Page 85 of Seven Lost Summers
But they wouldn’t take it.
Rose just smiled and said, “Too many memories.”
She said no amount of money could replace the creaky hallway where Nate and I used to race each other barefoot. The kitchen where we burned pancakes and argued over nothing. The living room that held every Christmas morning and every fight that always ended with someone laughing.
That house raised us.
And fuck, I understood.
Some walls aren’t only wood and paint. They carry ghosts of love and warmth, of hate, hurt, and abuse. Every trace of who you were before the world reshaped us into something different.
Some things are never meant to be replaced. Not even with all the money in the world.
The three of us climb out of the car and step inside, Nate leading the way with Quinn’s suitcase, flicking on lights as we go.
Quinn walks between us, her head turning, eyes wide, taking everything around her in. I follow with her camera bag, careful not to knock it against the wall.
“Wow,” she breathes, stopping short. “This house, you guys—”
She doesn’t even finish the thought. She only stares, her gaze sweeping over the space as we step into the kitchen and living room.
High ceilings. Exposed beams. Windows that stretch nearly floor to ceiling, that scream we made it.
Quinn just stands still, taking everything in. A flicker crosses her expression. She’s seeing a version of us that doesn’t quite match the memory, and for a second, the past and present seem to circle each other, unsure which one will hold.
“Come on, I’ll show you your room,” Nate says, already heading down the hall with her suitcase.
I step forward, holding out her camera bag. “You might want to take this too before I drop the damn thing and ruin her career.”
I turn back toward Quinn, catching the way she’s still staring, lips parted, hands loose at her sides.
“I’ll grab us a drink,” I say, already moving toward the kitchen. “Before your head explodes from how fancy this place feels.”
Her eyes snap to mine, that smile twitching at the corners of her mouth.
I move past her, yank open the fridge and grab a few beers as she trails Nate down the hall. My hands work on autopilot, muscle memory kicking in as I pop the tops.
I take a long pull from the bottle, the cold settling in my chest.
The moment footsteps echo on the marble tiles, I turn.
Nate comes into the room and grabs a beer off the counter. He doesn’t drink, only stands rigid with the bottle in his hand, his eyes locked on me.
“What’s the matter?” he asks.
He’s doing that thing again—watching too closely. Not only looking at me, but studying every detail.
“What’d she think of the room?” I shoot back, dodging the question the same way I’d dodge an ex-girlfriend waving a baby scan and swearing the kid was mine.
I down half the beer, hoping it will drown the truth I don’t want to face.
But Nate doesn’t budge.
He sets his bottle down, the soft clink against the counter sounding a whole lot louder than it has any right to.
“Theo,” he says, stepping closer.
Just my name. No bullshit, no buildup. Nothing but the weight behind the word.
