Page 16 of My Favorite Lost Cause (The Favorites #2)

MAREN

I stand on my newly reinforced deck the following morning, looking for Charlie.

It rained overnight and the air is cool, the world soaked in soft pastels. Sunlight sparkles across the damp grass and the trees that shade the path around the inlet hang low, heavy with moisture.

He appears in the distance, running hard, and jealousy pangs in my chest. I miss jogging. I never pushed myself the way he does, but I was once someone who could easily knock out a few miles without thinking about it and who’d spend the rest of the morning luxuriating in the extra endorphins.

Why’d I give it up? Why’d I give everything up?

A few ounces of wine won’t impact my fertility. Same with the occasional piece of pizza or a morning jog.

And some part of me knew this. I wasn’t doing it in order to build us a family—I was doing it to avoid Harvey blaming me, while knowing he’d blame me anyway. Whenever he doesn’t get what he wants, he finds a way to pin it on me, and I generally wind up agreeing with him.

I’m tired of hating myself for my failure to get pregnant, but if it’s going to happen no matter what I do, I might as well make myself happy now.

I go back into the cottage and begin shucking off my pajamas before I can change my mind.

I didn’t bring real running clothes, but something about this moment feels too important to be put off.

So I slide on cut-off jean shorts and a T-shirt, paired with the ruined sneakers—flat soled, only meant to be fashionable—and jog down to the trail.

In my head, I am still that same girl who could knock out several miles without even thinking about it.

I discover within seconds that I’m no longer that girl. My lungs burn, my thighs tremble, and when I finally stop to walk, I’m still close enough to hit my cottage with a rock if I had a good arm.

What else have I lost over these years with Harvey? And are they things I’ll be able to recover when I finally realize I’ve lost them?

In the afternoon, Charlie leaves to go to the lumberyard. I continue scraping the walls, but the upstairs starts calling to me again.

It can’t be that dangerous . Elijah and Charlie have been up several times, and Charlie showers there when he doesn’t use mine. I throw my tools to the ground before I can even think it through.

The stairs leading to the second floor creak but have a firmness to them that modern stairways don’t.

From the landing, I see what must have been the primary bedroom on the left side, but it’s the room farthest down the hall to the right that I’m drawn to.

My feet are moving toward it before I’ve even commanded them in that direction.

It’s not like something out of a horror film—I’m not pulled there against my will. It’s more like spying your favorite person across a crowded room... of course you’re heading that way.

And as soon as I enter…I feel at rest. For the first time since we entered this house, I’m not fighting any pull at all. It’s as if I’ve finally come home after a long trip.

The room is small and feminine. Tiny violets dot the ancient wallpaper. The only piece of furniture is an ancient mirror opposite the windows. I walk into the room’s center, and this sensation begins sliding over me, climbing from feet to legs to chest.

Giddiness.

It’s the excitement of a teenage girl when she’s just been asked out for the first time.

The excitement of a college admissions letter, or the way I’ve imagined I’d feel seeing a positive pregnancy test. It’s ecstatic, delighted, bubbling over with hope.

When was the last time I felt like this?

It’s been years—so many years that I’d forgotten I could feel it.

The sensation washes over me—one wave after the next—until my legs shake under the onslaught and I finally have to slide to the floor.

I scoot to the wall and let my eyes fall closed, remembering high school and the way my friends and I would gather in someone’s bedroom, giggling and borrowing makeup.

We had the whole world in front of us, and anything was possible, but where is that world now?

After another moment the memory shifts. I’m no longer thinking of those nights with my friends, but something different, when I was about the same age—strolling down a road under the shade of live oaks and discussing some dance being held, one I was desperate to attend.

“You can’t miss it,” one of my friends had said, wide-eyed.

“Papa will never let me go,” I’d replied. “Not until my brothers get home.”

A name is shouted from very far away. I turn to look down the lane behind us, but there’s nothing, and no, the voice isn’t even here. It’s…

My eyes open slowly, heavily, as if weighted.

“Maren?” calls Charlie.

I stare blindly at the opposite wall of an unfamiliar room.

What the hell was that?

Papa will never let me go , I’d told them. Not until my brothers get home .

Except, I don’t call anyone Papa. The closest thing I’ve got to a father is Henry, who I’ve always called by his first name.

I also don’t have brothers.

“Maren?” calls Charlie again.

“Up here!” My voice isn’t as loud as I’d intended it to be, as if I’m coming from very far away.

His footsteps echo along the hall and then he’s standing in the frame of the door, with his brow furrowed. “What are you doing?” he asks. It sounds less accusatory than concerned.

I bite my lip. I can’t tell him this, right? No, of course not. It’s too weird. Maybe the mold issue is worse than Elijah had thought. “Nothing,” I reply. “Just closed my eyes for a second. Why are you back? I thought you were leaving for the lumberyard.”

His mouth opens, then closes. He crosses the room and crouches beside me, placing his hand to my forehead. “Maren, I was gone for two hours. I texted to see if I should pick up dinner and you never replied.”

Two hours. That’s just not possible.

I’ve been up here five minutes at most.

But a glance out the window confirms that the light is dimmer than it was. Too dim by far to be mid-afternoon, so, again, what the hell just happened?

Charlie is still crouching in front of me, frowning.

His thumb brushes my face, and for the strangest half second, I picture kissing him.

I picture the softness of his lips and how I’d get a little whiff of his shampoo as I leaned in—and I long for that: his mouth on mine, his acquiescence, in a way I’ve never craved it from anyone .

My gaze meets his. For a half second, I suspect he’d let me do it, and the thought sends all the air rushing from my lungs.

What the hell is this house doing to me? To us both?