Page 147 of Seven Lost Summers
The cheese has gone rubbery. Each bite clings, stretching between my fingers and my face as though the stringy mess is trying to escape the slow descent into hell.
The TV’s on.
Real Housewives of Somewhere Plastic.
Poppy and Xander’s favourite disaster. I keep the noise running to pretend they’re here. Screaming women, flinging martinis and accusations, twisting themselves into verbal gymnastics over who slept with whose husband during what charity gala. One of them hurls a diamond-encrusted shoe and I don’t even blink.
Because the rest of the house… yeah, that’s not quiet either.
Somewhere down the hall, Nate’s busy fucking Quinn as if the world’s ending.
Again… Loudly.
There’s nothing subtle about it. The walls might as well be made of tissue paper.
I chew slowly because what else am I meant to do while our past catches fire in the other room.
I pretend the screeching blonde on screen is why my head’s fucked. That it’s the show unraveling me, not the sound of Quinn moaning Nate’s name three doors down.
It’s easier to lie to myself.
Easier than admitting that one night, back before Bianca, when Quinn and I sat on the porch at some party, both drunk enough to be honest.
She was talking.
I don’t even remember what about. I just remember thinking what would it feel like to touch her.
I’d never wanted to touch anyone. Not back in those days. Not after what happened to me.
But for a split second, I did.
And now Nate’s in that room doing all the things I never let myself imagine.
I toss another crust onto the lid right as the silence finally hits. Miracle of the fucking year. The quiet presses in now, unnatural, eerie after what felt like hours of Quinn sounding like she was auditioning for a porno, and Nate. Fuck, those moans of his weren’t the usual kind either. They were guttural. The kind a man makes when he’s not just getting laid. He’s being fucking exorcised.
I let the silence settle into the space as I wipe my fingers on my pants because the napkins are all the way across the room and I’m too fucking emotionally drained right now to move.
I glance over as Nate strolls in, all smug, hair wet from the shower.
His sweatpants hang low. Chest bare and unfairly fucking perfect. A towel draped around his neck like he thinks he’s shooting for the next Calvin Klein campaign instead of just blowing out Quinn’s back in the next room.
Of course he looks good. Smug bastard.
He walks into the kitchen and yanks the fridge open, staring into it like he’s genuinely surprised the steaks didn’t cook themselves.
He grabs two beers, pops both caps off, then strolls over and drops onto the couch beside me. Without a word, he hands one over and tosses the towel onto the floor.
“Sorry, man,” he mutters, reaching for a slice of cold pizza. “I realize we were supposed to have steaks tonight, but—”
“But you got distracted,” I say, lifting the beer in mock salute.
He smiles.
Not the fake shit he throws on stage.
Not the dead-eyed version he uses when cameras flash or fans scream his name.
This one’s real. Slow. Lopsided. The kind of smile that doesn’t fight its way through him first.
