Page 155 of Proposal Play

I could go to a coffee shop of course. But as my feet take me toward Doctor Insomnia’s, I groan. No way do I want to go there, with that name, right after Maeve suggested that that’s my issue.

Besides, my fingers have a mind of their own, and they’re scrolling for Miles’s number.

It rings. Long and foreboding. His phone’s probably on silent. But he answers on the fourth ring, with a groggy, “How much bail do you need?”

And that, right there, tells me everything.

This is bad.

“I need to crash at your place for a few hours.”

There’s only silence for three seconds, then he says, “Just texted you the address in case you need it.”

I remember it, but even so, gratitude for his friendship floods me. “Thanks.”

I call a Lyft, and after ten minutes of cruising through the quiet city streets as fog snakes along the hilly roads,and over the shrouded bridge along the horizon, we’re pulling up to his home in the Marina.

I thank the driver.

“No problem. And good luck in Seattle,” he says.

“Thanks, man,” I say, but it feels too surreal to talk to a fan right now.

It feels too surreal to talk to anyone. When I knock on Miles’s door, he opens it immediately. He’s dressed in sweatpants and his black glasses. Yawning, he gives me a quick once-over, shaking his head before he says, “You look like shit.”

Guy code forwhat the fuck is wrong?

But I barely know where to start. I sink down on the couch, drag a hand through my hair, and say, “I feel like it too.”

At least I’m being honest.

53

THE REST IS JUST UNFINISHED

Maeve

It’s early—barely seven, maybe eight in the morning. The house feels too quiet, like it’s holding its breath. I wander through the living room, unsettled, and Ruby Rooster follows close behind, trotting along, head tilted as if she’s waiting for me to decide something.

For someone who worships at the altar of pillows and beds, I’m now the one who can’t sleep. I don’t even try. My mind keeps replaying the morning, trying to figure out if I could have done something differently. Is it weird to stay while he’s on the road, given what just happened between us? But what did happen between us? What are we even doing? I don’t know.

I stop in the kitchen, grab some dog treats, and offer one to Ruby Rooster. She sits obediently. “Should I have said something else?” I ask her. She waits, tail wagging slightly.

“Shake,” I say, taking her paw and making her shake. “Good girl.” I give her the treat, and she hoovers it down, her tail thumping harder.

“Should I go? Stay with Leighton? Or Josie? Or Everly?” I know they’d open their doors to this beautiful dog and me without a second thought.

I pause, and Ruby Rooster looks at me expectantly. “Should I stay?”

She wags her tail harder but doesn’t move.

Hmm. That feels like her answer.

I give her another treat and head toward the terrace. She follows, skidding to a stop when I reach the stone railing, eyes on the sunroom.

My studio. The one he converted just for me.

He meant it when he said this place was mine. He’s thoughtful. He built this for me—so I can create, be inspired.