Page 160 of Seven Lost Summers
Xander’s place smelled of garlic bread and that vanilla candle Poppy burns until the wick’s nothing but ash. The table was buried under bright flowers, crooked paper crowns, and enough food to feed half the street. Poppy kept topping up Quinn’s glass, telling her she had to drink enough for both of them now she couldn’t. Her hand lingered on her belly when she spoke, eyes warm in that way Poppy makes everyone instantly at home.
When Quinn laughed, Poppy laughed louder, and snorted of course, and Scarlet joined in until the whole table cracked up.
A moment later Quinn’s voice snagged on something she couldn’t swallow. Poppy didn’t hesitate, she grabbed her hand and held on, thumb running over her knuckles until her smile steadied.
And fuck, Quinn looked beautiful.
Cheeks flushed, eyes wet but steady, holding herself together enough to make the rest of us believe she wasn’t breaking. All I wanted was to pull her into my chest, tell her she didn’t have to be fine.
But I didn’t. I sat at the table, chewing garlic bread and pretending I wasn’t falling apart watching her.
Later, Nate and I dragged her to this dusty little photography store she’d sniffed out online.
The place smelled of old film, the air heavy with decades of people trying to trap their memories before they bled away. She disappeared inside, already lit up in that way she gets when the world makes sense to her.
Nate and I ended up in the department store next door, hunting for a suitcase that didn’t need a hoodie to keep it together. We stood in the middle of the aisle, two idiots surrounded by luggage.
Nate was adamant on black. “Timeless,” he said, like she was about to walk down the aisle at a funeral.
I went for the obnoxious neon pink, the kind that screamed emotionally unstable but great at parties. He said the color looked as though Barbie had puked. I told him that was exactly why she would love it.
But through all the bickering and bad color commentary, I kept wanting to ask him if he feels the same.
That ache.
That hollow pull in the chest that never loosens, as though something’s clawing at the ribs from the inside out. The thought of Quinn not being here after tomorrow guts me.
No more laughter spilling down the hall at two in the morning, loud enough to wake the dead because she’s never learned how to whisper. I wish I could freeze it, trap it in a bottle, keep her here.
She’s messy, wild, impossible. A beautiful kind of chaos that somehow made our broken pieces seem like they were finally close to fitting.
And now she’s leaving. The world is already quieter without her. Too fucking quiet.
It’s our last night.
No one says a word, but the truth hangs heavy, thick as smoke. Every movement comes slower, softer, as if time’s trying to drag its feet, handing us a few more stolen seconds before she goes.
She’s curled up on the floor in one of Nate’s hoodies, legs folded tight, hair falling loose around her face.
Old prints from that photography shop are spread out in front of her, and she’s holding them the way most people hold treasure. She looks so fucking at home it punches something sharp through my chest.
I nudge Nate.
He disappears down the hall without a word and comes back with the suitcase. No wrap, no card, only us standing like a couple of idiots holding a gift we wish we didn’t have to give.
Her eyes land on the suitcase. “What’s this?”
Nate jerks his chin. “One that closes without a hoodie doing all the work.”
Her laugh fills the room, same as always, only this time the sound cuts.
She stands and runs her hand along the handle. “Thank you. It’s so bright. I love this. You guys didn’t have to.”
“We did,” I tell her, my mouth twitching into a smirk I can’t fully fake. “Your old one was more fucked than a Vegas pro on a double shift. It was practically stripping in public.”
She pauses, giving me that maddening smile, all soft edges with something dangerous buried underneath. “Never change, Theo.”
Three simple words, yet they hit with the force of a freight train.
