Page 158 of Proposal Play
Maeve
Some bartender dude onFirst Datesis debating whether to see a customer again—convinced she’s catfished him—when the doorbell rings. I tense. Doorbells don’t sit well with me, especially when I’m home alone. My girl doesn’t like them either. She growls, fur prickling as I set a hand on her back. Lifting her snout, she barks again.That rooster crow.
“It’s okay,” I murmur, pausing the show. “It’s probably UPS.”
Ruby Rooster side-eyes me.
I pop up from the couch and head for the door. I peer through the window slat—no one’s there. I look down.
Oh.
There’s a food delivery bag on the porch. From Ding and Dine.
I didn’t order anything. I grab it and lock the door behind me. Peeking inside, I find a warm takeout box.Intrigued, I pull open the flaps—and burst into laughter. Asher sent me a box of warm nuts. The smile on my face is too big, and I’m still not sure if we’re friends or lovers or somewhere in between.
But maybe that’s okay.
I open the box and read the note:
Tips for the proper care and feeding of your best friend—keep snacks handy, especially if you’re working on conspiracy theories.
At least I know this: we’ll always be friends. Like we’ve been for the last ten years. Through all our big adventures—hot sauce taste tests, ice hotels, tree tents, lavender farms. And now to studios, pole-dancing crawls, tofu curry, flamingo underwear, napkin-folding at dinners with board members, impromptu proposals at jewelry stores, hockey games with custom jerseys, and late-night painting sessions where I felt like the women in all my pop art paintings. We’ve shared so many kisses that made me feel like love is worth chasing.
And auctions too. Where I bid on him to save him from a woman spinning lies. Then a night in Vegas, where he saved me from my own sadness and made good on a marriage pact inked one night as we danced to Frank Sinatra.
I flop back onto the couch, cashews in hand, reality dating show playing again. I go through the nuts quickly, but I’m still not satisfied.
I can’t wait, even though I said I’d give him space.
I reach for Tatiana, the tarot deck I left on the coffee table, shuffling it, wondering if I should ask her what happens next.
But it’s not like a deck of cards will know. Someone might though. Or several someones, really.
The next morning, I’m at High Kick Coffee with Josie, Fable, and Leighton for a hastily called meeting of The Padlockers. Everly’s in Seattle—she traveled with the team. Said she has fond memories of the last time she was there.
The café hums with the buzz of morning chatter, and we huddle in the back, lattes and teas in hand as I give them the SparkNotes. I don’t tell them about Asher’s obsessive tendencies—that’s personal—but I tell them enough: we’ve hit a rough patch.
“I did what I said I would—I didn’t cling. I gave him space, even though it felt like dying. And it still does. How can doing the right thing feel so wrong?” I ask, since I’m nothing if not dramatic. But this moment calls for drama, dammit.
Josie snorts. “Maeve.”
“What?”
Leighton gives me abe so fucking for reallook too. “What she said.”
“What do you mean?” I ask, turning to Fable. “You get me, right?”
My redheaded friend hedges with a “Yes and no.”
“Fine, fine. Tell me what I did wrong,” I say, exasperated. “I’m trying to give him space to figure things out. Remember, I’m the girl who clings.”
“Maeve, you gave him space, sure,” Josie says. “But did you actually tell him how you feel? Or are you expecting him to magically guess?”
I blink. “What do you mean?”
Josie sets her cup down. “We mean, you’re waiting forhim to read your mind. That’s not how this works. You’re not clingy—you’re just not saying what matters.”
“Right.” Josie nods. “It’s not clingy to tell someone how you feel. That’s called ‘honesty.’ It’s a useful tool.”