Page 88 of Seven Lost Summers
“I know,” she whispers. “But I was still stuck in that place.”
I drain the last of my beer, set the bottle down harder than I need to, grab another, and move back over. My eyes follow Nate as he grabs a pan and sets it on the stove.
“It was a year,” I say. “A year of nothing but surviving. Playing anywhere that would take us, scribbling down lyrics that didn’t mean a damn thing. Nate hammering the drums like he was trying to split his own chest open. Me drinking too much, sleeping too little. All of it was just us trying to erase her without ever admitting that’s what we were doing.”
Quinn speaks up, gentle but steady. “But you didn’t forget.”
“No,” I admit. “We never did. We only got better at pretending.”
Nate drops the chicken into the pan with a splash of oil. The sizzle cuts through the silence for a moment.
“And one night there’s a knock at the door. Nate opens it, expecting cops or some pissed-off neighbor ready to complain about the noise.” I pause, letting the memory sink in. “But it’s Ace. Said he heard Nate on the drums.”
Nate turns down the stove before speaking. “Next night, he brings Xander with him. He and Theo clicked instantly.”
I glance over, but he’s not looking at me. His eyes are on Quinn.
“I watched them that night,” Nate goes on. “Xander didn’t say much at first. Theo and him jammed for hours. Then they talked like they’d known each other for years.”
He finally glances at me, and I catch something in his eyes that hits me square in the fucking chest.
“And I knew,” he says. “We both did. That this was the moment. That we’d found the thing we’d been missing. Everything moved forward from that point.”
I don’t say a word. I don’t need to.
Quinn stays quiet for a beat, her gaze flicking between us. “So that’s how Broken Oasis started?”
I nod slowly. “Yeah. Four guys with too much baggage and no clue what the hell they were doing.”
“Still don’t,” Nate mutters.
I shoot him a look. “Speak for yourself, Reynolds. I’m a fucking professional.”
Quinn laughs under her breath. “You think Bianca would’ve liked the band?”
Nate stares down at the plates in his hands.
I keep my eyes on the floor.
The question has haunted us more times than I can count. But hearing her say it guts us both. I glance up.
“She would’ve loved the band,” I say finally, voice rough. “Would have told me to smile more and Nate to stop showing off his arms in every damn photo.”
Nate exhales a soft laugh. “She would have called Xander the ‘hottie,’ only to watch me lose my shit.”
Quinn smiles too, but the smile aches—the kind that remembers.
“She believed in you guys,” she says quietly. “Even before you had a name.”
“Yeah,” I say, lifting my beer. “She always fucking did.”
I glance at Nate and catch him in the moment. His lips twitch, eyes softer than usual.
For once, he’s letting himself enjoy it.
For a moment, we’re only three people in a kitchen. No baggage. No sharp edges pressing in from the past.
And for once, the ease feels better than I ever expected.
