plants herself on Dex’s lap and says, “You should be nice to her, Arch.”
“I’m trying. You might want to have the same conversation with her.” I point to my hair, and she laughs.
I’m deflecting, I know. But it’s that or admit to myself how much I thought about kissing her on that weight bench. I can’t even blame it on too many beers. Our conversation sobered me up fast.
“I don’t know her well enough to give that sort of advice,” Britta replies before cocking her head to the side. “When did you start using self-tanner?” she asks at the same time a collective groan rings out as the Geelong Cats score against the Brisbane Lions, my team.
Literally mine—sort of. Forsythe Tech is their biggest corporate sponsor.
Then I realize what Britta has said. “What are you talking about? I don’t use self-tanner.”
She leans close to my face. “Archie, you’ve got a line right here where you stopped or didn’t spread it evenly.” Britta runs a finger across the bottom of my jaw.
I put my hand where she had her fingers, then dart to the bathroom. I’d noticed my face looked off this morning after my shower, but I thought it was the lighting in the bathroom along with being newly blond.
Now as I study my face in the mirror, I see exactly what Britta is talking about. I look like I got hit with a spray tanner. But how?
“Piper,” I growl, glaring at the mirror as if she might be on the other side of it.
In the reflection of the shower behind me, I see my face wash. I grab it and twist off the top. The smell is the first thing that’s off. I can’t believe I didn’t notice before. When I pour the liquid into my hand, it has a brownish tint to it.
I groan, then dump the entire bottle down the sink.
I’m not a vain bloke. I’m not interested in plastic surgery or trying to fix my many physical imperfections.
But after I did a couple ads for this skincare brand and I’d used the free product they gave me for a year, I was sold on taking care of my skin.
I know too many sun-damaged surfers not to.
I don’t want to be mistaken for a dried-up sultana when I’m in my forties.
I’m not too proud to admit I’ve got a strict skincare regimen.
And I’ve just poured a couple hundred dollars’ worth of it down the drain. Normally, I’d only be annoyed about having to re-order my product. But with Dad threatening to cut off my allowance, I’m starting to realize how dependent on him I am.
I’ve got nothing to wash off the tanner except hand soap. It’s useless. After a few scrubs, my face is red on top of orange and drier than the Simpson Desert. I stare at my face and hair in the mirror, growing angrier by the second.
I walk back into the main room and stand in front of the TV. My mates yell for me to move.
“She put self-tanner in my face wash,” I say over their cries, which immediately stop.
Everyone is quiet as I take a seat next to Dex. I’ve preached the gospel of skincare more than once to every bloke in this room. I’m not looking for sympathy, but I appreciate their moment of silence for my lost face wash.
“It’s not that bad, Arch,” Rhys says.
“It was a low blow, mate.” Dex pats my back.
His condolences don’t sound entirely sincere.
Britta, on the other side of Dex, leans forward to catch my eye. “I hate to say it, Archie, but you’re not going to beat Piper.”
“I’m not trying to beat her. Everything I’ve done is payback for the pranks she’s pulled on me.” I don’t meet her eye, hoping she doesn’t hear the lie in my voice or read it on my face.
What’s happening between Piper and me is more than a ridiculous prank war.
Maybe that’s how it started, but everything’s changed since I pulled her into the gym.
At least for me. She still wants me out of the house, but I’m not sure what I want anymore.
I definitely don’t want to go back to Brisbane.
That much I’m sure about. Problem is, I don’t know how to stay here without the beach house.
But I also can’t figure out how to keep it without unraveling the thin thread tethering me to Piper.
Every time I talk to her, I want our connection to be more than a thread. I want a thick rope that’s strong enough to keep us together after our parents’ marriage ends.
I have no idea what to do with these feelings. The fact is, I can’t keep this house and Piper at the same time. The decision which one I should fight for should be easy.
It’s not.
That realization needs some serious processing.
I’ve given Piper a place to stay—partly to make up for the way I treated her when we were younger—and tried to find a solution to this house mess that benefits us all. Somehow, I end up coming out in the wrong with purple hair bleached blond and a bad tan to boot.
Yet, instead of hating her, I hate the thought of her never forgiving me. Or, worse, never wanting to see me again.
“My mom used to say you catch more flies with honey,” Britta says, interrupting my thoughts. “You could try that approach instead of spiking her perfume with garlic.”
“Piper told you about that?” I wince at the memory. I still need to replace her perfume.
Britta nods at the same time the guys let out a collective groan as the Cats score again against the Lions. Before the wailing stops, Dex tugs on Britta’s hand.
“Let’s clean up and get out of here. You’ve got an early morning,” he says.
“Don’t worry about cleaning up.” I wave away his suggestion.
“You sure?”
I nod. “Yeah. Get your wife to bed.”
“Gladly,” he says in a voice that gets a blush, followed by a pinch, from Britta before she calls upstairs to Stella that they’re leaving.
I’m almost relieved they’re leaving. It’s hard enough sorting through my thoughts about Piper without talking about everything I’ve done wrong, too.
Everyone says their goodbyes and half an hour later when the game ends, the other’s follow. As soon as they leave, I face the kitchen and regret not accepting their offers to help. I have as much idea how to clean up this disaster as I do about how to sort through the feelings Piper’s stirred up.
Both tasks seem impossible.
I turn my back on the kitchen and check the surf report on my phone. Wave will be good in the morning. That’s what I need to sort all this out in my head—a good surf sesh. Which means bed for me. Kitchen can wait.
I make it three steps before I turn around. I can’t stop replaying every time Piper has compared me to Dad—and not in the way I’d want to be compared to him.
For all his faults, Dad is smart and works hard. He cares about his family, even if the way he shows it sometimes does more damage than good. He’s built a successful conglomeration of businesses from the ground up.
I’ve always known he wasn’t perfect, but Piper’s bluntness about the way he’s hurt people has forced me to really look at him . And what I’m discovering is a man who I don’t want to model myself after.
The first step there, I realize, is to be aware of how my decisions affect other people. If I walk away from this dirty kitchen, Piper may feel like she has to clean up after me, or that I expect her to. I don’t...at least, not anymore.
And if Piper learned how to be less dependent on other people to take care of her, maybe I can, too. I reckon I’ll have to if Dad follows through on his threats.
I scan the kitchen, cataloging everything as I search for a place to start.
Half-eaten sushi rolls are on plates, serviettes, and even dropped top-down on the table.
Trails of water from the esky full of melted ice lead to different destinations where drinks were set and forgotten.
The sink is stacked with dishes and glasses since I forgot to pick up disposable plates.
It’s a bit overwhelming, but there’s nothing to do but do it myself. The problem is, I’m not sure where to start. The easiest thing would be to just throw everything away, which seems a bit excessive with the plates and glasses since they’re reusable.
I start with the containers of sushi that haven’t been touched, but go straight to the rubbish. They’ve been out too long to risk saving—and it’s easier to throw them away. In fact, everything close to disposable gets tossed, which makes an encouraging dent in the mess.
I find the dishwasher, but there are a lot of buttons, and I’m not sure where all the dishes go inside. The last thing I want is to break the thing. I could call Dex, but he’s in bed. Also, I feel a little ridiculous that I don’t know how to wash dishes.
I give it a go, anyway.
Turns out, loading a dishwasher is fairly intuitive. Thirty minutes later, I’m chuffed when I’ve found a spot in the dishwasher for almost every dish.
Washing dishes isn’t as cathartic as surfing, but it does give me space to organize my thoughts and feelings into tangible ideas. I find the kind of clarity I’d hoped to find tomorrow on the waves. I’m still not sure what I want to do next, but I know what I don’t want to do.