Page 23 of Seven Lost Summers (Broken Oasis #3)

Quinn

T

he

photos

are

piling

up.

Stacks of prints cover my desk, my bed, even the floor under the window. I keep telling myself I’ll sort them, label them, slip them neatly into sleeves. But every time I try, I get distracted.

There’s a photo of Nate, eyes closed behind his drum kit, sticks suspended mid-air. Sweat clings to the curve of his neck, his mouth parted, chest heaving. You can’t hear it, but you can feel it in the shot—every beat he hurls into the silence.

There’s one of Theo strumming chords, his shirt riding up just enough to reveal the scar across his hip. He’s caught mid-story, and Bianca’s laughing, her head tipped back, mouth wide open, the sound spilling out of her as if it belongs to both of them.

The camera stays close these days. Close enough no one notices anymore. They’ve grown used to it. To me. To the way I move through their noise, catching what slips through the cracks. The four of us, bound by sound and chaos. Bianca tangled up with the boys in a way none of us dare name.

She’s become my best friend.

I’ve never really had one before.

I always kept people at arm’s length, far enough they couldn’t reach the parts of me I wasn’t ready to explain.

The guys only ever wanted one thing. None of them gave a shit about the girl behind the lens, the one with something real to say. And the girls… they smiled with their teeth, then tore each other apart the second backs were turned. All glitter and venom.

So I kept to myself.

It was easier that way. No pressure to perform. No need to prove I was worth the space I took up.

But something’s changed.

I feel it when we’re crammed into Nate and Theo’s bedroom, music buzzing through the air.

I see it in Nate’s crooked grin mid-jam, in the way Theo looks at Bianca like she’s his next breath.

I hear it when Bianca leans in to whisper something meant only for me, and my laugh slips out before I can stop it.

I belong, to this chaos, to them. The four of us, loud, messy, untouchable.

And for the first time in my life, I don’t want to keep my distance.

We eat chips off the amp case and argue about pointless shit.

Theo never says no when I ask to shoot him.

Nate calls me Annie fucking Leibovitz and swipes my camera when I’m not looking, probably to fill it with fifty blurry crotch shots and one close-up of his left nostril.

Bianca pulls faces at the lens and swears she’s going to start charging me.

Some nights we stay too long, sprawled across the back lawn with takeaway containers and shitty jokes. It isn’t perfect.

But it’s ours.

For now.

And I’ve caught all of it on film.

Today I was supposed to spend the afternoon in the darkroom. I had a plan—music low, gloves on, chemicals biting into the paper until those moments turned into something real.

Instead, I’m in a mall changing room, wrestling with a pair of jeans that feel five sizes too small. The zipper won’t budge, and I’m pretty sure I’m about to either suffocate or snap the damn thing in half.

“Quinn?” Bianca’s voice cuts through the curtain. “You alive in there or what?”

I peek out to find her sprawled on the bench, scrolling through her phone.

“B, these jeans are ridiculous,” I groan. “Why the hell did I think this would work?”

She looks up from her phone, tilts her head, and studies me as if I’m a puzzle missing a few pieces.

“Ridiculous?” Her smile curves, all sweetness. “You’re not ridiculous, Quinn. Just a little too adventurous with your choices.”

“Adventurous? That’s your nice way of saying dumb as shit, isn’t it?” I grunt, yanking at the waistband, but it’s a lost cause.

Bianca snorts. “They aren’t that bad.”

“They’re skinny jeans, B. I swear one of my ovaries begged for mercy.”

She bursts out laughing, then gets to her feet and saunters over. “Alright, drama queen. Step aside. Let me handle this.”

I poke my head through the curtain like a nosy meerkat, watching Bianca prowl the store with the focus of someone on a life-or-death mission. She tears through racks of denim as if she’s judging contestants on Project Runway: Jeans Edition.

Every so often she pauses, squints, then discards a pair with a shake of her head that screams, absolutely not, how dare you exist.

Then her hand stills.

She pulls a pair from the rack and holds them up to the light, eyes narrowing in thought. Slowly, she nods, as if she’s just uncovered the Holy Grail of ass-lifting denim.

A moment later she returns, looking victorious, a pair of jeans draped over her arm.

“I found them. These are perfect for you. I swear, you’ll look so good even I’ll be jealous.”

I shoot her a skeptical look. “Jealous? What, are these jeans spun from unicorn hair and fairy dust?”

She grins, planting her hands on her hips. “These jeans will do things to your ass that’ll have pedestrians walking into traffic.”

I snort. “Perfect. I’ve always wanted to be a public safety hazard.”

I close the curtain and shimmy into the jeans. They slide over my hips as if they were made for an actual human body instead of a Barbie doll. Snug. Soft. Not suffocating.

For once, something fits.

Bianca’s laughter explodes outside the curtain.

I freeze, glaring at my reflection in the mirror. “I haven’t even stepped out yet and you’re already laughing at me?”

“No!” she wheezes through the curtain. “God, no. It’s Theo. He just sent me the dumbest thing.”

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.

And then she crumples.

Her knees give first, the rest of her body following, collapsing like a marionette with its strings cut. Her arms hang loose at her sides, head tipping forward as gravity drains the strength from her, folding her into something broken and small.

She hits the floor in slow motion, limbs twisted beneath her—a ragdoll dropped by careless hands.

One moment she’s standing, vibrant and laughing. The next, she’s on the ground.

Silent.

Still.

Terrifyingly fragile.

I move before my brain can catch up.

My knees slam the floor, pain shooting up my legs, but I don’t feel it. My hands find her arms, her face, anywhere I can touch, anywhere I can prove she’s still here, still breathing.

“Bianca,” I choke, my voice shaking. “Hey, Bianca, come on. Talk to me. Fuck, say something.”

Her eyes flutter open, slow and unsteady, lashes trembling as she looks up at me. Her gaze is clouded, unfocused, searching my face as if I’m a stranger. Her lips part, moving without sound, words trapped somewhere deep in her throat.

She gasps, shallow and uneven, her chest rising and falling too fast.

Under the harsh store lights her skin looks too pale, sweat gathering on her forehead, dark hair plastered to her temple. She looks fragile, nothing like the fierce, vibrant girl who was laughing with me only moments ago.