Chapter 18 Evie #6
I cut through side streets, through little alleyways that smell like fish and salt, past people who glance at me like I’m weird and then go back to their funnel cakes.
I don’t care.
All I can think is: Kaia told me not to go. Kaia told me not to go and I promised and now my grandma is in the crowd and if something happens—
The festival gates loom ahead like the mouth of something huge.
The noise hits me like a wave. Crowds. Shouting. Music. Lights. The air thick with sugar and sweat and anticipation. An emcee’s voice blasts through the speakers, bright and booming.
“Harbor’s Edge! Are you ready to light up the night?”
The crowd roars. The sound crawls under my skin.
I push into the mass of bodies, shoulder-checking my way through tourists and teens and vendors carrying trays.
“Excuse me—sorry—”
Someone bumps my elbow, and I nearly swing on them. My pulse is in my ears.
Then I feel it. A pressure at the base of my skull, like a thumb pressing into a bruise. Not pain. Not exactly. A sense of… weight.
Like the air is thickening.
My wrist warms again.
Hotter.
I shove forward faster, panic sharpening into anger.
“Grandma!” I shout.
No answer. Of course no answer. It’s chaos. I scan faces like I’m searching for a specific star in a sky full of fireworks. Lanterns sway overhead. People hold glowing sticks. Booth lights flash. Screens flicker with sponsor logos.
Eon.
Eon.
Eon.
I hate the way the brand is everywhere.
The crowd hums under the noise, little bits of the Harbor Lights jingle slipping between conversations like it’s stuck in everyone’s teeth.
Come back, come back—
My skull pressure deepens.
I shove through a cluster of teenagers in matching Midnight Halo shirts and nearly trip over a stroller.
“Sorry,” I gasp, not meaning it.
Then I see her. Grandma’s gray hair. Her stupid lipstick. Her cardigan. She’s standing near the center-left of the crowd, exactly where a short elderly woman should not be in a crush of bodies.
Relief hits so hard I almost sob. I sprint toward her.
“Grandma!”
She turns, startled, then delighted like this is the most normal thing in the world.
“Evie!” she calls over the noise. “There you are.”
I grab her arm, shaking. “What the hell are you doing?!”
Grandma frowns at my language like she’s about to scold me, then softens. “Oh, honey, don’t look like that.”
“I was worried,” I snap, voice cracking. “I came home and you were gone and the door was unlocked and—”
Grandma pats my cheek with a hand that smells like hand lotion. “I left you a note.”
“You did not,” I hiss.
Grandma’s eyes narrow. “I did.”
I stare at her, furious and relieved, and realize there is absolutely a folded scrap of paper in her cardigan pocket that she is now pointedly not taking out.
I exhale hard through my nose. “Why did you come out here alone? You know better!”
Grandma lifts her chin like she’s ten feet tall. “Because I wanted to see the Rhee girl sing.”
My stomach drops. “Grandma.”
“Oh, don’t you ‘Grandma’ me,” she says, wagging a finger. “I watched her on TV for years. She’s from here. She always looked like she had something sad behind her eyes. I want to see her in person.”
My throat tightens, painfully.
I swallow. “It’s crowded.”
“So?” Grandma says, unimpressed. “I have elbows.”
I look around wildly as if the crowd might suddenly become reasonable.
Then I spot the rest of my life scattered through the sea of people like landmines.
Mr. Alvarez, near the front, holding a little lantern with both hands like it’s a holy object.
Gus, further back, arms crossed, pretending he’s only here to supervise the food vendors, not because he cares.
Tasha and three of her friends squeezed together in a cluster, all wearing merch and glitter and the kind of excitement that makes my chest hurt with dread.
Tasha is literally bouncing, phone up, ready to record.
Faces I know.
People I can’t lose.
The pressure at the base of my skull pulses again, deeper.
The emcee’s voice booms.
“And now—our hometown hero. The voice of Harbor’s Edge. The woman who took our little lights and made them shine across the world—”
The crowd screams. Grandma squeezes my hand. My wrist burns under the binding.
I shouldn’t be here.
I promised.
But I’m here.
Because Grandma is here.
Because they’re all here.
The lights onstage shift. The screens flare bright.
And then Midnight Halo steps into view.
They look unreal. Matching outfits that catch the lantern light like it’s stitched into them. Four figures moving with the kind of practiced grace that reads like magic even before you know it is.
Jules, bright and kinetic even when she’s standing still.
Remy, composed, gaze sharp like she’s reading the air.
Mina, soft but steady, eyes scanning the crowd as if she’s looking for something hidden.
And Kaia. Center. Perfect posture. Her face lit by stage glow, making her look like the posters and yet somehow more human because she’s actually breathing.
My chest tightens so hard it hurts. All the noise fades into a dull roar.
Grandma whispers, “There she is,” like she’s talking about a miracle.
I can’t look anywhere else.
Kaia lifts her gaze across the crowd, searching, like she’s checking perimeter, like she’s counting risks.
Our eyes meet. For one heartbeat, she goes completely still.
The world narrows to that line between us—stage to crowd, pop star to girl, past to present. Her expression flickers, alarm, longing, something almost like fear.
And I realize exactly why she made me promise. The pressure at the base of my skull deepens into something that feels like a hand closing.
Kaia’s eyes hold mine.
And the lights flare brighter.