Page 33 of Final Proposal

And to hear Garland say I’m valued here at the company without ever giving me one ounce of respect Ford gave me last night only reinforces why I need the freedom and blessing to take time off for this project.

“It’s nice to hear you value my input here,” I lie, and the smile that strains on my lips says as much, “but—”

“But I think you might have a point.” He pauses and jots something down on his pad of paper in front of him while I slowly exhale the breath I’m holding. “I can move one of the boys onto your Revlon project to take it off your hands.”

Ha. Case in fucking point.

“You already did that. After I did all the legwork and scheduling, you told me it was better suited for Gregory,” I say, my smile lacking amusement. “Remember?”

“Oh. Yes.” He nods and waves his hand back and forth. “It’s neither here nor there now, is it? Since you’ll be leaving now anyway.”

“So that’s a yes?”

“Yes.”

I fight the urge to do a fist pump when I leave the conference room, but that doesn’t mean I’m not doing one in my head.

Ellery

Seventeen Years Ago

“What are you doing, sweetie?” My mother’s eyes meet mine from her reflection in the mirror.

“Just thinking.”

“About?” She turns to face me, her long, elegant neck exposed as she pulls her hair to one shoulder and continues to brush it. I watch the continuous motion of her hand, mesmerized by all things that are my mother. Her delicate skin. Her bright blue eyes that my eyes mimic. Her signature scent—rose and ivy. The hint of the South in her voice.

“Things. Stuff. You know.” I shrug from where I lie on the bed, face in my hands, feet kicking back and forth in the air over my butt.

My eyes veer past the brush to a picture on her vanity. It’s tiny and faded, and I know what it looks like from memory even though I’m across the room.

It’s of my mom, dad, and me. We were at the beach. I’m in one of his arms and his other is around my mom. She’s looking at him like he’s the entire world, while he’s looking at me with the same, adoring look.

It’s the expression I always think of when I think of him.

I don’t remember the moment because I was so young, but I savor the image and the feeling it gives me.

“What’s wrong, Elle? You’ve got that look on your face,” she asks, her head angling to the side to study me.

“Does it bug him that you have that picture?”

“What?” She looks over her shoulder and her entire body relaxes. “That’s my absolute favorite.”

“Mine too.”

Her expression softens. “He loved you with everything he had, you know that, right?”

I nod, the funny feeling in my chest returning just like it always does when I think of him and miss him. “Why did he . . . never mind.”

Why did he not love himself enough then? Why did he do it? Why did he rob me of a life with him?

Questions. They’re always there. Always haunting me.

Because I know I loved him enough to make up for all the love he didn’t have for himself. Wasn’t that enough? Weren’t we enough?

“Daddy had an accident, Elle.”

I don’t understand why tears are streaming down Mom’s face. Why her hiccupped breaths can barely come out.