Chapter 23 Kaia #3
Evie’s mouth tightens like she hates praise. I reach under the table and take Evie’s hand. Her fingers squeeze mine once, hard.
Not romantic.
Anchoring.
The food comes out in waves.
Blaire eats like she’s offended by calories, whereas Jules eats like she’s on a mission to clear the kitchen out.
At some point, Tasha reappears with a camera.
“I need a picture,” she announces.
Evie’s eyes go flat. “No.”
Tasha ignores her. “Yes.”
Jules cheers. “Yes! Picture! Picture!”
Tasha points the camera at us. Evie’s jaw tightens, but she doesn’t move away when I slide closer to her in the booth.
I tuck my arm around her shoulders, careful. Evie leans into me.
Tasha grins like she’s about to explode. “Okay. Smile. On three. Three!” Tasha says.
The flash pops.
The moment freezes.
Evie and me, pressed together in the booth that used to be our whole world.
Jules throws peace signs. Mina looks like she’s witnessing a sacred event. Remy barely tilts her head, but her eyes are soft. Blaire looks like she’s being held hostage.
It’s absurd.
It’s perfect.
When Tasha shows the photo to Evie, Evie stares at it for a long second, then simply requests, “Send it to me?”
***
Evening comes like a slow exhale.
And then it’s time.
We stand outside the tour bus on the edge of town where the road begins, the engine idling low like a heartbeat. The bus looks enormous in the dim light, sleek and black and completely out of place against Harbor’s Edge’s sleepy streets.
I’m standing beside the steps, palms damp, posture too controlled. Jules leans against the bus like she’s posing for a photoshoot. Remy stands with her arms crossed, quiet and watchful. Mina glances down the street every few seconds.
Blaire is pacing with her phone at her ear, muttering about schedules and insurance.
I’m not listening. I’m staring down the street.
Waiting.
My stomach twists so hard it feels like it’s tying itself into knots.
This is ridiculous.
I’ve done stadium debuts and award shows and live interviews with thousands of cameras.
But this—
This feels like the scariest entrance of my life. Because I want Evie to choose this. To choose me. And I’m terrified she’ll change her mind at the last second and I’ll have no right to ask her not to.
Then she appears.
Evie walks toward us with a duffel bag slung over her shoulder and a small box in her arms. Her face looks…
blank. Not emotionless. Just… braced. Like she’s walking into bad weather.
She stops at the foot of the bus steps. Her gaze flicks over the girls, over Blaire, over the bus itself. Then to me.
“You ready?” I ask softly.
Evie huffs. “No.”
I nod. “Okay.”
Evie’s mouth twitches. “But I’m doing it anyway.”
Something in my chest loosens, sharp and sweet.
Blaire finally looks up from her phone and sighs like the universe is personally inconveniencing her.
“Evie,” she says, brisk. “Ground rules.”
Evie lifts an eyebrow.
Blaire ignores the tone. “You’re not a staff member. You’re not a civilian guest. You’re… a security liability.”
Evie’s eyes narrow.
Blaire continues anyway. “So. You’ll be registered as a private consultant under Eon oversight. It’s temporary. You’ll be briefed. You’ll sign the addendum.”
Evie stares. “I already have a magical NDA tattooed into my wrist.”
“It’s not a tattoo,” Blaire says automatically, then sighs. “The point is: you’ll be in the safe zones during shows. You’ll follow instructions during incidents. You do not go rogue.”
Blaire looks at both of us when she says that last part.
I step closer, voice quiet. “Evie. We’ll keep you safe. But… you need to let us.”
Evie’s gaze holds mine for a long moment.
Then she nods once. “Okay.”
Blaire exhales like she’s survived a war. “Great. Everyone on the bus.”
Evie hesitates at the steps.
I hold out my hand, because I want her to know she’s not doing this alone. She doesn't even hesitate to take it. Her grip is firm. Determined. And we climb onto the bus together.
Inside, it smells like leather and coffee and travel.
The other girls immediately scatter: Jules flopping onto a seat, Mina hovering near Evie like a shy cat, Remy slipping toward the back with her notebook already out like she’s logging everything.
Blaire disappears into the front lounge muttering about paperwork.
