Chapter 188
Summer's POV
The days blurred together after our talk in the library. The first week of July hit like a wall of heat and obligation, and suddenly I was spending every waking hour in a practice room near Berklee. Ms. Robertson had mapped out a training schedule that left no room for anything else—nine to five in the studio, then home for dinner, then back to the piano until my fingers cramped and my shoulders ached with a dull, persistent pain that no amount of stretching could relieve.
I told myself it was necessary. The National Piano Competition was in August, and if I wanted any chance of placing, I needed to be flawless. But the deeper truth was that the distance between Kieran and me had become something I couldn't quite bridge, no matter how much I wanted to. He was trying so hard to keep his promise of becoming worthy, of building something stable enough that he could stand beside me without feeling like he was taking charity, that he was breaking his other promise—the one about not pushing me away. Summer training for the physics team ran from dawn until noon, then he'd vanish into whatever jobs he'd lined up to replace the lost income from the food cart, and our texts dwindled from dozens a day to a handful, then to one or two brief check-ins that felt more like proof of life than actual conversation.
How was practice? I'd send, staring at my phone during the five-minute breaks Ms. Robertson allowed between pieces.
Good. You? he'd reply hours later, when I was already back at the piano, my fingers moving through scales on autopilot while my mind wandered to wherever he was, whatever he was doing.
Fine.
I understood why. He was trying to earn his way into a future where loving me didn't feel like a betrayal of everything he'd sacrificed for Lily, where accepting help didn't mean surrendering the last shreds of his pride. But understanding didn't make the loneliness any easier to bear. It felt like we were slipping through each other's fingers even as we held on tighter, like trying to hold water in cupped palms, and I didn't know how to stop it without asking him to break the very promise I'd told him to keep.
I was in the middle of a particularly brutal Rachmaninoff passage—Prelude in C-sharp minor, the section where the left hand has to maintain a relentless rhythm while the right hand cascades through chromatic runs—when my phone buzzed on the piano bench beside me. I stopped mid-phrase, my hands hovering over the keys, and grabbed it with fingers that were still trembling from the exertion.
Mia: Summer, I just saw something on The Whisper. You need to check it out. NOW.
My stomach dropped in that sickening way it did when you knew something terrible was coming but couldn't stop it. I opened the app with trembling fingers, my heartbeat suddenly loud in my ears.
The post was at the top of the feed, time-stamped less than ten minutes ago, and the photo—
It was Kieran.
He was wearing a dark gray button-down, the kind with a leather gun holster strap across one shoulder that servers wore at certain kinds of establishments. A uniform I'd never seen him in, never imagined him wearing. He was holding a tray in one hand, weaving through a crowd of women in tight dresses and too much makeup, and the lighting was dim, all purples and reds, casting shadows that made everything look sordid and wrong. The angle made it look like he was kneeling in front of one of them—a woman with bleached hair and heavy eyeliner, her hand resting possessively on his shoulder as if she owned him.
The caption read: "St. Jude's scholarship boy moonlighting at The Crimson Lounge 👀 Apparently he goes by 'Cyan' there lmaooo"
The comments were already out of control, multiplying even as I scrolled.
"OMG is that Kieran Cross??"
"He's working as a male server at THAT kind of club??"
"Poor Summer lol"
"I heard those places pay REALLY well if you're willing to... you know"
"Wait, Cyan? Like the color? That's so sleazy omg"
"Isn't he supposed to be this genius physics guy? Guess he found a different way to make money 💀"
My hands were shaking so badly I almost dropped the phone. The practice room suddenly felt too small, the air too thick, and I couldn't breathe properly, couldn't think past the roaring in my ears and the sick twist in my stomach.
I called him. Once. Twice. Three times.
No answer.