Page 13 of Seven Lost Summers (Broken Oasis #3)

Theo

F

ucking

hell,

my

leg

won’t stop bouncing, this constant twitch giving away everything I’m trying to hide.

Nothing about this feels okay, no matter how many times I lie to myself and say it’s just another jam session.

Truth is, my body’s calling bullshit before I even finish the thought.

Clammy hands smear against my jeans, useless attempts to wipe away the nerves.

Knots twist tighter in my gut, each one pulling me closer to losing it completely.

Time keeps dragging, the clock ticking so fucking loud it might as well be screaming.

Every second stretches, taunting me, dragging me deeper into this anxious pit.

Bianca’s not even here yet and already I’m coming apart at the seams.

There’s this weight pressing down on my chest refusing to let up.

All I can do is fucking wait. Wait for her to walk in, for this ache to ease. But I know it won’t. And maybe the worst part is, I don’t think it ever will.

It’s not that I haven’t played in front of people before.

Nate’s family doesn’t count. I’ve played in their living room more times than I can remember, running through the same setlist, headphones on, trying to pretend the world doesn’t exist.

Those moments were different.

They were safe. Nothing about it left me exposed. Pressure never crawled under my skin. Judgment didn’t hang in the air, waiting for me to fuck up.

Back then, if I missed a note or slipped on a chord, it didn’t matter. There was no shame in getting it wrong. Nobody stood there measuring me against someone who plays as if she was born with a guitar in her hands and gasoline in her veins.

That’s what Bianca brings. Fire. Chaos. Brilliance. She doesn’t simply play. She burns the whole fucking room down while I sit here with my training wheels on, hoping not to fall flat on my face.

And now I’m supposed to sit across from her, bass in hand, and pretend I belong in the same fucking room. Every part of me wants to bolt, disappear before she even plugs in her guitar.

Before I can spiral any further, Scarlet’s voice crashes through the house like a goddamn foghorn.

“She’s here?” She yells loud enough to wake the whole fucking neighborhood.

Nate groans, dragging a hand down his face.

“Scar, for fuck sake.” He shakes his head, muttering under his breath, “I swear, that girl’s gonna be the death of me.”

I smirk. “She’s just getting you back for that shit you pulled with Ben today.”

Nate rolls his eyes, but he knows I’m right.

We’ve both seen it—the way guys at school have started watching Scarlet. Like she’s a prize they can win, something to claim and brag about.

And Nate? He made damn sure Ben understood real fucking quick that Scarlet isn’t some chick he can add to his rotation.

Cornered him behind the gym, looked him dead in the eye, and told him if he so much as glanced her way again, he’d be drinking through a straw. And if he ever laid a hand on her, losing his spot on the football team would be the least of his problems.

And knowing Nate… He fucking means every word.

Before he can say anything else, the doorbell rings.

My stomach twists hard. Fuck. Alright, this is happening.

Scarlet bolts past, already halfway to the door before Nate even opens his mouth.

Nate shouts after her, but it’s pointless.

She throws the door open with a flair that deserves a spotlight and a fog machine.

“Welcome to Casa de Embarrassment, where my brothers will be your personal idiots for the evening,” she declares, waving her arm like she’s presenting a game show prize nobody asked for.

Bianca laughs, full-on belly laughs, her head shaking as if she’s already regretting her life choices.

“Good to know,” she says, eyes narrowing playfully as she turns to Scarlet. “You’re Scarlet, right?”

With arms crossed and a dramatic tilt of her head, Scarlet fires back. “That depends. Are you here for the music or to witness the circus these two call a personality?”

Bianca smirks, her gaze flicking toward Nate and me. “Mostly here for the second-hand embarrassment. The music’s a bonus.”

Scarlet grins. “Excellent. You’ll be overwhelmed in minutes.”

Bianca arches a brow and steps inside with a smirk. “Perfect, I brought snacks and zero expectations.”

Scarlet lets out a sharp laugh, tossing her hair over her shoulder. “Damn, I like you. What the hell are you doing wasting your time on these two idiots?”

Bianca grins, shifting her guitar case and eyeing us both like we’re about to juggle or burst into song. “Still running tests to determine the exact cause of my poor judgment.”

“Wow. Brutal. Right in the ego.” Nate says, hand to his chest, stumbling back like he’s been personally victimized.

“Please. You’d need a soul for that to sting.” Scarlet snorts, arms folded, sarcasm loaded.

Nate flicks her a glance, lips twitching. “Says the girl who held a funeral for her broken drumsticks.”

“Grief is a valid emotion. You wouldn’t get it, robot boy.” Scarlet shrugs.

Bianca lifts a brow, clearly entertained. “You play?”

“Drums. Better than my brother, too.” Scarlet smirks.

“For fuck sake, Scar,” Nate says. “Do you ever shut up?”

“Only when I’m asleep. And even then, I snore insults.” She smirks at Nate before turning to Bianca with a mock flourish. “Well, shall we?”

Nate cuts in, hand dragging down his face. “Oh no. Absolutely fucking not.”

“What? You scared I’ll outplay or out-charm you? Which one is it?”

“No, Scar, I’m scared you’ll sit there and talk shit the entire time.”

“And I fail to see the problem.” Scarlet raises a brow.

Bianca turns to me, smirking. “Are they always like this?”

“You should see them on a road trip. I considered throwing myself from the van,” I say.

Scarlet stares at Nate, waiting for him to cave and get her way like she always does, most of the time. One look, one smartass comment, and he usually folds. Today, though, he doesn’t flinch. Still as stone, he stands there, stubborn as ever.

Scarlet huffs, throwing her hands up.

“See what I have to deal with? Fine. Enjoy being boring.” Spinning on her heel, she storms down the hall, but not before tossing a parting shot over her shoulder. “Try not to suck too much, boys.”

Nate groans shaking his head.

“Every fucking day, I have to put up with this,” he mutters.

Scarlet disappears down the hall and the quiet hits harder than it should.

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.

She plucks a few strings and my confidence caves in on itself. This isn’t just stage fright. It’s the brutal awareness that I don’t belong here.