3. Chapter Three
Chapter Three
Kayla
T he bus rumbles beneath me, a steady vibration that’s become both a lullaby and a reminder of how far I’ve come. I lean my forehead against the cold glass, watching the dark highway stretch endlessly into the distance. The rain started somewhere south of Seattle, a fine mist at first, growing heavier as we closed in on Portland.
Inside the bus, the dim lighting casts everything in shadows. A handful of passengers are scattered in their seats—an older woman knitting, a man snoring softly in the back, a teenager in a hoodie scrolling through his phone. I shift, trying to find a position that doesn’t make my neck ache. My body feels like it’s been folded into this cramped space for days, though it’s only been hours.
I must drift off at some point because when I open my eyes again, the bus is slowing, the faint glow of streetlights blurring through the rain-streaked windows. Portland. The city rises up out of the mist, its skyline hazy and dreamlike in the pre-dawn gloom. Bridges arch over the water, their lights flickering like constellations reflected in the river below.
The driver’s voice crackles over the intercom, announcing the last stop. My heart thuds as I grab my bag and step off the bus. The cold is immediate, sharp and unrelenting, seeping through my jacket as I stand on the sidewalk. The air smells of wet concrete and damp leaves, a stark contrast to the stale, recycled air inside the bus.
Downtown Portland is quieter than I expected. The streets are mostly empty, aside from the occasional streetcar gliding by or the distant hum of a car. Neon signs buzz faintly in shop windows, advertising coffee, doughnuts, and bars that are probably still open from the night before.
I pull my jacket tighter around me and start walking, my sneakers squeaking against the slick pavement. I don’t know exactly where I’m going, but I can’t just stand here, soaking in the rain like some lost tourist.
The city feels both alive and asleep at the same time, like it’s holding its breath. As I wander past murals painted on brick walls and clusters of bicycles chained to metal racks, a shop catches my eye.
It’s nothing fancy—just an old auto shop with a faded red and white sign hanging above the door. Si’s Custom Garage. The wide bay doors are rolled down, but the light spilling from the office window makes the place feel awake, even in the early morning stillness. Car parts are piled along the walls—tires, mufflers, the rusted shell of a half-rebuilt classic.
For a moment, I don’t move.
It’s the kind of place my brother would’ve loved. The kind of place that would’ve had him grinning ear to ear, rattling off car specs and dreaming up ways to modify his ’69 Dodge Charger. He rebuilt it from the ground up, piece by painstaking piece. I can still see him in our Grams’ garage, grease smudged across his face, hands steady and sure as he worked.
The memory hits like a gut punch. My chest tightens, and I press a hand to my stomach, trying to keep the sob from breaking free. If he were here, he’d drag me inside, firing off a hundred questions just to hear the mechanics talk shop.
But he’s not here. He never will be.
The rain stings my cheeks, or maybe it’s the tears I didn’t realize were falling. I force myself to look away, to keep walking, even as the ache in my chest spreads like a crack through something I can’t repair.
Up ahead, the glow of Patty’s Diner flickers through the mist, a welcome distraction from the hollow feeling settling in my stomach. The cheerful cursive letters and blinking neon border pull me in, promising warmth, food—something solid to hold on to.
The bell jingles as I step inside, and for a second, I just stand there, letting the heat of the place sink into my frozen bones.
Outside, the rain comes down in sheets, typical for Portland in mid-April. The scent of wet asphalt clings to me, mixing with the damp chill that seeps into the city’s marrow.
But inside, it’s a different world.
The neon Open sign casts a faint glow against the diner’s fogged windows, and the checkered tile floor gleams under the soft hum of fluorescent lights. Red vinyl booths line the walls, their surfaces cracked in places but scrubbed clean. A jukebox in the corner croons a slow, bluesy tune, and the air smells like bacon grease and warm syrup—a scent that feels like a hug for my soul.
I slide onto a stool at the counter, the vinyl squeaking beneath me. My fingers trace a scratch in the laminate, a nervous habit I don’t bother hiding. In the chrome napkin dispenser, my reflection stares back at me. I flinch. Dark circles rim my eyes, my hair sticks to my face in limp, wet strands. I look like I’ve just walked out of a storm—because I have.
“Be right with ya, hon!”
The voice calls from somewhere in the back, warm and familiar, like it already knows I need it.
