Page 78 of Seven Lost Summers
They moved on.
And me… I’m still here. Still clinging to the ghosts. Still remembering for all of us.
I lift my head and stare at my reflection.
Get your shit together, Quinn. It’s only a job. A normal, totally casual, not-at-all nerve-wracking job that happens to involve four of the most recognizable faces in the music industry.
I square my shoulders, study my reflection again, and pretend I don’t resemble someone two seconds away from hurling into the sink.
Clothes… fine.
Hair… mostly co-operating.
Sanity… questionable.
I glance down and sigh. Of course. These cheap-ass laces have come undone again.
I crouch and yank them tight, double-knotting as if my life depends on it. The last thing I need is to face-plant in front of them. Tripping over my own feet all the time is humiliating enough.
One more fall and someone will start a GoFundMe for my coordination.
I take a breath, shake out my hands, and head for baggage claim. Simply grab the suitcase, walk out, act like a functioning adult.
Easy.
And that’s when I spot it.
Or more accurately, I spot the disaster riding the conveyor belt as if it’s proud of itself.
My suitcase.
Wide open.
Zipper blown.
My entire life spilling out in slow, mortifying motion.
A bra dangles from the side, practically waving to the crowd. A pair of socks cling to a rolled-up t-shirt. My underwear takes a full runway lap under the fluorescent lights.
People are watching— and I can hear it.
The soft laughter, whispered jokes, a low chuckle from somewhere behind me.
A guy elbows his friend, both of them grinning as if my personal nightmare is their after-flight entertainment.
My black lace bra hangs off the edge of the conveyor, swinging with every bump as if it’s taking a final bow.
Kill me.
Right here, right now on this sticky airport floor.
End it already.
I shove through the crowd, heat crawling up my neck, and lunge for the suitcase.
The second I grab it, the weight shifts. And of course, half my underwear spills out. A handful of panties hit the floor, right on top of some guy’s boots.
He looks down.
