Page 83 of My Favorite Lost Cause
I get back to my cottage and prepare for bed with Echo and Narcy right at my heels, something that used to annoy me, but no longer does. “You miss your mom, guys, huh?” I ask.
I know the feeling.
I’ve never been a guy who calls a woman for no reason, but I just want to hear Maren’s voice. I want to hear how her day was, and probably get pissed off by whatever idiotic stuff Ulrika’s said to her. I want to tell her about the girl at the bar, slipping me her number, and that I threw it away.
If I didn’t know better, I’d say that I might be acting like a man who was ready for a commitment.
Where are you now?
Maren
Bed, but don’t get any ideas. My mom is right down the hall.
I’m calling.
“I need my bedtime myth,” I tell her, and she laughs.
Maren has this encyclopedic knowledge of Greek mythology, and every night, I get her to tell me a story. I’m pretty sure she could tell me a different one daily for a hundred years, and I’d never tire of it.
I like the sound of her voice, the yearning there when the story is sad and the excitement over the rare story that ends happily.
Sheets rustle on her end of the line. I picture her long, smooth legs sliding inside them. “My mom’s going to hear me telling you a myth and know something’s up.”
“Then tell her to mind her own fucking business. Actually, do it right now anyway. Then lock that door and take off your clothes, and we’ll move this to FaceTime.”
“I’ll just tell you a myth,” she says. “It’s less likely to result in Ulrika storming out of the house and threatening to leave your dad.”
I push my shorts to the floor and climb into bed. “Let’s hear it. Who’s Hera mad at this time?”
She laughs again. “No Hera. Tonight I’m telling you about Atalanta, who’d only marry a man who could beat her in a foot race.”
“I hope you’re not planning to do something similar,” I cut in. “Almostanyonecould beat you in a foot race.”
She tells me to shut up before continuing.
This dude fell in love with Atalanta, apparently—I’m not sure why because her obvious competitiveness is a little off-putting—and asked Aphrodite for help, so Aphrodite gave himthree golden apples. He threw the apples during the race, Atalanta stopped to pick each of them up, and he won.
“She sounds easily distracted,” I tell Maren. “Bad wife material.”
“I like to think,” she replies, “that Atalanta secretly wanted him, too, and just decided to let him win.”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask which of us is Atalanta in this scenario, except that implies we’d be heading to marriage.
“At least it ended happily,” I say instead.
“Not really,” she replies. “They later were caught having sex in a sacred temple and were turned into lions.”
Most of these stories don’t have a happy ending, so I shouldn’t be surprised.
“I wish you weren’t staying the whole weekend,” I admit.
“Same,” she says softly.
“Then just fucking come home,” I tell her, before I remember that she’s the one who’s home or acknowledge that I’m acting like a complete pussy. “Please.”
“Okay,” she says. “I will.”
And I no longer care what I look like, because whatever it was…it worked, and she’s coming back to me.