A woman appears in the kitchen doorway, drying her hands on a striped apron. Patty, according to her name tag. She looks exactly how I’d picture someone named Patty—round-cheeked, bustling with energy, radiating the kind of no-nonsense kindness that makes you feel like you’ve come to the right place. She wipes her hands and gives me a smile that feels like the first real bit of kindness I’ve seen in weeks.
“What can I get for you?” she asks, leaning her hands on the counter.
“Just coffee, please,” I say. My voice cracks, and I clear my throat.
Patty nods and pours a steaming cup, the rich aroma cutting through the fog in my mind. “You look like you’ve had a rough day.”
I manage a tight smile. “You could say that.”
The bell above the door jingles again, and I glance over as a young man steps inside, shaking rain off his jacket. He’s not what I expect—not flashy or larger-than-life like the musicians I’ve been around. Just a regular guy, his dark hair curling slightly at the ends from the rain. An oversized textbook is tucked under his arm, the kind with tiny print and intimidating diagrams.
“Studying again, huh, Clay?” Patty calls as she walks over with the coffee pot.
He grins sheepishly. “Exam week. Anatomy’s a killer.”
Patty laughs as she tops off his mug—the kind of laugh that makes you feel like you’re in on a joke, even if you aren’t.
I watch the exchange, feeling oddly comforted by the easy normalcy of it. Outside, the rain streaks the windows, turning the city lights into a kaleidoscope of reds and yellows. Through the haze, I can just make out a streetcar rumbling by, its wheels screeching faintly as it slows at the corner. The sidewalk outside glistens, reflecting the glow of the coffee shop across the street and the string lights hanging from nearby lampposts.
When Patty comes back to the counter, I clear my throat. “Do you happen to know if you’re hiring? I’m… new in town and looking for work.”
Her eyes soften as she studies me. “We might be able to use an extra set of hands. You ever worked in a diner before?”
I nod quickly. “Yeah. A little. Back home.”
“Well, that’s good enough for me,” she says, winking. “Come by tomorrow morning, meet the breakfast rush. We’ll see how you do.”
Relief blooms in my chest, and I grip the mug tighter. “Thank you. I really appreciate it.”
Patty slides a fresh pastry across the counter toward me, the golden crust still warm, the scent of butter and sugar wrapping around me like a hug. “On the house,” she says with a knowing smile, like she already expects me to argue.
Before I can, she adds, “Don’t thank me yet.” Her eyes glint with amusement. “It’s a lot of work, and my regulars can be a handful.”
I smile faintly, hesitating. “One more thing… Do you know anywhere nearby to stay? I’m sort of figuring things out as I go.”
Patty frowns, thoughtfully tapping her chin. “Hmm. There’s the Rosewood, a boarding house a few blocks down. It’s nothing fancy, but it’s clean, and the owner’s a decent guy. His kid brother is over there studying.” She motions toward Clay, whose head is buried in his revision book. “I’d wager you’d be safe there. Known them boys a long time.”
“Thanks. That helps a lot,” I say, meaning it.
As I sip my coffee, I notice Clay glance my way. He quickly returns to his book, but not before I catch the curiosity in his eyes. The sound of rain drumming against the window fills the brief silence, mingling with the low hum of the jukebox.
The city outside feels vast and overwhelming, a maze of streets and alleys I don’t know yet. But here, in the warmth of Patty’s diner, with the smell of coffee in the air and the quiet clatter of dishes in the background, it doesn’t seem quite so daunting.
Maybe—just maybe—Portland could be a place I could start over.
The sun was already climbing higher, casting long shadows across the street as I stepped out of the diner. My stomach churned uneasily with the weight on what lay ahead. The boarding house was only four blocks away, but the thought of getting lost on unfamiliar roads in bad weather held no appeal. Flagging down a taxi, I handed the driver the address Patty had scribbled on a napkin. The ride was mercifully short. The driver barely had time to ask if I was visiting before we pulled up in front of Rosewood Boarding House . I paid him quickly, mumbled a thanks, and stepped onto the sidewalk.
The house before me was beautiful, an Edwardian-style structure, with a white stone frame and dark wooden beams that looked sturdy but charming. Colorful flowerbeds flanked the walkway leading to the porch, buzzing with life as bees darted between roses and chrysanthemums.
I climbed the short number of steps to the front door, my legs protesting after the bus ride and hours of sitting. The porch was inviting, with a swing tucked into one corner and a chess board resting mid-game on a weathered tree stump table. I could almost imagine curling up there on a cool evening, letting the quiet hum of the neighborhood settle over me. Pushing the door open, I stepped inside, and the faint smell of wood polish and flowers greeted me. The boarding house was cozy and warm, with polished oak floors, and deep red walls. The atmosphere was quiet, save for the faint creek of footsteps coming down a hallway.
