Chapter 7
Summer's POV
The final bell rang at 3:15 PM, and I watched Kieran pack his textbook into his backpack with methodical precision, his damaged right hand moving carefully as he zipped the worn canvas closed.
I grabbed my own bag, pulse quickening. I needed to see where he went, needed to understand the reality of his life beyond these privileged walls.
"Summer, you coming?" Mia called from the doorway, her short hair bouncing as she adjusted her backpack. "A bunch of us are grabbing coffee."
"I, um—I need to return a book to the library first," I lied, my fingers twisting the strap of my bag. "You go ahead."
She gave me a curious look but didn't push. "Okay. See you tomorrow?"
"Yeah. Tomorrow."
I waited until Kieran disappeared down the stairwell, then followed at a distance, my heart hammering against my ribs. The September sun slanted through the tall windows, painting golden rectangles on the polished floors. Around me, students clustered in groups, planning coffee runs or discussing weekend plans, their laughter carefree and bright.
Kieran moved through them like a ghost, shoulders hunched, keeping to the edges. No one called out to him. No one even seemed to see him.
Outside, the afternoon air carried the scent of fresh-cut grass from the athletic fields and exhaust from idling cars. I ducked behind one of the old oak trees lining the circular driveway, watching as Kieran bypassed the usual route toward the cafes near school, instead heading down Huntington Avenue with quick, purposeful strides.
I followed, keeping half a block between us. Boston's Back Bay gleamed around us—brownstones with bow windows, small trees planted along the sidewalk, the occasional glimpse of the Charles River between buildings. Kieran didn't glance at any of it, his focus fixed ahead, his pace never slowing.
At Massachusetts Avenue, the light turned red. I hung back near a bus stop, pretending to check my phone while watching him from the corner of my eye. The afternoon sun caught in his dark hair, turning it almost bronze at the edges. He stood perfectly still, hands in his hoodie pockets, waiting with the patience of someone used to waiting.
The light changed. He crossed and suddenly veered left into a narrow side street, disappearing between buildings with a quickness that seemed too deliberate.
My steps faltered. Something prickled at the back of my neck—that sixth sense that tells you when you're being watched. I slowed, scanning the street ahead, and caught it: the briefest flicker of movement at the corner, like someone checking over their shoulder.
He knew I was following him.
The realization hit me like cold water. Of course he knew. He'd grown up in neighborhoods where you learned to watch your back, to notice when someone's footsteps matched your pace for too long. And I'd been trailing him obviously, out of place in my pleated skirt and white shoes.
He wasn't heading home. He was leading me away, taking me on a deliberately circuitous route to throw me off, to protect whatever privacy he had left.
Shame burned in my cheeks. What was I doing? He either thought I was some creepy stalker or, worse, that I was slumming, treating his poverty like entertainment.
I'm not like that anymore, I wanted to scream. I'm not that girl who stepped on your tips and didn't even notice.
I stood there for a long moment, then turned away, heading back toward school with leaden steps.
By the time I made it back to St. Jude's entrance, my shoes were scuffed and shame sat heavy in my stomach. I'd followed him like some obsessed weirdo and chickened out the moment I realized he'd noticed.
A sleek gray sedan idled at the curb. Through the tinted windows, I could just make out my mother's silhouette behind the wheel, and suddenly it all crashed over me like a wave—the memory of the last time I'd seen her, in that horrible visiting room, her hands trembling as she'd tried to smile, dying in that place while I'd been too wrapped up in my own problems to see it.
My vision blurred. My throat closed up. I stumbled toward the car on legs that felt boneless, my chest heaving with the effort of trying to breathe through the crushing weight of grief and the impossible gift of having her back.
The passenger door opened, and Mom's voice cut through the roaring in my ears. "Summer? Summer, what's wrong?"
I couldn't answer. I fell into the passenger seat and the tears came, hot and fast and unstoppable, spilling down my cheeks as my shoulders shook with the force of crying I'd been holding back for ten years that hadn't happened yet.
"Oh, baby. Baby, what is it?" Mom's hands were on me immediately, one cupping my face while the other rubbed my back, and the familiar gesture—the same one I'd taken for granted and then lost and thought I'd never feel again—only made me cry harder.
I turned and buried my face in her shoulder, breathing in her perfume, and sobbed like a child. Around us, other cars pulled up and drove away, but inside our car there was only this moment, only my mother's arms around me and the overwhelming weight of everything I'd lost and everything I'd somehow been given back.
"I've got you," Mom murmured, her own voice thick with worry. "I've got you, sweetheart. Whatever it is, we'll figure it out."
I don't know how long we sat there. Long enough for my tears to slow to hiccupping gasps, for the sun to shift lower. When I finally pulled back, Mom's expression was a mix of concern and confusion, her makeup slightly smudged.
"Summer." She cupped my face in both hands. "Talk to me. What happened?"
I shook my head, unable to explain that I was mourning someone sitting right in front of me, alive and well.
"I just—" My voice came out scratchy. "I just love you so much, Mom. And I'm so sorry."
"Sorry for what?" Her thumbs stroked my cheekbones. "Baby, you're scaring me."
"I'm sorry I'm not a better daughter," I choked out. "I'm sorry I take you for granted and complain and—and I'm just so sorry for all of it."
"Summer." Mom's voice was gentle but firm. "Sweetheart, where is this coming from? You're a wonderful daughter."
I shook my head violently. "No, I'm not. But I want to be. I'm going to be. I promise."
Mom studied my face for a long moment, then pulled me back into her arms, holding me tight. "I don't know what brought this on, but I need you to hear me. You are enough, Summer. Just as you are."
The words broke something inside me, and I cried again, softer this time, while Mom rocked me gently.
Eventually, she eased me back, reaching for tissues. "Here. Clean yourself up. You look like a raccoon."
I took the tissues, scrubbing at my face. Mom watched me with that expression mothers get when they're trying to solve a puzzle.
"Better?" she asked.
I nodded.
"Good." She put the car in drive, then paused. "I got a call this morning. From the manager at that restaurant in South Boston. The one you and your friends went to last night."
