Page 61 of Margo and the Faux Good Luck Beau
The same is also true for me. Sure, a shrink could probably dissect my childhood and it would point toward why I am the way I am.
But I believe it all built to this moment with Margo. All the careful listening and understanding—being stoic or whatever they call it these days—made it so that when I saw how beautiful she was, there would be no mistaking or avoiding it. Since she’sbeen led to believe the opposite about herself, I now have the ability to help her see it too.
Smoothing her hair over her shoulder, I gently grip her arm and kiss the little bit of exposed skin at the base of her neck. “I think this is beautiful.”
She inhales a shaky breath.
I take her hand in mine and kiss the inside of her wrist. “This is beautiful.”
Frozen up until now, she relaxes a measure.
Sliding my hand into her palm, I kiss the top of her hand and then the tip of every finger. “All of these are beautiful.”
Margo peers up at me. Using my head, I nudge hers back toward the mirror. Then I press a kiss to her temple. “There is beauty here. Lots of it.”
The tension in her releases slightly as she exhales and sinks into me.
“Everything in my life is hard. The ice, the puck. The hockey stick. But you’re soft. I need soft. You’re like satin, a bunny’s cotton tail, a cloud if I could touch it.”
I kiss my way around the world that is Margo Cabot, dropping little flags here and there, declaring her beauty. I may be the first person to have done this when in her life everyone else has led her to believe the opposite.
“Let yourself be loved,” I say, my voice husky.
A tremor rushes through her, like a last push of resistance.
“Let me love you,” I add.
Her voice is thin when she says, “I know you’d never physically hurt me, but what if you break my heart?”
“I couldn’t. I wouldn’t.” Once more, I have to show her, prove it.
When I kiss her cheek, I duck my head so we’re about level and gaze into the mirror once more. Her eyes hold mine. It’s powerful and intimate but filtered through the mirror.Eventually, her gaze flits to meet her coffee-with-cream eyes. They fill with tears. A few fall and I kiss them away. She holds strong and breath by breath, the corners of her lips lift. Mine follow.
She swims past all the garbage floating around in her mind, consisting of the things she’s been told by her family. I see the moment she reaches the shore, out of the tumultuous waves.
Standing there, she doesn’t run. Instead, her smile breaks into laughter. Happy tear-filled laughter spilling over with relief. Of freedom from all those stories and lies she’s struggled with. I join her and the sound echoes through the room.
Margo turns to me, grips my cheeks, and kisses me on the lips, smiling, laughing, and repeating the words, “Thank you.”
When we part, I say, “No, Honey Butter. You did the work. I just stood in the storm with you until it passed.”
Cheeks pink, she asks, “You really like what you see?”
“Truly. I’ve never given you any reason to think otherwise.”
Her nod is tentative.
To drive home my point, to say what I really mean, I add, “I love what I see.” And that’s a first for me. I’ve never felt this way.
“This is like if when I was a kid, my mother one day saying, ‘You can have cake for breakfast.’ I wouldn’t believe it. Think there’s some kind of catch.”
“But you only like the frosting.”
Her smile reaches her eyes. “You know me so well.”
And I’d like to get to know her even better.
I add, “Also, you’re not a child so if you want frosting for breakfast, you can make that choice. Just save the cake part for me.”
