didn’t know what else to say.
He just knew he couldn’t stay here, not when he felt as though his every shortcoming and failure, his every maladjustment and cowardice, were laid bare for that cutting silver gaze to dissect before discarding him as worthless.
And so “S-sorry,” he stumbled over, one more time.
Before he bowed his head. Clenched his fists.
And ran.
* * *
He didn’t stop until he was outside, and shut inside the safety of his rental car with at least the barrier of metal walls to hide him.
Clenching his hands against the steering wheel, Summer groaned and thunked his forehead against the leather of the upper curve—and then again and again, just for good measure.
What the hell, Summer.
What the hell, what the hell, what the hell.
His pulse was on fire, his entire body prickling as if a sunburn had crisped his skin to paper and left him feeling like he was going to split right out of it. He’d...he’d kissed Professor Iseya. Like he was still that same shy fumbling boy with a completely impossible crush, he’d kissed the man without so much as an if-you-please, and probably just fucked himself out of a job.
One more thud against the steering wheel, hard enough to make his temples throb.
Dammit.
He couldn’t go back in there. Not today. He’d left his suitcase at Iseya’s, but he’d wait until the man was in class Monday to get a janitor to let him in to retrieve it. Whether or not he’d be unpacking it in his faculty suite or looking for somewhere else to stay?
Would probably depend on if Iseya had him fired or not.
He’d deserve it if he did.
Welp.
At least if he was unemployed, he’d have more time to help his mother fix up a few things around the house.
And wouldn’t have to worry about having an anxiety attack in front of two dozen staring, snickering boys.
Summer backed the Acura out of its parking slot and did a U-turn in the now-empty courtyard, the students already back inside and in class like nothing had ever happened, despite the fresh scorch marks on the upstairs wall and window frame. The drive down the high hill felt less ominous than the approach—every foot of space between himself and that mortifying moment of impulse letting him breathe a little easier, put it behind himself, tuck it away as something to be dealt with later.
The town at the bottom of the hill was still the same—cobbled roadways and colonial style homes, only the more modern shops, street lighting, and sidewalk bus stops reminding Omen of what century it was. Summer had always managed to find a way not to come back, even on holiday and summer breaks, instead flying his mother out to Baltimore when he wanted to see her; Omen had somehow always felt like its name, this ominous trap that would ensnare him in a life, a future, a self he’d never wanted to hold on to.
But he still remembered the way home—and he couldn’t help but smile, as he pulled up outside his mother’s house. The sunny little cottage hadn’t changed, either, still overgrown with flowers everywhere. Daffodils nodded their sunny heads, while hollyhocks clustered around lavender and flowering azalea bushes; jasmine climbed the walls, dripping blooms whose fragrance nearly drowned him when he stepped out of the car, chasing away the last stinging scent of smoke in his nose. Little glass wind chimes and baubles hung in every tree and from every eave, catching the meager gray light and turning it into winking shards of color.
He’d barely made it past the wooden gate, stepping under the arch of the flowering bower overhead, before the front door opened and his mother came tumbling out. Small, round, Lily Hemlock was a compact bundle of energy swirled about by gauzy scarves, trailing her in a flutter of color as she nearly launched herself into him.
“Summer.”
He caught her with an oof, rocking back on his heels before righting himself and wrapping her up in a tight hug. “Hi, Mom.”
“I was wondering when you’d get in. You didn’t call, you just—”
“Sorry. I stopped by the school first.” He grinned wryly. “It’s burning again.”
“Oh, it’s always burning. The fire chief doesn’t even bother unless they actually call anymore.”
She pulled back, gripping his arms and looking up at him with a measuring gaze, blue eyes bright against the dark twist of her hair; when had those jet-black locks started to fade to iron gray?
When had she become so frail, the bones of