Chapter 112
Summer's POV
"Two weeks." I tried to read his expression, but he was staring straight ahead at the rain-soaked quad.
He nodded once, mechanical. "That's good. The program. It's a good opportunity."
"Kieran—"
"You should go." He started to pull away, to angle the umbrella toward the main building. "You'll be late."
"Wait." I caught his sleeve, felt him freeze under my touch. "I have something for you."
I fumbled in my bag with cold fingers, pulled out the small Tiffany-blue box I'd been carrying around all morning. The white ribbon was slightly crushed from being pressed against my textbooks. I held it out between us, and after a long moment, Kieran took it.
He opened it carefully, one-handed, the umbrella wavering slightly. Inside, nestled in white tissue, was the vintage silver Zippo lighter I'd found at that antique shop in the North End. It had taken me three trips to work up the courage to buy it, and another week to get it engraved.
Kieran turned it over. On the back, in small, precise letters: Stay warm, K.
"I know you don't smoke," I said quickly, words tumbling over each other. "But I thought—it could be, like, a reminder. To stay warm. To take care of yourself." I paused, made myself meet his eyes. "I want every winter to be warm for you, Kieran. Every single one."
He stared at the lighter like it might disappear if he looked away. His throat worked, and when he finally spoke, his voice was barely audible under the rain. "Thank you."
"Will you—" I stopped, started again. "Will you miss me?"
The question hung between us. Kieran's fingers closed around the lighter, tight enough that his knuckles went bone-white. He looked at me then, really looked, and something in his expression made my breath catch.
"Yes," he said simply. "I'll miss you."
The rain seemed to get louder. Or maybe it was just my heartbeat, pounding in my ears, making it hard to think. I wanted to ask more—how much, in what way, does it hurt like it hurts me—but the words stuck in my throat.
"New York will be cold," Kieran said, his voice careful, controlled. "Colder than Boston."
"I packed extra layers. Mom made me bring basically my entire closet." I tried to smile. "Thermal leggings, wool socks, the works."
"Good." He adjusted the umbrella, angling it more firmly over me even as more rain soaked into his shoulder. "You need to stay warm too."
The way he said it—soft, almost tender—made something twist in my chest. I thought about the engraving on the lighter. Stay warm. A wish, a prayer, a promise that neither of us knew how to keep.
"Kieran." I took a breath, made myself ask the question that had been burning in my chest since the moment I'd decided to apply to Juilliard. "Do you want—I mean, would you want—" The words felt too big, too revealing, but I forced them out anyway. "Do you want our colleges to be in the same city?"
I watched his face, saw something flash across it—surprise, fear, longing, all tangled together. The rain drummed on. A car splashed past on the street behind us. Somewhere in the distance, a bell rang, signaling the start of first period.
Kieran looked down at the lighter in his palm. When he finally spoke, his voice was so quiet I almost didn't hear it.
"Yes." Just that one word, but it landed between us like a confession. "I want that."
My eyes stung. I blinked hard, willing myself not to cry, not here, not now. "Yeah?"
He lifted his gaze to mine, and the raw honesty in his expression nearly undid me. "I want to be wherever you are, Summer. I want—" He stopped, jaw working. "I want to be in the same place as you."
The words hung in the cold air between us. I felt them settle into my bones, warm and solid and real. This boy, who never asked for anything, who pushed everyone away, who spent three weeks avoiding me after a kiss—he wanted to be near me. He wanted the same future I wanted.
"Then that's the plan," I said, and my voice came out stronger than I felt. "Same city. Same future."
Kieran's eyes searched mine, looking for doubt, for hesitation, for all the reasons this was impossible. But I held his gaze, let him see that I meant it. Every word.
"You should go," he said finally, but he didn't move, didn't pull the umbrella away. "You'll miss your flight."
"I know." I didn't move either. "But I needed to tell you first. I needed you to know that I'm not—" I struggled for the right words. "I'm not running away. I'm coming back."
"I know." His voice was rough. "I'll be here."
The rain fell harder. My flight was in four hours. I had to go home, finish packing, let Mom drive me to Logan. But I couldn't make myself step out from under this umbrella, couldn't break whatever fragile thing was holding us together in this moment.
"Kieran." His name felt like a promise. "We're going to be okay. You and me. Whatever this is—we're going to figure it out."
He nodded, just once, but I saw his grip tighten on the lighter. Saw the way he was memorizing my face, like he was trying to hold onto this moment.
"Go," he said softly. "Before you're late."
I stepped out from under the umbrella into the rain. It was cold and shocking, instantly soaking through my blazer, but I barely felt it. I turned back to look at him one more time—standing there in the doorway with that black umbrella, the lighter clutched in his scarred right hand, his eyes dark and intent on my face.
"Two weeks," I called back. "That's all."
"Two weeks," he echoed.
And then I ran.
I ran across the quad toward the main building, rain plastering my hair to my face, my shoes splashing through puddles, my heart pounding with something that felt dangerously close to joy. When I reached the doors, I couldn't help it—I looked back one more time.
Kieran was still standing there, still watching me. The rain fell between us like a curtain, but I could see him clearly enough. See the way he lifted his right hand in a small wave, the silver lighter catching the gray morning light.
I waved back. And then I went inside, dripping and breathless and smiling like an idiot, clutching the memory of his voice saying I want to be wherever you are like a talisman against the cold.