Chapter 44
Evan's POV
The boathouse locker room smelled like rubber and river water. I yanked my practice shirt over my head, muscles still burning from training. My phone buzzed—three texts from Blake, all screenshots from The Whisper.
I didn't need to look. I'd already seen enough.
The whole school was talking about what happened in gym class. Cross's arm. The scars. The way he'd just stood there like he'd shut down completely.
And Summer had been there, watching it all happen.
Blake's commentary came rapid-fire:
Dude your ex is LOSING IT over this scholarship kid
She literally yelled at Ashley in the hallway
Filed a formal complaint with Thompson about The Whisper
For HIM
I stared at the screen. Summer had gone to Thompson? Actually filed paperwork?
The Summer I knew—the one who'd spent two years trailing after me with those big honey-colored eyes—would never have caused a scene like that. She'd always been so careful about appearances, so desperate to fit into the right circles.
What the hell was happening to her?
I should've gone straight to the parking lot, but something made me cut across the quad toward the science building instead.
She was there.
She'd been sitting there for over an hour. I'd seen her from the boathouse windows during practice, had watched her check her phone, wrap her arms around herself, glance toward every door like she was waiting for someone who wasn't coming.
Cross, obviously.
The guy hadn't shown up to any of his afternoon classes. Logan Park had mentioned it during our study group—said Cross had just vanished after gym.
And here was Summer, freezing her ass off waiting for him.
Something hot and uncomfortable twisted in my chest.
I should leave. Let her figure out on her own that Cross wasn't worth this kind of loyalty. But my feet carried me forward anyway.
"What are you doing out here?"
She spun around so fast she nearly fell off the bench. For one second—just one—her whole face lit up with desperate hope.
Then she saw it was me, and that light died.
"I'm..." She stood quickly, brushing off her skirt. "I was just leaving."
"You've been sitting here for over an hour. Are you waiting for someone?"
Her jaw tightened. "I was. But they're not coming."
"You're waiting for Cross, aren't you?"
Her silence was answer enough.
That uncomfortable heat in my chest flared hotter. "Summer, you need to be careful. The whole school is talking about what happened today. People are saying—"
"I don't care what people are saying." She cut me off, and there was something sharp in her voice I'd never heard before. "And if you're about to repeat any of that garbage from The Whisper, I'm not interested."
"I'm trying to look out for you. You're putting yourself in a really weird position, defending someone with that kind of background—"
"Evan." She looked me directly in the eyes, and I felt the impact like a physical blow. "I remember very clearly that you never cared where I was or what I was doing when we were together. So please don't start pretending to care now."
Heat flooded my face. "That's not fair."
"Isn't it?" She picked up her bag. "I have to go."
But she was already walking away. I watched her disappear around the corner, that familiar ache of losing control settling into my bones.
She used to look at me like I hung the moon.
Now she looked at me like I was nothing.
---
"So she actually just walked away? Ice cold?"
Blake sprawled across the leather seat of my mom's Mercedes, scrolling through his phone.
"Yeah." I stared out the window at the brownstones sliding past.
"Hayes is really committed to this hard-to-get thing, huh?"
"It's not a game." The words came out harder than I meant them.
Blake leaned forward. "Think about it. She knows you hate public scenes. She knows you value your reputation. So what does she do? She creates the biggest, messiest drama possible—yelling in hallways, filing complaints—and she does it all for some random poor kid you've never even spoken to."
"What's your point?"
"She's trying to prove she doesn't need you anymore. Classic reverse psychology. Make you think she's moved on so you'll chase after her."
I wanted to believe him. God, I wanted to believe that Summer was just playing some elaborate game.
But the look in her eyes tonight—that hadn't been strategy. That had been real.
"Check her Instagram," Blake said. "Girls like Hayes, they put their whole emotional state on social media. If she's still into you, it'll show."
I pulled out my phone.
"Remember your birthday?" Blake nudged my shoulder. "She posted like fifteen stories. Had your birthday in her bio for weeks."
That was true. Last August, Summer had turned my birthday into a whole production—taken me to the Charles River Esplanade at sunset, worn this white dress that made her look like something out of a dream. Her bio had said "8.18✨" for months.
I opened Instagram.
The first thing I saw made my stomach drop.
Her bio had changed. No more "8.18✨". Now it just said: "Physics isn't hard, people are. 📚⚛️"
Her profile picture wasn't us anymore—it was her and that Harper girl, both of them laughing in what looked like a practice room.
"Shit," Blake said over my shoulder. "That's pretty definitive."
My hands shook as I scrolled through her recent posts. Every photo of us was gone. The Charles River sunset, the coffee shop dates, the backstage pictures from my piano recitals—all of it, vanished.
Instead, her feed was full of pictures I'd never seen: Summer bent over textbooks in the library. Summer laughing with Harper. Summer's hands on piano keys, captioned "Finding my way back to this 🎹".
And then, three days ago: a photo of her standing under that oak tree, late afternoon sun stretching her shadow long across the grass. The caption just said: "Some waits are worth it 🌅"
"Okay, that's definitely about Cross," Blake said.
The worst part was her Story. I clicked on it with sick fascination.
It was just a photo of physics notes—her handwriting, careful and neat. The caption: "Week 3 of actually understanding this 🤓 Kieran says I'm making good progress!"
Kieran.
She'd used his first name.
She'd never used my first name in her stories. It had always been "piano practice ✨" or "river walk 🌅"—vague enough that her followers had to guess.
But she was putting Cross's name right there. Making it clear. Making it public.
"Bro." Blake's voice was uncharacteristically serious. "She's really done with you."
I tried to send her a message—just a period, our old code for "thinking about you"—but it wouldn't go through.
She'd blocked me.
Not fully—she'd done that thing where you "soft block" someone, where they can still see you exist but can't actually interact with you.
The girl who used to text me good morning every single day, who left handwritten notes in my locker, who'd memorized my coffee order and my practice schedule—that girl had erased me from her life like I'd never existed.
And I had no idea how to get her back.