Page 29 of My Favorite Lost Cause
What the hell is this house doing to me? To us both?
16
CHARLIE
Iconvince Maren to grab dinner in town with me. The restaurant is not great by any means—the flatware sticks to the table and half the patrons are yelling at the TV—but it will suffice. She tries to order a salad, and I make her eat a steak as well. I order us each a glass of red wine, though she didn’t ask for one.
I’m still worried. She seems fine now, but for long minutes after I found her, she behaved like someone coming out of a trance: her movements slow, uncertain.
And how do you fall asleep and then have no awareness of it when you awaken? She says it’s probably because she went for a run this morning, but a short run shouldn’t knock anyone outthatmuch.
As much as I’ve belittled her concerns about the house—though I think they’re actually Harvey’s concerns—I now wonder if there was some truth to them. Is there too much carbon dioxide up there? Is she allergic to something? If she doesn’t wind up pregnant when they start IVF, she’ll never forgive me or herself.
“Are you okay?” I finally ask.
She forces a smile. “The bartender has been watching you all night.”
I look over my shoulder, and the bartender in question gives me a flirty little smile. Under other circumstances, I’d consider it, but she doesn’t hold much appeal with Maren sitting right in front of me.
“Pretty bold of her,” I tell Maren. “For all she knows, you’re my wife.”
Maren’s lovely eyes darken. “There are a lot of women for whom that would only make you more appealing.”
I watch her face carefully, wondering if I can ask the question that sits on the tip of my tongue:Is Harvey cheating? And if so, why the fuck are you putting up with it?She won’t tell me the truth, though. She knows I’d kick his ass and she probably knows I’ve been eagerly waiting for the chance.
Harvey doesn’t understand what he has. He’s never gotten her, although I’m not sure he’s the type of guy who’d treat anyone well for long.
“Why are you with him?” I ask. “He’s sort of an asshole, especially to you. I suspect you know this.”
She presses her napkin to her lips. “Because I’m thirty-two.”
“That old? I hope you’ve set up end-of-life instructions. There’s a nice new graveyard they’re putting in over on?—”
She balls up her napkin and tosses it at me. “Shut up. It’s different for you. You can have children forever.”
Indeed. I’ll never be free of that fear. Even vasectomies—I’ve investigated—can fail. Genitalia: the double-edged sword.
I push my plate back. “Then have them with someone else.”
She glances at her lap. Those model cheekbones look sharp in the bar’s dim light. “I should have married someone else,” she says, “but?—”
“Miller?” I cut in, my voice harsher than it should be.
“No,” she scolds. “I told you…I’m absolutely over that. No, Harvey has this friend who is such a sweetheart. He and his wife got married around the same time we did, and he’s dying to have kids, but I don’t think she wants them. Every time we’ve ever gone to dinner I think, ‘I should have married someone like him.’ But if I left Harvey, first I’d have to find someone else, then I’d have to date him for a year or two and somehow convince him to marry me in spite of the fact that I’ve got these fertility issues?—”
“I see that as winning the lottery, just so we’re clear.”
She smiles. “Shut up, Charlie. Anyway, I convince him to marry me. At this point I’m thirty-six or thirty-seven at the absolute youngest, and it’s even harder to get pregnant. And that’s only ifevery single thinggoes the way I want it to go.”
She’s clearly thought this through, which is good, but she’s come to the wrong fucking conclusion, which is less good. “You’re giving up an awful lot to have kids. Are you sure it’s worth it?”
Her eyes shine with conviction as she looks up at me. “I am. Becoming a mother is the only thing I’ve ever wanted. I don’t even know what’s left without it.”
I hate her response. I don’t know why. It’s not as if I’d be enough for her, no matter how she answered.
17
MAREN
