Chapter 23 Kaia #2
For a few minutes, the room becomes something simpler.
Evie sorting at the table. Me turning pancakes at the stove and praying I don’t mess them up. Boxes stacked like patient witnesses. Sunlight inching across the floorboards.
I plate the first two pancakes and set them down between us with chopsticks and soy dipping sauce I found after opening the wrong cabinet twice.
Evie looks at the plate like she doesn’t trust it.
I drag out the chair opposite her and sit. “Go on, try it.”
She picks up a piece with the chopsticks awkwardly, like it’s been a while. Blows on it once. Takes a bite.
Her eyes close. It’s such a small reaction it almost destroys me.
“Good?” I ask, trying for light.
She opens her eyes and looks at me over the edge of her grief, over the half-packed table, over everything broken and unfinished between us.
“Annoyingly,” she says.
I grin despite myself.
She takes another bite, slower this time.
“She always overfed people when she was scared,” she says. “Like if everyone ate enough, nothing bad could get through the door.”
My chest pulls tight. “My mom was like that too.”
A silence settles. Not empty. Just full.
Then she laughs under her breath, broken around the edges. “God. She would’ve loved you doing this.”
I don’t know what to do with that. I look down at my plate because it suddenly feels impossible to meet her eyes.
“I don’t know how to help with this kind of thing,” I admit.
“The normal kind. I know how to fight. I know how to fix a formation when it breaks. I know how to make a crowd look where I want. I don’t…
” I swallow. “I don’t know what to do with this, but I want to. If there’s anything I can do, Evie…”
Evie goes quiet. When I finally look up, she’s watching me with an expression so open it scares me a little.
“You’re doing okay,” she says.
The words hit somewhere unguarded. I nod once because anything else would come out wrong.
We eat in silence for a while longer, and when we're done, Evie unties the ribbon around the recipe cards and flips through them. She stops at one in the middle. Her thumb traces the handwriting.
I stand without thinking about it and move around the table. I don’t touch her right away. I just stand beside her shoulder, close enough that she can choose.
After a second, she leans the tiniest amount into my side. It’s barely anything, but it feels like being handed something breakable.
I exhale slowly, then slide my arms around her from behind. My chin settles on her shoulder. Evie goes still for a heartbeat. I press a kiss to her cheek—soft, almost reverent—and feel her swallow. Her fingers tighten on the recipe card.
“Okay?” I murmur, so quiet it barely counts as a word.
Evie’s answer is a tiny nod, her body leaning back into mine.
We stay like that for a minute in the half-packed kitchen while the house breathes around us. Then Evie straightens first, wiping quickly under one eye like she’s mad at it.
She snorts and nudges the recipe cards toward me. “Can you find a smaller box for these? Not with the books. I don’t want them bent.”
“Yeah.” I pick up the stack carefully. “Of course.”
The ribbon is soft with age against my fingers.
A few minutes later, the kitchen starts moving again.
Not healed. Not lighter, exactly.
Just moving.
***
The next day, Evie stands in the doorway with a cardboard box hugged to her chest.
It’s not a big box. It’s the kind of box you carry when you’re trying to pretend you aren’t leaving a whole life behind.
Her hair is pulled back. No makeup. A soft open sweater over a tank top.
She looks hollowed out and stubborn at the same time.
She sees me and makes a face like she’s allergic to tenderness.
“You’re early again,” she says.
“I didn’t want to miss it,” I admit.
Evie snorts softly. “It’s a key handoff. Very glamorous.”
“I meant…” I stop, because if I say I didn’t want you to do this alone, she’ll either cry or snap at me. Possibly both.
Evie reads it anyway. Her mouth tightens. Then, very quietly, she says, “Thanks.”
She steps onto the porch and looks back into the house one last time.
I don’t rush her.
I don’t tell her it’ll be okay.
I just stand close enough that if she leans, I’m there.
Evie’s fingers flex around the box edges, knuckles whitening.
Then she locks the front door. The click sounds final. Gus is waiting at the bottom of the steps with his hands in his pockets, looking like someone who got dragged into feelings against his will.
He’s wearing his diner apron even though he’s not working. Like armor. Like if he takes it off, the world will realize he’s human.
Evie walks down the steps and stops in front of him.
For a second, neither of them speaks.
Then Gus clears his throat, gruff. “You sure about this?”
Evie’s jaw lifts. “No.”
Gus squints. “That’s not—”
“I’m sure enough,” Evie corrects, voice steady even as her eyes shine. “And I’m not staying out of fear.”
Gus huffs like he wants to argue, but his gaze softens in a way he probably hates.
He holds out his hand. Evie slides the keys into his palm.
