She's right, but rational thinking has left the building. All I can think about is that I might never see him again. That the last time I'll ever touch him was that hug two hours ago, and I didn't hold on long enough.
The last thing I said to him was good luck. Casual words, throwaway words. The kind of words you say to someone when you assume you'll see them again.
What if I don't see him again?
Because if something happens to Logan, he’ll never know that I love him. That I never stopped.
I was too proud and too busy protecting myself from the possibility that he might leave again, and now he might be gone for good, and the words are still locked inside me where they've been sitting for a decade.
“Jasmine,” Clara says in a firm voice. “Look at me.”
I look at her.
“He's going to be fine. But right now you need to breathe.”
I nod and wipe my face with the back of my hand. Clara hands me a tissue from the box on my desk, and I press it against my eyes and try to pull myself together.
“Go home,” Clara says. “I'll tell Mabel you weren't feeling well. Go home and wait for him to call.”
“I can't just leave.”
“You're sitting in your office crying, Jasmine. You're not going to get any work done. Go home, turn on the news, and wait.”
She's right. I gather my bag and my coat and leave. The cab ride home takes twenty minutes, and I spend every second of it refreshing the ESPN page on my phone. No updates. No reported injuries, but no confirmation that everyone is okay.
I call Harper. It goes straight to voicemail. I call Avery, then Natalie, then Olivia. Every single one of them is on the phone with someone else or trying to get through to their own person, and the lines are jammed.
I scroll through my contacts. Cat Shaw's number is not in my phone. For one desperate second, I consider finding it, calling her, asking her if she's heard from Logan, because Cat is his mother, and if anyone has heard from him, it would be her.
But I can't call that woman.
I get home and walk straight to the living room. I turn on the TV, find ESPN and stand in front of it with my bag still on my shoulder.
The anchor is reporting the story with a graphic behind her that says RENEGADES PLANE EMERGENCY LANDING, and there's aerial footage of a plane on a runway at Pittsburgh International surrounded by fire trucks and emergency vehicles.
Relief surges through me.
“We're told that all passengers and crew are safe,” the anchor says. “The aircraft experienced engine failure approximately forty minutes into the flight from Teterboro to Chicago. The pilot diverted to Pittsburgh International, where the plane landed safely. We're awaiting confirmation from the Renegades organization.”
All passengers and crew are safe.
I drop my bag on the floor, collapse to the floor, and press my hands over my face and cry again. Relief rolls through me in waves that leave me shaking and gasping.
He's okay. He's alive.
ESPN brings on a former pilot to explain what engine failure means and how pilots train for single-engine landings, and he says the crew did an excellent job and that these things happen.
I want to reach through the screen and shake him.
My phone rings, and I frantically dig for it in my purse. The screen shows Logan's name, and I answer before the first ring finishes. “Logan,” I sob.
“I'm okay.” His voice is solid and real. “We're on the ground. Everyone's fine.”
I press the phone hard against my ear and close my eyes, and the tears are falling again.
“Jasmine. I'm here. I'm fine.”
“I saw it on the news, and I didn't know if you were—” I swallow hard. “I couldn't reach anyone. They kept showing the plane on the runway, and I didn't know if you were okay.”
