Page 31 of Seven Lost Summers (Broken Oasis #3)

Quinn

M

y

nerves

have

been

shot for the last forty-eight hours. Ever since I hit send on those photos, I’ve been stuck in this endless loop—second-guessing every frame, every angle, wondering if what I gave Kit was enough. Wondering if I’m enough.

Soon after, Kit called.

There was no small talk. No drawn-out waiting game.

She went straight to the point, rattling off flight details and timelines as if this wasn’t the biggest fucking moment of my career.

Two weeks to capture the behind-the-scenes while they record the album.

Two weeks of living in their space, watching through my lens, pretending my hands don’t shake every time I lift the camera.

I half expected to wake up the second I hung up. Part of me still does.

Photography has always been my escape.

A way to leave fingerprints on the world without saying a word. But this gig is different. From the way Kit laid it out, these photos could go everywhere. My name on something real. Something massive. It’s thrilling and terrifying all at once. Everything I’ve ever wanted.

I just hope I don’t fuck this up.

The plane landed twenty minutes ago, and I’ve been hiding in the airport bathroom ever since, gripping the edge of the sink like it’s the only thing keeping me steady.

My reflection doesn’t help. I look flushed, nervous, hair refusing to stay down no matter how many times I try to flatten it. I drag my fingers through it again anyway, pretending it’ll make a difference. Pretending I come across as someone who’s got her shit together.

But I don’t.

I tell myself it’s only Nate and Theo. The same boys from high school.

Theo, the one who used to sit beside me at parties, trading bullshit theories about the universe until sunrise. Nate with that dumbass smirk and even dumber pickup lines I shut down every time without blinking.

Bianca’s boys.

But that was before.

Now they’re the walking wet dream of every girl with a pulse. All bad-boy swagger and tattooed charm, with that too-cool, too-famous shine that makes you forget they were ever only boys you shared smokes with behind a gym.

They’re larger than life now. Nate and Theo, front and center of the hottest fucking band on the planet.

So yeah… I think I’ve earned this minor breakdown in an airport bathroom. Because I’m not simply photographing two guys I used to know. I’m stepping into the eye of the storm and praying I don’t get swallowed whole.

I wanted to crawl out of my own skin when they saw where I lived.

The cracked walls. The thrifted couch with one leg that wobbled every time someone sat down.

The stack of ramen boxes shoved into a corner pretending to be a pantry.

It wasn’t only small; it screamed survival.

I caught it in their faces the second they stepped inside—that flicker of pity, guilt, surprise.

For one sharp, breathless second, I almost told them to leave.

Almost let the shame take over and drive me straight into an excuse.

But I didn’t. Because I know who I am. I’m not chasing pay checks, comfort, or some polished version of success.

I’m chasing moments. That click of the shutter when the world holds its breath.

That rush when I catch something too honest to fake.

Photography isn’t my job. It’s the only thing I’ve ever loved.

So yeah, my place is a dump. But it’s mine. And they weren’t there to judge me.

They were there for Bianca.

After that day in my apartment, after the beers went warm and the pizza went cold, when we sat there drowning in memories of the girl who once held all our broken pieces together, I thought I’d get a call from them.

I hoped those hours meant more than a trip down memory lane. That we weren’t strangers anymore.

But only Theo texted.

A simple thank you for the box of memories I’d handed him.

And that was it.

No call or message from Nate. No sign that either of them was still sitting in that moment the way I was.

I’d be lying if I said it didn’t sting. I wanted to believe we’d found our way back to something real, even if only for a moment.

But the truth is, they’re in a different world now.

One with sold-out shows, flashing lights, and people screaming their names. A world too loud to catch the echoes of what we used to be.

They moved on.

And me… I’m still here. Still clinging to the ghosts. Still remembering for all of us.

I lift my head and stare at my reflection.

Get your shit together, Quinn. It’s only a job. A normal, totally casual, not-at-all nerve-wracking job that happens to involve four of the most recognizable faces in the music industry.

I square my shoulders, study my reflection again, and pretend I don’t resemble someone two seconds away from hurling into the sink.

Clothes… fine.

Hair… mostly co-operating.

Sanity… questionable.

I glance down and sigh. Of course. These cheap-ass laces have come undone again.

I crouch and yank them tight, double-knotting as if my life depends on it. The last thing I need is to face-plant in front of them. Tripping over my own feet all the time is humiliating enough.

