Page 39 of Margo and the Faux Good Luck Beau
Slamming my truck’s door so hard it might fall off the hinges, I march inside. I practically have to beat back the lacy, shiny, and sparkly red, pink, and white Valentine’s Day décor.
I loom over the table, topped with a cup of tea and an uneaten slice of custard cream pie.
She glances up and startles. “What are you doing here?”
“What are you doing here?” I repeat.
“Eating pie?” She frames it more as a question because it’s untouched.
I drop down on the laminate seat of the booth. “Margo, why didn’t you tell me you’re in town and what are you doing here right now?”
Her expression looks about ready to crumble. “You weren’t replying to my messages.”
I say the obvious thing and mean it. “I’m sorry.”
When she looks up at me, her eyes are rimmed red and liquid lingers on the edges.
“Is that what this is about?”
Looking down at the table as if ashamed, she shakes her head slowly. “I didn’t know where else to go.”
A riot of questions about her safety pushes to the front of my mind. “Did someone hurt you?”
“No. Nothing like that.” Her eyes dart to mine and away.
Did my radio silence hurt her? Of course it did.
“I’ll be better about communicating.” Much better.
Margo’s strained expression softens slightly.
“But what are you doing here at ten o’clock at night? Why aren’t you at home?” My tone sounds much harsher than I mean it to.
“I don’t have one.” She sniffles back a sob.
“What do you mean?”
In one long breath, she says, “I was evicted, outstayed my welcome on Juniper’s couch, couldn’t find a second job, sold asmuch of my stuff as I could, and then used the cash to rent a car to drive here from New York.”
“By yourself?”
“Who else would’ve come with me?” Her shoulders tremble and she looks so small. I want to draw her into my arms, offer her shelter.
My voice gentler now, I ask, “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“You’ve been busy. Because you don’t care. Rarely text back.”
I’ve been hit in the gut at top speed by a puck while not wearing protective gear. It feels like that now. Opening and closing my mouth, there’s nothing to say except, “It’s not because I don’t want to talk to you.”
She nods, dabs at her eyes with a thin napkin, and gazes out the window at the economy car parked beside my truck.
“I made it all the way without getting a flat tire. But I did have to pee on the side of the road, sleep in two parking lots, and I was honked at by three truckers. I guess living car-less in Manhattan for all this time has made my driving skills a bit rusty.”
“That’s not why they were honking at you,” I grind out.
I tamp down how upset I am that Margo traveled by herself. It’s not that she’s incapable. Quite the opposite, but I would’ve arranged for her to do it with less hassle and risk. More comfort ... and me.
“Do you want me to track those truckers down and tear off their honking thumbs?”
