Page 12 of Margo and the Faux Good Luck Beau
Aunt Cindy adds, “Bigger.”
“Brawnier.” Aunt Mona lets out a breathy sigh.
“Meaner,” Lana whispers.
They part slightly and my mother fills the gap. She merely clicks her tongue as if those details are irrelevant and the only thing of significance is his wallet.
To cap off their list of objectively true things about him, I say the opposite, “And he’s my fiancé.”
A sort of growl comes from his throat.
The masses look from him to me and then each other as if doing girl math. Margo plus Viking Highlander Hottie does not add up.
I sense this is a disaster waiting to happen. He has no reason to go along with it. My skin prickles like I have poison ivy and hives at the same time.
“My fiancé,” I repeat as if this is a cue for him to say something.
He looks at me sharply and I give the teeniest, tiniest little shrug as if to say,Improvise. I’ve never done this before either.
“Your fiancé,” my mother repeats.
“Uh-huh.”
When he remains silent by my side, I subtly poke him in the ribs.
This time he grunts.
I believe in love at first sight, but is there such a thing as annoyed at first sight? Is pretending to be my fiancé too big an ask? Sheesh. Some people.
A sinking feeling makes me quite sure I’m going down with the ship. What if he has a girlfriend or a wife or someone he’s pining over?
Apparently, he’s not a team player, but I’m pretty sure he’s a hockey player that I recognize from the game I went to with Juniper. I’m like ninety-percent sure. Then again, for most of the game he wore a helmet. Eighty percent, given that he was sweaty and in uniform with all that padding as the goalie, which isn’t the fast-action part of the team—kind of like a cross-country runner of the hockey world, where endurance and focus are key. Where it’s less about tossing balls, er, passing pucks, and more about a personal best.
On long runs, I’m very much in my head and don’t have to communicate with anyone. Perhaps he’s the strong and silent type. We’ll go with that and not that he’s contemplating how to complete my humiliation with a few simple words along the lines of,I don’t know who this woman is. She might be unhinged. If so, and you’re her family, I suggest you have her speak toa professional. Also, the stress lines on her forehead suggest she could use some chocolate pudding right now. Cake frosting. Anything. If you care, help her out.
When he still doesn’t say a word, I fill the awkward silence, blurting, “Yep, that’s right. This Viking Highlander hybrid hockey star is my fiancé.”
This time I don’t get so much as a look, a twitch, a moan, or a groan out of him. He's either been hit in the head with a puck or he's stubborn because he refuses to play his part.
Likely story. I don’t buy itis what my mother says with her eyes as she gives him a disapproving down-the-nose look.
To really twist the knife of my own public execution, with a little flounce to my voice, I add, “And we’re in love.”
I bounce on my toes and squeeze his arm as I gaze up. He doesn’t meet my eyes. But up close, he’s a bit of a dreamboat if you’re into strong, sculpted features, full lips, and deep green eyes. Also, there’s a beard, but it’s trim.
“In love?” my mother asks as if that’s the tipoff that this is fake, fake, fake.
Raise your hand if you’ve ever started something you know you should stop, but it’s too late and you’ve dug yourself into a word hole filled with lies. All those letters pile on top of me and there’s no way out. I raise both my hands. Only not really because I won’t let go of my fake fiancé’s arm. I grip it like a little girl refusing to give up her comfort blanket.
He tenses like he might tear someone’s head off. Hopefully not mine—not that I want any of them to be headless, but the women in my family are like Hydra and could probably grow two new heads in place of the one that was lopped off.
They whisper among themselves. If they hadn’t encircled us against the wall, I’d bolt. He could probably smash through them like a tank.
I repeat, gazing up at him, “Yes, very much in love.”
Folks, this is just the appetizer. Stay tuned for the main course because the vultures are hungry.
At last, I sense his gaze on me from above. Now, I’m afraid to look up.
