Chapter 17 Kaia #2
The honesty in that hurts almost worse than the anger.
I nod slowly. “Okay.”
Evie lets out a breath like she didn’t realize she’d been holding it. She rubs her thumb over her fingertips, grounding herself.
We sit in silence again. The pier creaks. The water breathes. Somewhere back in town, a radio plays the Harbor Lights jingle faintly and my skin prickles as if the world is warning me we don’t have long.
Evie breaks the quiet first.
“You know what’s funny?” she says, voice flat.
“What?”
Evie’s mouth twists. “I never asked you to stay.”
My heart clenches.
Evie laughs once, humorless. “Everyone acts like I was begging you to pick me and Harbor’s Edge over your big dream.”
I don’t speak. I don’t dare.
Evie’s voice softens, just a fraction. “But I would never have asked that of you.”
I swallow. “Evie—”
“No,” she cuts in automatically, but it’s not as sharp as before. “Let me say it.”
I shut my mouth.
Evie stares out over the water. “I knew you wanted more. I knew it even when we were pretending our plan was ‘together.’ I could feel it in you. Like… like the town was a jacket you were outgrowing.”
My throat tightens because it’s true and because she’s saying it like she’s been carrying it too.
“I didn’t want you to resent me,” Evie says. “And… I wanted your dreams to come true…” She swallows. “And… you couldn’t even tell me yourself… Your mom told me… Your mom, Kaia. She didn't even tell me.” A bitter laugh. "I overhead."
A sharp ache blooms behind my ribs.
I picture it too clearly: Mom, proud and loud, letting the news spill like it belonged to everyone. Evie with a smile freezing on her face.
“I didn’t mean for you to hear it like that,” I say, and it comes out wrecked.
Evie’s laugh is thin. “But I did.”
“I know.” I swallow hard. “And I hate that I let it happen, but I was—”
“Scared,” Evie cuts in, exhausted. “Yeah. I know.” There’s no bite this time. Just resignation, like she’s said the word so many times in her head it wore smooth.
She stares out at the water. Her voice drops. “You were my everything back then, Kaia.” A beat. “And I didn’t need you to stay small. I didn’t need you to pick Harbor’s Edge over… whatever you wanted.”
My chest tightens.
“I just needed you to tell me,” she says, and it sounds like a confession she hates. “To let me be part of it. To not make me the last to know like I was a stranger. To not—” Her throat works. “—to not make me feel like I was something you had to outgrow.”
Her cheeks heat in the dark. I see it even with the fog, even with the weak pier lights. I see the way she hates that she’s saying any of this out loud.
“And I needed that kiss to mean something,” she adds, quieter, almost vicious with vulnerability. “I wanted it to be enough that you didn’t regret it.”
My own breath catches.
“I didn’t,” I say immediately.
Evie’s head snaps toward me. “Then why did you act like you did?”
Because fear makes me cruel.
Because I panicked.
Because I thought choosing you meant losing myself.
And because I didn’t know how to want both without breaking…
I swallow, throat burning. “Because I was terrified,” I say, honest in the ugliest way. “And when I get terrified, I… I make things smaller. I cut them down until they can’t hurt me.”
Evie’s eyes narrow, pained. “So you cut us down.”
“Yes,” I whisper. “And I hated myself for it the second I said it. But it was already out.”
Her voice cracks, just slightly. “You called it a stupid kiss.”
I flinch like the words are a slap.
“I know,” I say. “And it wasn’t. It wasn’t stupid. It was—” My breath shakes. “It was the bravest thing I’d ever done. And I got scared of what it meant.”
Evie looks away fast, jaw clenched like she’s holding back a sound.
I keep my hands still at my sides.
“I didn’t regret you. You were my best friend,” I say, quieter. “I regretted that I wanted you so much I couldn’t think straight.”
Evie looks away again, jaw clenched. “And then you left. After our fight. You left without a goodbye. I woke up one day, and you were gone.”
“I know,” I say.
The simplest confession.
No excuses.
Evie’s breath trembles. “You don’t get to come back and act like—like you’re just… here now.”
“I’m not acting like that,” I say softly.
Evie’s head snaps toward me. “Aren’t you? You show up with swords and suits. You bleed in the diner. You’re everywhere and then you start to say something like an apology and then—”
“And then you told me not to,” I finish quietly.
Evie goes still. The anger in her eyes flickers, briefly replaced by something vulnerable and startled, like she forgot she did that and now she has to face why.
She turns away fast. “Whatever.”
I look at her profile—sharp nose, tight mouth, the faint line between her brows that’s always been there when she’s trying not to feel too much.
I want to touch her so badly it feels like hunger.
I don’t.
Instead, I reach into the inside pocket of my jacket. The photo is warm from being against my ribs. I pull it out slowly, careful, like I’m presenting evidence in court.
