Chapter 40
Summer's POV
The next week was a blur of orchestra rehearsals.
The school symphony was preparing for the Donor Appreciation Gala right before Thanksgiving, which meant two-hour practices every day after school in the arts building. I'd be at the piano, Mia on flute, and about twenty other students crammed into the rehearsal room, running through the same pieces over and over until the conductor was satisfied.
And Evan was there.
Of course Evan was there. He was the star pianist, the one who got all the solos, the one parents pointed to in the program and said "that's the Whitmore boy."
He'd been... trying, lately. Bringing me Starbucks before rehearsal, leaving expensive French macarons on the piano bench, sitting next to me during breaks even when I very obviously moved away.
On Wednesday, he cornered me by the water fountain.
"I saved you a seat at the Thanksgiving formal planning committee," he said, flashing that smile that used to make my knees weak. "Thought you might want to help choose the theme."
"I have physics tutoring that day," I said, not looking at him.
"Physics?" His eyebrows went up. "Since when do you care about physics?"
I turned to face him fully. "Since I realized I want to understand things for myself. Not just for college applications."
His smile faltered. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means I'm done doing things just because they look good or because someone else thinks I should." I grabbed my water bottle. "I'm making my own choices now."
Before he could respond, the conductor called us back, and I practically fled to my seat.
Mia slid into the chair next to me, her flute case balanced on her lap. "He's really not used to being turned down, is he?"
"He'll get used to it," I said, and meant it.
After practice, Evan tried to give me the leftover macarons. I distributed them to the rest of the orchestra instead, keeping only my water bottle. The look on his face—surprise and hurt and something like anger—should have made me feel guilty.
It didn't.
---
That night, I was organizing sheet music in my room when the memory hit me.
Boston City Hall. Cold marble floors, fluorescent lighting, a clerk with tired eyes pushing papers across a desk.
Kieran in a perfectly tailored charcoal suit, black leather gloves on both hands even though we were indoors, signing the marriage certificate with his left hand in smooth, practiced strokes. The signature was flawless—you'd never know it wasn't his dominant hand unless you were looking for the tell.
I'd thought it was a quirk. Maybe he was cold, or self-conscious about his hands, or just preferred gloves.
I hadn't thought about the why.
Now, sitting in my bedroom ten years in the past, I finally understood.
He'd spent a decade teaching his left hand to lie. Teaching it to write so perfectly that no one would notice the right hand's limitations. Teaching it to sign documents and hold pens and do all the things that right hands were supposed to do, until the deception was seamless.
And I'd never asked. Never noticed. Never cared enough to wonder why my husband wore gloves to sign our marriage certificate.
I opened my journal, hands shaking, and wrote: He spent ten years teaching his left hand to lie. I won't let him spend another ten years alone.
---
Thursday's PE class was supposed to be easy—just outdoor running and some basic conditioning drills. As assistant coach, I mostly stood around with a whistle and a clipboard, making sure people didn't skip laps.
I was calling roll for the girls' group when I glanced over at the boys' line and my heart stopped.
Kieran.
Standing at the far right of the group in the standard PE uniform—navy blue zip-up hoodie pulled all the way to his chin, gray sweatpants. The autumn sun hit him at an angle that turned his dark hair almost bronze at the edges, highlighting the sharp line of his jaw.
I'd never seen him at a regular class before. He was always in the competition classroom or the library or working. I didn't even know he had PE this period.
He must have felt me staring, because his head turned and our eyes met across the field.
His ears went bright red immediately. He looked away so fast I almost laughed.
"Cross!" Mr. Davis's voice boomed across the field. "You're finally showing up. Thought you forgot we had PE."
"Coach Anderson gave me permission to make up the classes," Kieran said, his voice flat and careful.
My heart was doing that thing again—that stupid, impossible, completely unreasonable thing where it tried to beat its way out of my chest. Because he was here. In my class. Where I could see him.
I looked down at my clipboard and drew random circles around names, trying to seem professional and collected and definitely not like I was internally screaming.
This had to be because of the job change. He wasn't spending lunch breaks in the kitchen anymore, which meant he actually had time for normal classes. Time to be a regular student instead of just a scholarship kid who existed to win competitions and scrub tables.
I snuck another glance at him. He was stretching with the other boys, his movements economical and precise. Even from across the field, I could see how his right hand didn't quite straighten all the way, how he compensated with his left.
"Okay, everyone!" I called out, trying to keep my voice steady. "We're doing a mile warm-up, then conditioning drills. Boys counterclockwise, girls clockwise. Go!"
The groups started moving, and I stood there with my clipboard, tracking laps and definitely not watching Kieran run past every few minutes, his breathing steady and his face set in concentration.
Definitely not.
Mia jogged up to me on her second lap, slightly out of breath. "You're staring."
"I'm doing my job."
"You're doing something, but it's not your job." She grinned. "He's in our PE class now?"
"Apparently." I made a mark on my clipboard. "Keep running, Harper."