Chapter 170
Summer's POV
I woke to my phone alarm on Friday morning, and the first thought that hit me was: Today is my birthday. My eighteenth birthday.
In my old life, this day had been swallowed by shadows—Mom in prison, the company in ruins. I'd spent it alone in our empty brownstone, staring at my phone and waiting for messages that never came.
But now? Now Mom was downstairs. Kieran had promised to win me a gift. And I was about to perform in front of the entire school wearing his name on my back.
I sat up, pressing my hands to my chest. My heart was racing.
This is real. This is actually happening.
I grabbed my phone. No new messages from Kieran—he'd probably been up late studying or dealing with Drake—but there was one from Mia: HAPPY BIRTHDAY BABE!! Today's gonna be AMAZING. Can't wait to see you kill it out there. Love you!!
I smiled, typing back a quick thank you, then padded downstairs in my pajamas.
The smell of coffee hit me first, warm and familiar. Then I saw the dining table.
A small cake sat in the center, frosted in pale blue and pink, with "Happy 18th Birthday, Summer" written across the top in delicate script. Eighteen candles—unlit—ringed the edge.
I stopped in the doorway, staring.
Mom stood by the table in her silk robe, holding a coffee mug. Her hair was down, loose around her shoulders, and she looked softer than usual. Younger, somehow.
"Happy birthday, sweetheart," she said quietly.
My throat went tight. "Mom… did you make this?"
She laughed, a little sheepish. "I had the company baker make it. But I picked the colors. And I put the candles on myself."
I crossed the room and wrapped my arms around her, burying my face in her shoulder. She smelled like expensive perfume and coffee, and for a second I was a little girl again, before everything got complicated.
"Thank you," I whispered.
She hugged me back, her hand smoothing over my hair. "You're welcome, baby."
When I pulled away, she was watching me with this odd, searching expression.
"You look nervous," she said. "Is it the performance?"
I nodded, then hesitated. "And… other things."
Mom studied me for a long moment, then set down her coffee. "The outfit you're wearing today—it's the one you designed, isn't it?"
I blinked. "How did you know?"
"Summer." She smiled faintly. "I'm in fashion. Of course I know what you've been working on."
She gestured toward the stairs. "Show me."
---
In my room, I pulled the uniform out of my closet. The navy skirt, the white fitted top with the St. Jude's crest, the lace details I'd added myself. And on the back, in gold heat-transfer vinyl: CROSS 47.
Mom took it from me, turning it over slowly. Her fingers traced the letters on the back—the handwritten font I'd chosen because it felt personal, intimate.
"Personal touch," she murmured. "The craftsmanship is good."
She looked up at me, her expression somewhere between amusement and resignation. "So you're really doing this. Wearing his name in front of the entire school."
It wasn't a question. She already knew.
I nodded, my heart hammering.
Mom's expression softened. She handed the uniform back to me, then touched my cheek. "Come with me. If you're going to make a statement in front of the entire school, you're going to look perfect doing it."
---
In her dressing room, Mom sat me down at her vanity and started pulling out makeup.
"You don't need heavy makeup," she said, selecting a palette. "You're already beautiful. We're just going to enhance what's already there."
She worked quickly, efficiently—gold eyeshadow to complement the uniform, a light pink gloss, a sweep of blush. Her hands were steady, practiced, and I found myself relaxing under her touch.
"You know," she said softly, "makeup isn't about pleasing other people. It's about confidence. It's about walking into a room and knowing you look exactly how you want to look."
I met her eyes in the mirror. "Is that how you feel? When you get ready for work?"
"Every single day." She smiled. "And today, you're going to feel it too."
Next, she did my hair—pulling it into a high ponytail, securing it with a navy ribbon that matched the uniform. She left a few loose curls framing my face, softening the look.
"When you're dancing, I want everyone to see your face," she said. "I want them to see your eyes when you look at him."
My breath caught.
Mom stepped back, studying me. Then she walked to her safe and pulled out a small velvet box.
Inside was a delicate gold necklace with a tiny planet pendant—Jupiter, I realized.
"This was your grandmother's," Mom said. "She gave it to me on my eighteenth birthday."
"Mom, I can't—"
"You can." She fastened it around my neck, her fingers gentle against my skin. "You're eighteen now, Summer. You're not a little girl anymore."
I touched the pendant, feeling its weight. "Thank you."
Mom turned me to face the mirror.
The girl looking back at me was… different. Polished. Confident. Ready.
"You know everyone's going to see his name on your back," Mom said quietly. "There will be whispers. People will call you desperate, or worse."
"I know."
"And you're okay with that?"
I met her eyes in the mirror. "I don't care what they say. I'm done hiding."
Mom's expression shifted—something between pride and concern. She sat down on the edge of her bed, patting the space beside her.
I sat.
"Remember what I told you about your father?" she said, her voice taking on that same firm-but-gentle tone from Wednesday night. "About how my friends said he wasn't good enough, that I was throwing everything away?"
I nodded. We'd talked about this in the dark hours after I'd come home from Southie, when she'd finally let down her guard and told me things she'd never shared before.
"I meant it, Summer. Every word." She took my hand, squeezing firmly. "Love takes courage. Real courage—not just the kind that gets you through one crisis, but the kind that makes you stand up every single day and say 'this is who I choose' even when the whole world is watching and judging."
Her eyes searched mine. "Wednesday night, you proved you have that courage. You went into that neighborhood, faced down his father, brought him back safe. You already chose him when it mattered most."
My throat went tight.
"Today is just making it public," Mom continued. "And that's going to be harder in some ways, easier in others. But you're ready for it. I know you are."
She squeezed my hand again. "Just remember—you don't owe anyone an explanation. Not for who you love, not for why you love them. You're a Hayes, and Hayes women love without shame. Got it?"
"Got it," I whispered.
Mom smiled and pulled me into a hug. "Good. Now go show them what a Hayes girl looks like when she's in love."
---
At the door, Mom hugged me one last time.
"Happy birthday, my brave girl," she whispered. "Make it a day you'll never forget."
I hugged her back, hard. "Thank you, Mom. For everything."
Then I grabbed my bag, my uniform carefully folded inside, and headed out to face the day.