Page 15 of Holding Onto You (Burnt Ashes #2)

Logan

T he Charger rolls to a stop along the curb, the tires crunching softly over fallen leaves.

It’s one of those classic Vancouver September days—the kind where the air smells like damp earth and fading summer.

The sky is a patchwork of soft grey and pale blue, low clouds drifting slow, like they haven’t decided yet if they’ll stay or break.

There’s a crispness sneaking in around the edges, the promise of autumn creeping in.

Mac shivers slightly beside me, tugging her denim jacket a little tighter around her.

Her navy dress brushes her ankles as she climbs out, the hem catching the wind like its waving goodbye to something old.

I kill the engine, watching as she looks up at the salon’s front window—fingers flexing at her sides like she’s gearing herself up for battle. Her reflection stares back at her, brunette and unsure.

“I can come in with you,” I offer, stepping around the car. “Wait it out. Keep you company.”

She turns to face me, smile soft but firm. “I’ll be fine. I have to start doing some things on my own.”

I hesitate, and she raises a brow, teasing now. “Besides, if you walk into that salon, you won’t get a moment’s peace. Every woman and their grandma will be here in twenty minutes flat, lining up for selfies and autographs. And you’ll be stuck smelling like hairspray and gossip.”

I chuckle, the sound warm in my chest. She’s not wrong. Small-town charm and local celebrity don’t exactly blend into anonymity.

“Alright,” I nod. “I’ve actually got something I’ve been meaning to do anyway. But I’ve got my cell on me. Call when you’re done, yeah?”

She nods, her smile faltering just slightly before she steels herself again.

“You’ve got this, Mac.”

“I know,” she whispers, more to herself than to me.

I watch her push the salon door open, the bell above it jingling softly. She disappears inside with one last glance over her shoulder.

I slide back into the car, the driver’s seat still warm, and blow out a breath.

Let’s go take care of some old ghosts.

The roads blur by in a hush of grey and gold—city streets lined with changing trees, their leaves turning fire-orange and ochre, clinging to the last stretch of warmth before the rain settles in for good. Vancouver in September feels like a breath held in the chest, waiting.

I swing into the gas station just off Commercial Drive, the old neon sign flickering above the pumps. It’s not much, but it has what I need.

Inside, I grab a bottle of good tequila—the one Braden and I always swore we'd share when we “made it.” We never did. Not properly. Not like we meant to.

The clerk eyes me briefly, recognition flickering behind his tired gaze, but he says nothing, just rings it through and slides it into a brown paper bag.

I walk over to the small floral display near the doors.

Most of the bouquets are a little wilted, a little rough around the edges—cheap cellophane and bold dyes.

But two bunches catch my eye. One is a wild mix of yellow lilies and burnt-orange roses, vibrant and chaotic.

Braden would’ve mocked the hell out of them, but he would've liked them too. The other is softer—pale blush peonies, delicate and quiet. I don’t even think. I just know they’re for Mac’s mom.

I pay, tuck the flowers carefully in the passenger seat, and start driving again.

The cemetery isn’t far. A small one tucked between the edges of the city and the woods, where the world feels a little slower. Where time doesn’t press so hard.

I drive in silence, the bottle shifting gently in the footwell as the trees close in around the path.

It’s been too long.

But I’m here now.

For Braden.

For Mr. & Mrs. Smith.

For Mac.

Mountain View is quiet. Too quiet.

Orange leaves scatter across the cracked paths like confetti at a funeral, crunching under my boots with every step. The grass is damp, soft beneath the soles. A couple of acorn tops snap underfoot, their brittle shells breaking like tiny bones.

Only two other cars sit in the lot, both parked crooked like the people inside didn’t plan to stay long. I catch sight of the groundskeeper in the distance, bumping slowly along in a rust-bitten excavator, its faded yellow paint dulled with years of use. He doesn’t look my way.

The breeze carries the earthy scent of disturbed soil, sharp with the rot of vegetation. Cold air slides up the back of my neck, sending a shiver down my spine. Goosebumps rise on my arms.

I fucking hate cemeteries.

They feel too still.

But I push forward, bouquet stems crinkling in my grip, the paper rustling like whispers. One for Braden. One for Mr. and Mrs. Smith… Their names carved into stone just a few feet apart, like the universe decided it hadn’t screwed Mac over quite enough the first time.

