Chapter 183
Summer's POV
I woke up to sunlight streaming through my bedroom window, the kind of bright, clear morning that made everything feel possible. My phone buzzed on the nightstand—Mia's daily good morning text, probably with some ridiculous meme attached. I reached for it, still half-asleep, and felt the cool metal of Kieran's ring against my skin.
The butterfly caught the light, throwing tiny rainbow reflections across my ceiling.
Three weeks. It had been three weeks since the kiss at Logan's party, since Kieran had looked at me in front of everyone and said I was his. Three weeks of existing in this strange, perfect bubble where the rest of the world felt very far away.
I pulled up my texts, scrolling past Mia's meme (a cat wearing a tiny hat, captioned "me on Monday mornings") to the thread with Kieran. His last message had come in late last night: Sleep well. See you tomorrow.
Simple. Direct. So completely him.
I typed back: Good morning. Can't wait to see you at lunch.
The response came almost immediately: Library first. Need to return a book.
I smiled. Of course he did. Kieran treated overdue library books like personal failures.
My phone buzzed again. Mia: Did you finish the Calc homework? I'm dying over here.
Me: Yes, and I'll show you at breakfast. Stop panicking.
Mia: You're a lifesaver. Also, did you see The Whisper this morning?
I froze, my thumb hovering over the screen. The Whisper had been relatively quiet lately, at least about me and Kieran. After the party, there'd been a few posts trying to stir up drama about the "scholarship kid" dating the "Back Bay princess," but they'd died down when people realized we weren't going to react.
Me: What now?
Mia: Nothing bad! Someone posted about how cute you two are. There's literally a photo of him holding your hand in the parking lot yesterday.
My stomach did a complicated flip. I pulled up The Whisper on my browser, scrolling until I found it.
The photo was grainy but unmistakable—Kieran and me walking to my car after school, our fingers interlaced, his head tilted toward mine like he was listening to something I'd said. The caption read: When he looks at her like she's the only person in the world 💕 Cross & Hayes are GOALS.
The comments were mostly positive, which was new. A few people called it "adorable," someone else said Kieran seemed "way happier lately," and one person had written, She wore his name on her back at Field Day. That's commitment.
I screenshot it and sent it to Kieran: We're famous.
His response: Delete that app.
Me: It's not all bad! Look, people think we're cute.
Kieran: People need hobbies.
I laughed out loud, rolling out of bed. Typical Kieran—allergic to positive attention almost as much as negative.
---
Downstairs, Mom was already in the kitchen, dressed for work in one of her sharp blazers, her coffee mug in hand. She looked up when I came in, her expression softening.
"Good morning, sweetheart. Sleep well?"
"Like a rock." I grabbed a yogurt from the fridge, leaning against the counter. "You're up early."
"Meeting with the design team at eight." She took a sip of coffee, studying me over the rim. "You seem happy."
I felt my cheeks warm. "I am."
Mom smiled, setting down her mug. "I'm glad. You've been... lighter these past few weeks. It's nice to see."
I thought about the past three weeks—the lunches with Kieran in the library, the walks to my car where he'd hold my hand and pretend he wasn't blushing, the late-night phone calls where we'd talk about nothing and everything until one of us fell asleep. It had been easy in a way I didn't know relationships could be.
"He's good to me," I said quietly.
"I can see that." Mom's voice was gentle. "But you're good to him too, Summer. Don't forget that."
I looked down at my yogurt, stirring it absently. Sometimes I still felt like I was waiting for the other shoe to drop, for Kieran to wake up and realize he could do better. But then he'd look at me the way he had at the party, like I was something precious, and the fear would quiet for a little while.
"Are you still planning to have him over for dinner?" Mom asked.
I nodded. "This weekend. If that's still okay."
"Of course." She reached over and squeezed my hand. "I'm looking forward to meeting him properly."
The doorbell rang before I could respond. I frowned—it was barely seven-thirty.
"I'll get it," Mom said, already heading toward the door.
I heard her open it, then a pause. When she spoke again, her voice was carefully neutral. "Can I help you?"
I set down my yogurt and walked into the hallway. A woman stood on our doorstep—middle-aged, blonde, wearing a designer coat that probably cost more than my entire closet. Her expression was pleasant but cool, the kind of smile that didn't reach her eyes.
"I'm looking for Summer Hayes," she said. "Is she available?"
Mom stepped slightly to the side, blocking the woman's view of me. "May I ask what this is about?"
The woman's smile tightened. "I'm Diane Whitmore. Evan's mother. I'd like to speak with your daughter about a... delicate matter."
My stomach dropped.
Mom's posture shifted, becoming more guarded. "I'm not sure what you think needs to be discussed, Mrs. Whitmore, but—"
"It's fine, Mom." I stepped forward, forcing myself to meet Diane's gaze. "I'll talk to her."
Mom looked at me, her eyes full of warning. "Summer—"
"It's okay." I kept my voice steady. "I can handle this."
Diane's smile widened slightly, like she'd won something. "Thank you, dear. This won't take long."