Chapter 113
Summer's POV
I stood at my bedroom window, watching the driveway through the glass. My suitcase sat by the door, already zipped and ready. My carry-on rested on the bed, half-packed with last-minute essentials—phone charger, headphones, the folder with all my program materials. The house felt too quiet around me, too still, like it was holding its breath.
Four hours. My flight left at 8 PM.
Mom had picked me up from school an hour ago, right after my last conversation with Kieran in the rain. We'd driven home in comfortable silence, my mind still caught on his words—I want to be wherever you are—while she navigated the familiar streets of Boston. Now she was downstairs making calls, arranging the car service, triple-checking flight details with the efficiency that made her such a formidable CEO.
I pressed my forehead against the cold glass, watching the city beyond our neighborhood—the distant glow of downtown, the familiar shapes of buildings I'd known my whole life. In a few hours, I'd be looking at a different skyline, walking different streets, sleeping in a different bed. The thought made my chest tight.
My phone sat on the windowsill, screen dark, silent. No messages since I'd left school. I hadn't really expected any—Kieran wasn't the type for casual check-ins or easy goodbyes—but the absence still stung, still felt like an open question hanging in the air between us.
"Summer?" Mom's voice drifted up from downstairs. "Can you bring your luggage down? I want to load the car before we eat."
I grabbed my suitcase handle and maneuvered it out of my room, the wheels bumping down each step with a hollow thud that seemed to echo through the empty house. Mom met me at the bottom of the stairs, already reaching for the larger bag.
"I've got it," I said, but she'd already taken the handle, that determined look on her face that said arguing would be pointless.
Together we carried my luggage out to the car, loading the suitcase into the trunk while the winter air bit at my cheeks. Mom fussed with the arrangement, making sure nothing would shift during the drive to Logan, while I stood on the driveway hugging my carry-on and trying not to think about how final this all felt.
"Come on," Mom said, closing the trunk with a decisive thunk. "Let's have dinner before we go. You need to eat something."
Back inside, the house felt even quieter than before, like my packed bags in the car had already started the process of erasing me from this space. Mom ordered Thai food—my favorite, pad see ew with extra vegetables—and we sat at the kitchen island picking at our meals, neither of us with much appetite.
"You're quiet," Mom said, glancing at me over her spring rolls. "Second thoughts?"
I shook my head, not trusting my voice. How could I explain that leaving felt simultaneously like the right choice and the worst mistake? That every minute bringing me closer to departure also took me further from the boy who'd stood in the rain and told me he wanted to be wherever I was?
"The program starts Monday," I said finally, forcing myself to focus. "I should probably start mentally preparing."
"You've been preparing for days." Mom's tone was gentle but firm. "What you need is to breathe, Summer. Let yourself feel excited instead of terrified."
Excited. Was that what this tightness in my chest was? This feeling like I was standing at the edge of something vast and unknowable?
I thought about Kieran's face when I'd asked if he'd miss me, the way his jaw had worked like the words were being pulled from somewhere deep and painful, the raw honesty in his eyes when he'd finally answered: Yes. I'll miss you. I thought about how his hand had tightened around mine when I'd told him I had to leave this afternoon, how he'd looked at me like he was trying to memorize every detail, like he knew this might be the last time we stood together like this.
"I am excited," I whispered, more to myself than to Mom. "I think."
She studied me with that CEO look she got sometimes, the one that said she could see through every defense I tried to construct, could read the truth written in the tension of my shoulders and the way I kept glancing at my phone. "Is this about that boy?"
My face went hot. "What boy?"
"The one who sent you those flowers after your audition. The one you won't talk about." She set down her chopsticks, giving me her full attention. "The one who's making you smile like that even when you think no one's watching."
I stared at my plate, caught between the urge to deny everything and the sudden desperate need to tell someone—anyone—about the feeling that had been building in my chest for weeks now, this terrifying, exhilarating certainty that I'd found something rare and real and worth protecting.
"You don't have to tell me," Mom said quietly. "Not if you're not ready. But Summer, honey, I've seen you this past month. You're different. Lighter somehow, even when you're exhausted. Happier, even when you're stressed about leaving." She paused, and something in her expression softened. "That's worth protecting. Whatever—whoever—is making you feel that way."
I felt my throat tighten, tears pricking at the corners of my eyes. "What if I mess it up?"
"Then you mess it up." Mom reached across the counter and took my hand. "And then you figure out how to fix it, or you learn from it and move forward. But you don't run away from something just because it scares you."
"What if he's the one running?" I whispered.
Mom was quiet for a moment, her thumb tracing circles on the back of my hand. "Then you let him know the door is open when he's ready to stop."