I find them easily—second row from the back, near the cluster of trees. I crouch between the graves, brushing off a few dried leaves clinging to the base of the headstones. The wind picks up again, threading through the branches above, and for a second, I swear I hear Braden laughing.

"Hey, brother," I breathe out, sinking down with my back to the headstone.

The seal on the tequila cracks beneath my thumb, the sound sharp in the stillness.

"I’d have come by sooner, but..." I trail off with a shrug, pouring a capful and tipping it out over the grass, letting it soak into the soil.

One for him. I raise the bottle and take a long swig, the burn settling deep in my chest.

"You know," I mutter, wiping my mouth on my sleeve, "your sister’s been a real handful."

The wind picks up, tugging at my jacket, and I screw the cap back on, setting the bottle down beside me. I blow out a breath, staring ahead at nothing for a long moment before I climb to my feet, my legs unsteady. I dust myself off, rubbing the damp from my palms against my jeans.

That’s when I see it. A white rose tied to the top of Braden’s headstone with a thin ribbon, and some kind of note taped beneath it. The kind of tape that leaves residue behind. I shake my head, muttering, “Who the hell uses scotch tape on a headstone?”

Still, I reach for it. The petals are fresh, the ribbon soft, the note carefully folded. I peel it away, frowning as I open it.

"It shouldn't have been you. I'm sorry. Forgive me? I forgive you xox"

My heart knocks hard against my ribs. The words are sharp, abrupt—like a punch. I let the note slip from my fingers, fluttering to the grass.

I brace a hand against the stone, grounding myself, jaw clenched against the weight of everything I’ve kept buried.

"Truth is, brother... everything’s gone to shit without you." The lump rising in my throat makes it hard to breathe, let alone talk. "The band’s falling apart. I’m no leader. I was the guy who kicked ass, not the one handing out orders. It doesn't feel right."

I unscrew the bottle again and pour another capful, letting it soak into the ground like the first. "Sam’s pulling away,” I say quietly.

“Really dialed in on the fitness thing now—like it’s all he’s got.

And Chace” I pause, dragging a hand through my hair.

“I don’t even know who he really is lately.

I know you two had your moments, but there was respect.

With me? It’s like he’s here out of obligation.

Like he’s punching a clock.” I shift my weight.

The silence settling heavy around me. “And Trey—well…Trey’s still Trey.

” A small smile tugs at my mouth. “Managed to get himself into some real kind of mess in Portland. You’d probably laugh your ass off. ”

The silence feels heavier now. The wind carries the scent of disturbed soil and rot, and for a second, I close my eyes.

"I don’t know if you’d be pissed about your sister and me," I say quietly.

"But I swear to you, all I want is for her to be happy.

We were...briefly. And it felt right, man.

It was…It was like we were where we were meant to be.

" I pause, swallow hard. "I fucking love her. So much it hurts to breathe when she’s not around. "

A dry laugh escapes me, bitter and broken. "She nearly died, too. Like some old fucking family curse with cars… And now? Now she doesn’t remember me—not who I am now. Just who I used to be. I can’t blame her. Hell, sometimes I don’t recognize myself either."

The bottle shakes slightly in my hand as I take another swig.

"I could really use your advice, Hermano," I whisper, voice raw. "Even if it came with a fist to the face... I'd take it. I'd take anything if it meant knowing what the Hell I’m supposed to do next."

I glance around at the flowers scattered across the grass—Burnt Ashes CD cases tucked carefully among the stems, faded teddy bears softened by time and weather. The sight hits me square in the chest. People still come. People still remember.

Kneeling, I brush some leaves away from the base of the stone.

“I promise I’ll look after your sister with my life,” I whisper. “I’ll spend every breath I have making her happy. Give her the life she deserves. She’ll want for nothing, Braden. That’s my vow to you.”

My voice cracks at the end, but I don’t bother hiding it.

I place a hand on the stone—cool and rough beneath my fingers—and hold it there for a beat before tapping it twice.

“Send my love to your family.”

Then I stand, throat tight, and walk away.

I sink into the driver's seat, the Charger groaning beneath my weight as the door thuds shut beside me. The air inside is still, warm from the sun but carrying a lingering chill that clings to me like the cemetery dirt caked to my boots.

For a moment, I just sit.

The engine’s off. The world’s quiet. The only sound is my own breath and the faint rustle of leaves dragging across the windshield.