Chapter 103
Summer's POV
"You're going to kill it," Mia said firmly. "Those judges won't know what hit them."
I wanted to believe her. But as we settled into the cramped backstage area, surrounded by other students warming up and parents offering last-minute advice, all I could think about was the phone in my purse that stayed stubbornly silent. He wasn't coming. I'd known he wouldn't—after what happened, after I'd run from him like he was something to be afraid of, there was no reason he'd want to be anywhere near me. But some small, hopeful part of me had imagined him changing his mind, showing up at the last minute, sitting in the back row where I might not even see him but knowing he was there would be enough to steady my hands, to remind me why I was doing this.
That part of me was an idiot. We'd crossed a line and I'd immediately retreated, and now we were both trapped in the awful aftermath, too scared to acknowledge what had happened, too raw to pretend it hadn't.
"Number 47?" A stage manager poked her head into the waiting area. "You're up in five."
My stomach dropped. Mia gave my hand one final squeeze. "You've got this," she whispered. "I'll be right there in the audience, cheering the loudest."
I stood on shaking legs and followed the stage manager through a narrow hallway to the wings. From here, I could see the stage—the beautiful Steinway grand piano gleaming under the lights, the rows of seats stretching back into shadow, the judges sitting at a table in the front row with their clipboards and bored expressions.
Somewhere out there, Mia was finding a seat. And that was all. No mother, no boy with dark eyes and careful hands who'd once made me feel like maybe, just maybe, I could be brave enough to want something real instead of safe.
I cut off that thought viciously. This wasn't about anyone else. This was about me, about proving to myself—and maybe to him, wherever he was—that I wasn't the fragile thing he seemed so afraid of damaging. That I could stand on this stage alone and not fall apart. That I was strong enough to survive whatever came next, whether that meant his continued silence or something even worse.
"Ready?" the stage manager asked.
No. I would never be ready. But I nodded anyway.
"Summer Hayes," she called out, and I walked onto the stage.
The lights were blinding. I couldn't see past the first few rows, which was probably a blessing. I made my way to the piano and sat down, adjusting the bench, letting my fingers rest on the keys. They were still raw from a week of brutal practice, the blisters barely healed, but I welcomed the ache. It grounded me, reminded me that I'd worked for this, bled for this, that I'd earned the right to be here regardless of who was or wasn't watching.
This was it. Everything I'd worked for, all those hours of practice, the bleeding fingers and sleepless nights. This was my chance to prove I was more than just a rich girl playing at music, more than a sheltered princess who couldn't handle the messy reality of wanting someone complicated and damaged and real.
I took a breath. Closed my eyes. And played.
The first notes of the Rachmaninoff flowed out, achingly beautiful and technically perfect. My fingers found the patterns they'd practiced a thousand times, the muscle memory taking over where my nerves threatened to fail. The melody swelled and fell, each phrase building on the last, the emotional weight of the piece carrying me forward. I poured everything into it—all the longing and confusion and heartbreak of the past week, the memory of his mouth on mine and the cold rain and the way I'd felt both terrified and alive in that moment before I'd ruined it by running away.
I forgot about the judges. Forgot about Mia in the audience. Forgot about everything except the music and the story it was telling—a story of longing and loss and hope against hope, of reaching for something beautiful even when you knew it might destroy you, of being brave enough to want despite knowing how badly it could hurt.
When I played the final chord and let it ring out into silence, I felt tears on my cheeks.
The applause startled me back to reality. I stood, took a shaky bow, and stumbled off stage on legs that barely supported me.
"That was incredible," the stage manager whispered as I passed. "Really incredible."
I mumbled something that might have been thank you and made my way back to the waiting area in a daze. Mia was already there, having snuck backstage, and she threw her arms around me.
"You were amazing," she said into my hair. "Summer, you were perfect."
"I cried on stage," I said numbly.
"The judges loved it. I could see their faces. One of them actually sat up straighter when you started playing."
I let her hug me, let her excitement wash over me, but I felt hollow inside. I'd done it. I'd played my heart out, proved I could stand alone and not shatter. And none of it changed the fact that somewhere out there, Kieran was probably still running from whatever we'd almost become, still convinced that wanting me made him selfish and destructive, still unable to see that I was strong enough to handle whatever darkness he thought he'd bring into my life.
We made our way out of Symphony Hall an hour later, after I'd filled out paperwork and talked to one of the judges who wanted to know about my training. Mia was still buzzing with excitement, but I felt wrung out and empty.
The rain had stopped, leaving everything wet and gray. We stood on the steps outside, and Mia pulled out her phone to call her mom for a ride.
That's when I saw him.
Just for a second, disappearing around the corner—a flash of a too-big dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up, dark hair, that particular way of moving that I'd memorized without meaning to.
My heart stopped.