Chapter 203
Summer's POV
I followed her into the studio, a room I'd been entering twice a week for the past two months but still found intimidating. The Steinway dominated the space, its black lacquer surface reflecting the gray light from the tall windows. The walls were covered in framed photographs—Ms. Robertson with famous pianists, Ms. Robertson at Carnegie Hall, Ms. Robertson accepting awards I could only dream of.
I sat at the piano, adjusted the bench, and flexed my fingers. They were still slightly numb from the cold, but underneath that was a warmth that had nothing to do with temperature and everything to do with the boy who'd just kissed me senseless in the rain.
Ms. Robertson settled into her usual chair with her usual cup of tea, glancing at the sheet music I'd set carefully on the stand. "Good, the Chopin survived the rain. We'll come back to that later." She took a sip and set the cup down. "But first—Rachmaninoff. Prelude in G Minor. Whenever you're ready."
I placed my hands on the keys. Closed my eyes. And thought about Kieran—about the way he'd cupped my face, the way he'd looked at me like I was something precious and worth protecting, the way he'd run into a storm to keep my music dry.
The first notes rang out—angry, turbulent, full of longing—and I let myself fall into them, channeling every complicated emotion of the past month into the music, every fear and hope and desperate want.
An hour later, when the final chord faded into silence, Ms. Robertson was quiet for a long moment. Then she set down her teacup and nodded once, sharp and decisive.
"Better," she said, which coming from her was basically a standing ovation. "Much better. You're starting to understand the architecture of the piece, and more importantly, you're letting yourself feel it instead of just playing the notes." She paused, her sharp eyes studying me with an intensity that made me want to squirm. "The National Piano Competition is in two weeks. I wasn't sure you'd be ready, but your recent progress has been remarkable. If you keep improving at this rate, I think you have a real shot at placing."
My heart stopped. The National Piano Competition. I'd dreamed about it, worked toward it, but never actually believed I'd be ready in time. "You really think—?"
"I don't say things I don't mean, Summer." Ms. Robertson's expression was stern but not unkind. "You've grown tremendously as a musician these past few months. Whatever's changed in your life, it's working. Keep doing it."
I thought about Kieran again—about how he'd stood beside me when Mason Pierce had tried to humiliate me in the diner, about how he'd helped me study for physics even when he was exhausted from his own work, about how he'd believed in me even when I hadn't believed in myself.
"Thank you," I managed, my throat tight with emotion. "I will."
"Good. Now, the Poulenc for the Fall Concert..." Ms. Robertson launched into detailed notes about phrasing and dynamics, but part of my mind was still spinning with the enormity of what she'd just said. The National Competition. A real chance at placing.
I couldn't wait to tell Kieran.
When I finally emerged onto the rain-slicked street an hour and a half later, the storm had passed completely, leaving the world clean and glittering in weak sunlight. My phone buzzed immediately.
Kieran: How'd it go?
Me: She thinks I'm ready for the National Piano Competition. NATIONAL, Kieran.
Kieran: Of course you are. You're incredible.
Me: I couldn't have done it without you.
There was a pause before his response came through.
Kieran: I didn't do anything. This is all you, Summer. Your talent, your hard work.
Me: You gave me courage. When Mason tried to humiliate me, when I was freaking out about physics, when I wanted to give up on the competition—you were there. You believed in me even when I didn't believe in myself.
Kieran: That's easy. You're the easiest person in the world to believe in.
My vision blurred with sudden tears. God, how did he do that? How did he say exactly the right thing to make my heart feel like it might burst?
Me: I love you.
I sent it before I could second-guess myself, before I could overthink or panic or worry that it was too soon or too much. Because it was true, had been true for weeks now, maybe even longer, and I was tired of holding it in.
The three dots appeared immediately, then disappeared, then appeared again. My heart hammered against my ribs as I waited, suddenly terrified that I'd said too much too fast, that I'd scared him away—
Kieran: I love you too. God, Summer, I love you so much it terrifies me.
I let out a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding, laughing and crying at the same time like a complete disaster. Me: Good terrified or bad terrified?
Kieran: Good. Definitely good. The kind where I can't stop thinking about you, where everything reminds me of you, where I'd run into a thousand storms if it meant keeping you safe.
Me: Please don't. One storm was enough. My heart can't take it.
Kieran: Deal. But I reserve the right to kiss you senseless whenever I want.
Me: I'm not complaining about that part.
Kieran: Good. Because I plan to do it a lot more. Starting the next time I see you.
My face was definitely bright red now, and I was grinning like an idiot at my phone while standing on a public street corner, but I couldn't bring myself to care.