Page 4 of Seven Lost Summers (Broken Oasis #3)

“I’ll be back in a second,” she mutters, already turning away

She heads for the closed door off the kitchen, pushes it open, and flicks on the light. A wash of red spills out, flooding the space.

A darkroom.

It’s the kind of space where silence clings to the walls. Where Quinn pulls memories out of the shadows and pins them down in black and white. Where moments that should’ve died still linger, refusing to be forgotten.

I lean forward, catching a glimpse inside.

Rows of photos hang from a string, clipped with tiny pegs, swaying as if they’re breathing. Black and white shots. Fragments of her world, pieces of what she’s seen.

I only get a second to look before Quinn steps back out, a large box cradled in her arms.

And just like that, the air shifts, because whatever’s in that box… it fucking matters.

Quinn steps forward and lowers the box onto the floor in front of us.

The cardboard is worn. The edges frayed, creased from being opened, closed, carried, and shoved aside more times than she’ll ever admit.

She grabs her beer from the table and sinks onto the floor behind the box, legs crossed, settling in like she knows this is going to take a while.

Another slow drink, then the bottle rests at her side.

Her fingers hover over the lid, pausing.

Instead of opening it, her gaze lifts, shifting between me and Nate—searching, measuring, making sure we’re ready for whatever the fuck waits inside.

Quinn finally lifts the lid from the box and sets it aside.

Nate leans in right away, elbows braced on his knees, eyes locked on the box as if it might hold a piece of her that hasn’t already slipped through the cracks.

Me?

I don’t move.

My eyes snag on the photo sitting right on top, and it’s already got me by the throat.

Bianca stands there, guitar slung over her shoulder, that smile tugging at her mouth—the one that cut through the darkest fucking days. She had that untouchable magic, carried the whole goddamn universe in her hands, and dared anyone to take it from her.

The sting hits fast, brutal, unforgiving.

I blink hard, fighting to hold it back, but the wave crashes in anyway. Because she’s still here. Caught in this photo. Out of reach.

Quinn reaches into the box, her fingers stalling at the edge of the photo, hovering as though the touch alone might split her open. She exhales, steadies herself, and lifts the worn image, placing it in Nate’s hands.

“Do you remember when this was taken?” Her voice barely carries, softer than usual.

Nate takes the photo, his grip tightening until the corners bend, knuckles whitening under the strain.

That’s when I catch it.

The shift. His whole body goes rigid, a flicker of something sharp and raw burning in his eyes. The tension carving itself into every line of him.

He swallows hard, thumb drifting over the photo’s edge, tracing it as though he could etch every detail into memory. When he finally speaks, his voice is low and rough, cracked open by whatever the picture dragged to the surface.

“Yeah… I remember.”

Quinn reaches back into the box, her fingers skimming over ghosts, over fragments of a past that refuses to stay buried. This time she doesn’t falter. She lifts a photo and passes it straight to Nate.

He takes the memory in his hands, and the instant his eyes lock on it, something in him cracks. His brows knit tight, breath torn from his chest by whatever that photo holds.

And then I see it too.

Bianca’s on Nate’s bed in the photo, guitar slouched at her side, that crooked smirk pulling at her lips.

Her eyes are bright, daring, carrying the kind of spark that made it seem like she had the whole damn world figured out.

Her hair’s a mess, strands curling across her cheek, windblown and wild, exactly how she always was.

And now she’s nothing but a photo in a fucking box.

My vision blurs before the burn even hits. I blink hard, but the heat only climbs higher. A tear breaks free, hot and fast, and I lock my jaw so tight it feels ready to snap. It doesn’t matter. Pain’s pain. And this… this fucking shatters me.

“You okay, Theo?” Quinn asks softly. But she already knows the answer, I’m not.

Nate turns, his eyes locking on mine, and for a moment the weight of it all nearly crushes me. Then his hand finds my leg, solid, steady, and fuck, that touch is everything. That quiet way he always knows when I’m about to fall apart. He doesn’t say a word. He never has to.

He’s been doing this for years—holding me together without ever asking for anything back. No questions. No judgment. Just him.

I don’t say a word. I grab my beer and take a long pull, hoping the cold will cut through the burn in my chest. It doesn’t.

Nothing ever fucking does. But his hand stays, steady, and for now that’s enough to keep me from breaking apart.

Quinn’s fingers trace the rim of the box, slow and careful, as though every memory inside might scorch her if she moves too fast. She hesitates, eyes darting between us, her mouth parting only to close again.

Then she exhales.

“Bianca told me once she was happiest when she was with you two.”

Both Nate and I look up.

Her voice is steady, but the words slice straight through.

“She said being with you made her believe she could do anything… be anything. That even when the world felt too heavy, having you both beside her gave her the courage to chase what she wanted.”

Nate blinks, and a softness flickers in his eyes, cutting through the weight of it all just enough to let a little air in.

And me?

I cling to Quinn’s words like they’re the only thing keeping me from coming apart at the seams. The ache shifts, just a fraction, knowing we gave her something good. And for the first time since opening that box, it almost feels like enough.

I look at the photo again.

That smile…unforced, unposed. Real. Real in a way nothing else is anymore.

Quinn reaches back into the box and lifts another photo, its edges worn soft with time—the kind that wasn’t just kept, but held. She turns it over in her hands, a small smile tugging at her lips before she finally shows it to us.

“Oh shit, I forgot about this,” she says, her voice lighter now, threaded with an edge of fondness that cuts a little too close.

Bianca’s swallowed up in one of Nate’s hoodies, sleeves hanging past her fingers, the fabric drowning her. She’s grinning, all teeth and trouble, like she knew exactly what she was doing.

Nate exhales, the sound closer to a memory than a laugh. His eyes stay fixed on the photo.

“I always wondered where that hoodie went.”

Quinn chuckles, shaking her head. “She didn’t take the hoodie. You gave it to her. She was freezing, remember?”

Nate nods slowly, as if he recalls every damn second of that night. “Yeah. I did.”

And just like that, the moment moves on.

Quinn keeps digging through the box.

More photos, ticket stubs, scraps of a life that would mean nothing to anyone else, but to us, mean everything.

Each piece hits with a memory, a second when she was still here. Breathing. Laughing. Owning every fucking room she stepped into.

Nate starts talking, his voice lighter than it’s been in days, shoulders easing as he spills story after story. All the dumb shit she used to say. All the times she got away with murder because of that damn smile.

Every laugh Nate lets slip, every half-smile tugging at Quinn’s mouth, drives one truth home, Bianca wasn’t just a loss. She was a light we were lucky to stand in, even if only for a while.

For the first time in forever, the silence in my chest doesn’t feel so fucking hollow.

So I let the stories pull me in.

Let their voices stitch over the cracks.

Let time slip past as we do the only thing left for us to do—the only way we can still keep her.… and that is… to remember.