Evie stands in the aisle for a second, duffel still on her shoulder, box clutched tight. Her eyes dart like she’s looking for exits.
I touch her elbow lightly. “Come here.”
Evie follows me toward the small bedroom space near the back. It has our bunks, in case we need to sleep on the road. I close the door behind us, giving us a pocket of quiet.
Evie exhales shakily. “This is… insane.”
I nod. “Yeah.”
Evie’s gaze sweeps the small space.
Then she looks at me. “Are you sure about this?”
The question hits me hard.
Not are you sure I can handle this?
Are you sure you want me in your life like this?
I step closer. “Yes.”
Evie swallows. “Kaia—”
I cut her off gently. “I mean it. I’m sure.”
Evie’s eyes glisten but she blinks it away fast. I reach under my bunk and pull out a small box, worn edges, hidden like contraband.
Evie’s brow furrows. “What’s that?”
I sit on the edge of the bunk and pat the space beside me. Evie hesitates, then sits too. I open the box.
Inside are scraps of a life I pretended I didn’t carry. A folded diner receipt, creased soft. I hand it to her first. She unfolds it carefully. The old teenage handwriting, hers, scribbled at an angle. My ‘don’t panic’ list. Evie stares at it.
Her breath catches. “You still have this?”
I nod once, throat tight. “I kept it in my wallet for years. Then I started hiding it in places I thought no one would find.”
She snorts, then reads out loud, voice dry. “‘Drink water. Not energy drinks. Water.’”
“I told you that you’ve always been bossy,” I say with a smile.
Evie’s voice goes rough. “You’re… unbelievable.”
“I know,” I whisper.
Quietly, without warning, she reads the last bit under her breath.
“‘Your voice is my favorite sound.’”
The words hit the air between us and just hang there.
Evie’s gaze meets mine. Her eyes are deep brown, the kind that always looked like they were holding a whole storm behind them even when she was pretending to be fine. There’s no bite in her expression right now. No armor. Just something soft and exposed that makes my throat tighten.
She swallows, like the admission costs her.
“It’s true,” she says. “It is.”
My chest aches so hard it feels like a bruise.
I don’t know what to do with the fact that she just gave me something tender without making me wrestle for it.
Evie sets the receipt down, then she looks at me. For a second it feels like she’s looking past the posters and the stage lights and the years. Straight at the girl she knew. Straight at the girl I still am when no one’s watching.
“I love you,” she says.
Two seconds. No qualifiers. No armor.
My breath catches.
Evie’s voice stays quiet, but it hits like a vow.
“I loved you when we were teenagers and anything felt possible,” she says. “I loved you when I hated you for leaving. I loved you in every stupid little silence where I told myself I was over it.”
Her eyes shine, furious at the vulnerability of it, like she wants to bite the feeling until it behaves.
“And I’m done pretending that loving you makes me weak,” she whispers. “It just makes me honest.”
My throat pinches. My heart feels too big for my ribs. I reach for her hand—slow, asking without words. Evie lets me take it. Her fingers squeeze once, sure and steady.
“Your voice is my favorite sound,” she says again, like she’s choosing the words on purpose this time. “But you—Kaia, you are my favorite place to come back to. You’re my home too.”
I lean forward and press my forehead to hers.
“I love you too, Evie,” I whisper, and it’s small, and it’s everything.
Evie exhales, shaky. Her fingers curl around mine tighter, like she’s anchoring us both. Then she pulls back first and wipes at the corner of one eye like she’s annoyed it dared to shine.
“Now” she says, brisk again, like she’s saving herself. “Show me the rest.”
I swallow, throat thick, and reach into the box. I pull out some old photos next. Most of them are us—blurry pier shots, the diner booth, the boardwalk at dusk.
One of them is my mom, in our old kitchen, arms crossed, hair tied up, glaring at the person taking the picture like she’s judging their life choices. Evie’s expression softens despite herself. “That’s your mom.”
I nod. “Yeah.”
The very next photo is a younger me, maybe ten, sitting on the breakwater with a paper bag in my lap. My dad beside me, wind whipping his blond hair, both of us squinting into the sun. In the bag: foil-wrapped kimbap. We’re mid-bite, cheeks full, laughing at something outside the frame.
Evie’s breath catches again, softer this time. “Your dad.”
