Page 70 of Margo and the Faux Good Luck Beau
“I know this song,” I say and start singing along at the top of my voice.
For several uncomfortable seconds, the entire congregation is quiet except for the bellow of my tone-deaf caterwaul and the cell phone playing the 5PRNZS hit. Finally, a few others join me, presumably the Concordians.
It’s a relatively short bop with a catchy hook. A few of my great-aunts dance in their seats.
When we get to the end, Celeste looks smugly pleased with herself whether because I embarrassed myself or because this somehow changes things, I’m not sure.
To my sister, the officiant says, “Miss, that is not a lawful reason to prevent this union. If anyone has a valid reason to object, this is your chance. Otherwise, we’re going to proceed.”
He offers us an apologetic nod.
Meanwhile, my sister marches up and down the aisle, shouting frantically about how this is fake. “I just know it!”
Taking a breath, I lift my voice. “Celeste. Enough. You’re not wrong.”
She falls silent, mercifully. Her lips curl into a wicked smile. “See. Told you so.”
“At Maxine and Marlon’s wedding, I made up the story that Beau was my fiancé.”
“I knew it—” Celeste interrupts with a hiss.
“For the love, let her finish,” the officiant says.
“We were going to leave it at that, but then Beau suggested a marriage of convenience.”
“So you’re both guilty of this fraud.”
“I’m not done. Then we started spending time together. Got to know each other. Learned that what looked like bad luck, was actually the best kind of luck. We’re in love. What we have is real. There’s no incentive for us to do this other than wanting to spend the rest of our lives together.”
Beau adds, “The only fake thing was the lifetime of lies we told ourselves. But now we know the truth.” He turns to me. “I love Margo. You can rant and rave all you like, but nothing will ever change that.”
Everyone erupts into applause while Celeste spouts on, trying to pick our story apart.
An ensemble of women get to their feet. I recognize Meg, Delaney, Whit, Harlow, and Cara. There are murmurings along the lines of,Pull yourself together. You are a very unhappy woman.Envy isn’t a good look.You’re embarrassing yourself.We can help.
Juniper raises her hand, stands, and then says, “I do not object to your love.”
Everyone claps.
Then the room is finally quiet again. Beau and I exchange a look and burst into laughter. I’m pretty sure a few of the hockey guys exclaim in surprise because they’d never heard him laugh before. But I have and plan to for a long, long time.
When we collect ourselves, the officiant kind of rushes ahead to declare us husband and wife. We kiss again and I wobble a little in my heels because my foot pops, catching on my gown. As ever, Beau steadies me. And I know that no matter where life takes us, he’ll never fail me, and for my part, I’ll do my best to tease out his smile. To make sure he knows he can trust me. That he can speak or sing if he wants to, but quiet is okay too.
The receiving line is both delightful as people congratulate us and awkward as I field questions about the singing hockey star. I can tell Beau wishes he had his beard back. Seems like it’s easier to say less when people can’t see his expressions. And boy, does he have a lot. It’s like reading an entirely different person.
Except for the lips. I’m getting to know those well.
I meet his parents, who’re stiffly pleasant, likely behaving themselves, unlike my family who pick apart everything from the biodegradable green and gold confetti everyone tosses to the peculiarity of the St. Patrick’s Day theme.
Celeste is unusually quiet and I’m guessing the hockey WAGs handled it. I owe them big words of gratitude. Maybe a party. Hmm. A hockey girls’ day? My mother doesn’t say much either and the more I think about it, I think my newfound female friends are right. They’re unhappy people. Probably because love is missing from their lives.
I made vows to Beau and I make a promise to myself. I’m not going to withhold my love, not even from the people in my life who don’t necessarily seem like they deserve it. But he does, and most of it goes to him.
When we get outside, music plays loudly and bunch of people dressed in green crowd into a gold classic convertible from the1960s. They wave and toss candy to people lining the streets. A marching band follows along with floats decorated for Saint Patrick’s Day. The stream of festive celebration as far as I can see in both directions.
“It’s almost like they did this just for us,” I say.
Beau chuckles.
