Page 14 of Holding Onto You (Burnt Ashes #2)

Kayla

T he house is chaotic as the boys settle in.

Trey found a bag of kettle chips that may or may not have expired.

He’s relentless in his pursuit of snacks—rummaging through drawers, crunching loudly, muttering between mouthfuls about them tasting stale or off…

then eating more anyway. Chace has the fridge open, staring into the kind of bleak emptiness that make you question your life choices.

Sam’s unearthed the juicer, but has nothing to put in it, going cupboard to cupboard, nudging things around with a growing scowl.

I’m wrapped in the old throw blanket Logan found on the couch—his arms circling me from behind like he’s grounding us both.

It smells like home and him and something else entirely—like the ghost of summer and the promise of something more.

His chin rests lightly on my head, a quiet weight that calms the chaos.

"This is all you’ve got?" Trey moans, shaking the snack bag at Logan. “I’m starving. I haven’t eaten since… like, forever.”

"I actually have something you can have brother, one second.” Logan moves me a little as he searches his pocket and pulls out his middle finger.

Help yourself to disappointment," Logan mutters, his voice close to my ear, soft and amused. I feel the curve of his smirk against my skin. There is some snickering, especially as the look of hopeful expectation dwindles on Trey’s face.

Sam holds up an old tin, covered in dust and what definitely looks like rust. “I might actually be able to make something with this,” he says, inspecting it like it might explode. “Of course, I should probably expect to be sitting down for the rest of the day.”

“What is it?” I ask, peeking out from my blanket burrito—still wrapped tightly in Logan’s arms.

“Big fucking can of prunes.”

“Oh, those were for Grams!”

“Figures. Great for shifting things around. Excellent fiber. Terrible if you’re trying to carb load.” Sam muses, still examining the can like it’s a science experiment.

“Trey, you have to eat this can of prunes, bro.” Chace snorts.

“Prunes are for old people. Pass.”

“Come on. You’re hungry. This technically qualifies as food.”

“I said I’m not eating Grams’ fucking prunes. No offence, Macademia—God rest her soul.” Trey crosses himself and kisses the back of his hand in reverence.

“You say that now,” Sam says, shaking the can so it sloshes ominously, “but the next time all that junk you inhale clogs you up and you can’t shit for three days, you’ll come crawling back for these bad boys.”

“They’ll probably still be here.” Chace adds with a grin. “Unless Logan decides to go nuclear on the pantry during one of his cleaning rampages.”

Laughter echoes off the walls, bouncing from tile to wood to skin. It’s warm and alive, something golden settling in my chest. These boys—these beautiful disasters—they’re my chaos and my calm. My unofficial brothers. My broken compass somehow always pointing me back to the truth.

Then Trey claps his hands. “Oh! By the way—Reverb in the Pines is in a month. We should get tickets. It’s been ages since we all did a festival.”

“Reverb in the Pines?” I ask, blinking up at him.

Silence.

Every head turns.

Trey stares like I’ve just said I’ve never seen a guitar before. “Shit, you forgot Reverb, too?”

I tilt my head, something tickling the edge of my mind.

“Trey.” Logan growls. Trey puts his hands up in apology.

“Sorry Mac, I didn—” but before he gets into it, I interrupt as something is suddenly pronounced to me.

“Isn’t that… a music festival?” The words taste familiar, but not solid. “I can’t quite…” I trail off, frowning.

Chace jumps in, eyes lighting up. “It is, it totally is. It’s kind of like, Canadian Coachella… just woodsy.”

“Picture this,” Sam says, setting his glass down. “Golden leaves, fairy lights strung through pine trees. Sensible fire pits. Chainsaw carvings. Big stages. All hidden in the woods. Bands playing until the stars come out.”

“There’s hot cider. Booze, too. Loads of water bottles.

a ton of people high on music—more on…other things.

” Trey adds, with a wicked grin. “Food trucks, vinyl stalls, chill zones—which are basically a sea of hammocks and bean bags. Signal’s crap, so everyone’s actually in the moment.

