Chapter 95
Summer's POV
The final study period dragged on forever, each minute stretching like taffy as I sat in my usual seat, phone hidden beneath my desk, staring at the chat window with Kieran that seemed to mock me with its silence.
The last message was from three days ago—me sending "You're going to do great today" and his one-word response: "Thanks." Before everything had fallen apart. Before Tyler's scheme. Before Kieran had sacrificed his entire future to protect mine.
My fingers hovered over the keyboard, trembling slightly as I typed and deleted message after message, each one feeling wrong in a different way—too intrusive, too presumptuous, too much like I was inserting myself into something that wasn't my business even though it absolutely was my business because he'd made it my business when he'd chosen to protect me at the cost of everything he'd worked for.
I thought about what I wanted to say, the words forming and dissolving in my mind like smoke. I know you didn't do it for the money. But that felt like an accusation, like I was calling him a liar even though I knew he was lying. This isn't fair. Too obvious, too useless. I can help. God, no—that would only hurt his pride, and his pride was already bleeding out all over the polished floors of St. Jude's.
Ms. Thompson appeared in the doorway, attendance sheet in hand, her sensible heels clicking against the linoleum. "Alright, settle down. I'm taking roll."
My heart hammered against my ribs as I made a decision and quickly typed before I could second-guess myself into paralysis: "I know what happened. It's not fair. Don't worry—I'll talk to my mom. Who handles the physics competition registration? Is there still time to change it?"
I hit send before my courage could fail me, then shoved my phone back into my bag as Ms. Thompson started calling names, her voice a distant drone that barely registered over the roaring in my ears.
The rest of the period was torture, each minute crawling by with agonizing slowness as I snuck glances at my phone every few seconds, checking for the three dots that would indicate he was typing, that he was acknowledging me, that he was letting me in even just a little. Nothing. Just my message sitting there, marked as read but unanswered, a rejection wrapped in silence.
Maybe he was still in the physics classroom, I told myself, trying to calm the anxiety spiraling in my chest. Maybe his phone was in his locker. Maybe he'd seen it and was carefully crafting a response that wouldn't hurt my feelings while still keeping me at arm's length, because that was what Kieran did—he protected everyone else while slowly bleeding to death behind walls no one could breach.
By the time the dismissal bell finally rang at 4:30 PM, my nerves were completely frayed, raw and exposed like live wires.
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I should have gone straight to the parking lot where the Uber was waiting, should have climbed into the back seat and gone home to the safety of my room where I could fall apart in private. But my feet carried me in the opposite direction, toward the old oak tree outside the Administration Building, my neck craning upward toward the third-floor windows where the physics competition team held their sessions.
The autumn wind picked up, scattering amber leaves across the brick pathway and tugging at my hair with fingers that felt too cold against my flushed cheeks. I wrapped my arms around myself, not quite ready to leave, not when I could see him through the half-open window where the curtains billowed slightly in the breeze.
There he was.
Kieran sat by the window in his crisp white uniform shirt, his back perfectly straight, left hand moving steadily across the page in that methodical way that meant he was working through practice problems. His right hand rested motionless on the desk, fingers curved in that familiar way, the bandages finally removed but the scars clearly visible even from this distance—raised and pink and permanent.
His expression was calm, focused, as if nothing had happened—as if he hadn't just lost his USAPhO qualification, his shot at the national team, his direct recommendation to MIT, his entire carefully constructed path to a future where he could escape South Boston and take care of Lily and build something better than the hand he'd been dealt.
My chest tightened painfully, the ache spreading through my ribs like fractures.
I thought about the past life, how Kieran had always been like this—shouldering everything alone, facing every obstacle in silence, making sacrifices without expecting anyone to notice or care because he'd learned early that caring was a luxury reserved for people who could afford vulnerability. Back then, I'd been too wrapped up in my own grievances to see it, too busy feeling sorry for myself to recognize what he was carrying, what it cost him to keep standing when the weight should have crushed him.
This time, I'd sworn to change everything, to protect him, to make sure he never had to be alone again.
But here he was, still isolated, still processing pain and injustice with that terrible, practiced calm that made it look like nothing could touch him when I knew—God, I knew—that everything touched him, that he just refused to let it show because showing weakness was dangerous when you had people depending on you.
The tears came without warning, hot and silent as they slipped down my cheeks, blurring my vision until Kieran's figure became a watercolor smudge behind glass. I turned away quickly, not wanting him to somehow sense my presence and see me crying, because he didn't need my pity—he never wanted it, would probably hate me for it.
But God, it hurt to watch him sit there so composed, so alone, while the rest of the world moved on like he hadn't just lost everything that mattered.
I wiped my face roughly with my sleeve and walked away before I could do something stupid like run up there and demand he acknowledge how unfair this all was, demand he stop pretending it didn't matter, demand he let me help carry the weight that was slowly crushing him into dust.
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I kept checking my phone in the Uber ride home—while Victoria asked about my day in that careful way that meant she knew something was wrong, during dinner when I pushed food around my plate without eating, while pretending to do homework at my desk when the words on the page might as well have been hieroglyphics for all the sense they made.
Victoria noticed, of course. She always did.
"Summer, honey, you've been staring at that phone all evening." She set down her wine glass, her expression shifting from casual concern to genuine worry, the fine lines around her eyes deepening. "What's going on?"
"Nothing, Mom. Just... school stuff." The lie tasted bitter on my tongue.
Her eyes searched my face with that uncanny ability she had to read people, weighing whether to push, whether to respect my privacy or exercise her right as my mother to demand answers. Finally, she just nodded, though her expression remained troubled. "Alright. But you know you can talk to me, right? Whatever it is."
"I know." I forced a smile that probably looked as fake as it felt, all teeth and no warmth. "I'm fine. Really."
She didn't look convinced, but she let it go, turning back to her own phone where I could see emails from the office still pouring in even though it was past nine o'clock.
At nine-thirty, I gave up on homework entirely and took a long shower, hoping the hot water might ease the knot of anxiety in my chest that had been tightening all evening. It didn't. I climbed into bed, pulled the covers up to my chin, and grabbed my phone one more time, my fingers trembling as I unlocked the screen.
Finally—finally—it buzzed.
My heart leaped into my throat as I saw Kieran's name, and for one wild moment I let myself hope that maybe he was ready to talk, ready to let me in, ready to stop carrying this alone.
Kieran: I asked them to negotiate.