Page 110 of Final Proposal

Roddy is at my side, and I don’t even know how he got there. He pries my fingers off the phone. “Breathe, Sinclair. Breathe.”

“My phone. I need my phone,” I croak.

“In your back pocket. Right there.” He points, and I yank it out.

The screen is a mess of texts. From my Garland. From Ledger. Messages I never paid attention to because I had muted my phone.

I stare at them until my eyes blur, fear of what they might tell me preventing me from unlocking my phone and reading what they say.

A glance up tells me everyone is watching me. Everyone is holding their breath just as I am, and the concern etched in their faces is devastating.

“Everybody out,” Roddy directs, swooping his arms in a shooing motion. I don’t look up. I don’t meet their eyes, but in my periphery, I can see them slowly shuffle out of the room. “Do you want me to stay or go?” He squats in front of me, hand on my knee, and waits for an answer.

“I need . . . alone, please.”

He nods and squeezes before standing and walking out.

I’m the one who pushed him to go. I’m the reason he was on that flight. I’m the reason . . .

No.

He has to be alive.

He’s Ford. Larger-than-life, stubborn-as-hell, Ford.

When the door shuts, my exhale is shaky as I swipe open my phone and prepare for what I read.

But before I can, my cell rings. It’s an unknown number, and I answer it as fast as I can, hoping it’s Ford.

“Hello?” I gasp into the phone.

“Ellery? It’s Ledger.” The solemnity in his voice cuts me to the core. The grief wavering in it is indescribable. Fear and panic are woven into every fiber.

“Please . . .” It’s one long, drawn-out syllable. Please let him be okay. Please tell me he’s alive. Please tell me he’s standing in front of you.

“Search and rescue.” He chokes the words out. “They have him.”

My heart breaks.

Not they have him and he’s okay. Not they have him and he’s alive. Just they have him.

“Ledger,” I croak, the salt of my tears hitting my lips when I didn’t even know I was crying. “Please.”

Seconds feel like hours as they tick by and all the air is suctioned from the room, leaving the pulse pounding in my ears the only sound that I hear.

“He’s okay.” It’s his voice that breaks this time. It’s his hiccupped sob that shudders through the connection. His words allow me to breathe for the first time in however long it’s been—minutes that feel like hours.

My sob follows right behind it. “Have you talked to him?”

“No. Not yet.” His voice is hoarse but relieved. “It went down. Our pilot was able to set it down. The blades. The water. I don’t understand how they made it, but they’re okay.”

“I need to get there, to see him . . . to . . . I can’t get in . . . I can’t fly there.” I choke the words out.

“I know. I know. We’re . . . Callahan and I are in the car. On the way to see him.”

“Please,” I plead. “Please have him call me.”

Please. I can’t lose someone else.