Chapter 15
Kieran's POV
The evening breeze carried the scent of her shampoo—strawberries, sweet and clean—and it mixed with her voice, crawling into my ears like something alive, making my skin prickle with a weird, uncomfortable itch. I found myself watching the way she sorted through the medical supplies, her brow furrowed in concentration, and my heart was beating too fast.
Images flashed through my mind. Summer throwing herself in front of Lily. Summer dumping her iced coffee on that asshole's face. Summer demanding five hundred dollars with her voice shaking but her spine straight. Summer coming back.
And suddenly I understood something that made my chest go tight and my hands go clammy: She wasn't doing this because she pitied me. She wasn't doing this to make herself feel better.
She was doing this because she actually gave a shit.
The realization left me completely off-balance, unsure what to do with my hands or where to look or how to breathe normally.
She pulled one more thing from the bottom of the bag—a tube of scar gel. Mederma. The expensive kind, the one I'd seen in pharmacy windows with a price tag that made my stomach hurt.
"This..." Her voice was strange now, uncertain. "I heard it works really well. For scars."
I took it from her, fingers brushing against hers for just a second. The tube was cool and smooth in my palm, and I found myself rubbing my thumb across the label, throat working as I tried to figure out what to say.
She was still watching me, and there was something in her eyes I couldn't quite name. Something that felt like she was seeing more than just the burn, more than just the mess in front of her. Like she was seeing all the scars I usually kept hidden.
"And this." She pulled out a package of strawberry Pop-Tarts, looking almost embarrassed. "They were giving them away with purchases over twenty dollars. I know you probably don't like sweet stuff. You can give them to Lily if you want."
I looked at the bright pink packaging, smelled the artificial strawberry scent wafting up. It was the same smell that clung to Summer—her shampoo, her body wash, or maybe just her skin. That sweet, clean scent that I'd been trying not to notice all day.
"Strawberry flavor," she added, voice getting smaller. "I... I really like strawberries."
My hand tightened around the package. It felt warm, almost hot, like it was burning through my palm.
Then her expression changed. She bit her lip, and suddenly she looked nervous again, the way she had this morning when she'd first approached me. "Kieran, I..." She paused, fingers twisting together. "I need to apologize. About yesterday. When I knocked over your tips."
Before I could respond, she was already reaching into her purse, pulling out a few twenties. "Let me pay you back. I know it wasn't much, but—"
"No." The word came out harder than I meant it to. I held up my hand, stopping her. "I'm not taking it."
Her face fell, and I could see her shutting down, probably thinking I was being proud again, too stubborn to accept help from a rich girl.
"Wait." I forced myself to meet her eyes, even though everything in me wanted to look away. "It's not—it's not like the five hundred dollars. That was different." My throat felt tight, and the words came out rough and halting. "This is... I'm trying to say thank you. For the medicine. For coming back." I gestured at the supplies, at my bandaged arm. "I'm not... I'm not good at this. At saying shit. But... thank you."
For a moment she just stared at me, those big eyes wide and surprised. Then something shifted in her expression—something brave and reckless—and she looked straight at me, not flinching, not backing down.
"Kieran." Her voice was steady now, stronger than I'd ever heard it. "I'm not going to let you suffer anymore. I promise."
The words hit me like a punch to the chest. My face went hot—actually hot, heat crawling up my neck and into my cheeks—and suddenly I couldn't look at her anymore. My heart was hammering so hard I was sure she could hear it, and there was this strange, tight feeling in my throat like I might actually say something stupid if I opened my mouth.
I managed a jerky nod, still not meeting her eyes, and that seemed to be enough because she smiled—soft and sweet and devastating.
The moment shattered with the screech of tires. The silver Mercedes pulled up to the curb again, and Summer's face immediately twisted into an expression of exasperation.
"Oh god, not again," she muttered, turning toward the car. "I told her to stop circling!"
The passenger window rolled down, and Maya's perfectly made-up face appeared, her expression tight with irritation. "Princess, if you keep playing these games, I'm not picking you up next time. Spare me the drama and get in the car."
The temperature seemed to drop about ten degrees. I could feel Maya's eyes on me—assessing, dismissing, finding me wanting. It was the same look I got from the St. Jude's parents when they saw me in my ratty clothes, the same look from the Whole Foods security guard who followed me around like I was going to steal something.
The warmth in my chest evaporated. Reality crashed back in—the burn on my arm, the grease stains on my jeans, the fact that I was standing outside a shitty Southie apartment while Summer Hayes climbed into a car that cost more than my mom would make in five years.
I felt my expression go blank, that familiar shield sliding back into place. Whatever I'd been feeling a moment ago—that weird, vulnerable warmth—it was gone now, replaced by the cold, practical certainty that this was temporary. That Summer would eventually realize what everyone else already knew: that I wasn't worth the trouble.
"I should go," Summer said, glancing between me and Maya, her earlier confidence deflating. "But tomorrow—"
"Yeah," I cut her off, voice flat again. "Tomorrow."
She hesitated, like she wanted to say something else, but Maya honked the horn—sharp and impatient—and Summer flinched.
"I'm sorry," she said quickly, backing toward the car. "She's always like this. I'll see you at school, okay?"
Then she was running back to the Mercedes, and I watched the car door slam shut with that heavy, expensive thunk. Through the tinted window, I could see Maya gesturing animatedly, probably lecturing Summer about slumming it with the scholarship kids.
The engine purred to life, and the silver car disappeared into Boston's evening traffic, taillights winking red in the gathering dark.
I stood there alone on the sidewalk. Where Summer had been standing, there was a faint footprint—she'd stepped in a puddle on her way over, and the wet outline of her shoe was slowly evaporating on the concrete.
The air still smelled sweet. Strawberries and something else, something clean and warm that I couldn't quite name. I looked down at the pile of supplies she'd left—the water bottles, the gauze, the expensive scar cream.
My eyes landed on the Pop-Tarts. Before I could stop myself, I picked them up and brought them close to my face, breathing in that artificial strawberry scent mixed with the ghost of her perfume.
I'm not going to let you suffer anymore.
My chest felt tight. Uncomfortably tight.
"You're fucking sick," I muttered to myself. But I carefully tucked the Pop-Tarts into my backpack anyway, making sure they wouldn't get crushed.
Then I opened one of the Evian bottles and started rinsing the burn. The water was cold and clean, and it stung like hell as it ran down my arm, pink with blood and oil. But underneath the pain, there was something else. Something warm spreading through my chest that had nothing to do with the injury.
I thought about tomorrow. About seeing her in class. About sitting next to her.
Tomorrow, I thought, touching the place on my cheek where the heat still lingered. I'll see you tomorrow.