Chapter 16 Evie
Evie
By the time the Harbor Lights logistics meeting starts, the booths are full of clipboards and binders instead of regulars. The counter has a stack of printed agendas where the tip jar usually sits. Gus put a little sign on the front door that says:
CLOSED — PRIVATE EVENT (Reopening tomorrow)
Every year the Harbor Lights committee meets at The Lighthouse Diner. The town officials show up first. Festival planners follow with tote bags full of lanyards and laminated schedules. Then the Eon liaison arrives with a tablet and a smile that looks practiced in a mirror.
Her nametag reads Marrowson.
“Evie,” Gus mutters as he passes me behind the counter, low enough no one else can hear. “Smile. Pour coffee. Don’t stab anybody.”
“I make no promises,” I mutter back, grabbing the pot.
Gus gives me a look that says I may have basically raised you, but I cannot save you from yourself.
I grab mugs and start my circuit.
They’re all talking over each other in that familiar meeting way of people who love hearing themselves speak.
“Booth spacing needs to meet fire code—”
“Lantern release timing has to coordinate with tide—”
“Security barriers are a must this year, we’re expecting unprecedented turnout—”
“Eon’s sponsorship includes upgraded stage equipment, which means—”
Marrowson cuts in smoothly, voice warm. “Which means Harbor Lights can be bigger, safer, and more accessible than ever.”
My jaw tightens as I pour coffee into the mayor’s mug. “Cream?”
He startles like he forgot workers exist. “Oh, yes. Thank you.”
I keep moving.
A festival planner with glitter on her cheeks turns to Marrowson. “We loved the draft for the memorial reel, by the way.”
Memorial reel.
I pause just long enough that my coffee pot drips onto a saucer.
Marrowson beams. “It’s important we honor the town’s story.”
The planner nods vigorously. “Exactly! We want something… emotional. The kind of thing that makes people cry in a good way.”
Marrowson’s eyes glitter. “Emotion is what brings people together.”
My wrist warms faintly.
Not the binding warning exactly, more like a low simmer under the skin, like the sigil is reacting to the word emotion the way a dog reacts to thunder.
I swallow hard.
A man in a festival polo says, “And we’ll have the ‘Hometown Heroes’ montage between sets.”
“Montage?” someone repeats, delighted.
Marrowson swipes on her tablet, projecting a mockup onto a small portable screen they’ve propped at the end of the counter. A polished graphic appears: sepia photos, lantern glow overlays, sentimental fonts.
HOMETOWN HEROES, FEATURING KAIA RHEE
My stomach drops.
A councilwoman claps her hands. “Oh, that’s perfect.”
I pour another cup of coffee and pretend my hands aren't shaking.
Marrowson continues, sweet as poison. “We’ll include a commemorative segment honoring those we’ve lost, a reel of old Harbor Lights footage, then—”
She pauses, smile widening.
“—the guest appearance and star of the show: Midnight Halo."
Laughter. Gasps. Excited whispers.
I stare at the coffee pot as if it personally betrayed me. Of course Eon would turn the festival into a giant nostalgia battery and then plug Kaia directly into it.
A man near the end says, “This will be the biggest Harbor Lights in decades.”
Another adds, “Record ticket sales already—”
“Unprecedented excitement—”
My wrist warms again, sharper.
I grit my teeth.
The meeting drones on. I keep serving. Coffee, refills, sugar packets, polite nods. I do my job while a corporation scripts my town’s emotions like a product demo. I refill mugs and listen anyway, because being in the room means being warned. It means knowing what’s coming.
And what’s coming feels… dangerous.
Not in a “fireworks safety” way.
In a “this is exactly what a demon would order off the menu” way.
The meeting finally starts to break apart—people stacking binders, gathering their coats, congratulating themselves for “collaboration.”
Marrowson stays seated, tapping on her tablet.
Gus leans in close to me as I collect empty mugs. “They’re leaving.”
“Thank god,” I mutter.
Then the front door bell jingles.
I freeze.
The diner door swings open and the air changes instantly, like the room just got a little more charged. Blaire walks in first.
Behind her—
Kaia.
Jules.
Mina.
Remy.
All in regular clothes—hoodies, jeans, jackets. But the way they move together, the way the room subtly orients toward them, is unmistakable.
Marrowson’s face lights up like she’s been waiting for this cue.
“Perfect timing,” she says brightly, rising. “Ladies.”
Town officials immediately go into polite chaos. Whispering. Smiling too hard. Pretending they’re not fans.
I hold my tray against my hip and keep my face blank.
Kaia’s gaze finds me instantly. Her eyes flick to my hands. To my face. To the coffee pot like she’s checking whether I’m about to throw it.
Blaire clears her throat. “We were told to stop by.”
Marrowson beams. “We’re just wrapping up. I thought it would be… meaningful for the group to connect with the local organizers.”
