Free You're the One That I Want by Susan May Warren

hadn’t exactly been quick, had it? Because she’d watched him with a keen eye since that first day.
    Had wondered, yes, what it might be like to be in his arms.
    And for a moment last night   —only hours ago   —she’d discovered herself there in his embrace, feeling all those solid planes of his body, muscles wrought from hard work and hours at sea. If she’d been a smart girl instead of a proud girl, she might have wrapped her arms around his neck, held on. Given the pirate a chance before life threw them overboard.
    She checked his breathing again. Slight, ragged.
    Slowing.
    Scotty sat back, wiped her hand across her face. “You better not die on me because I want a wedding. Flowers and a dress.” Not really   —what would that look like? While she deserved to wearwhite, she hadn’t worn a dress, well, ever. Because she wasn’t the kind of girl who believed in dating or true love or happy endings.
    Have a little faith.
    She took his hand, folded it between both of her own. Clutched it to her chest. “Do not leave me, Owen. Do not leave me in this boat by myself.”
    His hand tightened. Or maybe just a spasm, but she searched his face for life.
    Please. Oh . . .
    She didn’t care that her eyes filled or that she’d begun to shake. Have a little   —
    “Fine! Please, God. If You exist, if You’re up there at all . . . if You see us, if You care in the tiniest bit, keep him breathing. Just keep him breathing.”
    Owen’s hand spasmed again, and she held it to her face, her voice cut thin, bare. “Just keep him breathing.”
    The ocean had calmed and Scotty rode the gentle waves, watching the sunrise bleed out into perfect blue skies. Owen refused to rouse, but his chest kept moving. Up, down, up   —
    And then she heard it. A humming, a whap-whap-whap , then a horn.
    A helicopter. Searching the sea. She leaped up, stood under the porthole, waving her arms outside.
    She saw nothing, but she could hear the rotary blades chopping the air.
    A flare. Except without the gun . . .
    She ducked back inside, found the supply case, and opened it, taking out the last stick flare inside.
    She stood up again, aiming the flare through the porthole.
    Please work. Please.
    She broke the flare and it lit, a shiny, bright signal. It burned in her hand, and she waved it, hoping to catch a mirror or binoculars or whatever they might be using.
    “Help! Help!” Probably expending her breath wasn’t wise, but it seemed the right accompaniment to her frenetic waving.
    The stick burned, and as she threw it in the water, she listened for the chopper.
    Gone. No hammering of the air, no drone of an engine.
    She sank back inside, listening to her heartbeat rage in her chest. Then she crept over to Owen. “It’s going to be okay. They’ll find us.”
    She settled her hand back on his chest.
    It was still. “No . . . Owen, no!” She jammed two fingers against his carotid artery. Nothing. She cupped her hand over his mouth. No breathing.
    Silence.
    “Owen!” She rose above him, began to pump his chest. One, two . . . all the way to thirty, just like she’d been trained.
    C’mon, Owen . . .
    She leaned in, listening for breath sounds. Gave two strong breaths, then more chest compressions. Her stomach clenched with the exertion but   —
    Outside, again she heard the chopper.
    Breaths.
    Compressions.
    It seemed louder as if the chopper might have looped back. She braced herself so the waves wouldn’t dislodge her.
    Breaths. She stared at Owen’s face. He looked pinker, maybe.
    The helicopter sound droned louder still.
    Please, God. Please. She might have even started begging aloud.
    Compressions.
    The rotors chopped the air, the raft walls beginning to ripple.
    Breaths.
    Then a voice. “Hello, the life raft. If you’re in there, please acknowledge.” The rotors chopped the air.
    Compressions. “Owen!”
    She stared at him, saw his color had definitely improved, but he stayed still, no life.
    “I’m