Page 24 of My Favorite Lost Cause
My arms ache, I’m sweating and filthy, and…no. Weirdly, I don’t regret it at all so far.
“Only if I contract bubonic plague over the course of the week,” I reply.
“You probably already have it,” he says with a blithe smile, and I laugh. Charlie Dalton is the only person alive who could make me laugh over contracting a fatal illness.
I make a simple dinner that night while Charlie showers in my cottage. We eat out on the back deck—I bought a little machine at the store to run off the mosquitos—and I am slightly tipsy though I’ve only had one glass of wine.
Charlie’s telling me about this woman he took home once who wanted him to rate each of her parts on a one-to-ten scale. He was—typical of Charlie—slightly too honest.
I swirl the remnants of the wine in my glass as I turn toward him. “Can I ask you something?”
He raises a brow. “The fact that you think you need permission to ask means this must be incredibly invasive. Fine. Yes, I’ve jerked off to a photo of your mom. Are you happy? It was way before my dad married her.”
“Charlie!” I scream. “Jesus. No. That is not what I was going to ask. For fuck’s sake. Mymom?”
He shrugs, entirely without guilt. “She was inSports Illustratedand I was, like, twelve. I mean, if it helps, I was kind of thumbing through the magazine, so it was maybe only twenty-five percent Ulrika. Okay, thirty percent. Thirty to forty.”
I push my plate away. He’s destroyed my appetite—probably forever. “Does your dad know?”
“My father is a man,” he says, “and as a man, he recognizes that any straight male with access to a picture of your mom straddling a beach ball has jerked off to a photo of her straddling a beach ball. It’s like asking if I’ve ever coughed. Of course I’ve fucking coughed. I’m human and my lungs function.”
Ugh. I really wish I didn’t know this. “You don’t still…?”
He flinches. “God, no. I mean, don’t get me wrong, your mother is still attractive. But to know Ulrika is to see below the surface and…no offense, but it’s pretty murky down there.”
I rise, stacking his plate atop my own. “I can’t tell if you’re referring to her soul or something sexual.”
“I was referring to her need for attention and her constant self-focus, but given how many men she’s been with, she strikes me as being somewhat murky in other regards as well.”
“Nice double standard, Whore of Manhattan.”
He laughs, following me with the wineglasses as I head into the kitchen. “That’s fair. Now, what did you want to ask?”
“Never mind.”
“Oh Maren, how little you know me after all these years.” He bumps me out of the way at the sink and begins washingthe dishes, as we’ve discovered that though the dishwasher works, it doesn’t workwell. “Surely you realize that I’m going to continue suggesting disturbing things until you tell me? Do I think my father has ever peed on your mother? Perhaps, but by accident. Are they into role-play? I guarantee your mother has a schoolgirl uniform. Do I think they have anal? There’s a ton of lube in their bathroom. More than two people could ever require. At least three times a?—”
“I’m begging you to stop.”
“Then ask me your question.”
I grab a dish towel and start drying. “You need to be honest.”
“Brutal honesty is all I’m good for, as you well know.”
“Do I need a boob job?” I ask, releasing the breath I’d held a moment too long. “I know you probably feel like you’ve got to say no, but I just want an honest?—”
“Yes,” he says firmly.
My heart sinks. “Really?”
“If you’re asking me, that must mean that you’re insecure about them. If you’re insecure about them, nothing I or anyone else says is going to change that. So do what will make you feel best. If you’ve got to go shoot some silicone in those puppies to feel good about yourself, then knock yourself out.”
They don’tshootthe silicone, but that isn’t what matters right now.
I shake my head. “I…I’m okay with them. I mean, they’re not huge, but I think they’re a decent size for my frame.”
“Then why are you asking?” He turns toward me with narrowed eyes, as if he already knows the answer and is waiting for me to confirm it.
