Page 109 of Final Proposal

The comment about my phone, though? It’s because I can’t stop seeing headlines and Instagram notifications hit my screen. To say there is a buzz over the first interview with all three Sharpe brothers together is an understatement.

Clearly by Roddy’s comment, I’m too caught up in it.

Is it weird to be proud of something that’s not even something you’re part of? I’m sure it is, but I am.

The media is having a field day with the visual alone. Three attractive men, identical in their sinfully good looks, successful in the American dream kind of way, all sitting in one camera shot. Their smiles alone must sell ratings, but it’s the passion and love with which they speak about their beloved father that will win the public over if they haven’t already.

And only the trained eye of someone who has spent almost every minute of the last ninety days with the middle brother would notice the slight blanche on some questions. The hitch is so fleeting.

In the clips I’ve seen, I’ve been moved by their love for their father. Their complete admiration and adoration of the love between their parents even years after their mom passed. The connection the three of them have is heartwarming to watch, even from afar.

I’ve sent Ford a few texts saying as much. I’m a big enough person that even though I am struggling with how to fulfill but not fuck up my end of the bargain when he gets back, I can’t deny him the right of knowing how proud I am of him for stepping up.

And even though he hasn’t responded, I know he’s proud of himself too. It shows in the smile he flashes. In the laugh he emits. In the shy shake of his head when his brothers tease him blatantly, making it clear their father loved Ford just as much as them, regardless of what the book doesn’t show.

Yes, I’ve spent that much of my workday obsessing over it, frequently under the guise of trying to track down a missing shipment and deal with grand opening-day issues that have arisen.

If anyone would have questioned me on it further, I would have been caught flat on my heels.

But they didn’t, and for that, I am grateful.

As the day continues, my anticipation to see Ford grows. My resolve is stronger. I realize that I want something more with Ford than I ever wanted with Chandler or Josh. Its definition though, I can’t give or even know yet. I just hope he’ll be able to accept the limits.

I keep myself busy with my endless list of things to do to get this place ready to meet our deadline.

My to-do list gets shorter in some rooms and grows longer in others. It’s not until I walk into the bar upstairs that I see everyone huddled around a phone and then scatter when they notice me.

Furtive looks are exchanged back and forth between the workers.

“What?” I ask, standing in the middle of the room, throwing my arms out. “What is no one telling me? Do I have dirt on my ass? Is there a sex tape I’ve never made on the Internet? What. Is. Going. On?”

Not a single man smiles at the laugh I’m angling for.

Hank is the poor soul who meets my eyes. “You.” I shove a finger at him. “What is going on?”

Hank glances at another finish carpenter and then back to me, clearly dreading whatever it is he knows.

Now suddenly so am I.

Hank shuffles forward, his shoulders hunched, his cell phone outstretched.

It takes a minute for my mind to process the TMZ headline on his screen timestamped ninety minutes ago. My mind stutters and my heart drops as the world falls out beneath me.

Helicopter Crash in the Hudson

My gasp is audible as I yank the phone from Hank’s hand and read. Only certain words register.

Fordham Sharpe on the manifest.

Heading out toward the Hamptons.

Downed in the Hudson.

Search for survivors underway.

I can’t breathe. Is that normal? I can’t breathe. I can’t think. I feel like there are a million things I need to do—call his brothers when I don’t even know their numbers. Get to New York City when the only way to get there quickly is via helicopter, and there’s no fucking way I’m doing that right now. Have a panic attack because, while it won’t solve anything or answer my questions, it sure as hell will allow me to feel something. Because right here, right now, I feel everything and nothing all at the same time. How is that even possible?

I stagger backward until I collapse onto a chair. I don’t care if I’m showing my cards to our crew. I don’t give a fuck if my gasp and the blood draining from my face shows them that Ford and I are a thing and not simply partners.