Page 59 of Margo and the Faux Good Luck Beau
That was not what I expected him to say. I make my way to the couch and drop down on the other end. He reaches for my feet, puts them on his lap, and proceeds to give me a foot massage.
I’ve never had one of these. Crown me the Cobbiton Corn Queen, have I been missing out.
“Foot rubs, where have you been all my life?” I moan.
Since returning to Cobbiton, I haven’t worn high heels once. My feet are thanking me and I am thanking Beau for this glorious foot massage. But then I realize he’s the one that just stood in ice skates for hours.
“You should be the one getting the foot rub.”
He doesn’t stop. While he’s doing this for me, I watch him decompress in real time. Are acts of service to others Beau’s love language? I explain the concept to him and find the quiz on my phone, but for every question, instead of choosing one of the designated letters that corresponds with an answer, he says, “You.”
“The letter U isn’t an option.”
“I meanyou.”
“Me?”
“Yes, you.”
That would be me.
Beau’s love language is me? Beau’s love language is me.
But as if entering a sudden death face-off in a hockey game, the voices of doubt that sound exactly like my mother’s and Celeste’s, along with fear of rejection get louder in my mind. I thought I’d crowded them out back at the arena.
“Are we really getting married?” I ask.
“Only if you want to.”
“I don’t have the qualifications to be your real or fake wife.”
“That’s not true. Stop saying things like that.”
I counter, “Start saying what you mean.” I need more nouns and verbs from this man.
“I know your mother and your family hurt you. Who else?”
I reflexively draw my feet away at the flames in his eyes. They’re not directed at me, but just as dangerous. “Are you going to hurt them?”
“Maybe.”
“I can’t tell if you’re kidding.”
“Neither can I,” he grinds out. “The thought of anyone treating you with anything short of respect, kindness, and honor makes my blood boil.”
“I can see that.”
He’s the kind of guy who looks like he has a big red button that saysDo not push.
“Is that a bad thing?” he asks.
“I’ve just never had someone in my corner. You’ve met my mother and sister. I’ve told you about my brother. Dad is kind of like a life-size cardboard cutout that doesn’t get soggy if he’s outside playing golf and it starts to rain.”
Beau’s green eyes take hold of mine and he gets to his feet. He grips my hand and leads us to a full-length mirror in his bedroom. “What do you see?”
I meet his gaze and he gently adjusts my head so I’m focused on myself. My eyes dart away, anywhere but at my reflection.
“What happened, Honey Butter?”
