Page 18 of Margo and the Faux Good Luck Beau
As we leave the dance floor, I can’t help but feel slightly off-kilter. Is it because I rapidly went from confusion to rejecting the bonkers idea of pretending to be this woman’s fiancé, to going all in? Or is it because her eyes sparkle, she blushes easily, and everything about her is soft, gentle, and kind?
I lean in and in a low voice, I say, “I played along to get your family off your case. Because I’m not a fan of condescending wealthy people. I cannot stand bullies.”
“Is this a multiple choice question or an all of the above scenario?”
I tap the air. “That one.”
To move through the crowd, we have to walk single file, but I catch the edge of Margo’s smile as she steps in front of me.
With a glance over her shoulder, she mouths, “Thank you,” then joins the eager women, vying for the bouquet.
It feels like a goodbye but not a dismissal.
As the eligible women arrange themselves behind the bride for this tradition, I watch Margo. She alternatively moves with admirable confidence while also stalking cautiously through a field of landmines. At any point, one of the women in her family might detonate.
There’s a song and countdown involved in the bouquet toss, but my eyes remain glued to her. She said something along the lines of me making a woman happy someday, but her future fiancé is the real winner.
Without elbowing anyone or stepping on toes (the other women are like honey badgers wrestling a snake), Margo catches the bouquet. She drops her nose to the roses and some other blue flowers I don’t know the name of. Her eyelids close as she inhales like she just found an oasis amid a storm that looks a lot like a wedding.
I could walk out right now, but she’s like a net, cast around me. I’m the puck, trapped inside. So much for being a goalie, a pro at blocking shots. I feel like I have to protect her from the offensive team ... with the reminder that this is just for show. I’m merely playing an understudy role of fiancé for the night. I’m not looking for love or a wife…even if that would make my life easier.
A missile-like thought catapults toward me. Before I have a chance to launch defense rockets, it lands with an explosion that lights with the kind of awe inspired by fireworks.
It may be that I left a possible answer off the quiz about why I went along with the fake fiancé thing. If I got married, I’d finally be free from the tug of war that is my grandfather’s will and my mother’s willpower to drag me through the mud until I marry someone like Pixie Galaxie. I’d free up the funds she was promised upon his death. The battle would be over.
And I’d be married to a woman as beautiful and sweet as Margo. There are no negatives to that as far as I can tell except possibly the in-law situation—and that false marriages are likely against the law.
She looks around the room and her eyes land on me. They’re beautiful and deep, the brightest eyes of anyone here.
Do I move toward this possibility to at least temporarily solve a problem we both have?
Her gaze holds mine. I get to my feet. She walks slowly my way, flowers in hand like a bride marching down the aisle or like she’s approaching a dangerous animal.
When she’s about a meter away, she says, “You didn’t leave.”
It’s different fromYou’re still here. I probably shouldn’t give too much thought about what that might mean other than it’s a matter of convenience, which we’ll discuss.
I simply say, “I didn’t want to miss the cake.”
After they serve it, instead of being polite and listening to speeches about Maxine and Marlon’s future, we find a quiet place to sit.
After sliding her fork along the frosting like she’s shaving ice, Margo says, “Thank you for participating in this counterfeit commitment scheme. I think the bar is just about out of champagne which means my family soon will move past the point of no return, rendering them unable to recall what happened in the morning.”
I ask, “Is what they said true?”
“Which part?” She smooths her fork along the frosting, skimming off another thin piece as if afraid to let herself have too much.
I shrug. “Any of it.”
“Would you even believe me if I told you since I built this house of ours on a foundation of lies?”
“I’d say we’re at the apartment stage. Maybe a tent. Haven’t moved into a house yet.”
Her lips crack with a grin. “You speak so ... I don’t know the word. Stoically? Have an economy with your words. But I can’t tell whether I’m supposed to laugh.”
“You’re not supposed to do anything for anyone else’s benefit.”
“I’ve never met a real-life person like you before,” she says absently while taking another bite of frosting.
