Page 62 of Margo and the Faux Good Luck Beau
We laugh some more and move back to the living room. But instead of sitting beside me, Margo wedges herself at my back and starts rubbing my shoulders.
“Tonight just got an upgrade,” I say, leaning into the massage.
“So us, huh?” she asks after a few minutes of quiet. “Everything has kind of gotten jumbled. We don’t have to actually get married. People usually spend a longer period getting to know each other during the engagement period.”
“I want to marry you.”
“Right, but we could hold off. Not have a St. Patrick’s Day wedding. I’m not saying that because I don’t want to. I do and I’ve already had to cancel one wedding, but we don’t need to rush.” Margo digs into a knot across my traps.
I let out a little groan. “I want to rush to the best part. To promising myself to you.”
“When you put it that way ...” Her breath is close to my ear and sends a shiver through me.
“We don’t have to fake anything anymore. I’d like to follow through with getting married, but if you’re not sure, then I understand.” She doesn’t reply, so I list some possible objections. “Maybe I’m too quiet for you.”
“I make up for your quietness. When you do say something I know you really mean it.”
“I might be too old.”
“I like that we have a little age gap. That just means that when you’re old and wrinkly, I’ll be slightly less old and wrinkly.”
We both laugh as she works on my mid back and the sides where I’m secretly ticklish.
Then she says, “Beau, if there’s anything else I should know, something you haven’t mentioned, maybe tell me now.”
I’ve sensed that she knows I’m holding back. My big secret.
Without disturbing our cozy arrangement on the couch, I reach for my phone on the coffee table. Being tall and having long arms helps and not just for goaltending. I tap a few times,begrudgingly find what I’m looking for, and then hold it up so she can see what mostly hides in the depths of the internet.
It’s an old video, a little grainy. The camera focuses on a stage and red, purple, and blue laser lights flash while the announcer introduces, “5PRNZS.” We parade onto the stage with me in the middle, the tallest, singing and dancing a cheesy pop tune.
Over my shoulder, Margo leans in. I’d much rather drown in a pool of her floral and fresh air scent than watch this humiliating and challenging period of my life.
When the song ends, sweaty and catching our breath, the emcee crosses the stage to briefly interview us. I remember this particular event at the Intherness Music Center, but it could’ve been any of the many I performed in Concordia and the handful around northern and eastern Europe.
The guy with the mic has us each say our names and a quick word. Each of the four other guys introduces themselves as their assigned number in the lineup.
When it reached me, I said, “Beau.”
Margo squints, moving closer as if unable to believe her eyes. Then her head jerks to me.
“Beau as in Beaumont Hammer?”
I give one swift nod, hating to revisit this.
She slides around so she’s sitting in front of me. “You said you came out of the womb singing.”
“More or less. It was a gift I didn’t ask for, but I did enjoy singing as a kid. It would just happen. I’d play the piano and sing. No big deal. But my parents saw an opportunity. A paycheck. It started small with me performing at my grandparents’ church events and things like that.”
“When we went ice skating, you were humming.”
“I was? I basically took a self-imposed vow of silence once I broke free. Must’ve slipped out.”
She nods slowly as if trying to understand the big picture. “I couldn’t get your voice over the rest, but I’d love to hear it.”
I shrug. “Don’t sing much these days.”
“Any chance you need to shower?”
