Chapter 24
Kieran's POV
I was halfway to the physics lab when I heard her calling my name.
"Kieran. Kieran, wait—please."
I didn't stop. Couldn't.
"Kieran." Closer now. She was running.
I stopped at the stairwell door. Didn't turn around. "What."
She skidded to a halt behind me. I could feel her there, close enough that I caught the scent of her shampoo—something floral and expensive that had no business making my chest tight.
"I need to talk to you," she said. "About what just happened. About Evan."
"Not my business."
"It is." Her voice cracked. "I broke up with him. For real this time. It's over."
This time. The words hung between us like a neon sign.
"Okay," I said flatly.
"I mean it." She took a step closer. "I know you probably don't believe me. I know it looks like I'm just saying what you want to hear, but I'm not. I told him we were done. In front of everyone. You saw."
I had seen. Had watched her stand there in her perfect pleated skirt and designer sweater, watched her tell Evan Whitmore—captain of the crew team, legacy student, walking trust fund—that she didn't want him anymore. Had watched the way she'd looked at me after, like she was waiting for something.
"Why are you telling me this?" I asked.
She blinked. "Because I thought you'd want to know—"
"Summer." I kept my voice level. Professional. "You don't owe me an explanation. We're not—whatever you think this is, we're not that."
Something crumpled in her expression. Like I'd hit her.
"I know," she whispered. "But I wanted you to know anyway. That I meant what I said yesterday. About trying. About being better."
The stairwell door opened behind me. A couple of sophomores pushed past, laughing, and Summer stepped back automatically. Proper distance. The kind you'd keep from a janitor you were having a polite conversation with.
When they were gone, she swallowed hard. "Can I show you something? It'll just take a minute. Please."
I should've said no. Should've gone to the physics lab, kept my head down like I'd been trying to do since the moment I'd met her.
Instead I followed her to her locker.
"I need to clean this out," she said. Not looking at me. "Everything from before."
She yanked the door open. The inside was plastered with photos—Polaroids, glossy prints. All featuring the same guy: golden-haired, perfect posture, varsity jacket. Evan at a piano. Evan at some formal dance. Evan with his arm around Summer's waist.
She started tearing them down. Not carefully. She ripped them off in fistfuls, crumpling some, letting others flutter to the floor. A navy-and-silver scarf came next—Phillips Exeter Academy embroidered on it—and she threw it toward the trash can without watching it land.
"Evidence," she said, voice shaking. "Of bad decisions."
I stood there, backpack cutting into my shoulder, and watched her wage war on her own locker. A dried rose. A ticket stub. A box of half-crushed chocolates. A picture frame she shoved into her canvas bag so hard the glass cracked.
"Summer—"
"I should've done this months ago." She wasn't listening. "Should've done it the first time he—"
She stopped. Bit her lip. "It doesn't matter. I'm doing it now."
Photos scattered across the floor between us. Summer in Evan's letterman jacket, looking stupidly happy. Oct 15, Formal Night written in silver Sharpie.
She crouched down to gather them, and I found myself crouching too, picking up the ones closest to me before I could think better of it.
Our fingers brushed when I handed them to her—hers warm and soft, mine still rough—and she jerked back like I'd burned her. The photos hit the floor again.
"Sorry," she said quickly. "I just—"
"Hallway rules," I said. Flat. "No personal belongings on the floor."
Something wounded flickered across her face, then she started gathering everything into the bag. CVS receipts. Empty Starbucks cups. That Exeter scarf. A whole relationship crammed into canvas.
"Everything that doesn't matter anymore," she said quietly.
We stood there. Three feet apart. Fluorescent lights humming overhead, distant sound of a basketball game echoing from the gym. I had my hands shoved in my hoodie pockets because I didn't trust what they'd do otherwise.
She opened her mouth. Closed it. Tried again.
"It's over. With Evan. For real this time."
I'd already heard this. But she was looking at me like she needed me to believe it, and something in my chest twisted.
"Okay," I said.
She reached into her backpack and pulled out a small padlock. Pink. Shaped like a cat. Cartoon whiskers and a little bow.
"Do you need a locker?" she asked abruptly. "You can have the top one. It's empty now."
I stared at the lock. At her slim fingers wrapped around bright pink plastic that looked like it belonged in a middle schooler's pencil case.
"I'm fine," I said automatically.
"You don't have one." Not a question. "I asked Ms. Thompson. She said the administration's still processing your transfer paperwork, so you're not in the locker assignment system yet."
Of course she'd asked. Of course she'd noticed.
"I don't need—"
"Please." She thrust the lock toward me. "I bought these freshman year. Matching set. I used the top one for private stuff. But I don't need it anymore. And you do. For your textbooks. I know you've been carrying everything in that backpack and it's too heavy. I can tell by the way you shift your weight in Physics."
Jesus Christ. She'd been watching me.
"It's kind of childish," she continued, talking faster. Nervous. "The design, I mean. But it's really sturdy. I got it from this boutique in Back Bay and they said—" She caught herself. Flushed. "I mean, it works well."
I looked at her lower locker. Same pink cat lock hanging from the door. A matching set.
She was giving me half of a matching set.
My throat closed up.
"Summer—"
"The combination is 0-4-1-5." She was still holding it out, arm trembling. "April 15th. My birthday. But you can change it if that's weird. You just turn it ninety degrees and press down—"
"I'll remember it."
She stopped mid-sentence. Blinked at me. "What?"
"0-4-1-5. April 15th." I reached out and took the lock from her. "I'll remember it."
Her lips parted. She was staring at me like I'd said something in a foreign language.
"You will?"
I nodded. Slipped the lock into my hoodie pocket, felt the weight of it settle against my ribs. Tried to ignore the fact that my pulse was doing something complicated.