Page 64 of Mistletoe and Mayday

Bailey Marie Monroe, if you’re ignoring these messages, I will ground you for life, and I don’t care that you’re 28. Please, baby, just let us know you’re alive.

The timestamps show an increasingly frantic progression over the past five days. Fifteen missed calls from Mom. Eight from Gabriel. Even Dad called three times, and he hates phones.

Gabriel’s messages are less emotional but no less worried.

Gabriel

Hey, Mom’s freaking out about some plane news. Check in?

Seriously B, answer your damn phone.

Called rescue services. Storm’s too bad for search teams. This better be you losing your phone again. Mom hasn’t slept in 36 hours. Neither have I. Please be okay.

My throat tightens. They knew. They’ve been panicking for days, not just annoyed like usual when I miss family gatherings. They’ve been calling rescue services, airlines, anyone who might know anything about a missing pilot in Alaska.

I tap out a quick response to Mom.

I am COMPLETELY FINE. Yes, it was my plane, but we survived a crash landing. Safe now, getting rescued. Minor ankle sprain but otherwise perfect. In a helicopter heading to the hospital. Can’t talk—too loud. Will call ASAP. I’m SO sorry you were worried. Love you so much.

Then to Gabriel:

Alive and kicking (well, limping). Tell Mom I’m okay. We crash-landed but survived by being awesome wilderness badasses. Getting checked out now, but I’m fine. Thanks for trying to find me. Owe you big time.

The messages send with cheerful swooshes that feel inadequate for the fear my family’s been living with. For five days, they’ve thought I might be dead in the Alaskan wilderness. And they were right—I could have been, if not for Sebastian.

My phone buzzes again, Mom’s response coming through as if she’s been holding her phone for five straight days.

Mom

OH THANK GOD!!! I’m sobbing. Your father’s sobbing. Gabriel’s pretending not to sob. CRASH LANDED??? ANKLE SPRAIN??? WHO ARE WE???

Call the SECOND you land!!! I love you so, so much.

Gabriel

Jesus Christ, B. Mom just collapsed in a chair, crying. Dad’s opening the good whiskey. WHO THE HELL IS “WE”? You better have one hell of a story. Don’t you EVER do this again.

I smile through sudden tears. They love me. They were terrified for me. For all my complaining about them not understanding me, they moved heaven and earth, trying to find me when they thought I was in danger.

I shoot back quick replies.

I promise I’m okay, Mom. “We” are me and a passenger. Long story. Love you tons, will explain everything.

Gabriel, tell Dad to pour me one too. I’ve earned it. And the “we” is complicated. Very complicated.

Sebastian’s phone keeps lighting up. More messages. More calls. More people who noticed he was missing. More lives waiting for him to step back into his perfect world.

My phone stays quiet except for another spam text about winning a cruise I never entered to win.

He glances at me, then back at his screen as it lights up again. I force a smile that feels like broken glass cutting my cheeks. “Looks like people missed you.”

The medical equipment beeps between us, a rhythmic reminder of reality. His phone buzzes again. And again. And again.

“You should return those calls.” My voice sounds steadier than I feel. “Let them know you’re okay.”

Sebastian’s fingers hover over his screen, hesitating. Another buzz makes him flinch.

The helipad comes into view, a bright orange X. My stomach lurches, and not from the descent.