Page 58 of Margo and the Faux Good Luck Beau
He simply replies with grunts and other guttural sounds.
I continue, “This wedding is so specific. St. Patrick’s Day followed by a honeymoon in Ireland.”
He shifts his bag over his shoulder as he holds the door open to the parking garage for me.
I glance up and say, “Or we could just elope. Do our own thing.”
Beau’s voice echoes when he says, “We’re saying our vows before God in a church.”
“Because this is last minute, I’m not sure we’ll even hit the guest list totals. Can everyone in your family possibly make arrangements in time? Mine will only so they can watch me crash and burn.”
He seals me in the passenger seat and comes around to the driver’s side. “There will be no crashing or burning. We’re getting married.”
“This is not how I expected it to go. We don’t have to,” I’m not sure where all my objections come from, but it’s like I want him to tell me it’s over now so I won’t suffer later.
He does the opposite. “We’re committed.”
“Do you mean I should be committed to one of those creepy hospitals with bars over the windows and special vests for the inmates, er, patients?”
“It’s in motion.”
So is the truck, and he doesn’t say another word until we park outside the condo. Head tipped back against the seat, Beau lets out a long, exhausted breath as if words cannot express how tired he is.
“It was a big game.”
When we get inside the building, Beau says, “I need to recline. Lie down. Generally.”
“Okay, then. I’ll see you tomorrow?”
“No, I want you to come with me.”
My eyes bulge. “To recline?”
He tips his head to the side as if to point out that I’m filling all the silence between us with chatter when I could just be okay with quiet. Taking my hand, he leads us inside.
After kicking off his boots, he flops onto the couch.
“Would you like anything? Water, tea, an electrolyte drink?”
He simply says, “I want you.”
“Oh,” I say, frozen by the fridge.
He glances up from the couch, catching my gaze with something like man-on-fire affection.
“I want you to sit with me. To stop fretting. To be okay.”
“I’m great. Fine. Definitely a-okay.”
“You haven’t stopped talking for over thirty minutes.”
I plant my hand on my hip. “Is that a problem? Are you saying I talk too much?”
“No. I’m trying to tell you?—”
“Is English not your first language?”
“I came out of the womb singing.”