People get lost and found there. It’s fucking awesome. ”

“You’re actually making it sound like a really big deal,” I say, smiling. “And I kind of love how it sounds…”

“Now, Trey.” Sam says, nudging him. “Do the same thing, but for other festivals.”

“Oh, shit, are we back to explaining things badly?” Trey smirks, “because if so, then Reverb becomes: horny people go to woods to listen to people loudly.”

Logan’s voice is quieter. “It’s one of your favorites, angel. You’ve been to the past few.”

And for a second—just a second—I swear I see it. Lanterns swaying in the dusk, the pulse of music echoing through the trees, laughter spilling out like melody. I feel it deep inside, like a string being pulled taut—tugging me toward something I might’ve once loved.

“Sounds amazing,” I whisper. “Can we go?”

They all look at me again—but this time, there’s no shock. Just something warm and open and full of hope.

Trey’s grin turns crooked, satisfied. “Hell yes, we can go.”

“I’m in,” Chace says around a mouthful of chips. “I need a good forest reset.”

Sam raises the aged can. “I’m in, but ya’ll are joining me at least once for their dawn yoga.”

“Pass,” Trey coughs. “Hard pass.”

“They might have goats.”

“Goat yoga? Alright, fair. Then I am right back in.” Trey says looking serious.

Logan doesn’t say anything at first—he just presses his mouth to my temple, lips lingering. A silent yes. A yes laced with a thousand memories I might not have back yet, but I feel them all the same.

“You sure you want to?” he finally says, low against my skin.

I nod, closing my eyes.

“I want to go,” I say quietly. Just thinking of being there with Logan. But when I see the expectation on the others faces, I crack a grin, unable to contain it. “With all of you.”

I slip away quietly while the boys argue about festival fashion, murmuring something about needing to change. Logan lets me go, but I feel his eyes on me until I turn the corner and disappear up the stairs.

The creak of each step is familiar and strange all at once.

In my bedroom, I close the door behind me and make my way to the old vanity tucked under the window.

I sit down slowly, the fabric of Logan’s throw blanket slipping against my skin like a ghost of comfort.

The wood is chipped at the corners, the mirror slightly warped at the edges.

I used to sit here for hours, braiding my hair, putting on lip gloss I didn’t need, stealing my mom’s perfume and pretending I was someone older—someone fearless.

I stare at my reflection now, and I barely recognize the girl in front of me.

Blue eyes. Olive skin. Brunette hair.

I lift a lock of it between my fingers, and my chest tightens with something sharp and suffocating.

I hate it.

It’s not me. It’s not them.

The brown is too dark, too warm—fake. It drowns out the pieces of me that belonged to Braden.

To Mom. That particular shade of ash blonde we all had.

Cool-toned, almost silver in the right light.

In summer, it would catch the sun and turn white at the ends, like fireflies had kissed it.

It wasn’t dad’s tone either… something… dark and moody? Or just something different?

My Mom, Braden and I could have been cut from the same set.

Now, I look like a stranger wearing my skin. Someone pretending to be me.

My throat tightens, and I blink too fast—too late.

A tear escapes and slides down my cheek.

The door creaks open behind me, gentle and unintrusive. I don’t move. I don’t have to. I know it’s Logan.

“Mac?” Logan’s voice is soft as velvet, cautious. “What’s wrong?”

I don’t answer right away. Just stare at the girl in the mirror.

“She doesn’t look like them,” I whisper. “She doesn’t even look like me.”

He steps closer. I feel him kneel beside me, one warm hand coming to rest on my knee.

“What do you mean?” he asks gently.

“I mean…” My voice cracks. “I used to look like Braden. Like Mom. We all had the same hair. Same color. Same sunlight in our veins. And now…” I shake my head, hating the way another tear slides free.

“I dyed it. I don't even know why. To be different? Maybe I was trying to be someone else. Maybe I didn’t want to see what I lost. But now I do. And I hate it. I hate it, Logan.”

He’s quiet for a beat, then his voice is steady, sure.

“Then we’ll get rid of it,” he says. “It’s just dye, Mac. That’s all. It can be stripped out.” I look at him. Really look. And something inside me—fragile and desperate—snaps loose.

