Page 27 of Margo and the Faux Good Luck Beau
“You really mean it?”
I step closer. “I do.”
“I do?” she repeats as if declaring our vows.
Laughter builds inside at the comedy of all this.
Margo says, “I think I need more cake for this conversation.”
“You mean frosting? There’s an all-night diner by the highway entrance.”
Shoulders dropping, she says, “You mean the All Ears Diner & Fuel Station? That’s not where I expected my future husband would propose to me, but I guess a girl like me can’t be picky.”
Most people agree that self-deprecation isn’t attractive, but Margo is with her quick-to-blush cheeks, big brown eyes, and skin so soft it makes me melt. Yet she has a poor opinion of herself and I think I know why. The two bullies in her life try to make her feel small. Ironic because they’re the ones who’re small-minded and look like a pair of stick figures. But Margo is a whole person, substantial. I don’t risk piercing a lung if I hug her.
Like someone tossing sand on the rink, the grit of their disrespect chafes me. I want to change that. If nothing comes from this fake engagement apart from me showing her that she’s good and beautiful and worthy, then I’ll be satisfied.
To save the additional miles she’ll have to pay for if she follows me in the rental car, we travel in my truck to the diner.
She inhales as she buckles in. “New truck?”
“I bought it last year.”
“And you managed to keep it smelling fresh?” She runs her hand over the dash. “My first and only car was a Buick Skylark that belonged to my aunt Mona. No matter what I did, it always had a wet popcorn odor. My mother says when I get married, the first thing I should ask my husband for is a Maserati. I’d settle for a Bug. Basically, anything that runs. Not that I need a vehicle in Manhattan.”
“You shouldn’t settle, Margo.”
She snorts. “Okay, so do you want to tell me your idea?”
I bite the corner of my lip, considering this. “No, let’s get you some frosting first.”
Unfortunately, The All Ears Diner doesn’t have cake, however, they do offer six different kinds of pie. While Margo uses the ladies’ room, I order a slice of each flavor because I’m not sure which she’ll like. I also order a tea and a coffee, planning on having whichever she doesn’t want.
When she returns to the sparkly silver Formica table, her eyes widen. “There’s enough pie here to feed a hockey team.”
“Hardly. Anyway, it’s not on Nat’s nutrition plan.”
“That explains why you look the way you do,” she murmurs, cheeks rosy.
“I wasn’t sure whether you liked pie and if you do, what kind.”
“So you ordered all the kinds?”
I shrug.
“You’re not one of those people who thinks small, huh?”
She sits down and our knees brush. It feels strangely intimate even though we were already dancing and skating earlier, bodies pressed together, arms and hands entangled.
I’m not sure what possessed me to bring her to the arena, to skate together other than it’s what helps me destress and it seems like she had some unwinding to do after the run-in with her family.
Margo picks up a fork. “My mother is the only person I’ve ever met who claims not to like pie. Even my sister sneaks a slice at Thanksgiving. Then she’ll whine about the damage it causes to her hips.”
Sliding the coffee and tea toward her so she can choose, I ask, “What’s wrong with hips?”
She opts for the tea.
Meeting Margo’s gaze, I add, “I like hips.”
