Chapter 111
Summer's POV
The morning Mom's Mercedes glided through downtown Boston, I pressed my forehead against the cool window glass, watching the city blur past in streaks of gray and gold. The Prudential Center's fifty-foot Christmas tree dominated the plaza, its ornaments catching the weak December sunlight like trapped stars. Mariah Carey's voice drifted from the radio—All I Want for Christmas Is You—and Mom hummed along, one hand on the wheel, the other tapping against her thigh.
"Did you remember your charger?" she asked, glancing at me. "And those special rosin blocks you like?"
"Yes, Mom." I tried to sound present, but my attention kept snagging on strangers hurrying along Newbury Street, their breath forming white clouds, coffee cups clutched like lifelines. A woman in a camel coat. A man with a briefcase. None of them him.
We passed Faneuil Hall, where workers were setting up holiday market stalls. I remembered coming here with Evan last December, picking out gifts I thought mattered. Now those memories felt like photographs of someone else's life—distant, slightly out of focus, belonging to a girl who no longer existed.
"Summer?" Mom's voice pulled me back. "You're doing it again."
"Doing what?"
"That thing where you're here but not here." She turned down the radio. "Talk to me, sweetheart. Are you nervous about New York? Because if you're having second thoughts—"
"No second thoughts." I forced brightness into my voice. "Just... processing. Two weeks away from home. It's a lot."
She reached over and squeezed my hand. "You're going to be extraordinary. You know that, right?"
I nodded, throat tight, and watched the city scroll past. What I didn't say was that I wasn't thinking about New York at all. I was thinking about how I'd been at St. Jude's for three hours yesterday morning, supposedly organizing notes and saying goodbye to Mia, but really just hoping to run into him. To see Kieran one more time before I left.
And how I never did.
---
The main building looked like something from a Christmas card—ivy wreaths on the doors, garlands wound around the columns, a "Winter Break Countdown" poster cheerfully announcing three more days. I stood in the entrance hall with my Longchamp bag, pretending to sort through sheet music while my eyes kept drifting toward the stairwell that led to the science wing.
"You're not actually organizing anything," Mia observed, appearing at my elbow with her usual uncanny timing. She held two coffees, pressed one into my free hand. "You're stalling."
"I'm not—"
"Summer." She gave me that look, the one that said I know you too well for this. "You're leaving in five hours. If you want to see him, just go see him."
My fingers tightened around the cup. "What if he doesn't want—"
"Then at least you'll know." Mia's voice gentled. "But sitting here torturing yourself? That's worse."
She was right. She was always right. I set down my bag and pulled her into a hug that probably lasted too long, breathing in her familiar vanilla-and-paper smell. When I pulled back, her eyes were suspiciously bright.
"Don't cry," I said, even though my own throat was closing up. "You'll make me cry, and I spent twenty minutes on this eyeliner."
"Text me every day," she demanded. "And send pictures. And if any pretentious Juilliard pianists try to mansplain Chopin to you, tell them Mia Harper says they can fuck right off."
I laughed, wet and shaky. "Deal."
"And Summer?" She squeezed my hands. "Go find him. Don't let yourself regret this."
---
The first-floor entrance hall smelled like wet stone and old radiators. Rain drummed against the tall windows, turning the December morning gray and close. I stood just inside the doors, watching water sheet down the glass, trying to decide if I should risk the sprint to the main building without an umbrella.
Behind me, the stairwell door banged open.
A hand caught my elbow before I could turn around, gentle but firm, and I knew—before I saw him, before I heard him—I knew.
"You don't have an umbrella." Kieran's voice was flat, almost annoyed, but his grip on my arm was careful. "It's pouring."
I turned. He stood close enough that I could see the faint shadows under his eyes, the way his dark hair stuck up on one side like he'd been running his hands through it. He wore the same black hoodie, damp at the shoulders, and held a black umbrella in his left hand.
"I forgot," I managed. "I thought it might snow."
His jaw tightened. For a moment I thought he might say something sharp, something about how I never paid attention to practical things, how I probably had someone to carry umbrellas for me. But instead he just shook his head once, sharp and frustrated, and pushed open the door.
Cold air and rain hit my face. Kieran opened the umbrella with a practiced snap and stepped out, pulling me with him under its shelter. The space beneath the umbrella was small and dark, forcing us close together. I could smell soap and something faintly metallic, could hear both our breathing, too loud in the enclosed space.
He held the umbrella angled toward me, leaving his right shoulder exposed to the rain. Water darkened the fabric of his hoodie within seconds.
"Kieran, you're getting soaked—"
"I'm fine." He didn't look at me. "Where are you going?"
"Main building. I was just—" My voice faltered. "I came to find you."
He went still. "Why?"
"Because I'm leaving." The words came out in a rush. "This afternoon. For New York. The Juilliard winter intensive—I got in, and I'll be gone for the whole break, and I just—" I stopped, swallowed hard. "I wanted to see you. Before I left."
The silence stretched. Rain pattered against the umbrella, a soft percussion that seemed to count the seconds. I could feel him beside me, tense and coiled, could see his knuckles white around the umbrella handle.
"How long?" His voice was rough.