A tall man appeared from around the corner, his broad shoulders and confident stride drawing my attention immediately. He looked to be around my age, maybe a few years older. His dark hair was slightly disheveled, and his green eyes locked onto mine with an expression that was both curious and amused.
“You must be Kayla,” he said, his voice deep and smooth, the faintest hint of humor in his tone. I blinked, startled. “How did you—”
“Patty called ahead,” He interrupted, extending a hand. “I’m Dean. Welcome to the Rosewood . I run the place with my younger brother, Clay, though I’m usually the one dealing with guests.”
“Hi,” I murmured, shaking his hand briefly before letting it fall to my side.
“Let’s get you checked in,” Dean said, gesturing toward the reception desk. He moved behind it, opening a thick ledger and flicking to a blank page.
“How long are you planning to stay?” He asked, glancing up at me.
“A week,” I said, shifting my weight from one foot to the other.
“Got it,” he said, jotting something down. “Just you?”
I nodded. He finished scribbling in the ledger and grabbed a key from a set of hooks behind him. Sliding it across the counter, he smiled. “Room six. Second floor. Overlooks the garden in the back—nice view. If you need anything, just hit the pound button on your room’s phone until I pick up. You’re free to use the kitchen, too. We’re pretty casual around here.”
“Thanks.” I said, taking the key.
“Oh, and one more thing,” He added. “If my brother Clay shows up, he can be a bit…he yaps. A lot. He’s a yapper.” He shrugs, “But he’s harmless.”
I offered a weak smile, thanked him again, and headed up the stairs. The second floor was just as welcoming as the rest of the house, the hallway lined with soft rugs and adored with framed photos of the surrounding area.
Room six was at the back, overlooking the garden as Dean had mentioned. I set my bag down and wandered to the window, letting the view distract me for a moment. The yard was neat and inviting, with a small patio shaded by a gazebo and a fire pot off to one side.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, I fished my phone out of my pocket and stared at the screen. Two missed calls from Logan and a single text message. My chest tightened as I swiped the notifications away, the familiar ringtone still echoing in my ears.
I lay back on the bed, the ceiling blurring as tears filled my eyes.
I stood rigid as the pastor spoke kind words about Braden, his voice steady but distant. He didn’t know him, I thought bitterly. None of them did—not like I did. Yet here he was, recounting the highlights of my brother’s life as though they’d been close friends. What gave him the right?
The cemetery was full. A sea of familiar faces gathered to pay their respects, but their presence felt suffocating rather than comforting. The low hum of murmured prayers and the occasional sniffle blended with the soft rustle of leaves in the wind. I stared at Braden’s coffin, the gleaming wood catching the muted gray light as it was slowly lowered into the ground. My parents’ graves were just a few feet away, their headstones weathered but unmistakable. The sight of them twisted something sharp and cruel in my chest.
A scream tore from my throat before I even realized I was making a sound. It was raw, animalistic, the sound of a heart breaking beyond repair. My knees buckled as the pain surged through me, a tidal wave that left me gasping for air. I collapsed onto the ground, the earth beneath me damp and unyielding.
Strong arms caught me, pulling me back against a broad chest. Even without looking, I knew it was Logan. His familiar scent—clean, warm, with a faint hint of cedar—wrapped around me like a fragile shield against the storm raging inside. His voice came next, soft murmurs that I couldn’t quite make out, drowned by the roar of my grief.
Time blurred. I didn’t even know how long we stayed like that, Logan’s arms a steady anchor in the chaos. Eventually, the sobs subsided, leaving me hollow and drained. When I finally looked around, I realized everyone else had gone. It was just the two of us now, standing in the quiet cemetery. I leaned forward, breaking free from his hold. My legs felt weak, but I managed to stand. Logan kept his hands on my arms, rubbing them gently, his touch grounding me.
“Say something, angel.” He whispered, his voice hoarse.
I shook my head, the lump in my throat making it impossible to speak. There was nothing I could say that would change anything, nothing he would want to hear. Logan cupped my face in his hands, his eyes red and swollen, mirroring my own. Slowly, he pressed his forehead to mine. We stayed like that for a long moment, sharing the weight of our loss in silence.
Finally, I pulled away, “I have to go, Logan. I’m so sorry.”
I didn’t wait for him to respond. I turned and walked away, leaving him standing there among the graves.