“House’ll be fine,” he says. “Blaire already set me up with a damn binder.” His mouth twists like the word binder offends him. “And a realtor number. And instructions. Like I’m a child.”
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling.
Evie’s voice catches. “Thank you.”
Gus grunts. “And diner will be fine too,” he adds. “I’ve got it.”
Evie swallows. “You better.”
Gus’s mouth twitches. “Yeah..”
Evie’s eyes flicker—pain, gratitude, something like love she’d never say out loud.
Then Gus does the most shocking thing I have ever seen him do. He pulls her into a hug. It’s awkward at first—Gus doesn’t look like he’s ever hugged anyone on purpose—but Evie clings for a second like she’s trying to imprint the shape of home before it vanishes.
My throat tightens.
I look away, giving them privacy, hands shoved into my pockets so I don’t reach for something I don’t have the right to take.
When they separate, Gus clears his throat hard, like he’s trying to shake emotion loose.
He nods at me without looking directly at my face. “You look after her.”
My stomach twists.
“I will,” I say. The promise tastes like steel.
Evie rolls her eyes, wiping at her face like it’s just dust. “I’ll look after myself, thanks.”
Gus snorts. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”
Evie huffs a laugh, small, tired.
Then she shifts the box in her arms and steps back toward me. Up close, I can see the exhaustion in the lines around her eyes. The way she’s holding herself together with sheer will.
My chest aches.
I lift my hand—hesitate—then settle it lightly against her back, not pulling, not guiding, just… there.
Evie freezes for a half-second. Then she doesn’t pull away. It’s a small thing. It feels like a miracle.
“Okay,” she says, like she’s speaking to herself. “Next stop: sentimental goodbye tour.”
***
The Lighthouse Diner is bright when we walk in, sunlight slicing across the booths.
It smells like coffee and french fries and the exact kind of comfort that makes my chest tighten.
The diner is technically closed for another ‘private event,’ with the exception of the few invitees. Tasha is at the counter with her apron and a Midnight Halo t-shirt underneath. When she sees us, she squeals. Actually squeals.
“Oh my god,” she says, hands pressed to her cheeks. “You’re here. You’re all here.”
Jules saunters in behind us. Remy and Mina follow. Blaire comes in after them, scanning the diner automatically, earpiece in, posture annoyed by default.
Evie drops her box gently behind the counter and looks around. Mr. Alvarez is in his usual seat, wearing a clean button-up like he’s attending church. When he sees Evie, he stands up slowly, face soft.
“Evie,” he says.
Evie’s voice goes rough. “Hey, Mr. Alvarez.”
He opens his arms and Evie walks into the hug without hesitation, burying her face against his shoulder for a second longer than she probably meant to.
Mr. Alvarez pats her back gently. “Your grandma was a fierce woman.”
Evie swallows hard. “Yeah.”
“She’d be proud of you,” he murmurs.
Evie huffs a laugh that almost turns into a sob. She pulls back and wipes her eyes with her sleeve like she’s furious at her own face.
Gus grunts from behind the counter. “Sit down, all of you. Before the whole place turns into a group therapy circle.”
Jules grins. “Too late.”
Evie raises a brow at her. “Don’t start.”
Jules puts a hand to her chest, scandalized. “I would never.”
Remy says, deadpan, “She will.”
Mina nods solemnly. “She definitely will.”
Jules gasps. “Betrayal.”
Evie’s mouth twitches despite herself.
It’s the smallest crack of light, and I catch it like oxygen. Gus gestures at a booth, the big one by the window. “That one. It’s yours.”
Evie hesitates, then she slides into the booth first. I immediately slide in next to her.
On the wall near the register—already framed and leveled, as if it’s been there forever—is the photo. The one Blaire took.
Me and Evie and Gus under the LIGHTHOUSE DINER sign inside, all of us pretending we’re normal people, all of us failing in different ways.
Before I can mention it, Tasha bounces over with a notepad, vibrating with excitement. “Okay. Hi. Welcome. Can I start you with drinks?”
Evie lifts an eyebrow. “Are you… waitressing me.”
Tasha’s grin turns wild. “Yes.”
Evie’s eyes narrow. “Be normal.”
Tasha nods rapidly. “Absolutely.” Then she immediately fails. “Would you like our new signature latte, the Midnight Halo Mocha, served with—”
Evie cuts her off. “Coffee. Black. Just… coffee.”
Tasha scribbles dramatically. “One black coffee.”
We all order, and then Evie catches Mina staring at her.
Evie's shoulders tighten. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
Mina flushes. “Because you… uh… you saved everyone.”
Evie scoffs. “I yanked a lever.”
Remy’s gaze is steady. “You broke the loop.”
Jules points a finger-gun at Evie. “You absolutely did the hero thing.”