Page 91 of My Favorite Lost Cause
She pinches my side. “Shut up, Charlie. Anyway, the gods took pity on him and said his wife could follow him out of the underworld, behind him, provided he never looked back once, but then he looked back, and she was lost to him forever.”
“That’s…heartbreaking,” I groan. “Why the hell isthatyour favorite?”
“I don’t know.” There’s something melancholy in her small smile. “I think maybe I just always wanted to believe it was possible to have someone love you that much. Love you so much that he’d go to the underworld to come after you.”
Because she didn’t get that with Harvey. She hasn’t gotten that with anyone, and she deserves it more than any woman alive.
I want to tell her that I’d travel to the underworld after her. I know that I would, without question. The only reason I don’t say it aloud is because of what she’ll be wondering in response: if I’m so crazy about her that I would travel to the underworld to retrieve her, why won’t I just commit?
So I say nothing, and she falls asleep less happy than she was before.
I’d like this to last forever. It’s already falling apart.
I reachacross the bed when I wake with my eyes still closed, my hand eager to find the soft curve of Maren’s hip, or her waist, or a breast. I’m not picky. I just want to find her beside me. My hand hits the sheets instead, and my eyes open.
What the fuck? Since when does Maren wake before me, and several days this week at that? I reach for my phone. Have I overslept? But no… It’s six in the fucking morning, and she’s already gone. This would be an ideal scenario with any female but her.
I head for the main house, inexplicably cranky when I find her in the kitchen making breakfast.
“Why are you up so early?” I ask, trying but failing to hide a touch of disgruntlement. “I wasn’t done with you.”
She glances over her shoulder from the stove with a smile that doesn’t entirely reach her eyes. “Sorry. I wasn’t feeling great.”
All my irritation vanishes. I cross the room and wrap my arms around her waist from behind. “What’s going on? You shouldn’t be cooking if you don’t feel well.”
She swallows. “No. I’m fine now. It passed.”
I get the feeling that she isn’t telling me the truth about something. “Why are you making that many eggs?” I ask, nodding toward the pan.
She shrugs, continuing to flip them. “Some for you, some for me.”
There’s something…wrong. I can’t put my finger on it, but I know her, and something has changed. “You hate eggs.”
There it is again, that look on her face, conflicted. Lying to me over something as stupid as eggs. “I figured I ought to try to get more protein.”
“So let me get this straight: you got up because you were sick and came in here to make me breakfast?” I force a laugh to cover my irritation. “You’re going to make someone a perfect wife.”
I’m not even sure why I said it. Perhaps simply to remind myself that I am not what she wants for the long-term, to let her know that I get it. But her face has fallen, so I wish I’d just kept my fucking mouth shut.
“Aside from the pregnancy issues,” she adds quietly.
“There are plenty of men, like myself, who think that a wife who can’t get pregnant is sort of an ideal situation...” It’s something I’ve been thinking for a while but haven’t had the balls to put out there. “You really like design. Maybe it would be enough. Design, a decent marriage. You know, instead of having kids? Because seriously, kids ruin everything.”
It was not exactly what I meant. It was the coward’s way of saying,If you think it could be enough, then I’d like to be the person it’s enough with. But she’s blinking back tears at the mereideaof not having kids, which means my stupid fucking fantasies about this situation continuing were exactly that—stupid fantasies.
“I really want kids,” she says quietly.
I already knew that. But fuck if it’s not a punch to the gut anyway. I’ve wanted something I can’t have for a very long time, and I’m going to go through the rest of my life still wanting it.
41
MAREN
Charlie heads off for his run after breakfast, so I’m alone in the kitchen when Elijah strolls in and finds me crying. His cheerful whistling comes to a sharp halt when he sees me.
“Who died?” he asks, and I look up at him with bleak eyes before I cover my face again.
“I’m pregnant,” I whisper. I don’t know why I told him this thing I can’t tell anyone else. Not any of my family, whose first question would be about the child’s parentage. Not the baby’s father, who considers fatherhood a fate worse than being murdered.
