Page 169 of Seven Lost Summers
He exhales, the kind of breath that scrapes out of his chest as if it’s been trapped there for years. “We should never have let Quinn go. I should’ve told her I loved her. I didn’t get to say it to Bianca, and that’s a weight I’ll carry until my dying fucking day. And now I’ve done the same thing with Quinn and I hate myself for doing it.”
“I love her, too,” I say, the words sound almost strangled.
His gaze locks on mine, unflinching. “Yeah, I know you fucking do. I saw it every damn time you looked at her. But we were too fucked up from what happened before to let the words breathe. We’ve been living in this cage we built for ourselves, Theo, and if we don’t tear it apart now, we’ll lose her too.”
Before I can answer, Nate’s hand slides up, gripping the side of my neck. He stares into my eyes for a long beat, jaw tight, eyes burning with every unspoken thing we’ve both carried for years. Then he leans in and kisses me. It isn’t gentle. It’s the kind of kiss that tastes of battle scars and promises we’ll claw our way out together, no matter what it takes. When he pulls back, his hand stays on my neck, thumb brushing my jaw.
“Then let’s go get our fucking girl.” I say, my hand staying locked around his arm, holding him there with me. “But first, I need to do something.”
“What’s that?” Nate says.
“I need to go to Bianca’s grave. Are you okay with that?”
“Yes.” His thumb brushes across my jaw. His eyes soften, the fight draining into something heavier. “I need to say something to her too.”
The car is too quiet.
Nate’s hands are fixed on the wheel, his jaw set the way it always is when there’s too much on his mind. I haven’t driven since the accident last year. Since he got hurt. My gaze stays fixed on the road ahead while my hand stays buried in my pocket, fingers curled around the necklace that has never been far from me.
It has been through every city. Sat against my skin on every stage, every sleepless night where I’ve stared at the ceiling trying not to fall apart. It has seen me at my highest, and it has stayed with me when I’ve been on the floor, drowning in my lowest.
The original chain is long gone. I wore it until it broke, from the weight of years I refused to take it off. Now the angel wings hang from a black cord, the threads worn thin and rough against my skin from too many days of pulling it on, too many nights of holding it in my fist.
There’s a jagged half-pick on there too.
The one Bianca broke by accident during a jam session in our room. I remember that day when she pressed it into my palm, her fingers curling around mine. “Keep it. So you don’t forget to feel when you play.”
I told myself it was luck, that it had something to do with the music.
But the truth is, it was her. It was always her.
The last piece I could still hold.
Today I’m keeping the promise I made to her that day.
Not because the love for her has faded. It never will, but because I’m done letting the grief hollow me out. There’s finally something in my life worth holding onto. And I know in my heart if she were here, she’d tell me to stop hiding behind her memory and start fucking living.
We pull into the cemetery just after noon.
The sun is high, burning down so bright it borders on cruel. Heat shimmers off the cracked pavement as we pass through the rusted gate. That crooked tree stands in its usual place, limbs twisted up towards the sky, its leaves brittle and brown. It’s been dying for years, same as us.
Nate’s carrying flowers. Bright ones, the same kind I pick every single time we come here. The colors are too vivid for this place, almost jarring against the washed-out headstones and faded grass. They feel alive, and maybe that’s the point.
Neither of us speaks.
Our footsteps crunch against the gravel, each sound loud in the heavy quiet. The wind moves slowly through the rows, brushing over the headstones like it’s memorizing their names.
And then we’re there.
Bianca Rose Laker
1999–2018
Bright, Wild, Unforgettable
It’s the same punch to the gut it’s been for seven fucking years. It still doesn’t feel real. Maybe it never will.
There’s already a fresh bunch of flowers resting at the base of her headstone, the same kind Quinn brought the last time we were here. Their stems are bound with a thin white ribbon. Beside them sits a new photograph, edges tucked under a small stone to keep it from blowing away. It’s Quinn and Bianca, shoulders pressed together, both with streaks of glitter running along their cheekbones, lipstick shades too bold for anywhere but a bedroom mirror. I can almost hear their laughter and see them leaning in toward each other, faces lit up by something only they found funny.
