Page 4 of Margo and the Faux Good Luck Beau
“When I moved to Manhattan last year, I expected to get a manilla envelope labeledTop Secret. Inside would be instructions for how to switch on a resting don’t-look-at-me-or-I-might-cut-you face.” It would also include an operator’s manual for how to navigate the subway system without having to pull out my phone, making me look like a vulnerable tourist. Then I add, “Among other city-folk resources, namely, it would reveal where all the hot, eligible, and financially resourced guys are.”
Juniper says, “The last guy I went on a date with was wearing Crocs. To be clear, we were not visiting a body of water. I understand Crocs’ comfort and practicality, especiallyfor children twelve and under, but only when at a pool, lake, river, or beach is involved, and even then it’s up for debate. Also, he paired the Crocs with a trench coat. Who let him leave the house?”
“I take it you did not let him in your house.”
“New criteria, if you can’t be bothered to wear footwear in the winter that involves laces or even a zipper, no first date.”
“I’m taking notes,” I joke, but she’s not wrong.
“Oh, then there was Cringe-inator. He called himself the Jerm-inator, short for Jeremy. He played guitar video games and lived with nine other people, an iguana, and a questionable fungus cluster growing out of the windowsill in his filth-floor walk-up. Did I say filth? I meant fifth.”
I wrinkle my nose.
“So if I meet a guy who wears Crocs, has a nickname for himself, or?—”
“Or has a wispy mustache and pimples. It’s a pass.” She tells me about a guy who had volcanic acne, ready to erupt.
Ew. Gag. Yuck.
Juniper’s phone beeps and she jumps to her feet, then glugs her coffee. “I almost forgot. My fantasy hockey league group call. Gotta run. See you later.”
I surreptitiously glance around, hoping the vacant chair doesn’t invite Tate to sit down.
Thankfully, only Sophie appears. “Got those tickets for you.”
I express my gratitude and ask, “How’d you meet your husband in this city? Tell me your secrets.”
“It was a real hate-to-love story.” She points to the wall. “His boxing gym was next door and let’s just say when we first met, I wanted to punch his lights out.”
We both laugh.
She passes me a pastry bag brimming with baked goodies, too. “Go have some fun. Maybe you’ll meet someone in the VIPbox or score an event to plan. Be sure to bring some of your business cards.”
It’s wishful thinking, but all the same, I thank her profusely, then wave goodbye.
I don’t quite have a spring in my step because it’s winter and these are New York City sidewalks. Given my footwear, I don’t want to break an ankle, however, I can’t help but smile as I stride down Madison Avenue.
With the hockey tickets and muffin in hand, I feel blessed. Maybe it’ll be a good day after all. Then again, I’m on my way ... well, nowhere. That’s the problem with being a fledgling self-employed person in a massive city. I can’t afford an office or even a shared workspace, so I go back to my three-story walk-up, determined to prove to my family that I don’t have to resort to marrying rich to make it.
I’d set out to succeed on my own merit and not through a marriage license, but so far I’m 0-12. My mother is one of nine and all of her siblings reproduced. Plus, my dad also has a brother and sister and they duplicated themselves on top of a few adopted kids, so there are a lot of Ward-Cabot marriages happening, leaving me as the last woman standing. Well, those of marriable age. I still have some younger cousins. Despite the Ward practices back in the day—so says Aunt Cindy—they remain matrimony-free.
Once, when my father was out of town, my mother got into the brandy. She went on to recount how, when she was a child, all she had to play with were corn cobs. She’d fashion clothes for her corn cob baby dolls out of husks and sneak nubs of crayons from school to give them faces. We don’t speak of it. But it prompted her to find a way out of destitution.
The solution: marry a rich man.
Dad was in the music industry back during the boy band heyday. I got into it when I was a tween but then lost interestbecause my sister Celeste made fangirling her identity for nearly two years, locking me out entirely.
For my father, it was a mega payday that allowed him to retire early, move back to Nebraska, build my mother’s dream home, and spend his life traveling to the best golf greens in the world. Their relationship is secondary to Mom’s shopping allowance and his golf habit.
But what about love? Attraction? Genuine connection? Fun? Laughter? And all the other ingredients that make a lasting relationship?
This explains why I am the way I am.
No sooner am I home, does my phone beep from theMargo is Still Singlechat.
Maxine: I need to know who’s bringing a plus one.
This question is very pointedly directed at me. The group’s name says it all.
