Chapter 110
Summer's POV
The recording ended with a soft click. I set my phone down on the coffee table, watching Mom's hands still frozen mid-air, the Christmas ornament she'd been holding forgotten.
"Summer." Her voice cracked. "That was—"
"The recording from the concert," I said quickly, before emotion could choke my own words. "Three weeks ago, at Symphony Hall. The teacher said I was the heartbeat of the orchestra that night."
Even now, sitting in our living room with twinkling Christmas lights casting soft shadows across the hardwood floor, I could still feel the phantom warmth of Kieran's palm wrapped around my wrist from this afternoon—the steady pressure of his fingers, the way my pulse had jumped beneath his touch when I'd woken up with my cheek resting in his palm in the classroom. I forced myself to focus on the moment in front of me, on the conversation I needed to have with my mother, even as part of me wanted to drift back to that stolen moment of peace, to the weight of his hand anchoring me to something real.
But that wasn't what mattered right now. What mattered was proving to myself—and maybe to him, though I wouldn't admit it out loud—that I could be someone worth standing beside. Someone who didn't just chase after boys and lose herself in the process. Someone who had her own dreams, her own path, her own worth.
Mom pulled me into a hug so tight I could barely breathe, her arms wrapping around me with a fierce intensity that made my ribs ache.
"We should celebrate properly," Mom said when she finally released me, her business mind already spinning as she reached for her phone, fingers flying across the screen. "Turks and Caicos for Christmas. Just us two. Private beach villa, no schedule, pure relaxation. I'll have my assistant book the flights tonight."
My stomach dropped, that familiar weight of guilt settling heavy in my chest. "Mom, that sounds amazing, but—"
Her smile flickered, the light in her eyes dimming just slightly as she lowered her phone. "But what? Don't tell me you're worried about practice. Even professional musicians take breaks, sweetheart."
"Actually," I forced myself to meet her eyes, my hands twisting together in my lap, "I applied for the Juilliard Winter Piano Intensive in New York. And I got accepted."
The coffee cup in her hand stopped halfway to her lips, suspended in mid-air as her expression went carefully blank. She set it down carefully, too carefully, the porcelain clicking against the saucer with a sound that seemed too loud in the suddenly quiet room. "When were you planning to tell me this?"
"I'm telling you now." My voice came out smaller than I wanted, and I hated the defensive edge that crept into it. "It's two weeks during winter break, starting right after Christmas and running through the first week of January. They only accept twenty students nationwide and the training is supposed to be incredible."
Mom's expression had gone carefully neutral, the one she wore in board meetings when someone disappointed her, when she was calculating risks and measuring the distance between expectation and reality. "Is this really just about improving your skills? You'd be going all the way to New York by yourself."
I grabbed her hand, my fingers closing around hers with an urgency that surprised us both. "Mom, last spring I failed because I wasn't prepared enough. I got comfortable. BSY is wonderful, but this intensive will push me harder than anything I've done before. The instructors are world-class—it's Juilliard, Mom. They'll tear apart everything I think I know and rebuild it from the ground up. I need that. I need to know what I'm actually capable of when I'm not playing it safe."
She studied my face for a long moment, her gaze searching mine with that uncanny ability she had to see through every defense I'd ever constructed. Something in her expression shifted, softened slightly, and I saw the exact moment when the CEO mask cracked just enough to let my mother show through. "Tell me everything about this program. Schedule, accommodation, supervision, everything. New York is a four-hour train ride from Boston—I need to know you'll be safe."
Relief flooded through me so fast I almost felt dizzy, my shoulders sagging as tension I hadn't realized I was carrying drained away. I pulled up the acceptance email on my phone, angling the screen so she could see, and walked her through the detailed itinerary. "It's two weeks of intensive training. Eight hours a day minimum. Private lessons with master instructors, ensemble work, music theory, performance psychology. They provide housing in the Juilliard dorms at Lincoln Center with resident advisors. It's one of the safest neighborhoods in Manhattan."
Mom scrolled through the information, her business mind cataloging details with the same precision she brought to contract negotiations, her lips moving slightly as she read. "And you'll be home for Christmas and New Year's?"
"I'll be home for both," I promised, leaning forward so she could see how serious I was. "The program starts December 26th and runs through January 8th. I'll have Christmas morning with you, and I'll be back before school starts again on January 9th. We can do our tradition—hot chocolate and old movies on Christmas Eve, opening presents in our pajamas, all of it. I can take the Amtrak down the day after Christmas."
She was quiet for so long I started to panic, watching the play of emotions across her face—disappointment, pride, worry, resignation—each one flickering past too quickly to fully grasp. Then she sighed, reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear with a tenderness that made my throat tight. "Okay. But you call me every single day. Video call, not just text. And if I sense anything wrong, anything at all, I'm flying down to New York and pulling you out immediately. Deal?"
"Deal!" I threw my arms around her neck, nearly knocking us both backward on the couch, my relief spilling over into something that felt dangerously close to tears. "Thank you, Mom. Thank you so much."