Page 33 of Seven Lost Summers (Broken Oasis #3)

Theo

S

he’s

stunning.

Always

fucking

has been.

But now she’s more. Something that hits harder, knocking me sideways in ways I never saw coming.

That wild hair, still a mess of chaos and don’t-give-a-shit attitude.

Those green eyes, sharper than I remember, deeper too.

They’ve witnessed more. Endured more. Lived through hell and come out the other side stronger for it.

She’s always carried herself as if the world didn’t get a say in who she was, but now a stillness sits beneath the fire, a steadiness that shows she’s survived more than she ever let on.

This isn’t only the Quinn I grew up with. This is the woman time carved out of her, the one life shaped through every scar and quiet moments she never talked about.

And fuck, I want to know all of it. Every second that built her into this beautiful woman. Every ache she never shared.

I saw how nervous she was when we walked up to her. The way she tried to keep her shit together, holding her head high the way she always does, but her fingers gave her away. Gripping the handle of that beat-to-shit suitcase, knuckles white, jaw locked.

So I did the only thing I know how to do.

I played it cool. Tossed in a smirk. Dropped a line. Tried to take the edge off, distract her from whatever the fuck was running through her head.

I’ve never flirted with Quinn Thomas.

Not once. That was always Nate’s game.

But now I can’t fucking stop.

The words fall out before I can stop them. My eyes refuse to stay where they’re supposed to. Every glance, every shift in the seat, every breath she takes messes with my head in ways I wasn’t ready for.

As Nate turns into the driveway, I catch her gaze in the mirror.

Her eyes widen when the gates swing open, revealing a long stretch of road that pulls us deeper into a world far removed from hers.

Trees rise on both sides, shadows sliding across the hood as the car drifts through.

We first pass Ace’s house. It’s a striking two-story structure, crafted from rich, dark brick that gleams subtly in the sunlight.

Lush green hedges frame the house, providing both privacy and a touch of natural beauty.

Majestic white pillars rise gracefully, supporting a broad porch that extends invitingly to the second floor.

It’s the kind of house that never sits quiet. Music always spilling out, people coming and going. The porch is scattered with guitars, half-drunk coffee cups, and that beautiful kind of chaos that somehow holds steady.

It’s all Ace and Scarlet. Messy, loud, but impossible not to love.

We roll past Xander’s place.

Golden light pours through wide windows, casting a warm glow that dances across the wrap-around veranda.

Alex’s bike lies abandoned at the foot of the steps.

The front garden is alive with color, always something blooming.

Poppy’s touch is everywhere, in the flowers arranged with care and the neat pathways she tends so meticulously.

Every detail radiates family, warmth, and belonging.

And finally, our place.

A double-story farmhouse with a wide porch and a front door that always sticks when it rains.

The lawn gets mowed often, though it never looks perfect.

Every board, every nail, every corner of the house was built from scratch.

Every inch was earned. This is the only home I’ve ever really known apart from Rose and Wes’s.

But this one I can proudly claim as mine. As ours.

This is where we return after every tour. After we’ve stood at Bianca’s graveside, broken and barely holding ourselves together. Here is where we learn how to breathe again, where the silence isn’t so fucking heavy. Where we keep each other upright when the grief gets too loud.

I watch Quinn in the mirror.

She doesn’t speak.

Doesn’t smile.

Only stares out the window, her face unreadable, hands resting in her lap. The car keeps moving forward, past everything we’ve become, and I can’t tell if she’s impressed or uncomfortable. If she’s holding her breath or has nothing left to say.

I wonder whether she’s taking everything in—the gates, the houses, the kind of life people dream about. I wonder if she’s sitting there, tallying every way we don’t belong side by side anymore.

Because Quinn Thomas will always belong in my life. No matter how different everything seems now.

I’m only sorry that it took us so fucking long to see her again. To find our way back to something that once seemed so easy.

Perhaps we didn’t know how to face each other after losing Bianca. Maybe we still don’t. But at least together we can try.

Quinn chased her dreams through a lens, always hunting with that quiet kind of hunger. She found beauty where most people never thought to look. Scraping by with almost nothing, she turned silence into moments that carried weight, fragments of time that actually meant something.

And us… we ran headfirst into the noise. Let the music swallow us whole. Chased the spotlight because that was the only thing that ever came close to Bianca. Played louder, moved faster, hoping if we kept going, we might catch a fragment of her in the chaos.

By the time the garage door opens and Nate steers the car inside, Quinn glances at me—and I catch the flicker in her eyes.

The way she goes still, as if her brain’s scrambling to keep up with everything she’s seeing.

Polished floors gleam under the garage lights.

A wall of guitars mounted as though they’re art.

Cars lined up as if they’re trophies. Cabinets worth more than most people make in a year.

The kind of space that doesn’t only show money, it screams it.

It’s a lot, I know. But what else do you do with money on this scale?

We barely spend any of it. Nate and I hand most of the cash over now—charities, foundations, kids trapped in the kind of places I once was.

And yet… standing here, in this showroom of a garage, watching Quinn try to make sense of all this, it still feels like too much. The kind you never talk about, because nothing could ever make it sound normal.

When we first started touring, opening for bands that are no longer together, we crashed on floors, barely scraping by, the whole thing was survival.

Once the album hit, the checks started rolling in.

Fast. Big. And one of the first things Nate and I agreed on was getting Wes and Rose a new house.

Something bigger. Something they deserved.

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.

I exhale hard through my nose. “Christ, Reynolds. Want to dim the lights while you’re at it? Maybe throw on some slow music before you interrogate me?”

He doesn’t blink.

He keeps staring, cutting through every wall I’ve ever built.

I swallow, jaw tight.

Fuck.