Page 91 of Proposal Play

“I’ll start planning,” she says.

Briefly, I feel a twinge in my chest. It’s late-February; I’m sure this will be over well before the season ends. We’ll get through this piece tomorrow, and then surely, we’ll fade quietly from interest.

Shame.

But what can I do?

I hang up and head inside. The second I turn the corner of the steps onto the main level, the air rushes out of my lungs. The place looks…different.

Maeve doesn’t mess around. She’s never done anything halfway, and this proves it. I look around, taking it all in—the plants, the tarot deck she nicknamed Tatiana on the coffee table, along with the books too. Art books from her favorites: Lichtenstein, Klimt, Cindy Sherman, Barbara Kruger. Even a book on graffiti art.

I pick it up, intrigued, but then my gaze shifts to something else—a photo on the table behind the couch in a simple silver frame. My chest tightens as I step closer.

It’s…our wedding photo.

Holy shit.

I walk over and pick it up. In the picture, I’m holding her hand as Hitch reads the exchange of vows. I’m wearing that ruffled suit, she’s in that Marilyn dress, and I’m looking at her like I can’t look away.

I still can’t. It takes me a long time to put it down.

When I do, I spin around and check out the plant table. She arranged her living ones with my Lego ones. But what’s that? Something shiny rests against the orchid. I head over to a small oval mirror with a sketch on it that looks vaguely familiar. When I reach it, my heart sprints. That’s…holy shit. I pick it up. It’s the sketch of the couple almost kissing she sent me last week. But she’s painted them into the corner of the mirror. Next to them are the words:Keep snacks handy at all times.

The first piece of advice her friends gave me weeks ago. I had no idea the sketch she sent me would find its way into a piece of her art. But of course, it would. It feels like a secret message to me, which is such a ridiculousthing to think. And yet, here I am, thinking it. Like I did last week with the image and the wordsfor you,I run my finger along the advice. A key to Maeve.

But I know another key to Maeve—making her realize her work matters. And it matters greatly to me. I trot down to the garage, grab a hammer and a nail, and return to the living room, grabbing the little mirror.

Then I go to the foyer and hang it up—right by the front door.

Where it belongs.

Once I return the hammer, I wander into the kitchen, where I spot a dish rack full of her mugs. I smile stupidly. Yeah, this is all for show. I’d do well to remember that. But damn, did she ever understand the assignment. She left her imprint everywhere. My favorite is the white mug in the sink with the wordsI’m a Fucking Ray of Sunshineon the side and her lipstick marks on the rim. Raspberry. She’s already drunk from this mug.

I might stare at the shape of her lips for a good long time. It’s only when I realize I’m jealous of a mug that I tear myself away, letting it clatter in the stainless steel sink before I do something like, I don’t know, drink from it just to touch the spot where her lips have been. I wouldn’t put that past me at this point.

I go upstairs, and once I turn into the bedroom, I’m caught in a tractor beam, drawn to another photo, the one on my nightstand. It’s one more shot of us at our wedding. And I’m kissing her.

I walk over to it, in a goddamn trance.

I sink down on the bed like I’m in another world, picking it up, studying it, and getting a little lost in time.

Maeve’s eyes are closed, and she looks like every oneof her kissing paintings. Like she needs to be kissed by me. Badly.

I swallow past the dryness in my throat then scrub a hand along my jaw, taking this in. What she did with the mugs and the plants and the books—and most of all, the pictures. She made it a home.

But she’s not the only one who can play house.

I go downstairs, rifle through the packages I asked Maeve to bring in for me from the lock box, and find the one I’m looking for. I rip it open and grin, pleased.

Yep, this is perfect.

Maeve had the right idea with the wedding pictures. But I made a promise to her brother the other week, and mostly to myself, to look out for her. To protect her. To show the world that she’s fucking mine.

I ordered prints of some pictures of her, and had them framed. Photos from over the years, including the most recent one—a shot of her flipping me the double bird.

My personal favorite. I add them all around the house, setting down Quick-Draw Maeve in the T-shirt on my nightstand when my phone buzzes.

Maeve: Another hour or so. Save some mac and cheese for me!

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