Page 104 of Seven Lost Summers
I swallow hard, reaching for the beer again so I have something solid in my hand.
“I figured you’d see me differently,” I say, voice low. “After I told you that night, I thought you’d pity me or pull away. But you didn’t.”
Quinn shifts, tucking one leg beneath her, camera still in her hands.
“That’s because I’ve seen it,” she says softly. “And I don’t believe in treating people as broken just because someone else fucked them up.”
The words hit harder than I expect. I glance at her again, and she meets my stare without flinching.
“You’re the first person I told outside of Nate’s family,” I admit.
“I figured.”
Silence settles between us, heavier this time.
“Ace was different,” I say, steering the conversation back before it sinks too deep. “He never told me what he went through, but I saw it. You don’t carry that kind of weight unless you’ve lived through hell. I recognized it that day—the pressure behind his eyes, the way it sat on him, heavy, like the whole world was pressing down and he couldn’t catch a breath.”
“Has he ever talked to you about it?” she asks.
“No,” I say. “He doesn’t have to.”
And that’s the truth. Words aren’t what we rely on. The rhythm speaks for us. The silence fills in the rest.
“You and Ace fight a lot,” she says, nudging the conversation somewhere lighter.
“Only when he breathes,” I shoot back, smirking.
She laughs, and the sound slices through the heaviness, pulling me back into the moment, and for a second I forget the weight in my chest.
“I’m serious,” she says, smiling now.
“He’s easy to rile up,” I say, smirking. “And I’m a natural-born instigator. It’s a gift. That’s how we work. We go head-to-head all the time. He pisses me off, I piss him off. It looks intense, but there’s never a moment I don’t trust him with everything.”
My fingers drum against the side of my beer bottle.
“I figure we do it on purpose. The arguing, the shots we take at each other. It’s easier than talking. Safer than digging into the shit we’ve both worked too hard to bury. We keep things loud and sarcastic so we never have to say the real stuff.” I glance at her. “That’s the kind of friendship this is. One where you don’t have to explain why you are the way you are, you just keep the surface moving so nobody drowns.”
Quinn turns the camera back on and flips through a few more photos.
I watch her hands, the way her fingers move over the buttons, sure and practiced. Everything she does has that same quiet precision.
A shot of Nate flashes across the screen.
Her thumb pauses over the image.
I lean in, glancing down. “That one’s good.”
Nate steps through the open doors, moving onto the patio with a plate in his hands. The thing’s piled high with steaks, all marinated and glistening, stacked with the kind of care that screams he’s been working on them all afternoon. While Quinn and I have been out here knocking back beers, Nate’s been in the kitchen, mixing whatever the fuck’s in those secret marinades, chopping herbs with surgical precision, throwing salads together without breaking a sweat.
The whole scene is domestic as hell, and somehow, he looks completely at ease doing the work. Relaxed in a way most people don’t expect from him.
I’d help, but we’ve been through that shit before. History’s proven that the outcome is better for everyone if I keep the fuck out of his way. Nate’s not just particular in the kitchen, he’s obsessive. He’s got rules, systems, methods that make sense only to him. The second you step into that space, you’re a threat. You’re throwing off his rhythm, fucking with his balance. You’re risking your hand if you reach for the wrong spoon.
And honestly, he loves the whole world of it.
The prep, the order, the control. He doesn’t just enjoy the process, he disappears into the ritual. If music hadn’t claimed him first, food would’ve taken him instead. No question. I can see the picture clear as day—Nate with his own restaurant, apron tied around his waist, scowling at line cooks while Gordon Ramsay–style yelling at someone for burning the fucking sauce.
He’d probably name the place something ridiculous. One word. Pretentious as shit. All clean lines and moody lighting. Menus with no prices. Steaks cooked to perfection for assholes in designer shirts who couldn’t tell the difference between rare and raw if it punched them in the face.
