Page 24 of Margo and the Faux Good Luck Beau
We sit on a bench and he has me put on huge, thick socks. He tugs on his skates and ties the laces.
“How is this going to work?” I ask.
With practiced ease, Beau slides onto the ice, spins a circle, and then fills the doorway between the backer boards with his hands outstretched. “Just step onto my toes.”
“Like a daddy-daughter dance?”
He levels me with a sharp-eyed stare. “No, not like that. I can’t be that much older than you.” Then his voice softens. “But also yes, like that.”
I step onto the toes of his skates, our bodies pressed together, even closer than we were when we danced at the wedding reception. With his arms looping my waist and me hanging on for dear life, he glides around the rink smoothly, securely, and rhythmically. It’s almost like being rocked in a cradle. With my cheek pressed to his chest, I breathe in his crisp northern air and wheat-dried-in-the-sun scent. It fills my lungs and I turn sleepy like a cat in the afternoon. My limbs relax and my thoughts disperse.
A humming sound comes from somewhere and it takes me a beat to realize it’s Beau. It’s altogether pleasant, easeful. I can’t tell the song, but the rumble from his chest and throat is deep, resonant, and smooth. Does this giant of a grumpy goalie sing?
What’s happening and who I’m with floats into my awareness. Just as I start to spiral with questions that point to insecurities layered with fears, Beau whooshes me into his arms like a groom carrying his bride over the threshold. It’s then I realize that despite my mother and sister hassling me about my size and shape, for Beau, I may as well be a feather.
I tip back my head and let out a whoop as we glide. He snorts a laugh and his eyes light as he picks up the pace, racing along the rink.
Smiling and hair blowing, I say, “Beau, you’re going too fast.”
“You think this is fast?” He puts on another burst of speed, his legs pumping. The icy air fills my lungs, and his grip is so strong, that I know he won’t let me fall.
The problem is, I could fall for this man. It would be so easy for him to break my heart.
Much like when we were dancing at the wedding, our faces are close. His freckles aren’t countable, but they’re visible enough for me to stare at them like clouds, trying to see shapes. The lighter flecks in his green eyes flash dark when I meet his gaze. If there was ice there, it’d melt. His lips quirk in such a way that makes me think of a four-letter word that starts with the letterKand ends with anS.
Then he slows, setting me gently down on the other side of the boards. He does a cool-down lap while I catch my breath even though he was the one doing the work.
Surprisingly sensitive to the ongoing state of my feet after trying to cram them into high heels because my mother saysLadies wear flattering footwear, Beau calls a car service to bring us the three blocks to the parking lot at the wedding venue.
For the record, I wouldn’t have said no to him carrying me.
From inside, the DJ music continues to play. I imagine the dance floor full of my inebriated and judgy family. For once, I got the better deal. I wouldn’t trade our slow skating for anything.
I slide my shoes back on, prepared for tonight to end, and sorta, kinda wish I was Cinderella. I’d lose a glass slipper while fleeing as the bells strike midnight. Then he’d traverse the land with the single shoe I’d lost, seeking the match and the perfect fit for his one true love.
Instead, Beau is quiet yet contemplative, which I’m starting to think is his natural, resting state.
He doesn’t pay the driver which makes me think this is a hockey player perk. I’m really starting to like this sport. And maybe the goaltender too.
Beau walks me to my rental car.
“Well, thank you for being a wonderful fake fiancé.” I take out my keys, resigning myself to the fact that it’s time to return to the dating board. I’ll quietly slip back to New York, tell my family that it didn’t work out between us, and hope they don’t egg the ice at the next Knights game. Not that they’d defend my honor, but still.
“Yeah. It was something,” he says.
Least romantic line ever. Okay then. I’ll be going. I clasp my key, but I’m chilly and my hands tremble.
He lingers and I can’t help but wonder if I should hug him or if we should shake hands, putting this business deal to bed.
“Um, if I can ever repay the favor ...”
Lifting one hand awkwardly, he waves a bit and says, “Well, goodnight.”
“And sleep tight,” I blurt and then giggle. “I have no idea why I said that.”
Beau’s eyes sparkle like he wants to laugh but is waiting on a replacement part for his chuckle machine.
He turns to walk away, shoulders square and broad, with no hesitation or pause. Not even a glance over his shoulder. I watch him for a long moment, wondering what life would be like if we were engaged or married, and went home together, recapping the highlights—and let’s be real, this is my family we’re talking about, the lowlights—of the night. Maybe we’d stop somewhere for tea or cocoa. Snuggle up in front of the fire at home. I’ve never really thought about life after marriage, only that it needs to happen—in all caps NEEDS—to pacify my mother so I stop facing her scrutiny.
