Page 128 of Seven Lost Summers
“Quinn, you want a refill?” Theo asks, turning to me.
I shake my head quickly, holding the mug in my palms like it’s keeping me grounded. “Nah, I’m good.”
Theo heads inside. The door clicks shut, and the second it does, the air changes. Heaviness settles between Nate and me.
He doesn’t say anything at first, only watches. After a moment, he leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees.
“You don’t seem yourself,” he says. “Did you… fuck, did you regret what we did?”
“No,” I say too quickly. After that, softer, shaking my head. “Fuck no.”
Nate’s eyes soften. “So what is it?” he asks.
The words scrape up but die before they reach air. How the fuck do I tell him that running my fingers over Theo’s tattoo last night was betrayal bleeding under my skin? That back in those days, I wanted something with him for as long as I can remember, only Bianca got there first. That every time I shoved him back, every time I cut him down with a grin, it was me begging for more.
I know what last night was for them. Nothing more than a good time. The kind of thing two rockstars can get whenever they want.
Nate lifts his hand, brushing his knuckles softly against my jaw. That one gentle touch fucks me more than anything from last night.
“Theo told me you walked out of the room after we fucked.”
I open my mouth, ready to shove the words past the knot in my throat, but the sharp creak of the door swinging open kills it instantly.
Theo returns with two steaming mugs in hand, and I see he is now wearing a shirt. He sets a mug in front of Nate and sits back down.
I grip my mug tighter, hiding in the motion of taking a sip, praying they can’t see the storm still raging under my skin.
Theo nods toward my laptop on the table. “Have you been working on those photos?”
“Yeah,” I answer, clearing my throat. “Kit messaged. She wants to see some of them today.”
“You should be fine,” Nate says after a beat. His chin tips toward the closed laptop. “From what you showed me yesterday, they’re pretty good, Q.”
There it is.
That fucking nickname. The one that digs in and drags the past up with it. I can almost hear the echo of him saying it years ago, with that crooked grin, some cocky line tossed in just to make me roll my eyes. It lands harder than I want it to, but I shove it down, keep my face neutral.
“Yeah. Xander’s easy. He’s stupidly photogenic. Ace doesn’t even try and still manages to look good. Theo…” My gaze drifts over to him without meaning to. “Theo’s a challenge. You don’t stay still.”
Theo grins into his mug, unbothered. “I’m not built to sit still.”
“How long does it take to get an album out?” I ask after a beat. “From start to finish.”
Nate exhales through his nose, thinking it over. “Once we’ve got a few solid tracks, we spend a day on each one. Recording it piece by piece. Layering. Ace gets picky as hell with the riffs, so we end up redoing parts until he’s satisfied.”
Theo smirks and leans back in his chair. “Ace gets picky with everything. The man once threw out an entire pizza because the pepperoni wasn’t evenly spaced.”
The laugh escapes me before I can catch it.
“That actually fucking happened.” Nate mutters into his mug, shaking his head. “We should start recording in a few days.” He glances at me. “We’ve got three songs down now. So in the next day or two you’ll see how it’s done.”
Nate tips back the last of his coffee, the quiet clink of the mug on the table breaking the stillness. He stands and stretches, a lazy roll of his shoulders, joints cracking faintly in the morning hush. As he steps behind my chair, his hand rests on my shoulder before his lips press gently to the top of my head. It’s a soft fleeting moment, but it’s enough to leave a weight behind.
When he slips inside, the screen door clicks shut with a hollow sound, and the quiet it leaves behind swells like its alive.
Theo doesn’t move at first. He remains there, fingers curled around his mug, watching the faint curls of steam rise and vanish into the pale morning light.
When his eyes meet mine, I’m not ready for it. The smile that touches his mouth isn’t the sharp, crooked smirk I know too well. It’s softer. Something private.
