Chapter 135
Summer's POV
Returning to school after the weekend felt surreal in a way I couldn't quite name. I sat at my vanity Monday morning, staring at the Berklee Performance Center program still lying open on my dresser, the glossy photo of me in that deep blue gown looking back like a stranger.
I'd practiced until my fingers bled that week, pushed myself through Pilates sessions that left my muscles screaming, sat at the piano for hours perfecting runs I could already play in my sleep. Not because I needed to—because I needed to prove something. To myself, to Mom, to the judges who'd given me that direct pass to Regional Finals. To Kieran, even though the thought made my chest tight with something I couldn't name.
Saturday had been a blur of nerves and adrenaline—the stage lights, the weight of the Steinway keys under my fingers, the applause that had felt both validating and hollow. I'd texted Kieran a photo right after, standing backstage with my bouquet, still riding the high of nailing that Rachmaninoff passage that had given me trouble all week. I'd wanted to share it with him, wanted him to know that I'd done it, that all those late nights in the practice room had been worth something.
His response had come almost immediately: "You killed it. Knew you would."
I'd stared at those five words for a long time, trying to parse the tone through the screen. It sounded like him—understated, quietly proud—but something felt off. I'd tried to keep the conversation going, asking if he'd had a good Saturday, mentioning that Mom had taken me to Legal Sea Foods after to celebrate. He'd responded, but each message came slower than the last, the answers getting shorter and more generic.
"That's great."
"Yeah, I'm good."
"Just tired."
After maybe twenty minutes of this stilted back-and-forth, he'd stopped responding altogether. I'd sent one more message—"Everything okay?"—and gotten nothing back until almost midnight, when my phone had buzzed with a single line: "Sorry. Phone died. Talk tomorrow?"
It should have been reassuring. Should have felt normal. But lying in bed that night, still wearing my stage makeup because I'd been too wired to take it off, I'd felt this gnawing worry in my gut that wouldn't go away. Something was wrong. I knew it the same way I'd known it that night I'd found him in the rain outside my house—some sixth sense that had developed over these months of learning to read between the lines of everything Kieran didn't say.
Sunday had been worse. I'd texted him good morning, sent him a photo of the ridiculous tower of congratulations flowers that had arrived at the house, tried to keep things light. His responses had been even more delayed, even more clipped. When I'd finally worked up the nerve to ask directly—"Are you sure everything's okay at home?"—he'd given me the same answer he always did.
"Fine. Dad's still gone. Mom's doing okay."
The same careful neutrality that told me absolutely nothing while pretending to tell me everything. I'd wanted to push, to demand he tell me the truth, to remind him that I could handle whatever it was. But I'd learned by now that Kieran would talk when he was ready, and pushing only made him retreat further into himself.
Still, something felt desperately wrong. Had felt wrong all weekend, this shadow hanging over what should have been one of the best moments of my life. While I'd been on stage in that blue gown, smiling for judges and accepting roses, he'd been somewhere dealing with something he wouldn't let me help with. The contrast made me feel sick.
"Summer?" Mom's voice drifted up from downstairs. "Car's leaving in twenty minutes!"
I shoved the phone in my pocket and turned back to the mirror. The girl looking back at me had changed since September—leaner face, sharper cheekbones, collarbones that showed above the neckline of my uniform. My hair fell in loose waves past my shoulders now, the honey-blonde catching morning light in a way that would've made me self-conscious months ago. But I'd earned this body through discipline, not desperation, through Pilates and proper meals and hours at the piano that had reshaped not just my posture but the way I carried myself.
Still, I missed the version of me who used to smile without thinking about it first.
I grabbed my backpack and headed downstairs. Mom was already waiting by the door, perfectly put together in her tailored coat, checking her phone with that focused expression she got before big meetings.
"Ready, sweetheart?" She looked up, and something softened in her face. "You look beautiful."
"Thanks." I tried to smile, but it felt thin. "Just tired."
"You've been working so hard." She reached out to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, the gesture so gentle it made my throat tight. "I'm so proud of you. You know that, right?"
I nodded, not trusting my voice. She didn't push, just squeezed my shoulder once before leading the way to the car.
The drive to St. Jude's was quiet except for Mom's occasional commentary about traffic or the weather—small talk that felt like cotton wool, soft and suffocating. I watched bare trees blur past the window, still skeletal despite late February's occasional warm days, and tried not to think about Kieran's careful responses all weekend, the way he'd changed the subject every time I got close to asking what was really going on. Tried not to think about how I'd been accepting congratulations and posing for photos while he'd been... what? Dealing with his father? Protecting Lily? Fighting battles I couldn't see?
The guilt sat heavy in my stomach, mixing with the worry until I couldn't tell them apart.
"Summer." Mom's voice pulled me back. "We're here."
I blinked and realized the car had stopped in front of the main entrance. Students were already streaming through the doors, bundled in winter coats against the February chill, breath fogging in the cold air. Through the glass I could see the bulletin board Mrs. Harrison must have updated over the weekend—a huge poster with my competition photo, the headline "CONGRATULATIONS TO SUMMER HAYES - REGIONAL FINALS QUALIFIER" in bold letters.
My stomach dropped.
"Oh my god," I breathed.
Mom leaned forward to look, then smiled. "Well. They certainly don't do things by halves here, do they?"
"I didn't—" I fumbled with my seatbelt. "I didn't know they were going to make it that big."
"You earned it." She reached over to squeeze my hand. "Let them celebrate you."
But I didn't want to be celebrated. Not like this. Not with a photo that would inevitably become another thing for people to analyze and judge and compare to the version of me they thought they knew. Not when Kieran was somewhere in that building carrying whatever weight he'd been carrying all weekend, and I had no idea how to help him.
"I have to go," I said, already opening the door. "Thanks for the ride, Mom."
"Summer—"
But I was already out, moving toward the entrance with my head down. I could feel eyes on me as I pushed through the doors, could hear the whispers starting up like static. The photo on the bulletin board was worse up close—me in that midnight blue gown, seated at a grand piano with a bouquet of roses on the lid, smiling like I had everything figured out. Like I was happy.
I looked away fast and headed for my locker.
The hallway was already crowded, underclassmen clustered in groups, seniors moving with that end-of-year laziness that came from knowing college decisions were just around the corner. I kept my head down, focusing on the familiar path to my locker, trying to ignore the way conversations seemed to pause as I passed.
"Is that really her?"
"Dude, she looks completely different—"
"I heard she got a direct pass. Like, skipped two whole rounds—"
"So she was the one who rejected Evan. Suddenly that made a lot more sense."
I gritted my teeth and kept walking. My locker was in the junior hallway, tucked between Mia's and some girl from the art program I'd never talked to. I spun the combination quickly, yanking the door open and shoving my backpack inside before anyone could ask about it.
"Summer!" Mia's voice, bright and excited, cut through the noise. "Oh my god, I saw the poster! You're famous!"