Shoving me out of the way, she grabs her backpack and follows the sound of voices off the plane.
Chapter 3: Rose
Outside, the sun is blinding. My legs are shaky as I move, but I push on anyway because the alternative—staying trapped in that death machine with Satan—is far worse. I clutch my backpack like it’s my lifeline, and Logan follows as we make our way over to Henry, Hillary, and three men in various shades of plaid shirts and jean coveralls, standing at the edge of what used to be their cornfield.
They’re all talking at once. The sound of it pulses between my temples, making my headache worse. Low grade when I got on the plane for having to spend three hours with Logan Wells, made worse by his insults, then a fucking plane crash. Forced landing, I mean.
“Nearest hospital is about ninety minutes,” one of the farmers explains to Henry and Logan while they discuss logistics.
Logan goes quiet for a second. “Ninety minutes. What happens when someone out here actually needs emergency care?” He keeps glancing at me, like I’m about to keel over.
“I’ll call the local doc,” the farmer says easily. “He’ll come by, check you folks out if it makes you feel better. Biggest victim here, far as I’m concerned, is my corn.”
We all look in unison toward the dirt-drive-turned-runway, and the few hundred feet where the wing of the plane flattened the cornfield.
“No need for a doctor,” I insist, since a cardiovascular surgeon just bandaged the small cut on my forehead. I think I’ll be fine.
Aside from my knees shaking, my stomach turning, and the way my words sound more like a whisper—physically, I’m fine.
Hillary steps closer to Henry, and they start talking next steps. The farmers have their own side conversation about what to do with their crops, which pulls Henry in, nodding along about insurance and billing. I have to get out of here. I turn on my heel, hike my backpack up my shoulder, and start walking toward the barn.
“Where are you going?” Logan’s voice is right behind me.
“Georgia.” I don’t slow down. “Dad’s wedding.”
“Rose,” he huffs, just as red and blue lights strobe up the drive from the barn, accompanied by the annoying whoop of a siren. The cop rolls to a stop beside us in an old brown Suburban, lights fixed to the roof.
“Heard y’all were in a plane crash.” The man tilts his oversized brown sheriff’s hat. Logan looks at him, then at the plane, then back at him.
I snort. Then I start laughing. Logan’s hand finds my shoulder.
“Henry is the pilot. He’s the one you want to talk to.” Logan turns and points toward the group gathered a dozen yards away. As if the fucking Gulfstream among all this open land is hard to miss.
The cop tilts his hat, then continues along toward the group.
“I need to get out of here,” I say. I can still feel the rumbling of the plane, like the earth beneath my feet is still shaking.
I turn to walk away again, and he snaps, “Stop walking away!”
“I need to get out of here!”
“I heard you the first time. Stop being so stubborn and let’s just figure this out. Wait a fucking minute.”
“Let me freak out, okay? We were just in a plane crash!”
“Forced landing,” he says wryly. And I want to scream. I shoot him a withering glare.
“Alright,” he cajoles, like I’m a rabid animal. “Wait here, I’ll see if I can get us a ride out of here.”
He hurries back toward the group, his suit and dress shoes absurd against the dust, cornfield, and ruined plane. He’s too fancy for all this chaos—though the suit fits him well. On the plane, I kept stealing glances of his white button-up beneath the dark jacket, top two buttons undone, like he’d made one small concession to the fact that was supposed to be on vacation. I caught peeks of smooth, hard muscle and tan skin, and I hated how much I noticed.
I turn and head down the drive toward the barn. I don’t have a plan, but the urgency to move helps keep my nerves from taking over my brain.
The breeze smells like cut grass and fertilizer. The air is warm, and the sky is wide open in a way that feels oppressive. I always think I want nature when I’m in the city. But this is too much of it, all at once—enormous and indifferent, like it doesn’t matter that I’m here.
That I just survived a fucking plane crash.
A crow lands on a fence post and stares at me. I don’t even know what state we’re in. My head is starting to spiral, just as a red truck rumbles up beside me.
