Page 15 of Margo and the Faux Good Luck Beau
Celeste once said I dance like a robot.
My mother added,A rusty robot.
Dad had no opinion as usual. Gerard just laughed and then went back to his phone, very possibly posting an embarrassing video of me to hisOnly Friendsstories which is different from the @GerardsLuxeLife account. He’d never overtly insult someone because, and I quote, “Toxic influencers are toxic.”
We reach an open space on the dance floor. Beau holds up our hands and then places the other on my waist. There’s an awkward moment where I want to wipe my clammy palms on my dress, but he’d see me, so I justyeetit.
Time to get out of my head because his feet are moving and mine should be too. After exactly twelve bars of me stumbling over myself, I’m about to blame my high heels, but then go still. Well, not externally, I do my best box step. More like inside I freeze with the awareness that even though this fake relationship started with a lie, whatever happens next, I won’t tell one to him. Not even a white one or a fib or a tall tale.
“Sorry. I’m not the best dancer,” I say.
“You’re trying to lead.”
“I’m not. I’m trying not to fall.”
“I won’t let you.” His eyes flick to mine.
Cue that little gesture people make with their hands that looks like an explosion. Internally, I just had one of those. It kind of looked like a Fourth of July sparkler.
“Okay, but how?” I ask.
“Just follow me.”
My breath sticks in my chest.
As if sensing this, he says, “Surrender.”
“Um, like raise a white flag? Extend an olive branch? Tell all the women in my family that I just told a big fat whopper?”
“That’s the problem. They’re used to running the show. You don’t have to.”
“On the contrary, if I don’t, they’ll walk all over me. Bury me in?—”
Lips ever so slightly parted, Beaumont leans back and catches my gaze. It’s kind of like looking in a mirror, only it’s not so much his reflection I see—or my own for that matter. More like the way they treat me becomes more apparent through his eyes.
My thoughts dive and bob. The water becomes turbid. I try to keep my head up, then realize he’s not going to let me drown.
He says, “They don’t respect the men in their lives. They don’t trust them, so they have to take things into their own hands.”
“There are probably reasons for that. My dad is great. But he’s pretty easygoing. My uncles just go along ...”
“It’s a joint issue. But it doesn’t have to be that way.”
“Like a knee joint?”
His lips drop slightly as if concerned that I don’t know the secret of life or some other wizardry. “No. Men have roles. Women have theirs. One isn’t better than the other. They work together. That’s understood. Then the couple figures things out based on their personalities, needs, and what works for them. It starts with mutual respect and honor for each other.”
“When you put it that way ...”
Swoon me again.
“For a relationship to work, one half can’t dominate the other.” He spins me away and then reels me back into his arms with a rush that nearly knocks the wind out of me in the best of ways.
I say. “Thank you for playing along.”
He grunts.
I made sure he was here alone and he isn’t wearing a ring, but he might have a significant other, making me a ruiner. Panic seizes me.
