Chapter 156
Summer's POV
"The bakery on Newbury Street. The fancy one with the European pastries."
She pulled out of the parking spot, shooting me a sideways glance. "The one where a single cupcake costs like eight dollars?"
"That's the one."
"And we're going there because...?"
"Because Kieran deserves something nice." The words came out firmer than I'd expected. "He got ninety-eight points, Mia. Twenty-one points ahead of second place. He crushed everyone, and I—" I stopped, throat tightening. "I don't even know if anyone's going to celebrate with him. His mom's always working double shifts, his dad's... well, you know. And he doesn't really have friends outside of Logan and the physics team."
Mia was quiet for a moment, navigating through the after-school traffic with practiced ease. When she finally spoke, her voice was gentler than usual. "You really care about him, don't you?"
"Of course I do. He's my..." I trailed off, unsure how to finish that sentence. Friend? Study partner? The boy I'd loved in another life and was trying desperately not to fall for again? "He's important to me."
"I can tell." She turned onto Newbury Street, where the boutiques and cafes were just starting to light up their evening displays. "Okay, fancy bakery it is. But you're buying me a coffee while we're there."
"Deal."
The bakery—La Petite Parisienne—was tucked between a high-end jewelry store and an art gallery, its windows glowing with warm light and displaying rows of perfect, jewel-like pastries. Inside, the air smelled like butter and sugar and something ineffably French, and the display cases were works of art themselves.
"Can I help you?" The woman behind the counter had a slight accent, her hair pulled back in a sleek bun.
"I need a cake," I said, stepping closer to examine the options. "Something small, but really good. It's for... it's for a celebration."
"We have individual celebration cakes," she suggested, gesturing to a case of miniature creations. "Six-inch rounds, perfect for one or two people. What flavor does your friend prefer?"
I hesitated, realizing with a pang that I didn't actually know. In my past life, we'd never celebrated birthdays together—his had always been a sore subject, something he'd deflected whenever it came up, and by the time we'd gotten together, the habit of silence around it was too ingrained to break.
But I remembered other things. The way he'd lingered over the chocolate croissants in the dining hall on the rare occasions they appeared. How he'd once mentioned, almost absently, that his mom used to make chocolate cake for special occasions when they had the money for cocoa powder.
"Chocolate," I said finally. "Dark chocolate, if you have it."
"We have a Belgian chocolate torte. Very rich, with a ganache filling and cocoa powder dusting. It's one of our most popular items."
"Perfect. I'll take one of those."
"Would you like us to write anything on it?"
I thought about it, imagining Kieran's reaction to seeing his name piped in frosting, to any kind of public acknowledgment of what he'd achieved. He'd hate it. He'd probably refuse to eat it out of sheer embarrassment.
"No message," I said. "Just the cake."
"And I'll take a latte," Mia added, leaning against the counter. "Since apparently we're having an emotional support bakery run."
Twenty minutes and forty-three dollars later, we were back in Mia's car, the cake secured in a pristine white box on my lap. The sun had set properly now, streetlights flickering on along Newbury Street, and the evening crowd was starting to emerge—couples dressed for dinner, students heading to bars with fake IDs, tourists snapping photos of the historic brownstones.
"So," Mia said as she pulled back into traffic. "Are you actually going to give this to him, or are you just going to stare at it longingly while it slowly melts in your dorm fridge?"
"I'm going to give it to him," I said, though even as the words left my mouth, I wasn't entirely sure how I'd manage it. Show up at The Happy Patty? That felt too public, too likely to embarrass him in front of his coworkers.
My phone buzzed. I glanced down, half-hoping it was Kieran, but it was just my mom.
Mom: Dinner at 8. Don't be late. We're having guests.
Great. Another networking dinner where I'd have to smile and make small talk with whichever fashion industry executive or potential investor Mom had decided to court this week. The thought made my chest tighten with a familiar, suffocating pressure.
But then I looked at the cake box on my lap, at the elegant white packaging that held something I'd chosen specifically for Kieran, and the pressure eased slightly. This was more important than another tedious dinner. This mattered.
"Actually," I said slowly, "can you drop me off in Southie?"