Page 25 of Proposal Play

“Deal,” I say, a cozy, safe feeling spreading inside me as we clink glasses.

We started what we call our annual Big Adventure several years ago. It was a “death-iversary” of sorts, whichsounds morbid, but it’s not. Maybe because grief isn’t entirely morbid for someone who’s lost both their parents—it’s a part of life. For different reasons, the two of us have been trying to move through grief for the last decade. Or really swim through it—it’s an ocean, that bitch. And it’s best to ride the waves.

Asher and I met in grief counseling ten years ago, when I was nineteen, he was twenty-two, and my brother was twenty-three. I took my brother along to a local support group since it had been a hell of a year—our mom had died, and six months later our dad died too. The meetings were held in the basement of a small community center, where the beige walls and creaky folding chairs felt as heavy as the sadness we carried. It was a place of hushed voices and tissues passed from hand to hand, a sanctuary for our pain.

Asher was leading the group, and that surprised me. I’d have expected a therapist type—a cuddly aunt or the classic sensitive, nice guy in khakis and a V-neck sweater. Not an athlete in a hoodie with wild hair and a crooked grin. But his humor helped us both cope with the twin losses of our parents, and we helped him too—I think—to deal with the loss of his longtime girlfriend. The three of us became fast friends.

A few years later, though, when my brother was working in Los Angeles and the anniversary of our mom’s death rolled around, the thought of visiting the lighthouse where we’d scattered her ashes was too heavy. I wanted to do something different to remember her and my sad, devastated father.

I wanted to celebrate…living.

“Let’s have an adventure instead,” Asher had said.

The annual Big Adventure was born. Some were intown; some were road trips. Some were hours away by plane or train. One time, we spent the day on a lavender farm in a small artsy town called Darling Springs; another time, we went camping in a tree tent near Evergreen Falls in the mountains of Northern California. The next year, we hopped on a plane and visited an ice hotel near Quebec City, with warm nuts along the way.

Maybe that’s what this trip to Vegas is—another adventure tale told in pictures. I drink the champagne, feeling more settled now than I’ve felt all week while replaying that kiss.

I know what this trip is—the next stop in our shenanigans.

I know what it’s not, too—a real date.

That’s for the best. There’s too much I need to deal with on the other side of today. There’s the live painting party and the search for a commission. The endless, ravenous search.

I sigh, a little content but mostly wistful. Life might be unpredictable back home. My work situation is anything but reliable. But here with Asher? Life feels steady and certain. Like the earth’s not about to rumble under my feet.

Who else would give me his extra warm nuts? I pop a cashew into my mouth and rest my head on his shoulder.

10

NO GOOD DEED

Asher

As the afternoon draws to a close, our black town car cruises along the Strip, nearing The Extravagant, when a billboard of me looms overhead.

Maeve points and grins. “Hello, sir!”

I roll my eyes. I had no idea CheekyBeast had rolled out a new billboard of me cooking eggs and bacon in nothing but giraffe boxer briefs. The sloganElevate Your Breakfast Gamestretches across the bottom of the sign. That photo shoot was months ago, but the new campaign is running all year—online and, apparently, in front of the entire city. “The slogan’s not bad, but they should have gone withGo Pants-Less at Breakfast,” I quip.

“And all day long,” she adds, giving me a playful once-over. “Are you wearing giraffes now?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” I tease.

I hope so.

Nope. Don’t go there. Don’t think about that.

“Actually, I would like to know,” Maeve says, her eyes wide with curiosity.

The wordsfind outhover on my tongue, but I bite them back. “No,” I murmur, leaning in closer to her, unable to resist teasing. “That’s not what I’m wearing right now.”

I don’t say anything more because the car has just pulled up to the entrance of The Extravagant. I step out first then hold the door for her. The late-January air of Vegas greets us with a crisp, refreshing chill as the sun dips low in the sky. The city’s lights flicker on, the bright neon summoning the night.

After the driver pops the trunk, I sling my duffel over my shoulder and reach for Maeve’s bag too.

“I can carry it,” she says.

“I know, but I want to,” I say, taking her small roller bag.

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