Chapter 8

Summer's POV

My stomach dropped. The tissues crumpled in my clenched hand as fragmented memories surfaced—Tyler ordering drinks, the room spinning, stumbling toward the bathroom.

"He said you guys were drunk," Mom continued, her voice carefully neutral. "That you caused a scene. That someone knocked over a server's tip tray and you all just left without helping."

The memory crystallized with brutal clarity. Kieran standing there in a stained apron, his face blank as coins scattered across the floor. His hands—one damaged, one whole—carefully picking up each bill while we giggled our way out.

"Oh my God." The words came out as a whisper. "Oh my God, Mom, I—"

"Do you have any idea," Mom's voice was quiet but sharp, "how important those tips are to kids working their way through school? That money probably meant groceries for the week, or textbooks. And you treated it like a joke."

I couldn't breathe. I'd seen Kieran today in class, watched him endure Tyler's mockery, and I hadn't connected the dots, hadn't realized I'd been part of his humiliation less than twenty-four hours ago.

"I didn't know," I managed. "I was drunk and I didn't see—"

"That's the problem, Summer." Mom's hands tightened on the steering wheel. "You didn't see. You were so wrapped up in having fun that you didn't bother to look at the people serving you."

Each word landed like a blow, all the more devastating because they were true.

"I need you to apologize to that server, and promise me you'll never get that drunk again."

I answered immediately. "I'll apologize. I'll pay back double for the tips that were spilled. I'll do whatever it takes to make it right."

Mom glanced at me, surprised. "You will?"

"Yes." I met her eyes. "I was wrong. I was careless and cruel, even if I didn't mean to be. And I need to fix it."

She studied me for a long moment. "All right. Sweetheart, this isn't about blame, but you do need to take responsibility for your actions."

"Thank you." I sagged back against the seat. "And Mom? I'm dropping Evan."

"What?" Her foot slipped off the brake in surprise. "You're breaking up with him?"

"He's not good for me. He makes me careless. He makes me not see things I should see, people I should notice. And I don't want to be that person anymore."

Mom was quiet for several blocks. Finally, she said, "I never liked him much anyway. Too smooth."

Despite everything, I felt a small smile. "You never said anything."

"You're seventeen. If I'd told you I didn't approve, you would have clung to him twice as hard." She shot me a sidelong glance. "But if you're figuring it out on your own, that's growth."

We pulled up to our Back Bay brownstone as the sun touched the horizon. Inside, the house smelled like lemon polish and fresh flowers.

"Go wash your face," Mom said, kicking off her heels. "I'll make us something to eat before your piano lesson."

"You're going to cook?" The surprise in my voice was genuine.

She gave me a wry smile. "Don't sound so shocked."

Twenty minutes later, I sat at the kitchen island watching Mom move around with determined efficiency. She'd changed into yoga pants and a sweater, and something about seeing her like this—casual, domestic—made my throat tight.

She scrambled eggs, burned the bacon slightly, buttered toast with careful concentration. And then she sliced tomatoes and sprinkled them with sugar, the way her own mother had made them.

When she set a plate in front of me, I had to blink back tears.

"It's not fancy," Mom said, sitting next to me. "But it's food."

I looked at the simple meal—the kind I'd have turned my nose up at before. Now it looked like the most precious thing in the world.

I picked up my fork and ate, really ate, tasting every bite. The eggs were perfectly salted, the bacon smoky, the toast warm and buttery. Even the tomatoes tasted like love.

"This is amazing," I said around a mouthful.

Mom's face lit up with surprised pleasure. "Really?"

"Really. It's perfect."

We ate in comfortable silence, and I committed every detail to memory—the way Mom's hair was coming loose, the small smile on her lips, the warmth of the kitchen.

When I finished, I let out a completely unladylike burp.

Mom's eyes widened, then she laughed, really laughed, and the sound was so beautiful I started laughing too.

"Summer Hayes," Mom gasped, "where are your manners?"

"Sorry," I grinned. "That was just really good."

She reached over and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. "You've been different today. More present."

If you only knew, I thought.

Instead, I said, "Maybe I'm finally growing up."

"Well, don't grow up too fast." Mom stood, gathering our plates. "You're still my baby."

I jumped up and took the plates from her. "Let me do the dishes."

"Summer, you don't have to—"

"I want to." I carried them to the sink, turning on the hot water and squeezing dish soap until bubbles frothed over. Behind me, Mom leaned against the doorframe, watching.

When I finished, I turned to find her eyes suspiciously bright.

"Come here," she said softly.

I crossed the space and let her pull me into a hug.

"I love you, Mom," I whispered. "And I won't let you down. Not this time."

She pulled back, confused. "This time? Summer—"

"I just mean I'm going to try harder," I interrupted. "I'm going to make you proud."

Her hands cupped my face. "You already make me proud, sweetheart. Every single day."

I closed my eyes, trying to believe it.

"We should get going," Mom said eventually. "Your piano teacher will have my head if we're too late."

"Mom?" I caught her hand. "Thank you. For everything."

She blinked rapidly, fighting tears. "You're welcome, baby. Always."