Page 31 of Seven Lost Summers
Something about the way the room shifts makes my skin crawl. My breath sticks in my throat. My pulse slams through me, each beat louder than the last. It’s only the three of us now, but it’s like every spotlight in the world is aimed at me.
Fuck, I wish Scarlet had stayed.
I shove my hands into my hoodie pocket, like that’s gonna hide not knowing what the fuck to do with them. I shift my weight, trying to look normal, but fail miserably.
They’re both staring and suddenly I’m flayed open.
Bianca steps up, close enough that I catch it. Vanilla, the scent that doesn’t ask permission before it fucks with your head. It lingers. Clings. Makes it harder to think straight.
She glances between us, all calm and collected, like I’m not standing here trying to remember how to breathe.
“So,” she says, like this is no big deal, “where are we setting up?”
I wish I had a cool answer. Instead, my brain’s static and my mouth’s wired shut.
“This way,” Nate says, already moving down the hall before I can get my shit together.
I follow, pulse pounding so loud it almost drowns out Bianca’s footsteps.
Nate pushes open the door to our room and steps back, nodding for her to go in first.
I hang back, still trying to get my heartbeat under control.
Bianca steps in, eyes scanning the room.
Two beds. Dirty clothes. Instruments scattered across the floor, with no real order to any of it. Amps stacked in the corner, cables tangled in a way that says no one’s ever bothered to sort them.
She says nothing at first. Instead, she tilts her head, taking it all in, absorbing every detail without a word.
Nate brushes past me, unfazed, treating this as if it’s another regular jam session.
I’m still rooted to the spot, questioning every fucking decision that landed me in this moment.
He drops onto his bed with a lazy grin and kicks a stray shirt onto the floor. “Welcome to the mess.”
Bianca doesn’t even blink. “I’ve seen worse.”
She heads straight for my bed, drops her guitar case down without hesitation, moving with the ease that says she owns the space even if she’s never stepped foot in it before.
Pressure builds low in my ribs, like something’s pressing from the inside out. I flex my fingers at my side, but the nerves won’t shake loose.
She pops the latches on the case. That’s when it appears—her guitar. Built to stand out. Nothing soft or subtle about it. It demands attention the second it shows up. So does she.
She lifts it with one hand, swings the strap over her shoulder like it’s second nature. No thought. No effort. Every move she makes is clean, controlled, sure.
Meanwhile, I’m standing here, wired too tight, wondering what the fuck I’m even doing in the same room.
Whatever this is, whatever thing she has, it’s not something you learn. It’s something you’re born with.
And I wasn’t.
I shift on my feet, eyes landing on my bass propped against the wall, the same one I’ve played a hundred times before. Still, I don’t move. The idea of picking it up now turns my spine to jelly.
Playing in front of her isn’t simply pressure; it’s paralysis.
She makes it seem so effortless, so instinctive, and I can already sense the distance between us widening with every second.
I walk to the corner, grab an amp, and carry it over to her. The motion gives my hands something to do, gives me a moment to hide the fact that I’m falling apart in slow motion.
