Chapter 105
Summer's POV
"Come on," Mia said softly. "Let's get you somewhere private before more people start staring."
She guided me toward the women's restroom, one hand on my elbow while I clutched the bouquet against my chest like it might disappear if I let go. The flowers were heavier than I expected, the stems wrapped in damp paper and tied with simple twine. Nothing fancy about the presentation, but the blooms themselves were extraordinary.
In the bathroom, Mia wet some paper towels and handed them to me. "Fix your face. Your mom's going to be here soon and you look like you've been crying for an hour."
I dabbed at my eyes, watching black mascara stain the brown paper. In the mirror, my reflection looked young and lost, the expensive dress and stage makeup unable to hide the girl underneath who just wanted the boy to come back.
"What's the flower called?" Mia asked, leaning in to study the blooms. "There's a tag here somewhere—oh." She pulled out a small plastic marker that had been tucked into the arrangement. "Endless Summer Hydrangea."
The words hit me like a physical thing. Endless Summer. Like my name. Like he'd chosen them specifically because they reminded him of me, because he wanted me to know he'd been thinking about that when he picked them out.
Or maybe I was reading too much into it. Maybe it was just a coincidence, just pretty flowers that happened to be available in November.
Except Kieran Cross didn't do coincidences. Every action was calculated, every word measured. If he'd chosen flowers called Endless Summer, he'd meant for me to notice.
"That's so romantic I might actually die," Mia said, pressing her hand to her heart. "Summer, he's basically declaring his feelings through flower language. Do you know how rare that is? Most guys our age can barely remember to text back."
I stared at the tag, at those two words that felt like a promise or maybe a confession. Endless Summer. Like he wanted this—whatever this was between us—to last. Like he wasn't running away after all, just trying to find a way to be close that didn't terrify him.
My phone buzzed. Mom was outside.
"You should keep the tag," Mia said. "And the card. Save them somewhere safe."
I nodded, carefully tucking both into my coat pocket next to my phone. The flowers I cradled against my chest as we walked back through the lobby, ignoring the curious looks from people we passed. Let them stare. Let them wonder. These were mine, this moment was mine, and I wasn't going to apologize for how much it meant.
Mom's Mercedes was idling at the curb, and she looked up from her phone when I opened the door. Her eyes went immediately to the flowers, then to my face, which probably still showed signs of tears despite Mia's cleanup efforts.
"Who sent you flowers?" she asked as I slid into the passenger seat, and something in her tone suggested she already knew this wasn't a congratulatory gesture from a classmate or a casual gift from one of my music teachers.
"I don't know," I lied, because the truth was too complicated and too new to share, because saying his name out loud might make it real in a way I wasn't ready for yet, because I needed to understand what the flowers meant before I could explain them to anyone else.
Mom studied me for a long moment, her gaze moving from the expensive blooms to my tear-stained face to the way I was holding them like they were the most precious thing in the world. I watched something shift in her expression—recognition, maybe, or understanding—and I knew she didn't believe me. Victoria Hayes hadn't built a fashion empire by being oblivious to the signals people sent, and right now I was broadcasting loud and clear that whoever had sent these flowers mattered to me in a way that went far beyond simple friendship.
But instead of pressing, instead of demanding answers the way she would have if this had been about grades or college applications or anything else she felt entitled to control, she just reached over and squeezed my hand. "You played beautifully today, sweetheart. I'm so proud of you."
The unexpected gentleness made my eyes sting again. "You weren't even there."
"Ms. Robertson called me during your performance. Said you were extraordinary." She pulled away from the curb, merging into traffic. "She thinks you have a real shot at first chair."
I should have been excited about that. Should have felt something other than this hollow ache in my chest. But all I could think about was Kieran standing somewhere in the shadows of Symphony Hall's grand lobby, tucked into one of those alcoves near the coat check or pressed against the wall by the restrooms where the ushers wouldn't notice him, listening to the muffled sound of my piano floating through the heavy doors that separated the performance hall from the rest of the building.
The drive home was quiet. Mom tried a few times to start conversation—asking about the other performers, whether I was hungry, if I wanted to celebrate—but I couldn't focus enough to give real answers. Rain started falling again, soft and steady, turning the city streets into rivers of reflected light.
I pressed my face against the window and watched Boston slide by. Beacon Hill with its historic brownstones, the Common with its bare trees, Back Bay where our house waited with its empty rooms and perfect furniture. Everything looked exactly the same as it had this morning, but I felt fundamentally changed. Like the girl who'd left for Symphony Hall no longer existed, replaced by someone who understood what it meant to be seen and chosen and then left behind all in the space of a few hours.
"Summer." Mom's voice was gentle. "Are you sure you're alright?"
"Just tired," I said, which was true but also not the whole truth. I was tired. Bone-deep exhausted from a week of pushing myself past every limit. But I was also something else, something I didn't have words for yet. Raw, maybe. Exposed. Like someone had reached inside my chest and rearranged everything without asking permission.
At home, I carried the flowers straight to my room, ignoring Mom's suggestion that we put them in a vase downstairs where everyone could see them. These weren't for display. They were mine, private and precious, and I wanted them close.
I set them on my desk, then collapsed onto my bed still wearing the silk dress. My phone was clutched in one hand, the card with its two simple words in the other. Congratulations. Like he was proud of me. Like he'd wanted to be there to see me succeed even if he couldn't bring himself to stay.
I stared at my phone screen, at Kieran's name in my contacts. My fingers hovered over the keyboard, trying to figure out what to say. Thank you felt too small. I saw you felt too accusatory. Why did you leave felt too desperate.
In the end, I didn't text anything. Just held the card against my chest and closed my eyes, letting exhaustion finally pull me under.