Page 33 of Margo and the Faux Good Luck Beau
Feeling like one of those inflatable bobble toys that gets knocked down and then springs upright again, I grip Beau’s arm so the next punch doesn’t take me out.
“Have you told him about Boyd?” Celeste asks.
In case of emergency break glass. I want off this ride. Out of this building. Now.
“Or Jonathan. Let’s just say Margo doesn’t have the best track record,” Celeste adds, dredging up the painful (and humiliating) past that has no bearing on the present, fake relationship or not.
“Those are exes, in case that’s not obvious,” I say faintly, not sure where our fabrication begins, where it ends, or whether it matters.
They’re trying so hard to bring us low. On the upside, Beau is tall, at least six-two or four. I need a measuring tape. It would be a herculean effort to topple him even if they teamed up.
“I don’t see how that’s relevant,” Beau says.
My mother rolls her fingers on her hip one at a time as if she’s counting down to my implosion. “Looking into his career and history as a public figure will be easy enough, but tell us where you see yourself in five years, Beaumont.”
His glare is awkwardly long before he answers. “Happily married to Margo.”
“Margo wants children. Lots of little grubby, sticky-fingered kids,” Celeste says like a warning. Like this is just the thing to scare him off.
“I always said she had good birthing hips.” My mother looks me up and down with what feels like disgust.
Beau drags his arm across my shoulders as if realizing I need help to remain afloat here. Without hesitating, he says, “I want a family too.”
“But she’s focused on her career. Thinks she’s better than us. As if she’ll see success with that little event planning company.” Celeste rolls her eyes.
Unwavering, he says, “I believe in her and Margo A Go-Go.”
If only I had my mother’s poker face skills. That Beau knows the name of my company surprises me. Did he look me up online? I’ve been trying to optimize the search engine results for my website, but it’s a competitive market.
“You plan to let her work?” Celeste asks.
He answers, “That’s her choice. She’s good at what she does. Has a big heart. Makes people happy.”
I am? I do? I want to run away to high ground and escape the tsunami that threatens to pull me under, but those words buoy me now.
Then Beau lands a haymaker they did not see coming. “It would serve you well to give Margo some credit. Show some kindness. Try to build her up instead of tear her down.”
My sister snorts as if he’s being ridiculous.
My mother tsks as if she denies being anything but caring.
A long, stagnant silence fills the space between us.
“Well, if the interrogation is over, we were just off to get some sausage,” I say, chipper.
“Oh, good. We’ll join you. We haven’t had breakfast yet either,” my mother says measuredly as if the line of questions has only just begun.
“You never have breakfast,” I say.
She squints at me. “You could stand to?—”
I shrink, not wanting to hear what she’s going to say about my diet.
Beau glances at me and then glares at my mother as if daring her to finish the sentence.
I sort of turn us toward the buffet line. He’s built heavy like military artillery and it would require a small army to move him. Hesitating, I imagine him deciding whether to finish what he started and level the two of them with a few simple words or retreat.
I’m all for drawing the battle lines but don’t want to ruin Maxine and Marlon’s send-off.
