Page 9 of Holding Onto You (Burnt Ashes #2)

Kayla

T he hospital doors hiss open behind me like a final exhale, and for the first time in six weeks, I breathe in air that doesn’t smell like antiseptic and worry.

It’s crisp. Bright. Real.

Freedom.

Logan’s hand is warm around mine as we walk into the car park, the early morning sun casting long shadows over the asphalt. I cling tighter to his fingers like I’m scared this isn’t real, that I might blink and wake up to machines and white walls and the ache of forgetting.

But it is real.

He’s real.

Waiting at the curb is a black Dodge Charger—sleek, familiar. A ghost made metal. My steps falter, breath catching in my throat.

Braden’s car. Only it was finished, and in pristine condition.

I would know it anywhere. Even if I didn’t remember the details, my heart does.

Logan glances at me, reading my silence. “You okay?”

I nod slowly, but tears prick my eyes before I can stop them. “That’s his, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.” He squeezes my hand. “Figured… maybe it’d feel like a piece of him could come home with us, too.”

The keys jingle in his palm as he opens the trunk, and we pack in my hospital bags—the only remnants of the worst and most important weeks of my life.

When I open the passenger door, the scents hit me first. Not just leather and old air freshener.

There was something that tickled my nose with notes similar to my dad’s old cologne.

Only there was more, something mandarin, and peppercorns maybe?

sandalwood? There was no doubt that what was left behind was the scent of my twin brother Braden.

Sunshine and gasoline. Mischief and music.

A lump forms in my throat as I spot his worn jacket tossed across the backseat. The one he never let anyone borrow. My fingers graze the sleeve, and I swear I feel the echo of his laugh in the silence.

I glance at the glovebox, almost scared to look, but curiosity wins. I pop it open.

Cassette tapes.

Stacked neatly, labeled in his messy scrawl.

Summer Vibes. Road Rage. Crybaby Mix (Mac—do not touch).

I let out a watery laugh, my vision blurring. “He was such an ass.”

Logan smiles, soft. “Yeah. But he loved you.”

I nod, hugging one of the tapes to my chest. “I know.”

He leans against the car, arms crossed, black cap on backwards, eyes on me like I’m the only thing anchoring him to the world. Like I’m something fragile and infinite all at once.

“You look good in the sunlight, Mac,” he says quietly.

I blink up at him. “You always said that.”

“Because it’s always true.”

My heart skips, tripping over the affection in his voice. The weight behind it. The way he sees me even when I feel like a ghost in my own life.

“I’m scared,” I whisper.

He steps in close, brushing a strand of hair from my cheek, fingertips barely grazing skin. “Of what?”

“That I won’t remember all of him.”

“You have his car. His tapes. His jacket. You have all his things at home.” he promises, his voice rough around the edges.

I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding and slide into the passenger seat.

The leather squeaks beneath me, the seat adjusted too far back for my liking.

I look around confused for a switch, button or lever when Logan reaches over and helps me adjust the seat.

My breath hitches for a moment at the closeness, his scent swirling my brain and short circuiting my trail of thought.

“You ready, angel?” He asks, clicking his belt in, I copy him, nodding.

I’m going home.

With Logan by my side and my brother in spirit.

The tires hum against the asphalt, steady and familiar, as the city fades behind us. But there’s no rush. We drive slow, letting the quiet of the morning fill the space between us.

Logan’s hand is warm against mine, his thumb tracing gentle circles along my knuckles. I hold onto him like he's the only thing keeping me tethered to the world outside the hospital walls.

The air smells different now—fresher, more alive. It’s like the world knows I’m finally out, finally free, even if I don’t completely feel like I am. Not yet. But it’s coming.

I think I must have fallen asleep at some point as I wake to the car no longer rumbling.

“Good afternoon, folks. Do you have any alcohol, tobacco, or firearms you wish to declare?”

Logan snorts.

“No, ma’am. That’s more our cousins across the border, right?”

There’s an awkward pause as the guard frowns, squinting at him.

“Oh, my word. You’re Logan Dale. The Logan Dale, right?”

He nods, and she lights up.

“You mind if I get a selfie?”

I wrinkle my nose—not from jealousy. Definitely not. He glances at me with one brow raised, and I give him a soft smile, the pressure in my chest easing just a little.

“Of course not,” he says with a grin, leaning closer to the driver’s side window as she fumbles for her phone.

“Oh, rats… that means you’re—oh, holy shit, girl. You were all over Lainey Gossip. Poor thing. Right, I’ll get out of your hair. Drive safe—and welcome home.”