One more fall and someone will start a GoFundMe for my coordination.

I take a breath, shake out my hands, and head for baggage claim. Simply grab the suitcase, walk out, act like a functioning adult.

Easy.

And that’s when I spot it.

Or more accurately, I spot the disaster riding the conveyor belt as if it’s proud of itself.

My suitcase.

Wide open.

Zipper blown.

My entire life spilling out in slow, mortifying motion.

A bra dangles from the side, practically waving to the crowd. A pair of socks cling to a rolled-up t-shirt. My underwear takes a full runway lap under the fluorescent lights.

People are watching— and I can hear it.

The soft laughter, whispered jokes, a low chuckle from somewhere behind me.

A guy elbows his friend, both of them grinning as if my personal nightmare is their after-flight entertainment.

My black lace bra hangs off the edge of the conveyor, swinging with every bump as if it’s taking a final bow.

Kill me.

Right here, right now on this sticky airport floor.

End it already.

I shove through the crowd, heat crawling up my neck, and lunge for the suitcase.

The second I grab it, the weight shifts. And of course, half my underwear spills out. A handful of panties hit the floor, right on top of some guy’s boots.

He looks down.

After that, his gaze lifts straight to me.

A strangled sound slips out of me, caught between a gasp and a groan.

I snatch up the lacy evidence of my suffering and shove everything back into the suitcase as if I’m cramming my dignity in with it.

People are watching.

I catch a few snickers, some muffled laughs, and soon a guy calls out something crude behind me. I want to turn around and tell him to fuck off, to choke on his own tongue, but I don’t. I’m too mortified to even lift my head.

I knot my hoodie around the suitcase, praying it holds.

It doesn’t.

Not really. The corners still gape open, a sock rebelliously poking out as if it’s ready to make another run for it.

I keep my eyes forward and speed-walk out of baggage claim, dragging my disaster of a suitcase behind me. Each wheel thumps against the tiles, a fucking drumbeat announcing my shame to the world.

I keep my chin up and pretend I’m not dying inside. Even though I absolutely am.

I don’t stop.

I don’t glance back.

If I pretend this never happened, perhaps it’ll disappear from existence.

Unlikely. But a girl can dream.

I keep my head down as I move through the airport, gripping my half-destroyed suitcase as if it’s not actively trying to humiliate me again.

Kit told me where to find my driver, and that’s exactly where I’m going.

No detours. No eye contact. No more moments that’ll haunt me at three in the morning for the rest of my life.

And that’s when I see them.

I freeze, my pulse kicking up as my eyes lock onto Nate and Theo standing only a few feet ahead. Their heads are tilted close, attention fixed on Theo’s phone. They haven’t noticed me yet, and I know I should keep moving before they raise their heads and catch me staring.

But I don’t.

I can’t.

Because fuck.

They’re gorgeous. Both of them.

I forgot how good they look together. How they carry that effortless, bad-boy energy, as if it’s stitched into their DNA.

Theo grips his phone in one hand, the other flexing at his side, veins pronounced, ink shifting with every subtle movement.

His hair is wild and untamed, and that mouth…

God, that mouth, the way it curves into a smirk so slow and smug it’s practically foreplay.

He carries himself differently now. Broader.

Looser. The hoodie-wearing boy who once disappeared into shadows learned how to own the room instead.

Fame didn’t only give him confidence, it carved it into every inch of him.

And fuck if it doesn’t suit him too well.

And Nate, fuck.

He’s all angles and sin, sharp jawline cut from arrogance, a mouth set in that half-smirk that’s wrecked a hundred girls before breakfast. That blonde hair…

a mess of fingers and recklessness, tousled enough to make you wonder who got to touch it last. He carries a presence that makes rooms fall silent and pulses race.

Black ripped jeans cling to long legs, a fitted tee stretched across his chest, silver rings flashing on his fingers…

trouble you want to taste. The tattoos climbing his arms don’t merely peek, they tease, bold and unapologetic.

When he moves, it’s with a swagger that erases the possibility of seeing anyone else.

They’re rockstars now.

Untouchable.

Larger than life.

And here I am, standing in an airport with my dignity stuffed into a half-broken suitcase and my nerves shot to hell.

Awesome.

Heat curls low in my gut as I watch them, my body betraying me with every second I keep staring. Because fuck. I want them both.