Page 3 of My Favorite Lost Cause
I text some friends who are as useless and lazy as I am before I hop in the shower. When I reach the bar, the aforementioned friends—most of them functional alcoholics like myself or straightforward alcoholics without the functional part—have sequestered an outdoor table, and I’ve soon got a girl in my lap who I will definitely be taking home later.
Is it weird that she looks a bit like Maren? Perhaps. Maybe it’ll make Maren uncomfortable enough to leave early. No good can come of this roommate situation, and it’s easy to see how a whole lot of bad could come out of it instead.
“A toast!” shouts Winslow, setting a tray full of shots on the table before us. He’s already hammered at four in the afternoon.Quite a feat given that he was at work until an hour ago. “To Charlie, because I’ve never seen a guyasdrunkas he was last night convince a sober woman to come home with him.”
I grab one of the shots, though I’m not sure that was much of a compliment. First of all, it’s a bad sign when I’m getting more drunk thanWinslow. Second…the girl I brought home? I couldn’t pick her out of a lineup. I don’t know her name. The thoughtI’ve got to slow downis overshadowed by the thoughtI can slow down oncemy life doesn’t feel like shit.
I’m sure Maren would have something to say about that. Maren would tell me things can’t feel better until I stop making them worse. She’s full of sage advice for everyone but her-fucking-self.
“Huh?” asks the girl in my lap. “Who’s Maren?”
I didn’t realize I’d said it aloud. I squeeze her hip. “Absolutely no one.”
She giggles for no discernible reason. I can already tell she’ll be a screamer, and if I were the biggest asshole ever, I’d make sure she screamed loud enough to wake Maren. Certainly, if my surliness isn’t bad enough to drive her away, the sound of me railing her lookalike would do the trick.
I’m not that much of an asshole, right?
Right?
“I need another shot,” I say.
Female laughter wakes me.Never a good sign.
I peel my eyes open, but my bedroom offers few clues. It’s a disaster, sure, but it’s been a disaster for a while. I vaguely remember the girl in my lap at the bar, and a bottle of wine opening after we met a friend of hers in the lobby, but then? Nothing. It troubles me, this gap. Mostly because threesomes don’t just fall in your lap. They’re the sort of memories that willkeep you warm in your old age, but you’ve got to actually remember them. I really need to clean my shit up a little.
There’s more laughter. Dammit. A hundred bucks says that Maren’s making them a nutritious breakfast while she administers STD tests. And now, these two nameless girls are happily settled into my apartment rather than tucked into a cab the way they should be.
I throw on sweats and trudge down to the kitchen, where Maren and two Maren-lookalikes are all busy drinking from large mugs and eating…muffins. Where the fuck did they get muffins?Andthose oversized mugs?
“Good morning,” I say with a forced smile.
“I didn’t know you wore glasses, Charlie!” one of them cries gleefully.
Unsurprising, since we met ten hours ago, and I still don’t know your name.
“I can’t believe Maren Fischer is your stepsister!” squeals the other.
They’re loud. And cheerful. Was I the only one who was drunk last night? Should I worry that I was taken advantage of?
“Yes, lucky me,” I say, shooting daggers at Maren, who beams back at me with her clear blue eyes and pink-flushed cheeks. A living blonde Barbie doll as always, with a kind word for everyone she meets.
Except…I’ve got Maren’s smiles memorized, and this is a new one. It’s not the brave, false one she wears when her husband ridicules her or the patient one she wears whenever Ulrika, her insane mother and my tiresome stepmother, says something ridiculous. Nor is it the unfettered, happy one I spy sometimes when I’ve made her laugh.
This one has an edge. And might be vengeful. Did I intentionally make a lot of noise last night? It seems…possible. I’m not the best version of myself when blackout drunk.
One of them starts asking Maren why she’s no longermodeling, and I can see that this hangout is never going to end. “I’m sorry to cut this short, ladies, but I’ve got a”—I scan my brain for a lie Maren won’t be able to refute—“meeting.”
“A meeting?” Maren asks. “Who would you need to meet with on a Sunday?”
Apparently, shecanrefute it.
But so can I. “Tokyo.”
Her raised brow and that glimmer of a smirk on her mouth scare me, because behind Maren’s Mother Teresa act lies an evil streak. I’d enjoy watching it unleashed. Just not at me. And not right now.
She glances at her watch. “It’s eleven at night there.”
Of course she remembers all the time zones from her modeling days.
