Chapter 182: Reunited

HOLLY’S POV

When I saw the face that spun me around, I released a breath I didn’t even know I’d been holding.

What the actual...

“KAYLA?!”

My scream was half shock, half strangled sob, and all relief. Without thinking, I threw my arms around her like we were in a telenovela.

And honestly? The hug wasn’t just because she was my long-lost soul sister...it was mostly because she wasn’t someone from Ava’s FBI-styled social circle. I’d take Kayla and her chaos over brunch snitches any day.

She laughed, smacking my back, “I should be asking you that, Holly! What the hell are you doing here?”

“I...what...You live here now?” I blinked, stepping back and trying not to cry. “Since when?!”

“I moved three years ago! Come on, we seriously need to catch up.” She looked me over, then leaned in close. “Okay but…first things first, is that your boyfriend?”

“YUCK.” I made the most aggressive puke face known to mankind. “Kay, you know I’ve only ever had eyes for one man.”

She gasped like she’d found out I murdered someone. “Wait… still?! So is this like a one-night stand thing? Are you a hooker now?!”

“KAYLA! Hell NO! It’s a long story!”

“Well,” she said with a mischievous glint, “if he’s not your man, and you’re not banging him...get your sexy little traitor-booty into my car. We’re going home.”

“Really?” I lit up like a Christmas tree in Vegas. “I’d love that!”

I turned to Justin, who looked suspiciously like he didn’t trust the whole situation. "You can go now. I’m in safe hands."

Justin raised a brow, eyes flicking between us. “And how well do you actually know this girl?”

I blinked. “She’s like my favorite person on earth. Besides Ava. And Orion. And Liam.”

“And Mason Brown,” Kayla added with a dramatic eyeroll.

“You have no idea,” I sighed dreamily.

Justin frowned. “Still… I think you should stay at the hotel. At least tonight. Let me pick you up in the morning to meet David’s partner. You know. Just to be safe.”

“Justin.” I gave him the look. “Kayla once threatened a dean with a rusty spatula because I failed anatomy. I trust her more than I trust my own brain cells.”

Kayla nodded, proud. “I think I still have that spatula.”

Justin gave in, although reluctantly. “Fine. But I’m taking your number. So I know where to pick you up tomorrow.”

We exchanged numbers and he warned me like he was my parole officer before giving a final I-hope-I-don’t-regret-this look and walking off.

Kayla’s car was a vibrant yellow Mini Cooper that looked like it was powered by coffee and sarcasm. She revved the engine like it was a Ferrari and zoomed us out of the parking lot like we were racing death.

The laughter started almost immediately.

“Oh my God, Hols! It’s been so long. Remember that time I caught you climbing out of Professor Haines' office window because you thought he was part of a cult?”

“He was, Kayla!”

“You mistook his yoga chants for demonic whispers!”

“I have trauma, okay?!”

We cackled like witches. It was three a.m. and we were laughing so hard our mascara was crying.

“I still think about your bodyguard,” Kayla said between giggles. “Mark? The one we tricked into wearing a bikini?”

I snorted so hard I almost choked on air. “God, yes! That poor man. He thought it was part of the undercover disguise!”

Kayla looked out the window, her smile softening. “I still think about him. I know he’s resting in peace wherever he is.”

My throat tightened.

I nodded. Couldn’t form words. That pain was still there. Sharp. Quiet. He died protecting me from my father.

Kayla must’ve felt the shift because she cleared her throat and coughed awkwardly. “So anyway—speaking of adult supervision—how the hell did your sister let you fly across the world without a SWAT escort?”

“What do you mean?” I said, mock offended. “Kayla, I’m an adult now!”

She burst into laughter so loud the car swerved a little. “You’re a child in combat boots!”

Just then, Firework by Katy Perry came on the radio. Kayla squealed. “OH MY GOD.”

She cranked up the volume.

“DO YOU EVER FEEL—”

“LIKE A PLASTIC BAG,” I screamed, wind in my hair, joy in my soul, grief temporarily packed into a side pocket of my heart.

We screamed the lyrics until our throats were raw.

After a while, we rolled into a little driveway.

Her apartment was a warm, quirky little two-bedroom flat on the third floor of a cozy cream-bricked complex. It smelled like vanilla candles and fried pastries. Very Kayla.

She tossed my duffel onto the bed in the second room. “Crash here, dummy. Take a shower. I’ll make you a hot cocoa, si?”

I nodded. “Did I mention how much I missed you?”

“I know,” she said simply, and vanished toward the kitchen.

The bathroom was spotless. Lavender-scented everything. She even had a loofah shaped like a cactus. I let the hot water melt into my muscles, washing away the chaos of tonight.

But my brain?

It didn’t rest.

It floated back to David.

His face.

His eyes.

That jaw that made anatomy textbooks useless.

And his rejection.

I grinned wickedly.

“Oh, baby,” I whispered, slicking conditioner through my hair. “I’m going to torment you so badly, you’ll beg me to marry you.”

I pictured it: David Hunt, on his knees, ring in hand, face stricken with love and despair, sobbing, “Please, Holly, please ruin my life forever.”

Yes.

That’s the energy I was manifesting.

But then, I remembered.

Three years ago, Kayla had just dropped out of college.

It hadn’t been dramatic.

No tears.

No viral tantrum.

She’d just stopped showing up.

Later, I learned her father, her only parent, had passed away. Her world had tilted. Shaken. And then crumbled.

She refused help from Ava and Orion. Said she wanted to take over her dad’s bakery.

“I don’t want to wear lab coats and see blood all day,” she’d said back then. “I want to work with sugar, not stitches. Bread over bacteria, you feel me?”

I’d supported her. Hugged her.

And then, two months later—radio silence.

Her number stopped working.

I went to the address in her school file.

Gone.

Relocated.

No trace.

I cried for weeks.

Eventually, I convinced myself she didn’t want me in her life anymore. That maybe my drama was too much. That maybe I reminded her of what she’d lost.

And now?

Now I was standing in her guest bathroom, wrapped in her polka-dot towel, about to drink cocoa in her kitchen.

Life was wild.

I stepped out of the bathroom, cheeks flushed, towel in one hand—and froze.

There.

In the doorway.

A figure stood.

And I screamed.

Loud.

Terrified.

The mug slipped from Kayla’s hand in the kitchen.

Because the figure standing there?

Wasn’t Kayla, obviously.

It wasn’t Justin either.

It was—