Chapter 209
Summer's POV
Two weeks flew by in a blur of practice sessions and late-night cramming. Before I knew it, I was standing backstage at Symphony Hall, dressed in a navy blue gown that Victoria had picked out specifically for the National Piano Competition. The fabric felt heavy against my skin, grounding me in a way that the nerves couldn't shake loose.
Something else had shifted too, in these two weeks. Ever since that night I'd spilled everything to Mia—the crash, the drowning, the impossible second chance—something tight and tangled inside my chest had loosened. She thought it was just a story, and maybe that stung a little. But saying the words out loud, having someone listen without flinching, had lifted a weight I hadn't realized I'd been carrying alone for so long.
Through the curtain, I could hear the muffled sounds of the audience settling in their seats. My hands were sweating. I wiped them on my dress for the third time in as many minutes, then immediately regretted it because what if I left marks on the expensive silk?
"Summer Hayes," the stage manager called softly. "You're up in five."
I nodded, took a deep breath, and thought about Kieran. He was out there somewhere in the audience, sitting next to Mia. He'd promised to come, even though it meant missing a shift at The Happy Patty. The thought steadied me more than any amount of practice ever could.
When I walked onto that stage, the lights were blinding. I couldn't see the audience, which was probably for the best. I sat down at the Steinway, adjusted the bench height, and let my fingers find their home on the keys. The opening notes of Rachmaninoff's Prelude in G Minor filled the hall, and everything else fell away.
I didn't think about technique or timing or the judges sitting in the front row with their clipboards. I just played. I played for the girl who'd died in a car crash at twenty-seven. I played for the boy who'd drowned trying to save me. I played for the future I was trying to rewrite, note by note, decision by decision.
When the final chord faded into silence, there was a moment of absolute stillness. Then the applause erupted, and I remembered to breathe.
---
"You killed it," Mia shrieked, throwing her arms around me in the lobby afterward. "Like, literally murdered that piano. It didn't stand a chance."
Kieran stood behind her, hands in his pockets, but his eyes were warm. "You were incredible," he said quietly, and the simple sincerity of it made my chest tight.
I looked at the two of them—Mia beaming, Kieran soft-eyed—and felt a bittersweet pang. Mia had no idea that the "story" I'd told her was the reason I could stand here now, playing Rachmaninoff instead of lying in a wrecked car on some rain-slicked highway. But that was okay. She didn't need to believe it for it to matter. She just needed to be here.
Victoria appeared then, immaculate as always in her Chanel suit, her phone already pressed to her ear. "Darling, you were magnificent," she said, kissing my cheek without actually touching me. "I need to take this call, but we'll celebrate properly later. Dinner at Ostra?"
She swept away before I could answer, already deep in conversation about fall line projections or runway schedules or whatever crisis was unfolding at Hayes & Co. this week.
"Your mom is kind of terrifying," Mia observed.
"You have no idea," I muttered.
The results were announced that evening. First place. National champion. The trophy was heavy and gaudy and absolutely perfect. More importantly, it basically guaranteed my college applications would get a second look. Combined with my grades and the recommendation letters I'd been carefully cultivating, I had a real shot at MIT or Harvard or wherever Kieran ended up going.
The thought made me giddy. We could actually do this. We could be together, properly this time, without all the desperation and despair that had poisoned our first attempt at forever.
---
November brought the school music concert, and Mia and I had been practicing our piano-flute duet until we could play it in our sleep. We'd originally planned to perform the Poulenc sonata, as Ms. Robertson had suggested, but after a few frustrating rehearsals we'd agreed it was too technically demanding to polish in time. Mia had suggested "The Swan" from Carnival of the Animals instead—technically simpler but emotionally rich—and the moment we ran through it together, we knew it was the right call. I'd arranged it so her flute could really sing above my accompaniment.
The night of the concert, the St. Jude's auditorium was packed. I spotted Kieran in the third row, sitting next to Logan Park, who was probably there under protest. Victoria had promised to come but sent her assistant instead with a massive bouquet of white roses and a note that said "Emergency in Milan, darling, so proud of you."
I wasn't surprised. I wasn't even disappointed anymore. This was just who she was.
Mia and I took the stage, and for three minutes and forty-two seconds, we created something beautiful together. Her flute soared and dipped, my piano providing the gentle waves beneath, and when we finished, the applause was even louder than at the competition.
"We're basically famous now," Mia whispered as we took our bows.
"Totally. Next stop, Carnegie Hall."
"Or at least the Berklee College of Music auditorium."
We laughed, breathless and happy, and I thought about how lucky I was to have her. To have this second chance at friendship, at normalcy, at all the small joys I'd taken for granted the first time around.