Page 30 of Margo and the Faux Good Luck Beau
Margo and I share the custard cream slice.
I have the server box up the other five pieces. There were a few people who didn’t look like they had a warm place to sleep hanging around the convenience store a couple of blocks over. Once back on the road, I stop there and deliver them the pie. Margo seems mildly surprised but doesn’t comment. When I drop her off at the rental car, we exchange phone numbers. I warn her that I seldom answer.
“I’ve noticed that you’re not the most talkative guy.”
With a shrug, I grunt. “Sometimes actions speak louder than words.”
However, I’ve probably talked more to her than I have all women collectively over the last six months.
I make sure she’s buckled in and the vehicle is running before I start to walk back to my truck. Margo’s fresh air floral scent clings to me and I anticipate it following me home. I imagine us both going there. Not tonight, but sometime in the future. Getting married for real. The thought lands like a puck in the net and won’t leave. I glance over my shoulder to make sure she’s okay.
She rolls down the window and calls my name. The window is stuck, and she boosts herself in the seat and shouts, “Do you really have your grandmother’s engagement ring?”
I wave because I’ll have to see about that.
The next morning,when I’m leaving church, Margo calls. I don’t typically take my phone with me and am wondering how it ended up in my pocket.
Yeah, yeah. I put it there. Maybe I was hoping to see her again before she leaves for New York. It makes sense. We have to finalize the details of our arrangement and all that.
“Can you meet me for Maxine and Marlon’s bon voyage brunch?” she asks.
“What’s in it for me?”
“I figured if you approve, we can plan one after our big—” she stutters, likely tripping over the reality of following through with the marriage of convenience, and all that it entails.
“So you’ll marry me?” I ask, uncertain of the arrangement. Was it all a dream?
“I still have the ring.” Then she adds, “I’m kidding. Mostly, but brunches are hot right now in the wedding planning world. But really, could you come down here? It’s at the same hotel as the wedding. Sunshine Room. Second floor.”
I hedge because I originally only told my mother that I’d attend the ceremony and reception.
“They have sausages,” she singsongs.
How’d she know that would convince me? I’m also curious what a woman like Margo would wear to an event like that, how she’d style her hair, and whether there’d be a lipstick stain on her coffee—or tea—mug.
Twenty minutes later, chatter and the clinking of tableware greet me when I find the Sunshine Room. I instantly get the answers to my questions: Margo has on fitted black pants thathit at the ankle, black high heels, and a rose-colored blouse that showcases her figure perfectly. Her hair is in a loose braid over one shoulder and she wears pink lipstick that doesn’t leave a stain.
A giddy feeling rushes through me. It’s different from the buzz before a game but in the same family. Before I fell asleep last night, I recounted every moment that passed before I agreed to be her fake fiancé and the absolute relief in her expression afterward. Then the proximity of us dancing, her fresh air floral scent, her hands cupped in mine, gliding on the ice, and proposing at the diner.
When we meet, coffee fills her morning mug. She puts one in my hand, black.
I nod in thanks.
“Be advised that most everyone is in some state of post-wedding overindulgence.”
I take that to mean they’re hungover.
“However, that only seems to fuel my mother and sister in particular. They’re over there, strategizing how to take us down.”
“I thought their whole objective was to marry you off. Isn’t being engaged the whole point?”
“They don’t buy it.”
“Not entirely surprising, all things considered.” I check to see if she’s wearing the napkin engagement ring because that would be a tipoff. Her hand is bare and I have a sudden urge to do something about that and will make some long-distance calls to obtain my grandmother’s ring.
I ask, “They’re not entirely wrong, but why not?”
Margo turns to me, speaking in a hushed tone. “Because you’re you.”