The border guard’s cheeks flush pink. I can’t tell if it’s from the selfie or the fact she recognized me too late. My gut says her stomach probably dropped when she realized who I was.

I guess I’m a celeb by proxy now…

And that?

Yeah, I’m not over the moon about it.

“You are my guardian angel,” Logan says as we merge back onto the highway. “I’ve been asked to step out of the car more times than I can count—border guards, cops, you name it. They either assume I’m on something, want to harass me because of who I am… or just try to cop a feel.”

“Ew. What?”

Logan snorts, bitter. “Yeah. It can get skeezy. But whatever. You okay?”

“I… I guess? That was weird though, right?”

He shrugs. “I try to stay out of the newspapers and off the internet. You know how it is.”

“Well,” I say, teasing gently, “at least some things haven’t changed.”

Logan doesn't rush. He takes the turns slow, keeps the speed under control. We pass the signs I’ve seen a thousand times but somehow can’t place anymore. The quiet, sleepy streets of Vancouver. Places I used to drive through without thinking.

And then I see it—the first familiar place.

The corner shop.

The little café with the faded neon sign and the cracked windows where I used to stop for coffee after school. The place that sold the best muffins in the world—Braden swore they were magic. I can almost hear his laugh, taste the sweetness on my tongue.

My chest tightens. "I used to come here all the time."

Logan glances at me, his voice soft. "Yeah? What did you get?"

I blink away the lump in my throat. "Blueberry muffin... and a cappuccino. Every morning."

A small smile tugs at the corner of Logan’s mouth. "Yeah. You used to steal half of my muffin, too."

I laugh softly, the sound almost foreign. "I remember."

As we continue down the street, I start to recognize more—each block a ghost of something I used to know.

The diner on the left, with its old-school sign that flickered half the time, still hanging crooked in the same place.

The park where I used to walk with Braden and Logan, making stupid bets on who could get the swings the highest without falling off or throwing up.

The bench by the pond where we carved our names into the wood, promising we’d never forget each other.

And then... my street.

I hold my breath, my eyes scanning the row of houses. I see the house down the way with the red door, where Mrs. Patterson used to live before she passed. The small garden where kids used to play, now overgrown with weeds.

But it’s the white house at the end of the street that pulls me in. The one with the wraparound porch.

Home .

Logan slows as we approach, and I feel the weight of it settle over me. My stomach twists with nerves.

I haven’t been here since I ran, since everything changed.

I don’t speak for a moment, just let the silence sink in. The house looks the same—timeless. The porch, the meadow beyond. The way the light catches the windows at the perfect angle, casting soft shadows over the yard.

“Are you okay?” Logan’s voice pulls me from the fog of memories. He’s parked now, the engine purring softly beneath us.

I nod, even though it feels like a thousand different emotions are battling inside of me. “Yeah… just didn’t expect it to feel so… heavy.”

He leans over, brushing his thumb over my hand. “You don’t have to be ready. You don’t have to carry all of it at once. We can take it slow, I am not going to force you out the car, angel.”

I look at him, meeting his eyes for the first time since we turned onto the street. There’s something steady in his gaze, something that says he’ll never push me to do anything I’m not ready for.

But he’ll be here, beside me. Through it all.

“Logan…” My voice cracks, and I swallow the lump in my throat. “I can’t believe I’m home.”

“Me neither,” he whispers back. “But you are. And I’m right here.”

The world feels like it’s slowing down as I step out of the car, the gravel crunching underfoot, the house looming in front of me. And for the first time since everything changed, I feel like maybe I can breathe again. Maybe I can start to put the pieces back together.

I take a deep breath and turn to Logan, meeting his steady gaze.

“You ready?” he asks.

I nod, my heart racing in my chest. “Yeah.”

Together, we walk up the path to the porch. The house, the memories, the ghosts of what used to be—they’re all waiting for me.

But I’m not alone anymore.

We stop at the bottom step of the porch.

I stare up at the old white house—the one with the crooked wind chime still clinking softly in the breeze.

My lungs draw in the scent of salt and woodsmoke.

Beside me, Logan’s hand is warm and steady in mine. He’s quiet, letting me take it all in.

“I used to sit right there,” I murmur, pointing to the edge of the porch. “Braden and I… we’d eat Popsicles and argue over whose turn it was to pick the cassette. You were always there, too. You'd sit between us and pretend to be Switzerland.”