Page 137 of Proposal Play

I was never afraid of getting hurt playing hockey. But I was devastated when I thought I was the difference between my father’s life and death. That drive is indelibly etched in my mind. The way my heart seized up too, but I had to ignore my fear and somehow get him to the emergency room. There was no time to waste.

“You didn’t even have a license,” she says softly.

“I knew how to drive, though,” I admit.

“You did?”

“I had to. There were times beforehand when he was dizzy. Sick. Faint. Before he was diagnosed. For maybe a year on and off. So I learned early. I had no choice.”

She reaches for my hand, squeezing it. “I didn’t knowthat,” she whispers. “I knew he was sick back then, but I didn’t know…you almost lost him. Or that you had to…step up like that as a kid. I didn’t know what you went through. You must have been so scared.”

“I don’t like telling the story. I don’t like talking about it,” I admit, my voice thick with something I can’t quite shake off. “Because every time I do, I feel that fear. No, it was more than fear. It was absolute terror.”

My throat tightens as the memory presses in, vivid and raw. My hands on the wheel. The press of traffic. The curves in the road. The panic that threatened to rise in me. The words I repeated in my head—keep it together, keep it together, keep it together.

And I somehow did. Maybe it was luck. Maybe I took the right turns, hit the green lights, remembered how to drive through sheer luck. “I was so scared,” I say quietly, taking measured breaths with each word, sharing something I don’t like to share, something I don’t like to feel, something I’ve kept inside me. But now, with her here, I want her to know. To understand.

Maeve squeezes my hand tighter, her thumb brushing gently across my knuckles.

“You saved his life. That’s a gift, but it’s a lot to carry with you too,” she says, somehow understanding me completely.

I lean into her, feeling something new. Something rare. I feel the depths of her understanding in my soul. Like she knows so much more of me, and I hope—I fucking hope—I don’t scare her away.

We stand in the dim light of the kitchen, the hum of the fridge the only sound around us. She steps even closer, her arms slipping around my waist. I pull her in, resting my chin on the top of her head, the feel of herbody, the scent of her skin, the beat of her heart grounding me. “Was that too much?” I ask, more vulnerable than I ever want to be.

“No. Not at all,” she says, then holds me tighter. And I hold her. And we hold each other.

47

JUST RIGHT

Maeve

TheCalifornia Stylephotographer, Gillian Rivera, swings by the arena on Thursday while I’m painting a section of the Golden Gate Bridge. The magazine wanted the most iconic representation of the city, and the bridge felt like the perfect choice. Eleanor joins us, praising me as usual. It still feels surreal how much she looks out for me, almost like she’s adopted me as one of her own.

When the shoot wraps up, I climb down from the ladder, stretching my neck and wrists while Eleanor chats with Gillian. Their conversation drifts toward tomorrow’s shoot at the house—without Asher since he’s on a road trip. It feels strange to do the shoot solo.

“Don’t you want my—my husband there?” I ask, hesitating over the word “husband,” only because it’s still so new to me.

“No, we want you,” Gillian says, her tone firm, no nonsense. “We don’t need him.”

The comment feels foreign to me, but I do my best to roll with it. We set a time, and after Gillian leaves, Eleanor turns to me with a triumphant smile. “Told you so.”

I laugh, shaking my head. “Well, thank you.”

Eleanor is insistent, making sure I hear her as she says, “No, really. I recognized your talent right away. I knew I wanted to work with you. And look at you now, getting all this attention. Just remember, darling, you’re the one he wants to come home to.”

My pulse skips. Lately, that feels more and more true, but I don’t dare say that out loud. Besides, who am I even comparing Asher to? Gideon? All the men before him who called me high-maintenance? Screw those exes.

“Do you have any other marital advice?” I ask, because she always seems so keen to offer it.

Eleanor taps her chin with one finger. “A little spritz of perfume never hurt anyone.”

I grin. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Sometimes, we have to make them feel special. Men fall deeply, and when they do, they become so focused on us. They’ll treat us like queens if we let them.”

I think about that. It’s something I’ve never really considered before, but it’s how my dad treated my mom. “And a queen has to look out for him now and then, right?”

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