Page 56 of Seven Lost Summers
I raise a brow. “What kind of dumb are we talking? Naked dumb, or accidental-poetry dumb?”
“Somewhere in between.” She snorts again, her voice light and playful. “He’s got this way of being funny without even trying. I don’t know how he does it. It’s just… Theo.”
I tug the waistband into place and glance at my reflection, my voice quieter. “What’s it like? Having both of them—Nate and Theo. When it’s just you and them. What’s that feel like?”
Bianca goes quiet.
For a beat, all I hear is the silence pressing through the curtain, gears turning in her head. Then, after a moment, she speaks.
“With them, it’s more than I ever thought I’d have. It’s this low, steady thrum in my chest, wild and calm all at once. It’s the kind that makes your heart ache in the best way. Theo’s intense, wound so tight you feel like you have to hold him together with your bare hands. But underneath all that? He’s soft. Scared, sometimes. It kills me, the way he’s gentle when he lets the guard drop, the way he’s terrified of not being enough. And I’d burn the world down to protect that part of him.”
She pauses, and I catch the soft exhale.
“And Nate… he’s calm. Solid. He always knows when Theo’s spiraling, always knows exactly what to say. That boy’s got a mouth on him, I tell you.” Her voice tilts into a grin. “He’s the one who’ll drag the orgasm out of you while whispering filthy things in your ear.”
I blink. “Jesus. That’s… a lot.”
She laughs. “Yeah, well, you asked.”
“You know Nate used to be a fuckboy. He collected girls the way Theo collects guitar picks,” I say, giving the waistband one last tug. “Figured he picked up a few skills in that department.”
Bianca snorts. “You have no idea.”
I take a deep breath and tug the curtain open.
When she sees me her whole face lights up.
“Told you,” she says, twirling her finger in the air like she’s summoning a fashion runway. “Turn around. Let me see that ass.”
I roll my eyes but spin anyway, fighting the smile tugging at my mouth.
The jeans fit. Not just my body, somehow, they fit me.
I glance at the mirror, still half-convinced the reflection isn’t mine. Then her voice cuts through the doubt.
“I’m not joking. Those jeans are perfect. Criminally perfect. They should come with a warning label.”
A laugh slips out of me before I can stop it.
She pushes off the bench, phone still in her hand, mouth already halfway to another compliment.
“No, seriously, Quinn. I can’t believe how—”
The words cut off.
Something shifts.
Her face goes slack, the smile gone. One foot edges back, half an inch. Her body wavers, unsteady, and her hand lifts, fingers twitching toward me as if reaching for a railing that isn’t there.
“Bianca?” My voice scrapes its way up my throat.
She sways again. Less controlled this time, less steady. I take a step forward, heart kicking hard in my chest.
She blinks once, slow and unfocused, as if her brain is buffering and her body’s losing signal.
Her fingers slacken and the phone slips, tumbling in slow motion, screen-first to the floor.
It smashes against the tiles, skidding across the polished surface until it spins to a stop, the glass fractured into a spiderweb of cracks.
