Page 74 of Seven Lost Summers
Ace counts us in.
Theo starts first, fingers dragging over the strings, every pluck sharp.
Ace joins next, his guitar growling through the speakers. I come in last, hitting hard, the crash of my drums rattling through my chest. It’s loud. Raw. Alive. The kind of sound that takes over your body and wipes everything else out.
We run it a few times, tightening the edges, tweaking the rough spots, and fuck, it sounds good.
Movement at the doorway catches my eye. Kit’s there, arms folded, eyes locked on us. Watching. Her presence shifts the room in that quiet, commanding way only she can.
Xander breaks first, striding over to talk to her, while Ace keeps us driving through the next set of chords. We hammer it out three more times before Ace and Theo finally unstrap their guitars and set them down in their usual spots.
“Hey, guys,” Kit says, stepping inside.
Theo doesn’t hesitate.
“Hey, Kitstar,” he grins, scooping her clean off the ground.
“Long time no see, short stack,” he says, spinning her once before setting her down. “Miss me, or just here to stop us idiots from burning the place down?”
Kit rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling, and Theo’s already backing off with that shit-eating grin, proud of himself.
It’s been two long fucking months. Long enough for Kit’s hair to grow out, no longer the sharp pixie cut she usually rocks with those bright pink highlights. Now it’s longer, softer. Pinker. Almost unfamiliar. But then she smiles, and there she is. Still Kit. Still ours.
We don’t say much as we drift out of the studio and into the break space Ace set up for when we’re not behind the mics or tangled in wires. The fridge hums quietly in the corner, always stocked. A round table sits in the center, cluttered with half-empty bottles and scraps of paper covered in lyrics and chord changes from whatever late-night session bled into morning. In the corner, a beat-up old sofa slouches against the wall—the kind that’s soaked up too many hours of sleep, sweat, and silence from bodies too worn out to make it home.
Xander yanks open the fridge, pulls out a few waters, and tosses them around without a word. I catch mine, twist the cap, and take a long swig as we drop into our seats around the table.
Kit reaches for the folder on the table—the one she must have dropped there earlier. She flips it open, pages spilling out, corners bent and worn. Every inch is covered in scribbled notes, the kind of messy, frantic handwriting that only happens when your brain is racing and you’re trying to pin an idea down before it slips away.
“I know it looks like a lot,” Kit says. Her voice is steady, but there’s a flicker underneath, that spark she gets when her mind’s running a million miles an hour.
She glances at each of us, making sure we’re locked in. “I’ve been looking at the website. Our socials. Those ridiculous photos Theo made me post, the ones where he thought he was God’s gift in that leatherjacket.”
Theo grins. “I was.”
Kit ignores him. “Those posts got more comments, more interaction than anything else we’ve done. People want the music, sure, but what they really want is you guys, the real shit. The chaos behind the scenes. The moments in between the music.”
She spreads a few pages across the table. “So I’ve been thinking. We don’t just toss out updates or random posts. We build something that celebrates the band, something that reminds people why they fell for you in the first place.”
She pauses, then adds, “Forget the posters. They’re stiff. Polished. They don’t say anything.”
I lean in, curiosity sparking. “So what are you thinking?”
Kit grins, the kind that says she’s already thought this through. “We bring someone in. A photographer. Someone who can capture everything… rehearsals, writing sessions, the shit that happens in between.”
Silence hangs for a beat.
“You mean like a coffee table book or something?” Xander asks, tipping his chair back.
Ace shoots him a look like he just suggested we start a knitting club.
“What the fuck is a coffee book?”
Xander smirks. “Poppy did something like that at her academy. Put together a twenty-eight-page book for investors.”
Kit nods, eyes lighting up.
“I’m thinking bigger. Something that feels real, something people will want to keep. Not throwaway promo crap, but something that lasts. A way to give back to the fans.”
