Page 36 of Margo and the Faux Good Luck Beau
It’s February, love month, and I’m in a meeting with the couple I call the Leprechauns—her last name is Leprechi and his last name is Chaun. It only makes sense. We continue to plan their St. Patrick’s Day wedding. It’s just my luck for my firstwedding to be a weird one. Not that celebrating the patron saint of Ireland is weird. It’s just oddly specific for a wedding.
I feel my phone vibrate in my purse. Thinking that it might be Beau, I get distracted.
“We want to go with the tartan tablecloths,” the bride-to-be repeats.
The groom-to-be shakes his head. “You mean you do. Those aren’t my family’s colors.”
“You’re only a quarter Irish,” she replies.
“Everyone is Irish on St. Patty’s Day,” he answers.
I swipe through the linen selection once more because I thought we’d already settled this two weeks ago. “The cost of the tartan table coverings is twice as much as the green satin swatch draped over creamy white. However, I think we can find a way to incorporate some tartan that would be more subtle and less likely to offend family members if they’re concerned,” I say diplomatically.
They both grimace while nodding at the same time.
“On another note, have you ever been to the Honey & Lavender Bakery on Madison?”
The groom-to-be asks, “Is that next to the boxing gym?”
“Sure is. They make the best scones. Might I suggest we add their mini scones to the menu? Their cranberry and white chocolate are the best.” And I could really go for one right now.
We continue to discuss the details, including the birch and greenery canopies over the wedding party table along with the garland of flowers for the top of the structure that’ll match the centerpieces.
I’m desperate to check my phone, but they’re filling me in on their honeymoon plans. Ordinarily, I’d be all ears—I’ve always wanted to visit Ireland—but did Beau finally text me back?
Nope. It’s my mother, asking for the fifth time—yes, I’m counting because there’s a threshold that, when met, will resultin her siccing the rest of the family on me—about my wedding date.
For the rest of the day, every time my phone dings or rings, I jump, thinking it’s Beau, but my text threads cycle through Mom, Celeste, theMargo is Still Singlefamily chat, and the Leprechauns. They send a lot of inspiration boards from Pinterest even though we’ve finalized most everything.
Prior to New Year’s, I made a list of all of the gyms in Manhattan that offer a free trial membership. I’ve tried seven so far, getting in three free workouts a week, and am on thedreadmill at the fifth when adinginterrupts my workout playlist.
It’s Juniper, confirming our plans for the game tonight. I’ve also generated a list of places that offer complimentary food since my budget is thinner than Wren Cabot’s waist.
Her comments about my size sting even though I’ve come to expect them. I’m in good shape and Beau even said he likes the way I look in my favorite pair of black dress pants. But I still struggle with feeling insecure. To my family and the few boyfriends I’ve had, I’m acceptable. Just fine. I get a lot ofthat’ll dos. But noI dos.
It seems even the fake one is slipping through my fingers. In high school, I ran cross country because the team needed more competitors. I found myself enjoying it. Eventually, all my thoughts would go silent, replaced by the sound of my breathing. However, I don’t quite get the same effect on a machine even with the trail scene on the screen at eye level.
After all these years, I can’t help but feel that I’m running away from something.
I shower and check my phone before I leave the gym to find a text from my landlord, letting me know that my check bounced for the third time ... and that I’m being evicted.
The Leprechauns gave me a deposit and I’m expecting half of the final payment a couple of weeks from now. Despite my clown show efforts to juggle my finances, theinsufficient fundsnotice in my banking app just won’t disappear.
That’s how the day starts.
If you’re wondering how it ends: disastrously, devastatingly, depressingly.
When I get home, I find the pink eviction notice on my door. I could challenge it in court, but with what? Flakes of gold confetti from the St. Patrick’s Day wedding? I’m out of money. My big city dreams are over.
Lest you think I’m being dramatic, there’s more.
The Leprechauns send me a regret. Not the kind that goes with an RSVP card for people who can’t attend the wedding. No, they regret to inform me they broke up over the tartan. There I thought St. Patrick’s Day was supposed to bring good luck.
Juniper lets me stay on her couch, but hopelessness starts to set in. Nonetheless, I’m looking for a rental and trying to drum up more business for Margo A Go-Go.
But nothing sticks. No callbacks, prospects, or leads.
You know that saying, “If you can make it in New York, you can make it anywhere?”