I abruptly sit up, cutting off the memory before it swallows me whole. Taking a shaky breath, I pull my phone out again and check the text message.
Logan: Don’t shut me out, Mac. I’m here for you.
The text hit me hard. Logan hated texting, he barely ever said more than a few words, like he was thrifty and paid by the character. I wonder how long it will be before he realizes that I left, that I am gone for good. Guilt twists in my chest, but I shove it down. I know I am being too hard on him, especially since I am the one who left without a word. But, dammit, he has a whole career in front of him. Whatever time we had together was always going to have an expiration date.
I stare at the screen for a long moment, my thumb hovering over the reply button. I know better. If I text him back, he’ll call. And if he calls, I’ll answer. And if I answer…he’ll talk me into telling him where I am.
It would take him less than a day to get here. He’d drag me back, and I’d let him.
Because I’m weak when it comes to Logan.
But I can’t do that.
I take another shaky breath and delete the notification. The heaviness in my chest doesn’t go away, but I steel myself against it.
I need to do this. I need to start over, away from the memories, away from the noise, and away from any distractions.
For myself.
And for Braden.
The warm water streams over my skin, washing away the exhaustion and grime from the long journey. I tilt my head back, letting it cascade through my hair as I close my eyes. The shower is small but cozy, the steam filling the space and fogging up the mirror on the other side of the room. For a moment, it's easy to pretend I'm anywhere but here—anywhere but at the start of a new chapter I'm not sure I'm ready for.
After scrubbing away the remnants of the day and the faint floral scent of the boarding house shampoo from my hair, I shut off the water. The sudden silence is almost deafening, broken only by the occasional drip from the showerhead. I reach for the towel hanging on the back of the door, wrapping it tightly around me.
When I turn to the mirror, the sight of my reflection gives me pause. I wipe away the condensation with the edge of my towel and stare at the woman looking back at me. She feels like a stranger. I lean in closer, examining the features I've grown to resent. At five-foot-four, I've always been on the smaller side. My slim frame seems even more delicate now, the stress of the last few months evident in the faint shadows under my bright blue eyes. My olive-toned skin looks pale and tired, drained by sleepless nights and too many tears.
But it's my hair that always catches my attention—and not for the right reasons. The rich brown strands hang wet and heavy against my face, clinging to my neck and shoulders. It isn't my natural color. The real color is buried beneath layers of dye, hidden like so much else in my life.
I reach up, running my fingers through the dark locks. I used to be blonde, just like my mom. Braden once told me it was hard to look at me sometimes because I reminded him so much of her. I’d dyed it not long after that conversation, unable to bear causing him more pain. It felt selfish to cling to something as trivial as hair color when it brought him so much sadness.
Still, sometimes I miss it. Not just the blonde, but what it symbolized—the girl I used to be before everything fell apart.
The thought makes my chest tighten, so I turn away from the mirror and busy myself with drying off. The room is cooler now, the window slightly ajar to let in the evening breeze. I pad barefoot over to the bed, running my fingers over the deep purple comforter before collapsing onto it. The mattress is firmer than I like, but after everything I’ve been through, it feels like a cloud. I pull the comforter up to my chin, curling into myself, letting my damp hair fan out over the pillow. My body aches from the tension of the past few days, but sleep doesn't come easily. My mind churns with fragmented thoughts of Braden, Logan, and the life I’ve left behind.
I don't realize I’ve dozed off until a creak from the hallway jolts me awake. The faint glow of the moonlight filters through the curtains, casting shadows across the room. My stomach growls loudly, reminding me I haven't eaten since the diner earlier. Rolling out of bed, I cinch the towel around me and cross the room, grabbing the white robe hanging on the back of the door. It's oversized, a little scratchy, but I can wrap myself up in it just fine. I stretch quickly before making my way out the door. The hallway is quiet, the wooden floorboards cool against my feet as I make my way downstairs.
The kitchen is easy to find. A warm, inviting space with rustic cabinets and a mismatched set of chairs around a large wooden table. A fridge hums softly in the corner, its light spilling out as I rummage for something edible. I settle on a half-empty loaf of bread and some peanut butter, spreading it over a couple of slices with a butter knife I find in a drawer.
As I lean against the counter, eating my makeshift meal, the stillness of the boarding house settles over me. For the first time in days, I feel a tiny sliver of peace. Tomorrow will bring its own challenges, but for now, the simple act of standing here in this quiet kitchen is enough.