“Now,” I say, breathless. “I want it gone. Please, Logan. I want it gone now.”

I stand so fast the blanket falls from my shoulders and pools at my feet, forgotten. My skin prickles in the cool air, but I don’t care. There’s something feral in me, clawing to get out. A version of myself buried under layers I never meant to keep.

He blinks, startled, but only for a second—then he rises to his feet, steady and solid as always.

“Okay,” he says. “Let me make a few calls.”

“Thank you…I just…thanks.” The words feel small. Inadequate. I don’t know what to say, embarrassed by the bratty outburst I just had. I hate when I act like this—like I’m made of glass.

“It’s nothing, angel. Personally, I would still be a fan even if you decided to shave it all off.

” There’s a hint of smile tugging at his lips, and I am not even sure if he means the words, but I cling to them anyway.

I pull myself together, just enough to lift my chin and nod.

“Give me a few minutes?” I ask quietly. “I’ll meet you downstairs. ”

He hesitates, his brow creasing. “You sure? I can help if—”

“No.” I shake my head gently, the ghost of a smile tugging at my lips. “I’m just going to brush my teeth, get changed.

His eyes hold mine for a moment longer, then he nods. “Okay. I’ll tell the boys we’re heading out.”

As he disappears down the stairs, I exhale a shaky breath and focus on what’s at hand.

Before I know it, I have slipped into autopilot.

Washed and brushed, I look for an outfit.

I pull out a soft, navy maxi dress with tiny white flowers along the hem.

It slips over my head easily, cool but unfamiliar.

I shrug into a worn denim jacket, one with frayed cuffs and a faint scent of something sweet—vanilla or jasmine. Maybe both.

I gather my hair over one shoulder, giving myself one last look in the mirror.

It’s not me. Not yet. I step into the hallway, the old boards creaking under my bare feet.

As I move toward the stairs, my eyes catch on the door across from mine.

Braden’s room. It’s slightly ajar. I stop.

My heart stutters. I haven’t gone in there since I came home.

I’ve avoided it like the edges of a blade.

But now, the door is open just enough to breathe.

I move toward it, slowly, and lift my hand.

Fingertips meet cool wood. The ache in my chest tightens, sharp and familiar.

I lean forward, press my palm flat against the door, and close my eyes.

“I miss you,” I whisper, my voice trembling. “God, Braden… I miss you so much.”

Silence answers. But I feel him—just for a second.

The way sunlight sometimes touches your face on a cloudy day.

A whisper of warmth. A ghost of everything we were.

I press my lips together, nod once, and let my hand fall away.

Then I turn, shoulders square, chin high.

I head down the stairs with a knot in my throat and hope trembling in my chest. As I near the kitchen, I catch the tail end of a phone call—Logan’s voice, low and sure.

“Perfect. Thank you. We’ll see you soon.” The soft chime of the call ending echoes just before he turns. The second his eyes find mine his whole face softens. The weight in my chest lifts, like he’s already peeled a layer of this new version of me away.

“I got you an appointment,” he says, crossing the kitchen to meet me. “Downtown. Half an hour.” He stops in front of me, a breath away, his voice lower now—just for me. “We’ll get it gone, Mac.”

“I heard big guy calling different salons, so, you going full Britney or what?” Sam cuffs Trey around the back of the head, and there is a moment where they just watch me, gauging if he went too far or not. But I take no offence. It just seems par for the course with Trey.

“I guess it will be a surprise.” I tease.

“We’ll restock the food while you’re out,” Chace says saluting, “Trey’s paying because he doesn’t know when to keep his mouth shut.”

“Yeah,” Sam adds, “Might take him for a haircut, too…maybe a reverse mohawk.” “You’re welcome, I guess?”

Logan chuckles and grabs the keys to the Charger off the hook by the door.

Then, without warning, he reaches for my hand, his fingers threading through mine.

He spins me in a circle, effortless and light, like we’re dancing in the middle of the kitchen.

laugh—really laugh—head tipping back as I twirl.

When I land back in front of him, breathless, he grins. “Ready?”

“More than.”