Chapter 4 Logan
Seated at the edge of the bed, on a mattress that makes way more noise than it should considering I’m barely on it, I stare down at my phone in frustration.
As Maybelle predicted, the rental won’t get dropped off until morning.
The room smells of stale carpet and cigarettes.
A ceiling fan ticks overhead, one blade slightly warped, clicking on every rotation.
Turn it up higher, the clicking gets louder.
Turn it off completely, and the smell gets worse.
This whole goddamn trip is one nightmare after another, and it’s barely begun.
We really are stuck out in the middle of nowhere.
I could throw money at this, pull some strings to get us out of here by tonight, but it’s already getting late, and I’m too exhausted to bother.
I took a shower, made some calls. Told my father what happened—the actual truth, since Henry would have, and I didn’t want him to worry.
He did anyway, but promised to soften the details before telling my mother.
Her anxiety gets the better of her sometimes.
A forced landing. Sounds better than a plane crash.
Thank God Henry was flying. He saved our lives with his quick thinking, and I didn’t thank him properly before we left.
My body was full of adrenaline, and Rose was walking away, and my brain couldn’t process more than that, and I found myself running after her.
Pearl texts and asks for another update. I debate calling to put her mind at ease, but end up silencing my notifications and heading next door to update Rose instead.
I knock.
“Rose?” I knock again. No answer. Maybe she’s sleeping—I don’t think she has a concussion, miraculously, but she hit her head pretty hard. The cut hadn’t looked deep, but it’s still a head wound. We’re so fucking lucky that was the worst of it.
Still, her symptoms could be delayed. I knock again, then curl my fist and start banging, the hollow door rattling in its frame. I’m just about to kick it when I hear gravel crunching behind me and turn to find Maybelle coming around the side of the building, arms crossed over her chest.
“Boy, what in the hell are you doing?”
Boy. I’m a cardiothoracic surgeon at one of the most prestigious hospitals in the country. When I walk into a room, people sit up and listen. No one has ever called me boy, even when I was one. I say brusquely, “She’s not answering.”
Her lips pull into a snarl. “A woman don’t answer the door, she don’t want to talk to you.”
I hadn’t made the best impression earlier, but didn’t care at the time. It’s unlike me, I’m usually more personable. At least, I know when to turn it on. Just not with Rose, and apparently, not today.
Maybelle looks like she’s two seconds from calling the cops. Or skipping that entirely and attacking me with a broom handle. I watch her eyes cut to my fist, still raised from knocking, and make a conscious effort to lower it and take a step away from the door.
“We were in a car crash,” I lie, then place my palm flat on Rose’s door. “That’s how she got the cut. I’m just worried she might have a concussion. Delayed onset—”
“She left.”
“What?“
Maybelle rolls her eyes, then points down the road. “Diner.” Then she turns and stalks off.
Irritation gnaws at me. So Rose, with no phone, waiting on a rental that, as far as she knew, could have arrived at any moment, just walked off without telling me. Typical.
I head down the road after her. Out here, it’s all rural back roads cutting through hills and rolling fields of hay and corn, nothing visible for long in any direction. It’s actually pretty, which I didn’t get a chance to appreciate when we were careening toward the Earth.
It’s hot and muggy, and I’m still pissed off, but it’s a long walk, and somewhere between the motel and the diner sign appearing on the horizon, the irritation begins to fade and I realize I’m starving.
I can’t remember the last thing I ate today.
I’m usually disciplined about that—when I eat, balancing calorie and protein intake.
I have to be, my work requires it. But everything today is all fucked up.
It’s almost four, too early for dinner, which might explain why there’s only one car in the lot—a dusty old Yukon with a cracked taillight, parked crooked across two spaces.
The place is genuinely old—not trying to look retro, but actually is.
The exterior is a faded yellow that might have once been white.
A neon sign in the window buzzes the word coffee in unsteady pink light, the ee’s flickering.
The sign above the door reads Winnie’s Eats in stripes, one corner peeling away from the glass.
My expectations for a decent meal are low.
I swing open the door and am greeted with the scent of fried food and stale coffee, and something sweet underneath, like syrup or pie.
I scan the room and find Rose in a back booth, chin resting in her palm, staring at nothing.
