Page 142 of Proposal Play
“I’m working on a whole series now,” I say, appreciating that he called them swans, even though they were fans.
“Maybe we can add that to the sports camps. Competitive napkin-folding,” Lydia says.
“I’ll teach it,” I offer.
Asher smiles fondly. “You’d be great at that.”
And optics or not, I can tell one thing—he likes having me here. And that’s reason enough. “I would be good,” I say, feeling his confidence in me, but also this newfound confidence in myself.
My brother swings by and pats me on the back, teasing, “Going great, huh? It’s the optics, right?”
“That’s me. I’m magic when it comes to optics,” I say.
He smiles, but then his smile fades and he tips his forehead toward the water, a sign for us to step away from the crowd. I walk with him toward the edge of the picnic grounds. “What’s going on?” I ask.
“Just want to see how everything’s going with the whole…thing,” he says in a low voice.
“It’s great,” I say, meaning it completely.
“Yeah?” It’s asked like he doesn’t believe me.
“Beckett, I swear it is,” I add.
He blows out a breath, then nods a few times. “Okay. I can’t help looking out for you.”
“It’s the big brother gene,” I say, but there’s affection in my tone.
“Guilty as charged.” He sighs and looks toward Asher, who’s chatting one on one with Marcus now. My brother returns his focus to me. “Anyway, so it’s working out. You’re getting lots of new gigs, right?”
“I am, but it’s not because of the marriage,” I say, believing it for one of the first times. Maybe there’s more interest in me now, but these days it feels like the interest is in Maeve Hartley, the artist who’s working on the Sea Dogs mural, rather than in Mrs. Callahan. I square my shoulders, something like pride filling my chest. “I started a new line of mirrors. And Angelina already heard from a couple local shops that might want to carry them,” I say, sharing the latest news with him. I sent her some pics of the Love Lessons mirrors last week, and she made some calls, and quickly found some stores that like to carry local artists’ work.
“Good, good,” he says, rubbing his palms. “I don’t want you getting hurt during this whole…charade.”
“The opposite is happening,” I say, because my dreams are finally coming true. “Maybe the wholepay it forwardthing worked out in its own way.”
He scratches his jaw, seeming to consider that as he nods a few times, his gaze drifting to Asher. “And the two of you? You’re friends and all still?”
I snicker. I can’t help it. It just bursts from me.
“What’s that for?” he asks.
I roll my eyes. “We’re all good,” I say, but I’m not telling him anything more. My sex life is none of his business. Come to think of it, neither is my love life. I don’t need anyone’s permission to date.
“Okay,” he says, not looking quite satisfied with myanswer but accepting it, nonetheless. He exhales, then nods toward the group again. But before we go, he turns to me one last time. “Do me a favor then.”
“What is it?” I ask, a little skeptical.
He squeezes my shoulder. “Don’t break his heart.”
On that mic drop, he walks off to rejoin the others. I stand in place for a long beat, the words echoing.Don’t break his heart.
Does my brother know something? Does he sense something? I catch up to him, grabbing his shirtsleeve. “Did he say something to you? Is that why you said that?” I whisper.
Beckett shakes his head. “No. He didn’t. But I have eyes. Now let’s go.”
His advice—another love lesson—rings in my head as we return to the donors, the kids, the families, the board, and my husband, who’s still chatting intensely with Marcus.
It plays on a loop as Beckett clears his throat, gathering everyone’s attention. Behind him, the bay gently laps the shore, its waves soft like background music.