Page 153 of Proposal Play

“No,” he scoffs, without hesitation. The refusal is instant and ironclad.

“Asher,” I say, more worry seeping into my voice than I want, “you’re not sleeping. Or when you do, it’s poor. You’re a pro athlete—youneedrest, but instead, you’re googling health issues. I know it’s hard to talk about, but…do you think this is because you almost lost your dad?”

His eye twitches, and for a second, his face flickers with something raw—fear. But it’s gone as quickly as it appeared. “I don’t know why you think that,” he snaps, his voice rough and defensive, and so unlike him. “There’s nothing wrong with this. This is how I help. I’ve always helped. People come to me for this, and I fix things. Let me just do this, okay? You didn’t mind when we were friends, but now you want me to change?”

The sharpness in his voice stings. That’s not the answer I’d hoped for. He’s so defensive. I raise my hands in a gesture of peace. “I’m not asking you to change, Asher. I’m saying I want to help you. I think…I think maybe you have some obsessive tendencies.”

“I’m just trying to help!” He drags a hand through his hair, clearly agitated. His hands shake slightly as they drop to the counter. “Let me do this. Just give me the space to do this. Give me some fucking space.”

The words hit me hard—give me space—and for a second, it feels like a punch to the gut. But they don’t sting the way they might have before. This isn’t about me. I’mstrong, and right now, I need to be strong for him. I dig in. This is one of those moments where Ihaveto be too much. It’s not about wanting his attention—it’s about wanting him to feel better.

“You can’t push me away,” I say, my voice steady. “You’re my best friend. We’re going to deal with this.”

He exhales hard, his frustration palpable, radiating off him in waves. “Fine. What do you want me to deal with?”

I take a moment. I need to get this right. After I collect my thoughts, I say in a calm, caring voice: “Asher, listen to me. I wonder if you feel like the more you know, the more control you have. You seem to be compelled to research every health thing—when we watch TV, when we’re out to dinner with family, and most of all…when you should be sleeping. Your team needs you. You need them. And you can’t be there the way you want to if you’re up doing this. Your focus should be on hockey, but also…you deserve to have some peace. You deserve to feel better. You shouldn’t have to carry these worries.”

“I’m having a good season,” he points out, and he’s not wrong, but he’s also fixating on the practical impact on his profession rather than the impact on his mind and his heart.

“I know, but somehow, sometime, this could catch up with you. You can’t get by on caffeine and little sleep forever,” I say, waving my hand toward the laptop, pleading with him to hear me. “Thisisn’t helping you. All this googling seems to be stressing you out and is consuming so much of your time. You’re filling your mind with information that’s feeding this anxiety,” I say, and he winces at that word, like it’s pricked him. “You think learning more gives you control, but it’s actuallycontrolling you.”

Asher stares at me, his face blank for several longseconds. Then his lips part, but no words come out. My best friend, who always has a solution, who loves helping, who relishes fixing things for his friends, is left speechless.

I’m not though. I have something else to say. I haven’t researched his brand of anxiety, but I knowthisto be true: “You could talk to someone. You could get help,” I say.

He takes a quiet breath, and for the first time this morning, his eyes soften. It’s small, a flicker of recognition, but I hope it’s a start.

52

OUT OF CONTROL

Asher

She can’t be right.

Can she?

No. There’s no way. I glance at the computer, at all the information in front of me. Info I didn’t have when I was a teenager. Info I couldn’t access when I was driving my dad to the hospital. This isn’t about control—it’s about helping. These articles, these studies, these plans—they’re good. They’re useful.

This is what I do. I drove my dad to the hospital without a license. Got him there in time. Saved his life, they said. With Maeve, I helped with her neck pain. Surely, I can help with her wrists.

Right?

In the dark, before dawn, it doesn’t feel like control. It feels like helping. She’s wrong. I don’t need to control everything.

But how did this conversation go so off the rails? I wassupposed to slip downstairs, find some info to make sure she’s safe, cook her breakfast, and ask her to stay. For real. Tell her I’m madly, truly, deeply in love with her.

But instead? She finds me here—a strung-out mess before the sun even rises. This isn’t her falling for me. This is how friends stage an intervention.

I close my eyes, dragging a hand down my face. “I’m not trying to control everything,” I mutter, more to myself than to her. If I were trying to control things, I would’ve done a better job than this.

I look up, and she’s nodding, but it’s like she’s accepting my answer rather than believing it. “Okay. Maybe you’re not ready yet.”

Fuck ready.

This is not how things were supposed to go. I push away from the counter, pacing, my hand scrubbing the back of my neck. “I’m sorry, Maeve,” I say, but I don’t know what I’m apologizing for.

What was I thinking, letting her see these habits? Why wasn’t I more careful? I knew this might happen when we lived together. I knew she might see the real me. And now she has—and she’s trying to help me instead of falling for me. How could anyone fall for a guy…who needs help?