I glance up at the clock on the wall. It’s only 7:30, the car must have arrived early. Damn. And here I was hoping I’d get stranded in West Virginia without him.
Logan must see something in my face when he walks in, because he takes a moment by the door before making up his mind and crossing to my booth—the same one we sat in last night. The diner has filled up since I sat down, but nobody looks at us twice.
Logan slides in across from me. I keep my eyes on my tea. He orders a coffee, and then, before I’ve even decided whether to acknowledge him, he clears his throat.
“Look, about last night—” he pauses.
“Let’s just forget it. I shouldn’t have even brought it up.”
He eyes me, and I look away. The truth is, Ishouldn’thave brought it up. I know better. It’s just—we’d actually been getting along, which almost never happens, and for once Pearl wasn’t sitting between us, literally or figuratively. We were flirting. And after the plane crash, after all of it, I just…
That feeling in my chest had been getting louder all night. The way he smiled, and I’d never seen him smile directly at me before. The way he’d turned my chin toward the light with two fingers to check my cut before we left the light of the diner, clinical and careful, his thumb just barely grazing my jaw, fingers gently pressing along my temple. The faint spice of his cologne, subtle, not too strong. Those hands. Big and dexterous, neat nails, the kind of hands that look like they know what they’re doing. I hadn’t been able to stop noticing him, and I really, really needed to stop noticing him.
And then there was that text I’d seen from Pearl. What does she need to tell him? Is she going to confess her love to him? Will he fall for her? Is he already in love with her? After the way he defended her last night, he must feel something for her.
It doesn’t matter, I tell myself, just like I did last night. But it felt like something inexplicable was slipping through my fingers. I’m not delusional. I know nothing is ever going to happen between us. I just wanted him to see me. Not whatever version of me Pearl has been constructing for him all these years.
I should have seen it coming. All her friends hate me, they’ve never hidden it. They talk trash about me, to my face, under their breath. Spread rumors.
I just wanted him to see me for me. I went about it wrong. And now, here we are.
One more hour. Maybe two. I can manage that.
I reach for my card to cover the coffee, but Logan slides it back across the table and leaves a twenty. “Cash is faster. Let’s go.”
Of course he wants faster. He wants to get away from me as soon as possible. I hate that I still feel a small, stupid sting at his words. I follow him out, throwing my backpack into the back seat.
“There’s a flight leaving at noon. You sure you don’t want to come with me?” There’s a softness in his tone. I don’t like it.
“I’m sure,” I say. Getting on a plane after yesterday—I don’t know how he can even think about it. But that’s his problem.
The drive to the airport is quiet.
The headache from yesterday is back, stronger. I press two fingers into the side of my neck. I don’t get them often, but I haven’t slept, and I’m stressed as fuck.
Logan glances over. “What’s wrong with you?”
“Nothing.” I watch the farmland give way to strip malls, a tractor supply store, a Wendy’s, as we leave the more rural areas.
“You have another headache.”
“Yes,” I admit. There’s no point lying about it to a doctor, and besides, I don’t have the energy for it.
His knuckles tighten on the wheel. A few miles later he pulls over at a gas station without a word, and I assume he needs to pee. He comes back with a Gatorade and a bottle of ibuprofen.
He doesn’t hand them over. He turns in the seat to face me. “Any dizziness? Nausea? Numbness?” I keep shaking my head as he lists off more symptoms.
“I’m fine,” I tell him. “It’s just a headache. I get them when I’m stressed. I had one before the plane crash, I told you.”
He leans in close. Those big hands I couldn’t stop noticing last night reach up and find the cut on my head. It’s tender, a little bruised, but nothing serious. “Any pain here?” His voice is gentle. His thumbs move to my eyebrows the way they did on the plane. He’s close enough that I catch toothpaste and coffee on his breath. He looks directly into my eyes, checks my pupils.For a moment, his palm cups the side of my head, warm and still, and then he lets go.
He huffs something under his breath, cracking open the ibuprofen. He shakes two tablets into his palm without looking at me. “Any cognitive issues?” He holds them out with the Gatorade. I shake my head. “Take these.”
I do. I’m an herbalist, not a zealot. I’m not going to turn down ibuprofen on principle. While I’d normally try herbs first, my travel kit isn’t exactly fully stocked for this level of stress. I hadn’t packed for a plane crash.
Logan types something into his phone. The GPS screen flickers and recalculates. I watch the estimated drive time climb from the remaining thirty minutes we have to the airport to… ten and a half hours?
“Logan…”
