CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
Ellery
“You expecting good news or something today, boss lady?” Roddy asks as he walks by me.
“What do you mean?” I ask, turning to look at him.
“You’ve been checking your phone every ten minutes today like you’re expecting your sister to be having a baby or something.”
I laugh. “Considering I don’t have a sister, that might be a long wait.”
“Touché.” He stops and narrows his eyes. “But all is good? No problems with the project or permits or shit?”
“No. Nothing like that. Just waiting for an email to come through on the canopy deliveries for the café,” I lie, suddenly feeling ridiculous that I’ve checked my phone enough today that someone noticed.
“They have my number too. That’s not something you should really have to deal with. You’ve got enough on your plate as it is. Let me handle that.”
So much for that lie.
“There. No more distractions.” I make a show of taking my phone out of my pocket and turning on Do Not Disturb. “If I’m going to preach about being attentive on the job, I guess it’s only right that I do the same.”
He laughs and winks before getting called into the café to help with something.
I sigh and lean against the wall. Despite my lack of sleep last night, today has been a good day.
Am I still hurt and confused about the things that were said last night? Of course, I am. I’m not a robot.
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.
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.
Not again.