Chapter 199
Summer's POV
He carried me all the way to the Public Garden, past the swan boats and the tourists taking pictures, to a bench under a willow tree where the branches hung down like a curtain, giving us privacy. He set me down carefully, gently, like I might shatter, and then he sat next to me—close but not touching, giving me space to breathe.
"Tell me," he said quietly. "Tell me what he did to you."
And I did. I told him everything—about seventh grade, when I'd started gaining weight and food became my only comfort. About how Mason Pierce had been the first one to notice, the first one to make a comment about how my uniform skirt was getting tight. About how it had started small—whispered jokes, snickering in the hallway—but had grown into something monstrous.
I told him about the mooing. About finding "FATASS" on my locker. About the time Mason had grabbed my lunch tray in the cafeteria and announced to everyone that I "clearly didn't need seconds." About the posts—anonymous but obviously him—saying things like "Hayes is so fat her gravitational pull affects the tides" and "I heard she got stuck in a desk in bio and they had to call maintenance."
I told him about the worst day—eighth grade, when Mason had somehow gotten into the girls' locker room with his phone, had taken pictures of me in my sports bra and posted them online with captions about whales and beached sea creatures. About how I'd reported it, how the school had done nothing because Mason's family donated to the annual fund, how I'd spent the rest of eighth grade eating lunch in bathroom stalls and wearing baggy hoodies even in summer.
"And now—" My voice cracked. "The National Piano Competition is in August and I'm practicing six hours a day and my fingers are bleeding and I can't get the Rachmaninoff right and every time I sit down at the piano I feel like I'm going to break into a thousand pieces. And then today I saw Mason and I just—I couldn't breathe, I couldn't think, everything came crashing back—"
I was sobbing now—ugly, gasping sobs that shook my whole body—and Kieran's arms were around me, pulling me against his chest, his hand stroking my hair.
"I'm sorry," I gasped against his jacket. "I'm sorry, I'm such a mess—"
"Don't apologize." Kieran's voice was rough, thick with emotion. "Don't you dare apologize for what that asshole did to you."
I cried harder, my fingers clutching his hoodie, and he just held me tighter, let me fall apart in his arms without trying to put me back together too quickly.
When my sobs finally quieted to hiccups, when I could breathe again without feeling like my chest was caving in, Kieran pulled back just enough to look at me, his hands gentle on my shoulders.
"Hey," he said softly, and there was something almost playful in his voice despite the seriousness in his eyes. "I know things feel impossible right now, but remember—I've been exactly where you are. Remember The Crimson Lounge? When I was stupid enough to fake being twenty-one and serve drinks in a bar?"
A watery laugh escaped me despite myself. "You looked ridiculous in that bow tie."
"I looked distinguished," Kieran corrected, mock-offended, and I could feel the corner of my mouth twitching upward. "But the point is—you saved me that night. You didn't have to, but you did. You walked in there and got me out before everything went to hell."
"That was different," I whispered.
"And I still owe you ten thousand dollars," Kieran continued, his thumb brushing away a tear from my cheek. "Which means you're technically my boss. And my boss can't be falling apart, because then who's going to keep me in line?"
"Kieran—"
"I'm serious, Summer." His voice softened. "I've heard you practice—the way you make those keys sing, the way you put your whole heart into every note. You're not struggling because you're not good enough. You're struggling because you're carrying all this weight—the competition, the trauma, everything Mason did to you—and you're trying to do it all alone."
He cupped my face in his hands, his damaged right hand trembling slightly but holding steady, and looked at me with such fierce tenderness that my breath caught.
"You're not alone anymore," he said quietly. "When you're drowning in Rachmaninoff and panic attacks, I'll be there. When I'm drowning in physics problems and family issues, you'll be there. We've got each other's backs. Deal?"
I stared at him through my tears, at this boy who'd somehow become my anchor in the storm, and felt something warm unfurl in my chest—something that felt like hope.
"Deal," I whispered, and then I was kissing him—desperate and grateful and still crying a little—and he was kissing me back, gentle and sure, like a promise.
When we finally pulled apart, the sun was starting to set, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink, and Kieran was looking at me like I'd hung the moon.
"We should go," he said quietly. "Lily's probably worried."
"Yeah." I wiped my eyes, tried to pull myself together. "Kieran—thank you. For today. For everything."
"You don't have to thank me," he said, standing up and offering me his hand. "This is what you do when you care about someone. You show up. You stay. You fight for them."