The Summer Proposal by Vi Keeland by Vi Keeland

“Sure. Take your time. I’ll happily occupy these guys while you browse.” She pointed to a wall with glass shelves and different arrangements on display. “Those are all stock pieces that can be made in any colors you want. But if you had something specific in mind, we can also make a custom arrangement. They just take two to three days more. Is this for a specific reason, like a birthday or get well?”

“More of a thanks-for-putting-up-with-me gift.”

She smiled. “Those are always fun. There’s also an iPad at the front counter that can give you some ideas of things people have custom ordered and a fun database of messages that has everything from poetry to sweet to funny.”

I remembered Georgia saying she used to enjoy writing those messages when she first started out, so after taking a quick look around, I was drawn to the iPad.

Scrolling down to the suggestions marked Just because, I double-clicked and started to read. Some were funny, some were dirty, and some were just corny. I chuckled when I got to one written by Maggie P.:



Best friends are like peeing in your pants.

Everyone sees it, but only you feel the warmth.



That had to be the Maggie I knew. After a while, I stopped reading the messages and just scrolled the names to see who had written them. I guess I was hoping to find one written by Georgia. I didn’t, but when I got to the very bottom of hundreds of messages and saw one by F. Scott Fitzgerald, I remembered Georgia had said she’d kept his books annotated near the register because his quotes simplified love for her.



It was

always

you.

-F. Scott Fitzgerald



I read that a dozen times, over and over. I wasn’t sure if it was the glaring sign I’d been looking for, but it sure as hell was the simple truth. It was always Georgia. And in the end, whenever that day might come, I didn’t want to look back with regret. Maybe those four simple words were a sign after all.

So when I got back in the car to head home, I decided to take Georgia’s advice. I picked up my cell and scrolled through my contacts until I got to one of the last ones, and then I pressed Call.

“Hi. This is Max Yearwood. I’d like to make an appointment with Dr. Wallace.”



• • •



A few days later, the charity hockey game arrived. I’d used it as an excuse to get my brothers to fly out, and since my mom had arrived yesterday, we were all under one roof. That rarely happened, except at Christmas. The exhibition game wasn’t until seven, and I’d planned to tell everyone my news over breakfast, but I’d woken up with a splitting headache again. The last few days had been stressful, and my brain was taking it out on me. So I took a few Motrin and put my announcement off until lunch.

When the sandwiches and salads I’d ordered came, everyone gathered together around the kitchen island.

“So…” I cleared my throat. “I wanted to talk to you guys while you were here.”

“You’re coming out, aren’t you?” my brother Will said, leaning back in his seat. “I knew it.”

“What? No.”

“If you’re gambling again, you’re going to be the only one going into the hockey game bruised up,” Tate said.

“You better not be caught up in some harassment shit,” Ethan said.

“Sex tape.” My brother Lucas nodded. “It’s definitely a sex tape. I really don’t want to see your junk flashed all over the news, dude.”

I shook my head. “What the hell is wrong with all of you?”

“I know I dropped Will on his head once,” my mom said. “But the rest of you have no excuse. Let your brother talk.”

I chuckled. “Thanks, Mom.”

The room grew quiet, and all eyes turned to me. Damn. This isn’t as easy to say as I thought it would be.

I took a deep breath. “I’m having surgery next Tuesday.”

My mother was more in the loop than the others, so she understood before I explained anything else. She walked over and patted my hand.

“What kind of surgery?” Will asked. “Penile enhancement?”

“No, dipshit. The kind they can’t perform on you since you lack the organ. Brain surgery. I decided to have the aneurysm removed. It’s grown, and I think it’s time.”

“Oh, shit,” Tate said. “You okay?”

I nodded. “I’m fine.”

“Does your new team know?” Ethan asked.

“Not yet. I’m telling my agent tomorrow morning. I figured he’d have some advice about the best way to handle it.”

“What’s the doctor have to say?” Tate asked.

“Who’s doing it?” Will asked.

“How long is the recovery?” Ethan chimed in.

Over the next hour, we ate lunch and I filled them in on everything the doctor had said and answered all their questions. Once everyone seemed satisfied, I excused myself and went to the bathroom in my bedroom to get some more Motrin. Then I stood out on the balcony to get some quiet fresh air.

My brother Tate followed me out and watched me take the pills.

“What are those?”

“Motrin. I can’t get this headache to go away the last few days.”

He nodded. “Stress will do that to you.”

I finished off a bottle of water. “I need a favor from you,” I said.