Meaningful.
Sure.
Jules smiles brightly. “Happy to be meaningful.”
Remy gives a polite nod. Mina offers a small wave that looks genuinely shy. Kaia stands still, gaze still locked to me for a fraction too long, then she looks away like it cost her and greets the coordinators.
One of the festival planners—young, starstruck—leans forward toward the pop group. “We are so honored to have Midnight Halo perform at Harbor Lights.”
Kaia inclines her head and answers easily. “The honor is ours.”
The planner squeals.
Then Mina, wide-eyed and sincere, looks right at me and asks, “Are you gonna be there?”
The question is casual, but Kaia’s head snaps toward me so fast it’s almost comical.
Way too interested.
Way too tense.
Like my answer is going to decide whether she can breathe.
My throat tightens. I shrug like I don’t care. Like the idea of the festival doesn’t make my stomach twist. “Maybe.”
Kaia’s gaze stays on me. Jules notices and immediately looks entertained. Remy’s expression stays neutral, but her eyes flick between us. Mina looks confused and earnest, like she doesn’t understand why the air just got sharp.
Marrowson laughs lightly, smoothing the moment. “We’d love for everyone in town to attend. It’s going to be a once-in-a-lifetime Harbor Lights.”
Once-in-a-lifetime.
Marrowson smiles. “We’re done. Thank you so much, Gus.”
Gus grunts.
As the town officials file out, one of them pauses near Kaia, eyes bright. “It’s an honor,” he says. “To have you back.”
Kaia smiles politely. “Thank you so much.”
I want to scream.
Because back is not what she is. She’s not back. She’s a visitor with a badge and a sword and a corporation attached to her like a parasite.
The last of the officials leave. The door bell jingles. The diner quiets in the aftermath.
Marrowson gathers her tablet. “We’ll be in touch about tomorrow’s segment timing,” she says to Blaire, all business now. “I’ll send the revised run-of-show tonight.”
Blaire nods, jaw tight. “Great.”
Marrowson glances at the girls. “Rest up. Tomorrow is big.”
Then she leaves too, heels clicking like punctuation. The moment the door closes, the diner feels smaller.
Too small for all the unsaid things.
Blaire checks her phone, then gestures at the girls. “Two minutes. Then we go.”
Kaia looks like she might be vibrating with restraint.
“Evie,” she says quietly. “Can we talk?”
I should refuse. I should go refill sugar caddies or hide in the kitchen or fake a dishwasher emergency.
Instead, I say, "Sure."
My feet carry me toward booth three—the booth Gus always complained we “lived in” when we were teenagers. It’s tucked deeper inside, away from the windows, half-shadowed by a rack of old posters.
I slide in first, back to the wall. Control. Exit in sight.
Kaia hesitates, then sits across from me.
“What do you want to talk about?” I ask, crossing my arms.
Kaia’s gaze drops to the tabletop, then lifts again like it takes effort. Her voice comes out quieter than I expect—almost shy, which should be impossible coming from someone who fills stadiums.
“Us,” she says.
My stomach flips, furious at itself.
I let out a short, ugly laugh. “There is no 'us.'”
Kaia flinches. “Evie—”
“No,” I repeat, sharper. “You don’t get to drag out ‘us’ like a first aid kit because you feel guilty that a demon attacked me.”
Something hard flashes across her face, hurt, then resolve. “It’s not just that.”
“Then what is it?” I snap.
Kaia inhales, controlled. “I mean—yes. The demons are getting worse. The Chorus—”
“I know,” I cut in. “I’m the one with the demon magnet diner and the wrist leash, remember?”
Something flashes across her face, guilt so fast it looks like pain.
“I didn’t want that for you,” she says.
“But you brought it anyway,” I shoot back.
Kaia’s eyes sharpen. “No. That’s not—”
“It is,” I insist. “You left, Kaia. You left and then you came back with a corporation and a Council and a plan that uses my town like bait.”
Kaia’s breath catches. “We’re trying to protect people.”
“By turning the festival into a nostalgia bomb?” I hiss. “Do you hear yourself?”
Kaia’s voice goes rough. “Do you hear yourself? You’re acting like I want any of this.”
I stare at her, anger and something else twisting together.
“Don’t you?” I whisper. “Don’t you want the big stage? Don’t you want the lights and the screaming and the—"
I stop because my throat tightens.
Because what I’m really saying is: Didn't you choose that over us?
Kaia’s eyes soften for a fraction too long. “Evie…”
Then her face hardens, like she’s forcing herself into honesty instead of apology. “I messed up,” she says, voice low. “Back then. I know I did.”
My chest tightens like it always does when she gets too close to the past. The fight is still hanging between us, unfinished and rotting.
Kaia leans forward—still careful, still not crowding me, like she’s learned at least that lesson. “But that doesn’t mean I’m going to mess up again.”