Page 59 of My Favorite Lost Cause
Maybe he’s right, but how’s that even relevant? We both know nothing with Charlie can last forever.
27
MAREN
“When do you land?” my mother asks. “If you’re arriving early enough, we can get lunch at Pierre’s.”
I’m still in bed, now sleepily throwing off the covers and opening the door for the dogs. And the engagement party is still a week away…what the fuck?“Mom, I’m not arriving aweek earlyto help you with the party. I told you…I’m helping Charlie with the house. There’s stuff going on.”
“And as I toldyou,” she retorts, “there’s absolutely nothing you can do that will substantially help with that house.”
“He needs moral support,” I argue, putting the phone on speaker so I can dress while we talk. “And there’s this big country club event Thursday night where we might meet some people who can assist with our appeal.”
“You’re talking as if it’syourhouse,” she says pointedly. “And I don’t know why you can’t be happy for your sister.”
“Iamhappy for her!” I say with a heavy sigh. “But you seem to have no understanding of how awkward this is going to be for me. I dated Miller and now I’m getting divorced, and allyour friends will be dissecting every look on my face, every sigh, and reading into all of it. It’s going to be like the day after the Oscars, where they claim some actress was mad just because they’ve got a single photo of her not smiling. I can’t win.”
“Maren,” she tsks. “If you think they’re going to be examining your face to see if you are upset, just imagine what they will be saying if you haven’t shown up at the party at all.”
Jesus.“I never said I wasn’t going. But let’s stop acting like this is going to be super fun for me. All I can do is minimize damage, so I’m not arriving five days early to let all your friends get a head start gossiping about how upset I appear.”
“You could remedy that by not appearing to be upset,” she says.
“If even Oscar-nominated actresses can’t appear happy every second of a three-hour event, I probably can’t appear happy every moment over the course of several days.”
“You’re hiding out down there,” she says. “Plain and simple. It’s time to tear the Band-Aid off and return to real life.”
It’s possible she’s correct. It’s also possible that the longer I go without having to face all the fake-concerned looks from people about my divorce, the more daunting it will seem. “I’ll be there Friday.”
“With a smile on your face,” she warns as I hang up, and my stomach knots.
Evenshe’sdoing it. Even she is acting as if I’m upset about Kit’s engagement, as if I have tohidemy feelings, when what’s upsetting is that people willassumeI’m hiding my feelings and are sort of hoping to see the cracks.
Charlie and I haven’t discussed the party. I’d assumed he’d go, but with the house being condemned, maybe that’s changed.
“Hey, you’re planning to go to that party for Kit next weekend, right?” I venture over breakfast.
He finishes his green juice as if it’s a shot before he answers. “I told your mom I couldn’t make it. There’s too much going on here.”
I bite down on my lip. I know it’s busy. So busy. And he’s not even the one who wanted this house. But I need him there. He’s always been the first to notice when I’m upset, when I’m cornered, when I’m in need of backup. If one of my mother’s friends started in about how hard the situation must be, Charlie would ask some abominably rude question of the person giving me trouble, pull me onto the dance floor, or throw a drink if the situation was really dire.
“Are you sure you can’t come?” I ask.
He frowns. “Maren, Kit’s not even going to notice I’m missing.”
I’llnotice he’s missing, but maybe that’s part of the problem. Maybe my mother was right—that it’stime to tear the Band-Aid off. If my life was a house, Charlie used to be a single brick, but now he’s the entire foundation. Except he’s not interested in being anyone’s foundation. Which means that, eventually, he’s going to crumble.
On Thursday afternoon,I cut out early to get ready for the ball. There’s no one in Oak Bluff I’d trust to do my hair and makeup, but I got pretty accustomed to doing it myself when I was modeling. Once it’s done to my satisfaction, I step into the red satin ballgown and shoes I rush-shipped down here at ridiculous expense.
The shoes are a full size too small, but I can stand them for a few hours, and as I take in my reflection, I’m barely noticing the pain.
Will Charlie like it? Will he give me one of those long, slow looks of his?
I shouldn’t want it, but I do.
I tell myself that all this effort is on behalf of the house, on behalf of some mysterious town council member to be swayed or a shady developer to be brought into line. But it sort of feels like I just want to be a pretty girl in a dress, attending a fancy ball in an old mansion with the most handsome man I know.
Charlie is waiting as I emerge from the cottage. He wears a tux as if he was born in one.