I nod once.
My voice comes out low. “He used to bring kimbap and swore it tasted better ‘because of the ocean.’”
Evie’s eyes stay on the photo. “Did it?”
I exhale. “Yeah,” I admit. “It did.”
Then Evie finds more of us.
“You kept all of these too,” she whispers.
“Yes,” I say simply. “I kept… everything I wasn’t supposed to.”
For a second, she looks like she might break. Instead, she sets my keepsakes back gently and reaches for the small box she’s been holding since Harbor’s Edge.
She opens it. Inside is a small framed photo of her and her grandmother—Grandma Calder mid-laugh, Evie leaning in close, eyes soft.
Evie’s fingers brush the frame like it’s a wound.
She places it inside my box instead.
Our box?
My chest tightens.
Evie leans in. This kiss is quieter than the others. No frantic edge. No desperation. Just… intention. Like we’re signing something with our mouths that the world can’t invalidate.
When we pull back, Evie rests her forehead against mine.
“Okay,” she whispers. “We’re really doing this.”
I close my eyes briefly. “Yeah.”
Evie exhales shakily. “Don’t make me regret it.”
I smile, small and fierce. “I won’t.”
I kiss her again, then I whisper against her lips, “Welcome to the road.”
Evie’s eyes close for a second. Then she opens them, determination settling over grief like armor.
“Let’s go,” she says.
***
The bus engine deepens.
We pull away from Harbor’s Edge like the town is exhaling us.
I sit with Evie in the back lounge now, her duffel tucked under her feet, her fingers laced with mine like she’s still checking that I’m real. Outside the window, the last lanterns blur into distance.
And then—because Jules can’t let anything be sacred for more than thirty seconds—she flops onto the couch beside Craig the skeleton and pats his ribcage. “Okay, Craig. We’re leaving the haunted coastal town. How do you feel about that?”
Remy doesn’t look up. “Don’t talk to him.”
Jules gasps. “He’s family.”
The plastic skeleton is strapped into the chair by the mini fridge, buckled in tight like he’s a valued member of the team. He’s wearing his Midnight Halo lanyard and his rhinestone sunglasses that are perched crooked on his skull.
Someone has also put a neck pillow around him.
Evie stares at the skeleton for a long beat, then looks at me with an expression that is half disbelief, half accusation.
“You didn’t tell me you have an emotional support skeleton,” she accuses playfully.
I squeeze her hand once. “Well, now you know.”
Jules points at me like she’s proud. “See? She gets it. Craig is an emotional support skeleton.”
Evie’s mouth twitches despite her best efforts. “You named him Craig?”
“Hey, don’t make fun of his name,” Jules says, offended on Craig’s behalf. “He’s very sensitive. Besides, I didn’t name him. Mina did. Right, Mina?”
Mina sits across from us, knees tucked up, staring out the back window instead of forward. She’s been doing it since we turned onto the highway.
Remy shifts beside her. “Mina?” she murmurs.
Mina doesn’t answer. Her gaze stays fixed on the shrinking town lights.
“Do you See something?” Remy asks quietly.
Mina’s throat bobs. She blinks fast. Then she shakes her head once, too quick.
“...No…” she says.
But her voice is wrong. Too thin. Too careful.
Jules’s grin fades a notch. Even Craig, strapped in his chair, looks like he’s listening.
Evie’s grip tightens on my hand, sensing the shift even if she doesn’t know why. I feel it in her fingers—instinct, alarm, the way she’s learned to read danger without being taught the language for it.
I watch Mina a moment longer. Her shoulders are tense. Her eyes are wide. Like she’s watching something follow us down the road that no one else can see.
“Hey,” I say gently. “Mina. You okay?”
Mina flinches, then forces herself to smile, small, shaky.
“I’m fine,” she says, too fast.
Jules tries to drag the mood back by sheer force and a wink. “Mina’s always fine. Mina is literally made of fine.”
Mina’s smile wobbles. Remy’s gaze stays sharp. Craig tips forward slightly as the bus hits a bump, his skull nodding in agreement.
I let it go.
For now.
Because Evie is beside me, and Harbor’s Edge is behind us.
But in the dark beyond the bus windows, something feels like it’s following us.