Page 3 of Margo and the Faux Good Luck Beau
Finding my Mr. Grand—he doesn’t have to be a billionaire despite the Cabot-Ward family unofficial contest.
Gaining the ability to walk comfortably in high heels without feeling like I’m doing irreversible damage to my feet.
I can’t claim to have any checkmarks next to that list. However, some might argue that getting coffee once a week at this bakery, that’s more Southern charm than it is New York glam, has its advantages.
Juniper laughs. “On second thought, with men like Tate, I’d rather be single.”
I’ve gleaned that she doesn’t believe in love, whereas I’m a hopeless romantic, emphasis on thehopelesspart.
Juniper says, “One morning, while I was innocently putting the lid on my coffee, he breathed in my ear, ‘Do you have a recipe?’”
I lean in, afraid of where this is going. Knowing Juniper, he may have lost a tooth after that comment.
“When I asked the obvious, the punchline was ‘A recipe for being this cute. I think you’re the missing ingredient from my life.’” She closes one eye and sticks her tongue out.
My laugh is the sound of commiseration. “What’s with him and the bakery pickup lines? Do you suppose he has them tailored to wherever he goes?”
Again, we both laugh, which I suppose is better than crying. I’ve done plenty of that these last few years.
“If you’ve lived in New York City for any length of time, you’ll know there are four types of men. I call this the ‘Male Scale.’ There are the normal ones, which speak for themselves,” Juniper starts.
Born and raised here, she was the first person I met who didn’t make me feel helpless. She has a seriously gritty, can-do attitude, and if one day she came to me and said she planned to build the eighth wonder of the world, I wouldn’t put it past her—if the modern structure consisted of hair. She’s a stylist.
“Then there are the other three.” Listing off on her fingers, Juniper says, “One: the Sewer Dwellers. The lowest of the lowlifes and easily identified by the overwhelming stench of cologne trying to mask their zombie stink. Stay out of their basement lairs.”
“Sounds like Tate.”
She nods gravely. “Two: the Surface Sketchies. At the outset, these guys seem normal, but upon closer inspection, something is slightly askew. It could be visible, but more than likely it’s a character defect.”
“I’ve encountered one or two of those.”
“Three: the High Rise Haughty & Naughty. They hide serious wounds and likely experienced neglect from their mother or are trying to prove something to their father, and aren’t above using you to achieve their goal.”
“My mother would approve.”
“But you’d be miserable. I know this first hand.”
Sounds like Juniper has a story there, but I don’t press as she continues to lament the lack of datable men in this city.
When my mother, Wren Ward-Cabot, is not clutching her newfound status with an acrylic nail death grip, she shoves my siblings and me toward the life she desires for us, rather than letting us live the ones we have.
So far, my brother and sister have succeeded in her estimation. In fact, the rest of the Wards have gotten in on the act and have or are in the process of marrying up.
She should offer an online course and call it “How to Be a Gold Digger: a Guide for the Modern Woman.” Then she’d have to work, and that goes against the whole point.
But it could be a family business. Everyone would chip in with testimonials and “Buy Now!” bonuses. Then again, cousin Selby’s sommelier husband is questionable—which might undermine the success rate. The job sounds fancy, but I think he’s drinking more wine than he’s selling.
Taking a sip of coffee, I ask Juniper, “Where can I find a normal one?”
“They are a rare breed indeed.”
