Page 49 of Seven Lost Summers
The kind of sex that leaves your limbs useless and your head spinning. The house was dark, and everyone else had already gone to bed.
“I love her,” Nate said as he reached for the joint. “And it fucking terrifies me.”
He drew in a slow hit, holding the smoke in his lungs like the burn might be enough to drown out the truth. His eyes stayed pinned to the ceiling, never once shifting my way, as if meeting my gaze would make it real.
And I get it. We’re both addicted to her, obsessed as if she’s the only thing keeping us alive.
I live for the sounds she makes when she comes—the hitch in her breath right before everything shatters. The split second her body goes still, needing that pause before it explodes. The drag of her nails across my skin. The way her mouth falls open.
Now I love fucking.
I don’t wait for someone else to make the first move. When I want it, I take it. One glance at her, one caught breath, one flicker in her eyes, and I’m there. I pin her to the wall, press her into Nate, and drive my cock into her to whatever track is pounding through the speakers. I chase every gasp with my mouth and swallow every moan like it’s the last I’ll ever taste.
We talk about the future now.
Nothing polished, nothing fake. Just the raw truths that spill out when she’s lying between us, sweaty and wrecked, too full of whatever this is to hide behind lies anymore.
Six months left of school and then we’re out. No second thoughts. No safety nets. Just gone. We’ve been looking at places. Nothing serious yet, but enough to picture it. Enough to start sentences with when instead of if.
Crappy little apartments with peeling paint and paper-thin walls that rattle when we play, when we love her so hard she forgets how to breathe. The kind of place where the neighbors bang on the walls and we don’t even pause. Where we don’t have to explain who we are or why this works. Where it’s only us, loud and reckless and finally free.
Music’s different for us now.
We play like we’re building something, maybe a band. It’s messy and loud and doesn’t always work. But when it does, when it finally locks into place, it feels like something the universe made just for us.
Bianca always says what’s meant to be will come.
I never bought into that shit. I don’t trust anything I can’t see, touch, or fuck up with my own hands. But something about her makes me want to believe. If fate’s real, there has to be a reason she found us. A reason she stepped straight into the chaos and didn’t flinch when she saw me.
She could’ve run. Instead, she stayed.
She chose both of us, as if she was made to fill the space we never realized was missing. And if I let myself trust that, it means the future we keep talking about isn’t just a dream. Maybe the late nights, the shared beds, the music echoing through some too-small apartment we’ll call ours are only the beginning. And now I’m ready to let it find us.
Nate and I slump against the rusted railing out front of the school, same spot as always. A cigarette burns slow between my fingers, our backpacks dumped at our feet, while we watch the flood of students push through the gates like they’ve actually got somewhere worth being.
Scarlet’s already inside, slipped through the doors without a word. She left us a while ago, head down, headphones on, pretending she doesn’t notice the guys staring at her.
My head’s a fucking mess. My stomach’s knotted tight in that familiar way it always is on mornings like this, knowing I have to walk through those gates. Certain of what’s waiting for me inside. Heads turning. Voices dropping. Smiles tightening like they’ve swallowed something foul and can’t spit it out fast enough.
Nate doesn’t say a word.
He just stands beside me, arms crossed, eyes fixed on nothing. His silence is both a comfort and a curse. He knows me too well to waste it on small talk. He plucks the cigarette from my fingers and takes a drag without asking.
I glance toward the walkway. Instinct now, scanning the path the students take, hoping to catch a glimpse of Bianca before the noise in this shithole swallows everything.
Up ahead, I spot Quinn Thomas.
Her head is high, moving with that steady, no-bullshit stride that dares the world to test her.
Black jeans torn wide at the knees. Shirt slipping off one shoulder, her clothes done playing by the rules. She’s beautiful. Not the sweet kind. Not the kind that makes you want to write poetry or bullshit love songs. She’s chaos with cheekbones. A storm with eyeliner and chipped black nails. Everything about her says she doesn’t give a fuck what anyone believes. She doesn’t have to speak; you feel it in the way the space shifts when she moves through it. Half the school fears her. The other half wants to be her.
Quinn knows more about me than most people ever will.
One night at some shitty party, Nate was off getting high or getting laid, possibly both, and she found me sitting off to one side trying to hide in the walls, when she sat down next to me and asked, “You good?”
That was all it took.
I let it spill. Said way too fucking much. Gave her the kind of truth that usually makes people run.
