Chapter 205
Summer's POV
We wandered down to Newbury Street for brunch, ending up at some café that was clearly designed for Instagram more than actual eating. The avocado toast came arranged like a piece of art, microgreens scattered just so, but it tasted pretty average.
"Poulenc is no joke," Mia said, stabbing at her overpriced eggs benedict. "We'll need at least three weeks of practice."
"Yeah," I said. "Let's start right after nationals. I don't want to split my focus before the competition, but once that's done, I'm all yours."
Mia nodded, already pulling up YouTube videos of professional performances on her phone. "Deal. You focus on winning that trophy, and then we'll make this duet legendary."
I watched her face light up as she talked about fingering techniques and breath control, and I felt a swell of gratitude so strong it almost hurt. A month ago, I'd been curled up on the floor of a bathroom stall, hyperventilating, convinced the world was caving in. Now here I was—sitting in the sun with a friend who genuinely cared, preparing for two performances I actually wanted to play, and falling in love with a boy who made me feel safe. The contrast was dizzying.
"Earth to Summer," Mia waved her hand in front of my face. "You okay?"
"Yeah," I said, and for once I meant it. "Just... really glad to be here."
She grinned. "It's going to be amazing. I promise."
---
By the time we got to my place that afternoon, the sun was starting to slant golden through the trees. Mia had been to my house exactly once before, briefly, to pick me up for some school thing. But she'd never actually come inside.
I watched her face as I unlocked the black iron gate and led her up the front steps. The brownstone looked especially impressive in the autumn light, all red brick and pristine white trim.
"Oh my God, Summer." She stopped dead in the foyer, staring up at the crystal chandelier. "I knew you were rich, but this is... this is like The Great Gatsby level."
I laughed and pulled her toward the living room. "Stop exaggerating. It's just a house."
But I could see how it must look through her eyes. The French windows overlooking Beacon Street. The velvet sofa that probably cost more than a car. The contemporary art on the walls that my mother had collected over years of attending gallery openings. The coffee table with its neat stack of Architectural Digest magazines.
"Make yourself at home," I said, heading to the kitchen. "You want something to drink?"
I came back with two bottles of strawberry milk, the kind I'd been obsessed with since middle school. Mia took one carefully, like she was afraid she might break something.
"My favorite," I said, trying to put her at ease. "Try it."
She took a sip and smiled, but she was still perched on the edge of the sofa like a bird ready to fly away. I wanted to tell her to relax, that the furniture was just furniture, that none of this stuff mattered. But how could I explain that without sounding condescending?
"If my dad was as successful as your mom," Mia said suddenly, "maybe I wouldn't have to worry about student loans."
She froze immediately, her eyes going wide. "Sorry, I didn't mean—"
"Don't apologize." I sat down next to her, close enough that our shoulders touched. "Victoria built this empire from nothing, brick by brick. She started as a design assistant, worked eighty-hour weeks, and clawed her way to the top. She's my hero."
It was true. In both timelines, my mother was the strongest person I knew. The fact that I'd failed her so spectacularly in the first life made my chest ache.
Mia studied my face. "You're really lucky to have her."
I nodded, gripping the cold glass bottle a little tighter. Lucky. Yes. And I was going to make sure it stayed that way.
"You should come to my place sometime," Mia said, her voice brightening. "My mom makes the best lasagna in Boston, I swear."
"Deal," I said. "Because Victoria's culinary skills peak at sugar-sprinkled tomatoes."
We both burst out laughing, and just like that, the tension dissolved.