Evie notices immediately. Her gaze snaps to my hand.
“What is that?” she asks, voice suspicious.
I hold it between us, the edges worn, the colors faded, but the moment still alive in it.
Evie goes very still.
Her breath catches.
And for one heartbeat, the walls in her face falter.
“Kaia,” she says, quieter than I’ve heard her in days.
“I kept it,” I admit. “I know I don’t… deserve to have it. But I kept it.”
Evie stares at the photo of our kiss like it might bite. Then her eyes lift to mine, and there’s something raw there—grief and anger and longing all tangled together.
“You took that on tour with you,” she says, and it sounds like an accusation and a question.
I nod. “Yes.”
Evie swallows hard. “Why?”
Because even when I left, I really didn’t stop loving you.
Because I couldn’t.
Because the world can own my schedule but it can’t rewrite what you were to me.
Because you were the first person who looked at me like I mattered before the rest of the world decided I was useful.
I can’t say all of that without breaking open.
So I say the simplest truth again.
“Because it’s you,” I whisper. “Us.”
Evie’s eyes shine. She blinks hard, fast, like she’s trying to keep herself from tipping into softness. But she doesn’t look away from the photo.
She reaches out—slow, hesitant—and takes it from my hand. Her fingertips brush mine. Electric. Familiar. Wrong and right at the same time.
Evie studies the photo, jaw tight. Her thumb drags over the edge where the paper is worn.
Her voice is barely audible. “We looked happy.”
I swallow. “We were.”
Evie’s eyes flick up to mine, anger returning like a shield. “You don’t get points for keeping a picture.”
“I’m not asking for points,” I say quietly. “I’m asking for—” I stop. Because asking for anything feels like too much.
Evie’s breath shakes. She shoves the photo back at me like it burns.
I catch it and tuck it back into my pocket quickly.
Evie’s gaze drops to my mouth and then away again like she’s mad at herself for noticing. The air between us feels charged, trembling at the edge of something we’ve been avoiding for years.
Evie clears her throat. “So what, you came out here to—what—be sentimental?”
“No,” I say, then pause. “Yes. Maybe. I don’t know.”
Evie’s laugh is short. “Wow. The great Kaia Rhee, reduced to ‘maybe.’”
I glare weakly. “Don’t use my name like that.”
Evie’s eyebrows lift. “Like what?”
“Like ‘Kaia Rhee’ is a stranger. Like… you don’t know me anymore,” I say, and my voice comes out too raw.
Evie goes quiet.
Then she says, softer, “I don’t know who you are anymore.”
The sentence hurts because it’s true.
I swallow hard. “I don’t either. Not all the way.”
Evie’s mouth twists. “That’s comforting.”
“I’m trying,” I say.
Evie snorts. “You’re trying now.”
“Yes,” I admit. “Because I’m here now. Because I can’t—” My voice breaks slightly. I force it steady. “Because I won't lose you again…”
Evie’s breath trembles. She looks away, jaw clenched, and I can see the fight in her—between wanting to hurt me and wanting to fall into something softer and hating herself for both.
I want to say I’m sorry.
A real apology.
The one she wouldn’t let me give.
But her hands are shaking faintly on the pier edge, and I realize she’s not just angry. She’s terrified too. Evie never admits when she’s scared, but she is.
So I don’t push an apology into a place that might break her. I do the only thing I can.
I ask, quietly, “Evie… can I—”
She cuts in, voice sharp with panic. “If you say ‘kiss,’ I’m throwing you in the ocean.”
A laugh bursts out of me before I can stop it—small, surprised, almost disbelieving. Evie’s head snaps toward me, eyes wide like she hates that she made me laugh.
“You sound like Blaire,” I blurt, and immediately regret it because it’s such a stupid, normal thing to say here.
Evie squints at me. “Huh?”
“My manager,” I explain, still catching my breath. “She has ocean-throwing energy too… as Mina would say.”
Evie’s expression does something complicated—confused first, then faintly offended on my behalf. “That’s… healthy.”
“It’s terrifying,” I admit, and the smile won’t leave my mouth no matter how hard I try to shove it down. “But effective.”
Evie’s mouth twitches, betraying her. For half a heartbeat, we’re almost sixteen again. Almost…
Then she hardens again. “Well, say whatever you were going to say.”
My pulse pounds. My throat is dry. I look at her, really look. At the way her breath fogs. At the way her eyes keep flicking to my mouth like she’s fighting her own body. At the way she’s sitting here alone the night before the festival because the town feels too loud.
I take a slow breath. “Can I touch you?”
Evie freezes.
Then she exhales, shaky. “What?”
“Not—” I blush immediately, face flushing with heat. “Not like that! Just… can I touch your hand? Hold your hand, I mean…”