Page 49 of Proposal Play
Yes! I am brilliant. Hear me roar!
But just as I turn to the older man, ready to say something like,Oh, I’d better not paint in my wedding band,I notice he’s no longer alone. A woman with light brown skin, a newsboy cap, and a Nikon camera stands beside him.
“Just go about your business. Pretend I’m not even here,” she says with the ease of someone used to giving direction.
Um, how? Also, what if I don’t want photos taken?
I freeze for a second, but Asher steps up with a kind but firm, “We’d prefer no pictures, actually.”
The woman looks up from her camera, offering a bland smile. “That’s nice, but the invite said we’d be taking candids all night and posting on his feed, along with the live painting, so you’ve pre-consented. It’s Mr. Vincenzo’s thing.”
“Documenting his life and times is important for Mr. Vincenzo. For posterity, of course,” the butler adds, still humorless.
“When he publishes his memoirs someday,” the photographer says, then adds proudly, “I’m his personal photographer.”
Oh well, fuck me with a croissant. Not only is the host rich and eccentric, he’s loaded with digital film.
His personal shutterbug keeps snapping away. She takes picture after picture of my husband and me, rings on and everything. What started as a prank on my brother—leaving on the rings—now feels like a very big problem.
Once we’re inside the mansion, I barely register the sleek, minimalist design as the butler leads us down the spacious hallway. The polished concrete floors and stark white walls are a blur. All I can think about is finding a moment of privacy to snag my husband and figure out this newfangled mess.
“I just need to use the ladies’ room for a second,” I tell the butler, pasting on a false smile for Mister Robot.
He nods curtly, gesturing down the hall to the nearest amenities, and I quickly slip in that direction, motioning for Asher to follow me. The butler doesn’t react—he’s no doubt seen it all before.
I set my paints and easel down in the hallway and head inside the room, Asher right behind me. A frameless mirror stretches across the wall above a floating vanity, and the air smells faintly of eucalyptus. But I don’t have time to admire the swank bathroom or these plush hand towels that no doubt cost more than my couch.
As soon as the door snicks shut, I push my hands into my hair, not even caring how messy it will get. “What do we do?” I ask Asher as I pace in the large bathroom. “Everyone thinks we’re married, obviously. And now my fancy-ass fashion designer client is going to post pics from tonight as part of his memoirs, saying I painted here…with my brand-new husband. WHO’S A FAMOUS HOCKEY PLAYER!” I whisper-hiss.
“Semi-famous,” Asher deadpans.
“You and your ass are plenty famous! What are we supposed to do?” I drop my voice even more. My palms are getting sweaty. I rub my hands together, trying to get rid of this clammy feeling. I need to unlock my phone tofind out why everyone knows we’re hitched, but I’m terrified of what I’ll see.
“I just landed this huge commission, and I don’t want my new client or any potential clients here to think I waltzed into this party pretending to be married. Or married by mistake. Or drunk married. I don’t know who they are. I don’t know their values. I don’t know how they view any of that. They might not want to hire an artist who’s, gee, even flightier than artists are known for being!”
My heart is racing. I’m breathing too hard. I’m on the cusp of a big break, and I don’t want to lose it for being wild and drunk in Vegas, especially since we were only tipsy.
But…semantics.
I take a big, shaky breath, willing my pulse to settle.
Asher takes out his phone. “I’ll check social in a second,” he says, advancing toward me and setting his free hand on my arm with focused concern. “But are you having a panic attack?”
What? No. Of course not. “I don’t have panic attacks. I’m just panicky right now.” I press my palm to my chest, feeling even more flustered. “Anyone would be panicky right now. You should be panicking.”
But he stays calm because he’s always calm. “Take a breath,” he says, letting go of my arm to reach for my hand.
Oh god. He really thinks I’m having a panic attack, andof course,he’d know what to do. “Asher, I’m fine. I swear. I’m just trying to figure this out,” I say as calmly as I can. I don’t take his hand. “The world thinks we got drunk-married!”
“But let’s remember we didn’t really get drunk-married.” His voice is as level as ever. “Whatever is happening online, whatever people are saying about last night—remember,wedon’t have to say anything. Wecouldjust take the rings off. If anyone asks, we can say that it was a marriage pact. A dare. We did it just for fun. Wearefriends. It’s plausible.”
It’s a reasonable point, but sometimes Asher fixates too much on other people and not enough on himself.
“But even if we could pull that off, what about beyond tonight, Ash? You’re launching a charitysoon. You’re focused on helping kids with sports and mental health. You don’t want to look like the kind of guy who knocked back some cocktails and got hitched by an Elvis impersonator after midnightfor funsies.” A muscle in his jaw ticks as the weight of our actions no doubt registers.“I mean, I bid a hundred grand on you so a beauty influencer wouldn’t smear your reputation. And then I went out and smeared it myself.” I groan. “I am such an idiot. Why didn’t I think about this last night?”
“You’re not an idiot and you didn’t smear it,” he says, his voice quiet but commanding. “I should have considered…this. The ramifications.”
I shoot him a tough look right back. “If I hadn’t been in a funk?—”