Page 19 of Seven Lost Summers
“Yeah, she went into the music room, I think,” Lydia’s voice sounds behind me, her voice soaked in that fake sweet shit she thinks works on guys. All purr, no soul. “You wanna hang later?”
“Nah,” Nate says, already walking away.
A moment later he’s next to me, slipping into step the way he always does.
He’s a dick to chicks.
Doesn’t fake a thing, doesn’t care. Fucks around, forgets their names, and moves on. Yet still, they smile at him like he’s some gift they didn’t deserve.
We head for the music room, footsteps heavy in the quiet. I wonder if the new girl’s into music. Not that it matters. Music’s the only thing that doesn’t fuck you over. Music doesn’t lie or leave. The sound is the only thing that makes the noise in my head shut the hell up.
Nate’s a natural on the drums. Doesn’t even have to think. It’s in his bones. The sticks move and the rhythm follows. Like breathing. Like he was born with a beat under his skin.
Wes and Rose gave me a bass for my sixteenth birthday. A brand-new black Fender. Shiny as hell. Too shiny for a kid like me, the kind who grew up sifting through pawn shop leftovers. They offered lessons, said they’d cover it, but I couldn’t take more than I already had. A roof, food and safety. That was enough. So much more than I deserved.
So I taught myself.
Spent nights in the garage, fingers torn up, skin split open from the strings. Played until the noise finally turned into music. Kept going until the pain dulled and the sound became something real.
I remember watching Nate and Scarlet go at it on the drums. Beat battles that sounded like war. Loud, relentless, like they were throwing punches with sound, trying to say shit only the other could understand. There was nothing soft about it—only fire, only fight. I wanted that, too. Something real that was mine.
So I claimed the sound, note by fucking note. And for a little while, when I’m alone with my guitar, I can almost believe I belong. That maybe I’m not as broken as they all think I am.
We reach the music room and I freeze. My heart is on a rampage, slamming into my ribs like it's trying to break free. I fucking hate the feeling. Hate how my chest locks up like I’m walking into a war no one else can see. Same old shit. That sense of never fitting, of being too much and not enough at the same time.
Nate doesn’t even blink. He just pushes the door open, calm as ever. It’s always easy for him.
“You coming or what?” he throws back.
I step inside, and, like always, the room shifts. It tilts straight toward Nate, pulled by that quiet, magnetic thing he carries without even trying.
We move to the back, and I let out a breath, my pulse still uneven. I force my eyes up.
And that’s when I see her.
The new girl.
She’s sitting, untouched by the noise, the chaos never reaching her. She’s calm, unbothered. Her posture says she doesn’t need to prove anything, proof she’s been through worse and walked out the other side without breaking.
Her hair falls in waves down her back, long and dark, catching the light. Her face is sharp and soft in all the right places, a kind of beauty that grabs you by the throat and doesn’t let go.
And fuck, it hits me right in the chest. My heart trips over itself and I hate that it does.
She’s beautiful. The kind of beauty that screws with your head. The kind that makes you forget your own name for a second.
I stand frozen, barely breathing, pulse stuttering in my throat. My gaze lands on the guitar in her grip and something shifts.
She doesn’t just hold it—she commands it. That guitar belongs to her in a way that makes the rest of us look like we’re playing pretend. Her fingers settle on the strings with this quiet confidence, shoulders loose, posture unshaken, as if she could tear the roof off this place with one chord and still look bored doing it.
There’s an awe, sure, but it’s wrapped in something real and fucked up. I need to hear her play. Need to know if the sound she makes feels as dangerous as the storm she’s already kicked up in my chest.
She’s talking to Quinn Thomas—one of the few girls Nate’s never managed to crack. And fuck, has he tried. Every smirk and smooth line. Every well-timed joke he usually pulls to get girls falling at his feet. He threw them all at her.
Quinn didn’t bite.
She never does. Never even looks twice. Doesn’t laugh, doesn’t flirt, just stares him down with those unreadable eyes and that deadpan voice that slices through the bullshit. Like she’s already decided she’s not here for anyone’s games. Especially not his.
I’ve always respected that. Not that I’d say it out loud. But while the rest fall over themselves to hand Nate whatever the hell he wants, Quinn holds her ground. She’s solid. Real. The kind of girl who knows who the fuck she is and doesn’t give a shit if anyone else does.
