Chapter 151
Kieran's POV
The bike ride back from the T station felt longer than it should have. Not because of distance—Southie wasn't that far—but because my mind kept circling back to the way Summer had held onto me. The way her arms had wrapped around my waist when she almost slipped. The heat of her face pressed against my back through my clothes.
I pedaled harder, like I could outrun the memory.
When I finally turned onto my street, I slowed down, scanning the parked cars out of habit. No sign of Drake's beat-up Civic. The knot in my chest loosened, just a little.
I pulled out my keys and stared at the door. The new lock I'd installed last week gleamed dull silver in the hallway light—double deadbolt, the kind you needed a code to open from the inside. I'd changed the combination three times already, paranoid that Drake would somehow figure it out.
The current code was 0415.
Summer's birthday.
I punched it in and felt the lock disengage with a soft click. Stupid, probably. Sentimental. But it was the one number Drake would never guess in a million years. The one thing in my life he couldn't touch.
The apartment was dark except for the small nightlight plugged in near the couch. Mom was asleep there, curled up under a thin blanket, her phone still clutched in one hand. She'd been waiting for me. Again.
I didn't wake her. Just stood there for a second, watching the rise and fall of her breathing. Her face looked older in the shadows—lines I didn't remember from a year ago, gray streaks in her hair she kept trying to dye away. She looked small. Breakable.
I turned toward Lily's room.
The door was half-open, the way she liked it. Pink nightlight casting soft shapes on the wall. She was curled up in bed, arms wrapped tight around her stuffed rabbit, the one with the missing eye. Her face was turned toward the wall, but I could see the dried tracks of tears on her cheek.
My chest tightened.
She'd been crying again. Probably after dinner, when Mom thought she was asleep. Probably because she'd heard them arguing—me and Mom, or Mom and Tony, or whoever the hell else had something to say about Drake coming back.
Her hearing aids sat on the nightstand, the little blue cases lined up neat and careful. She always put them away herself now. Didn't want anyone touching them.
I stood in the doorway for a few more seconds, just watching her breathe. Then I pulled the door shut—gently, so the latch wouldn't click—and turned toward my own room.
It wasn't much. A narrow bed shoved against the wall. A desk I'd found on the curb and dragged home, one leg shorter than the others so I'd wedged a folded piece of cardboard underneath. A folding chair that squeaked every time I sat down. A lamp that flickered if you bumped the cord.
The walls were bare except for two things: a printout of the MIT campus I'd taped up last year, back when I still thought I had a shot, and a hand-drawn schedule for the physics competitions—F=ma Exam, USAPhO qualifiers, IPhO nationals. Dates circled in red. Deadlines I couldn't miss.
My desk was buried under stacks of paper. Practice problems Coach Anderson had printed for me. Old exams with my messy left-handed scrawl all over them. A half-finished problem set I'd been working on before everything with Drake blew up.
I dropped my backpack on the chair and started pulling off my hoodie. My fingers caught on the zipper—clumsy, like always—and I had to yank it free. The fabric smelled like cold air and grease from the burger place. And something else.
Strawberries.
I froze, the hoodie halfway over my head.
Her shampoo. The smell of her shampoo was still on my clothes.
I pulled the hoodie the rest of the way off and held it in my hands, staring at it like it might disappear. The scent was faint—barely there—but it was enough to make my throat tight. Enough to make me remember the way she'd pressed her face against my back on the bike. The way her breath had hitched when her hand slipped. The way she'd said I just need you to be there like it was the simplest thing in the world.
I dropped the hoodie on the chair and turned toward the bathroom.
I needed to stop thinking about her. Needed to get my head straight.
The shower was barely big enough to turn around in. The water heater was temperamental—scalding one second, freezing the next. I stood under the spray and let it beat against my shoulders, trying to focus on the sting of heat, the ache in my muscles, anything but the way she'd looked at me tonight.
But my brain wouldn't cooperate.
It kept pulling up moments. Flashes. Her sitting across from me in the booth, eyes bright, cheeks flushed from the cold. The way she'd grinned when she ordered extra hash browns, like she was doing me a favor by eating. The way her fingers had brushed mine when we shared the milkshake, and how I'd nearly dropped the damn cup because I couldn't stop staring at her mouth.
I closed my eyes and tipped my head back, letting the water run over my face.
And then my brain decided to be an asshole and replay the bike ride.
The way her arms had wrapped around my waist. The way her hands had slid lower—accidentally, she'd said, and I believed her, but it didn't matter because the touch had burned through my jeans like a brand. The way her thighs had pressed against mine when she adjusted her grip. The way her breath had been warm against my neck, even through the hoodie.
I bit down on my lip, hard, and reached for the cold water tap.
It didn't help.
Because now I was thinking about the drawing she'd made. The cheerleading outfit she was going to wear for Field Day. White pleated skirt. Fitted top. Lace trim. Over-the-knee socks.
I could see it. Could picture her in it, clear as day. The way the skirt would sit high on her thighs. The way the lace would frame her collarbone. The way she'd smile at me, all bright and proud, like she'd made it just for me to see.
And then I thought about everyone else who'd see her.
Evan. Blake. The guys on the crew team. The ones who already talked about her like she was something they could own. The ones who took pictures without asking. The ones who'd stare at her legs, at her chest, at the curve of her waist, and think the kind of shit that made my hands curl into fists.
"Damn it."