Chapter 45
Evan's POV
By the time we pulled up to my house on Beacon Hill, Blake had moved on to analyzing Cross's appeal.
"I mean, I guess I get it," he said, following me up the steps. "Whole wounded genius thing. Very Byronic."
"Shut up."
"I'm serious! Girls eat that shit up. Especially girls like Summer who've read too many romance novels." He flopped onto the couch. "Bet she thinks she can fix him or something."
But Blake was on a roll now. "That's what this is really about. She doesn't actually like Cross. She likes the idea of being the one person who can save him from his tragic circumstances."
He pulled up The Whisper on his phone. The posts were even worse than I'd thought—detailed accounts of Summer's confrontation with Ashley and Zoe, speculation about why she cared so much. And woven through it all: posts about Cross himself. His background, his scars. People were making up stories—saying he'd been in juvie, saying his dad was in prison for murder.
None of it was true. But the truth didn't matter on The Whisper.
"This is insane," I said. "They're destroying this kid's reputation over nothing."
"So? Not our problem."
"Blake—"
"What? You want me to feel sorry for him?" Blake's voice hardened. "The guy's a scholarship kid from Southie. You saw those scars. You really want Summer hanging around someone who's been through whatever gave him those?"
I wanted to argue. But the words stuck in my throat.
Because Blake was right about one thing: I didn't want Summer anywhere near Kieran Cross. Not because I thought Cross was dangerous. But because when she looked at him, she looked the way she used to look at me.
---
"Evan."
My mother's voice cut through the room. She stood in the doorway in her Chanel suit, blonde hair in that severe French twist she favored.
"Blake, darling, your driver's here."
The second Blake left, Mom's smile disappeared. "We need to talk."
She led me to her study—all dark wood and leather—and settled behind her desk like a queen on a throne.
"I've been hearing interesting things about you and the Hayes girl."
My stomach tightened. "It's nothing. We're broken up."
"Are you? Because from what I hear, you've been following her around campus, trying to get her attention."
Heat flooded my face. "I haven't been—"
"Evan. Don't lie to me."
I slumped back, defeated.
Mom sighed. "Look, I understand. Summer Hayes is a pretty girl from a good family—"
"New money family," I corrected automatically.
"New money is still money. The Hayes fashion empire is worth considerable amounts." She swirled her whiskey. "But Summer is currently demonstrating extremely poor judgment. This obsession with the Cross boy—it's unseemly. If you're seen chasing after her, it reflects badly on you."
"I'm not chasing after her."
"Aren't you?" She fixed me with those ice-blue eyes. "Then why is Coach Brennan telling me you've been distracted at practice?"
I had no answer.
Mom walked to the window. "Let me give you some advice. Summer Hayes is going through a phase. Maybe it's rebellion against her mother. But it will pass."
"How do you know?"
"Because girls like Summer always come back to their own kind eventually. Right now, she thinks she's being noble. But when the novelty wears off, when she realizes that boy can't give her the life she's accustomed to, she'll remember what really matters."
"Money."
"Stability. Security." Mom's voice softened. "You're young. You think love conquers all. But I've seen enough marriages fall apart over financial stress to know better."
"I don't think she's coming back, Mom."
"Then let her go. There are plenty of other suitable girls. Caroline Morgan—her father sits on three Fortune 500 boards."
The idea made me want to throw up. Caroline had all the personality of a wet napkin.
"I don't want Caroline Morgan."
"What you want and what's good for you are often two different things." Mom's eyes gleamed. "Summer has changed. Not for the better. Cut your losses before you get dragged into whatever drama she's creating."
I wanted to argue—to say that maybe caring about someone besides herself was growth, not drama.
But Mom was already checking her phone. "You have the MGH charity gala next weekend. The Morgans will be there—make sure you're charming. This conversation is over."
Dismissed like a child.
---
I couldn't sleep that night.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Summer's face outside the science building. That mixture of disappointment and pity, like I was something she'd outgrown.
Around 2 AM, I opened my laptop and pulled up my old messages with Summer.
Her messages were always so enthusiastic. Full of emojis and exclamation points, sharing little things she thought I'd find interesting.
My responses were sparse. "Cool." "Yeah." "Can't talk now."
One exchange from September made my chest tight:
Summer: Just saw the CUTEST puppy on Newbury Street!! Made me think of you because you mentioned wanting a dog once 🐕💕
Me: I was like eight when I said that
Summer: Haha I know but still! I took a picture, want to see?
Me: Busy
She'd sent the picture anyway. I'd never responded.
I found the conversation from last spring when she'd asked about prom.
Summer: Would you want to go to prom with me? As a real date? Like we could do the whole thing—dinner, photos, the works! 💕
Me: Prom's not really my scene
Summer: We could do something else that night? Just the two of us?
Me: I'll probably be busy with college apps
Summer: It's not until May though?
Me: Summer I really can't plan that far ahead
She'd dropped it after that.
I'd gone with Caroline Morgan instead, because Mom had insisted and because Caroline's dad had connections at Yale.
Summer had shown up anyway, in a pink dress that probably cost more than my car, with some random guy from her piano lessons. She'd smiled and waved at me from across the room.
But I'd seen her crying in the bathroom later. Harper had been rubbing her back while Summer sobbed that she was "so stupid" for thinking I'd ever actually want to be with her.
I'd walked away without saying anything.
God, I'd been such an asshole.
I slammed my laptop shut.
The thing was, I had liked Summer. I'd liked how she looked at me like I was special, how she always smelled like strawberries and vanilla. I'd liked having someone who was so obviously into me.
But I'd also liked keeping my options open. Liked knowing that if someone better came along—someone with older money, better connections—I could make that move without feeling guilty.