Chapter 97
Summer's POV
I sat cross-legged on my bed, fingers hovering over the calculator app, recalculating the same numbers for the third time. Checking account, savings, the emergency credit card Victoria kept in my name—it all added up to roughly forty thousand dollars if I liquidated everything immediately. My jewelry box sat open on the vanity, pearl necklaces and diamond studs glinting under the desk lamp like tiny accusations.
Not enough. Not nearly enough to match what Tyler's mother had offered.
I pulled out the Tiffany bracelet Victoria gave me for my sixteenth birthday, turning it over in my hands. The diamonds caught the light, beautiful and cold. If I sold this discreetly, maybe another five thousand. But Kieran would know. He'd see through any attempt to help him, would probably shove the money back at me with that look—the one that said he'd rather starve than accept charity.
My phone buzzed. I grabbed it so fast I nearly dropped it.
Kieran: Just kidding. Don't need money. Something else.
I stared at the screen, my heart sinking. The message felt wrong, too casual, like he was backtracking. Testing me. Seeing if I'd actually been willing to hand over forty thousand dollars without hesitation.
My fingers trembled as I typed back: "You don't have to feel embarrassed. We're good friends, right?"
I hit send, then immediately added: "Money stuff—we can talk about it anytime."
The word "friends" felt safe. Distant enough not to scare him off, but close enough to mean something. I watched the three dots appear and disappear twice before his next message came through.
Kieran: There are a lot of bad people out there. Don't lend money so easily.
I froze, rereading the text. He was warning me. Protecting me from himself, maybe, or from the kind of person who'd take advantage of someone like me—someone too willing to throw money at problems. The irony twisted in my chest. He was the one who needed protecting, not me.
My fingers moved before I could stop them: "You're not bad."
I stared at the message, then added: "I'd only lend to you."
But the second one felt too raw, too obvious. I deleted it before hitting send, my face burning. What was I doing? Confessing feelings he probably didn't want through text messages about money?
I set the phone down and pressed my palms against my eyes, trying to calm the racing thoughts. Outside my window, Boston glowed in the distance, the skyline a reminder of how different our worlds were. He lived in Southie, working multiple jobs to keep his family afloat. I lived in Back Bay, worrying about which designer bag matched my mood.
And yet he'd given up MIT for me.
The thought made my chest ache. I grabbed my notebook and started drafting possibilities again, pen moving in quick, messy strokes.
My phone buzzed again.
This time it was him.
Kieran: I'm not a good person either. It's late. Go to sleep.
I stared at the message, throat tight. The finality of it felt deliberate, like he was shutting a door between us. "I'm not a good person either"—what did that even mean? Was he trying to convince me he didn't deserve help? Or warning me that accepting his sacrifice would make me complicit in whatever self-destructive choice he'd made?
I wanted to call him, to demand he stop lying, stop pretending this was about money when we both knew it was about so much more. But I could already picture his face—that careful blankness he wore whenever someone got too close, the way his shoulders would tense up like he was bracing for a blow.
So instead, I just typed: "Goodnight."
He didn't respond.
I turned off my phone and slid under the covers, but sleep felt impossible. My mind kept circling back to the same question: how could I help him without making him feel small? Without triggering that pride that kept him isolated, kept him suffering alone?
The answer had to exist. It had to.
---
The next few weeks blurred together. School became a strange performance where everyone knew something had happened at White Mountain, but nobody talked about it directly. Tyler's absence left a vacuum, and the gossip filled it—wild theories about what Kieran had done, why he'd accepted money, whether he was dangerous or just desperate.
I heard it all. In the cafeteria, in the locker rooms, whispered behind hands in the hallways. Some people thought he was smart for taking the deal. Others called him a sellout. A few—mostly Tyler's old crowd—still insisted he was a violent psycho who'd gotten away with assault.
None of them knew the truth. None of them had seen his face in that hospital bed, the way he'd flinched when I touched his bandages, the quiet devastation in his voice when he'd said he couldn't let me get hurt.
Mia noticed my distraction. "You've been somewhere else lately," she said one afternoon as we walked to music practice. "Everything okay?"
"Yeah," I lied, adjusting my bag. "Just tired."
She gave me a look that said she didn't believe me but wasn't going to push. We'd gotten closer since I came back—really close, in a way that felt genuine and easy. She was the kind of friend who noticed when you were struggling but respected your boundaries. The kind of friend I should have appreciated more in my first life.
"Want to grab coffee after rehearsal?" she offered. "My treat."
"Can't," I said quickly. "I have to—I'm meeting someone."
Her eyebrows rose. "Someone?"
Heat crept up my neck. "Just a study thing."
"Uh-huh." She grinned, clearly not buying it. "This wouldn't have anything to do with a certain physics genius, would it?"
"Mia—"
"Relax, I'm not interrogating you." She bumped my shoulder gently. "I think it's nice. You seem happier when you talk about him."
Happier. Was that what this constant worry felt like? This gnawing need to fix things, to make sure he was okay?
We reached the music building, and I forced myself to focus on the upcoming Boston Youth Symphony audition. My fingers had calluses now from hours of practice, the kind that came from pushing too hard, practicing until my hands cramped. The piano had become both escape and punishment—a way to prove I was working toward something real, something that wasn't just about Kieran.
Except everything kept coming back to him anyway.
"How's the prep going?" Mia asked as we settled into our practice room.
I held out my hands, showing her the red marks and new blisters forming at the base of my fingers. "Ten years wouldn't be enough time to get ready for this."
She winced. "Ouch. Have you been sleeping?"
"Define sleeping."
"Summer—"
"I'm fine," I cut her off, opening my sheet music. "Really. I just want to do well."
What I didn't say: I wanted to be good enough. Good enough that when Kieran looked at me, he didn't just see some rich girl playing at being serious. Good enough that I could stand beside him without feeling like dead weight.
Mia started her flute warm-ups, the notes light and clear. I watched her fingers move, so confident, so practiced. She'd been playing since she was six. I'd started late, motivated by my mother's vision of what a Hayes daughter should be, not by any real passion.
But now it felt different. Now when I played, I thought about Kieran sitting in that hospital bed, telling me I should choose someone safe. Someone easy. Someone who wouldn't drag me into his mess.
As if I had any intention of listening.