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A beat of silence on the other end. Then Nico’s voice, calm and deadly certain. “I’ll get Eddie. We’ll be on the next flight.”

I exhale shakily, clutching the phone like a lifeline. “Thank you. I—thank you.”

“He’ll want to know,” Nico says. “And he’ll want to be there. Hold tight, Laney. We’ve got you.”

I end the call and lower the phone slowly, pressing it to my chest.

Lucas is quiet beside me, wiped out, eyes closed, fists clenched against his knees. I touch his arm gently. “They’re coming. Nico and Eddie. They’ll be on the first flight.”

He nods once, then turns to me, his eyes filled with something broken—but also something grateful.

We don’t speak again as he leaves to go back in to Sam.

I sit alone in the waiting room, surrounded by fluorescent light and the hum of machines behind double doors, holding on to hope like it’s the only thing I have left.

Because maybe it is.

Time stretches.

Distorts.

Swells and contracts like breath through a cracked rib cage.

I sit in the same chair, elbows on knees, my hands clasped so tightly my knuckles ache. The bright overhead lights buzz and hum, casting sharp shadows on the pale vinyl floor. My eyes sting from not blinking enough. From blinking too much. From trying to hold back the tears that come and go like waves.

No one speaks to me.

A nurse passed by earlier, gently asked if I wanted coffee. I shook my head. I couldn’t form words.

Now it’s quiet again. The clock on the wall ticks past. I know the numbers, but they don’t feel real.

Joey is behind those doors. Sam is with him. Lucas hasn’t come out since the call to Nico.

And I—

I just wait.

I think of Eddie—what he’s doing right now. If he knows. If Nico told him gently, or if he had to rip the truth out fast like a bandage.

I picture his face when he hears about Joey.

That little boy who calls him ‘my Eddie’ with a crooked smile and glitter glue stuck to his fingers.

God.

He must be shattered.

But I know him. He’ll be coming. No delays. No detours. Nico doesn’t book commercial flights—he’ll already have the jet moving.

They’re coming.

That’s the only thing keeping me from crumbling.

I shift in the chair, pulling Eddie’s hoodie tighter around me. It still smells like him. A trace of cologne. Of comfort. Of the life we’ve started to build.

A few more people have entered the waiting room over the last hour—a crying couple, an older man with a bloodied bandage on his hand, a woman sitting alone, staring into her lap.

But it feels like we’re all moving through our own private hells, connected only by the silence and the soft scuff of nurses’ shoes on linoleum.