Page 90 of Proposal Play
Asher
I’ve lived with a few women over the years. The last one was Lila, a bakery owner I dated for—no surprise—six months, my usual expiration date. I didn’t plan to live together so soon, if at all. But when her lease ran out, she moved in with me for a month. In that short time, I realized we were incompatible. It wasn’t that she was a slob, though she was, or that our schedules clashed, though they did.
It was that she wanted more. I didn’t.
Story of my life. She was outgoing and generous, and still, I couldn’t fall for her. Because I’m broken.
So, living with someone? It’s not exactly new to me. But whatisnew is this wild anticipation as I head home. It’s been following me since Everly told me about the TV piece. It chased me on the flight home; it nipped at my heels as the team jet landed. And it’s swirling around meas I drive home from the players’ lot. It’s Friday night, and I’m pulling up to my house—full of jitters.
Or maybe excitement? I’m not sure which one is winning the battle inside me, or maybe both are.
I can’t stand how much I want to see her. It’s surreal.
I park in the garage and close it, ready to race up the steps into my home when my phone rings. Her name flashes on the screen.
“Hey, what’s up?” I ask, half-expecting her to tell me to close my eyes as I go inside. I bet she has some surprise waiting for me. That’d be so very her.
“I’m stuck here,” she says, frustration creeping into her voice.
“Where?”
“At the arena. Eleanor wanted to go over a million options—timeline, materials, everything. The crew finished priming the walls earlier this week. I drew the grid for the outline. And she wants to finalize some details since she’s trying to fast-track this so I can start painting it next week. Which means…I’m stuck here late. But guess what?”
“What?”
“I made you something.”
I stop in my tracks at the door that leads from the garage into the house. “Food?”
“My famous mac and cheese.”
My stomach growls. “With the cheddar, Monterey Jack, and cream cheese?”
“Yes, the one and only. There’s some waiting for you in a vintage casserole dish I got at Goodwill. I went full 1950s housewife with it. I’m playing the part.”
Playing the part.
Those words should remind me that this is just forshow. But when a vision of her in a tight retro dress and apron, and holding a martini pops into my head, I like it too much to be bothered by the performance of it all. “So, did I miss the martini too?”
She laughs, her smile coming through the phone. “Maybe I’ll make that when the camera crew comes tomorrow. Good idea?”
“They’ll buy it,” I say.
“I’ll be home later,” she promises.
“Okay,” I reply, trying to sound upbeat, but the disappointment sneaks in. I do love her mac and cheese, but I wanted to see her. It’s been a week and a half on the road—New York, Boston, Toronto, then Vegas on the way back. I miss her.
“And we will do our best impression of the Greers,” she adds.
I brighten. “We will.”
“No repeats of that brunch.”
I adopt the older man’s voice, raspy and with a wink in it as I imagine him. “I remember the honeymoon phase—we couldn’t keep our hands off each other.”
“Hey! I want a honeymoon. You’d better not stiff me on Paris.”
I laugh. She has no idea how much I want to take her anywhere. “When the season endsafterThe Cup, I’ll take you there,” I say, meaning it, but knowing it won’t really happen.