Prologue

Caroline

If this island was an organ, it would be my heart. Isolated, lost, and misunderstood. Oh, and broken into jagged, sharp pieces. How could I forget that? Shell Island. I know exactly where I’m at. The airplane went down about seven minutes after I took off. I didn’t know the storm was coming in or I probably wouldn’t have gone up. I love the horizon before a big, nasty storm, but try to avoid putting myself into one. The thunderheads look as if they’re leaking love letters from heaven. The colors in the clouds are this magic mix of reality and the supernatural. It soothes me to go for a quick flight before a storm, but that was not my intention today. Today, I needed the mental clarity being in the air provides more than I have ever needed it before. Maybe that’s why my plane is destroyed, mangled in shiny bent pieces in the distance. I didn’t pay enough attention to my gauges—the warning signs.

The crash landing was bumpy and I should be grateful the island was in my landing field or else I’d be sinking, and halfway to the ocean floor right now. A fate I’m not sure wouldn’t be preferable at the moment. My arm is broken, and if I was a betting woman, I’d say I have a cracked rib or two. The seatbelt harness did its job a little too well. The rain started—a thick, soaking pound about the same time I crawled out of the cockpit and made it a safe distance away from the smoking, metal heap. The plane slid in hard after the stray bolt of lightning struck. The falling wobble was terrifying, taking all my strength to control it through the rough, wet sand. They talk about crash landings during flight lessons, but it doesn’t prepare you for it happening in real life. I might still be breathing, but if I survive this, the whole thing shaved years off my life in anxiety alone.

Worse still, I didn’t tell anyone I was going up. It’s the number one rule. The only rule my daddy gave me with regards to the airport and the planes. I’m rain soaked with tears streaming down my face and completely alone. I sent out a mayday on the way down, but the electronics may have burnt out with the lightning strike so I don't know if it went through. It’s a small plane without the fancy bells and whistles of the other planes we have. Some may say I was asking for trouble.

Maybe I was.

Maybe I knew this was some big, ironic conclusion to the relationship I knew was going to cause me pain and heartbreak. I suck in a sharp breath and wince when my ribcage expands. The smoke stream seeping from the plane grows as each second passes and I’m confident it will go up in flames. Not that I’d have the tools to fix it if it wasn’t going to explode, nor the ability to get the thing back in the air without a runway. I’m stranded. Heartbreak keeps me company. Deep, perforating, soul searing heartbreak. I was careless, reckless in falling for a man obsessed with perfection. No one can live up to those standards. The betrayal I feel for my own decision is the second-string gut punch. Why did I let him in?

Standing, I swallow a sob and use my good arm to support the other, like a sling. My bag. I had my bag. Logic slips in for a brief moment and I remember I threw it into the cockpit when I rushed the hangar.

The cell phone is in it. For once, I have the stupid electronic device with me. The service might be spotty, but I know the phone works. In high school, we would pile into boats and come out to Shell Island to drink and party. Well, they would party, I was mostly the designated boat driver and people watcher. It was about a thirty-minute boat ride from Crick’s Beach docks. Phones worked out here then, and service must have improved since high school.

Moving as quickly as I can, I hobble toward my airplane. The steaming and hissing grows louder with each step. Tripping on a piece of metal that used to be a beautiful wing, I pull myself up with my good arm. The bad arm stings with pain without support and a pathetic whimper escapes my lips.

The purse is wedged on the passenger seat side, next to the door. The straps are barely visible from this angle, but it’s enough to let me know it’s still intact. I make the decision to dive in quickly despite the sear of mangled bones, and make a grab for the handle. A few tugs prove it’s stuck, which makes perfect sense, because why wouldn’t it be? I bet the phone is crushed to bits. “Try Caroline,” I whisper to myself. “You can do this. I can do this. I have to do this.”

A sharp noise draws my attention away from my purse to the dark orange flame rising from the corner of my aircraft. Swallowing hard, I understand what’s happening. My fight or flight response kicks in, my heart racing along in a disconnected way. One hard wiggle and tug, and my bag is free. I check the radio system one last time and confirm it is down, then turn from the airplane and run toward a grove of trees in the distance. Hoping they will provide shelter from the rain, I dump the contents of my purse on the sand. I see the familiar glow of the cell. I snatch it up with shaking fingers, open the first message on my list and tap out, Shell Island. I send it, and then try calling the airport, but it rings and rings. There’s no White Knight coming after me. Those only exist in fairytales told to pacify children. The realities of life are far crueler, and littered with lies and unintended consequences.

I’ve always followed the rules—a good southern girl, a friend, a daughter. A person worthy of respect. This is what happens when good girls don’t follow rules. I can’t cover my eyes, count to ten, and take this back.

My whole body is shaking. I look at the rest of my belongings in the bag. An apple. A crumpled note that says, you are perfect, my wallet, and a bottle of water. I’m thinking, bitterly I might add, about the irony of this combination of things while lying down in the sand, adrenaline coursing through my veins numbing the pain I should be feeling.

Another sharp pop sounds from the plane behind me. I stand quickly and my head thwacks a low hanging branch. I see stars. More pain. Blackness goes in and out of focus.

Then I see flames, not just a thin rising, but a harried wildfire of destruction.

The explosion ricochets and I see nothing.

Because this is the hard truth about love.

It always goes up in flames.