The hostess starts toward me, and I wave her off, nodding in Rose’s direction.
Rose doesn’t look up when I slide in across from her.
“You could have told me you were leaving,” I snap.
She doesn’t respond right away. A woman comes over with a pot of coffee—same flat expression as Maybelle, same cantaloupe breasts and skinny legs, though she’s in purple leggings and a t-shirt with a faded Winnie’s Eats logo.
Her nametag reads Marielle. They have to be twins.
She flips the mug in front of me and fills it, then tops off Rose’s.
“Food?”
I glance at Rose. “Did you order?”
She nods, tearing open a sugar packet and pouring it into her coffee.
“A burger, if you have it. And a side salad,” I tell Marielle.
She narrows her eyes in distrust, and I’m tempted to lift my hands and ask what the fuck I did to the women in this town, but she nods and walks off.
Rose stirs her coffee, and full minutes pass while she stares out the window at nothing.
The silence is grating, and I’m not sure why. I have no problem with silence; I don’t need people to fill the air with incessant chatter. I actually prefer it that way. But I want her to say something, even if it’s to tell me to go fuck myself.
The bruise on her head has deepened since the crash—purple at the center around the cut, edged in deep blue. It’ll show in the wedding pictures, if she actually cares about that.
I’d wondered why she was flying in so late when the rest of the wedding party had been there all week.
Pearl told me Rose had wanted nothing to do with the whole thing, had barely agreed to come at all.
Hadn’t helped with a single arrangement.
Hadn’t shown up to the engagement party.
All she had to do was get on a plane and stand beside the altar as a bridesmaid in whatever dress Pearl picked out for her.
And even that, apparently, had been like pulling teeth.
“The car will be here in the morning,” I tell her, sipping my coffee. “At eight.”
She nods, still silent, dragging her spoon in slow circles.
“You’re welcome, by the way.”
A muscle in her jaw tightens as she purses her lips.
She sets the spoon down. I watch her blink, slow, lashes fanning—her eyes are so dark, at a distance they seem almost black, but up close, the irises are a deep chestnut brown.
I first noticed at the gala last year. I spent the first half of the night actively avoiding looking at her, but it was impossible.
It was the dress she was wearing, tight across her curves.
I was drawn to her, moth to flame. And eventually I gave in, drifted close enough to look into her eyes, to smell her perfume.
I said something shitty, and she responded in kind.
We ended up spending the rest of the night trading barbs while the party went on around us.
The space between us was flammable. It always seems to be.
Her eyes lift to meet mine now, and my pulse kicks up. I can feel it in my throat. Not a word, and she makes my blood pressure rise.
“I made six calls,” I say, reaching for the annoyance that’s already started to fade on me. “Argued with customer service for two hours to get a car delivered out here.” I can’t remember the last time I had to do something like that myself. I have people who do shit like that for me.
She wraps her hands around the mug. “Thank you,” she says sincerely, with none of her usual sharp edges.
“What’s up with you?”
She blinks, and I catch the sheen over her eyes—not like she’s been crying, but like she’s running on fumes. Something uncomfortable shifts in my chest.
I’ve had a shitty day. So has she. I know that.
I’m not an idiot. I’m not known for being soft, but I’m not blind either.
There’s something about Rose I’ve never wanted to look at too closely—and I can feel it now, sitting across from her, and it rankles.
Maybe she’s not as vapid a bitch as I’ve always thought.
She’s still an entitled brat. But… maybe not only that.
“Are you alright?” I prod again.
She glances up, and I catch something flicker across her face—surprise, maybe, or suspicion, like she’s trying to figure out my angle. There must be something in my tone, because after a second, she seems to soften.
“I’m fine. I will be.” She turns the mug in her hands. “It’s just been a day. A year, actually.”
I’ve heard enough from Pearl to know her summer was rough. And yeah, most of it was her own doing. But that’s not really the point.
Rose has never actually done anything to me. We argue, sure, but she gives as good as she gets. Whatever she’s done to Pearl, whatever she’s done to her family—that’s not my business. We’re stuck here together, and I really don’t need to make this shit day any worse.
“We’ll drive to the airport tomorrow,” I say. “You’ll be okay getting to Georgia from there?”