Page 56 of Seven Lost Summers (Broken Oasis #3)

Theo

T

he

pizza’s

cold.

Limp

and greasy, but I’m still shoving it into my mouth. I’m not starving. I just don’t have the energy to care.

I’m stretched out on the couch, half-dead and sauce-stained, one foot hooked on the coffee table, the other planted flat on the floor.

The pizza box sits open on the table, grease bleeding through the cardboard, crusts scattered across the lid in lazy disarray, each one a sad little tombstone for my self-respect.

The cheese has gone rubbery. Each bite clings, stretching between my fingers and my face as though the stringy mess is trying to escape the slow descent into hell.

The TV’s on.

Real Housewives of Somewhere Plastic.

Poppy and Xander’s favourite disaster. I keep the noise running to pretend they’re here.

Screaming women, flinging martinis and accusations, twisting themselves into verbal gymnastics over who slept with whose husband during what charity gala.

One of them hurls a diamond-encrusted shoe and I don’t even blink.

Because the rest of the house… yeah, that’s not quiet either.

Somewhere down the hall, Nate’s busy fucking Quinn as if the world’s ending.

Again… Loudly.

There’s nothing subtle about it. The walls might as well be made of tissue paper.

I chew slowly because what else am I meant to do while our past catches fire in the other room.

I pretend the screeching blonde on screen is why my head’s fucked. That it’s the show unraveling me, not the sound of Quinn moaning Nate’s name three doors down.

It’s easier to lie to myself.

Easier than admitting that one night, back before Bianca, when Quinn and I sat on the porch at some party, both drunk enough to be honest.

She was talking.

I don’t even remember what about. I just remember thinking what would it feel like to touch her.

I’d never wanted to touch anyone. Not back in those days. Not after what happened to me.

But for a split second, I did.

And now Nate’s in that room doing all the things I never let myself imagine.

I toss another crust onto the lid right as the silence finally hits.

Miracle of the fucking year. The quiet presses in now, unnatural, eerie after what felt like hours of Quinn sounding like she was auditioning for a porno, and Nate.

Fuck, those moans of his weren’t the usual kind either.

They were guttural. The kind a man makes when he’s not just getting laid. He’s being fucking exorcised.

I let the silence settle into the space as I wipe my fingers on my pants because the napkins are all the way across the room and I’m too fucking emotionally drained right now to move.

I glance over as Nate strolls in, all smug, hair wet from the shower.

His sweatpants hang low. Chest bare and unfairly fucking perfect. A towel draped around his neck like he thinks he’s shooting for the next Calvin Klein campaign instead of just blowing out Quinn’s back in the next room.

Of course he looks good. Smug bastard.

He walks into the kitchen and yanks the fridge open, staring into it like he’s genuinely surprised the steaks didn’t cook themselves.

He grabs two beers, pops both caps off, then strolls over and drops onto the couch beside me. Without a word, he hands one over and tosses the towel onto the floor.

“Sorry, man,” he mutters, reaching for a slice of cold pizza. “I realize we were supposed to have steaks tonight, but—”

“But you got distracted,” I say, lifting the beer in mock salute.

He smiles.

Not the fake shit he throws on stage.

Not the dead-eyed version he uses when cameras flash or fans scream his name.

This one’s real. Slow. Lopsided. The kind of smile that doesn’t fight its way through him first.

And fuck, it’s been a long time since I’ve seen that.

His eyes spark with something that looks a hell of a lot like peace.

That used to be him. Before the world fucking shattered and grief took to us with a sledgehammer.

But now.

Now I’m watching that version crawl its way back through the cracks. One breath at a time.

It’s Quinn.

She’s doing that.

She’s reaching into places he swore were dead and pulling the pieces out.

She’s bringing him back. To himself. To us.

“Thought I might have to call the cops,” I mutter, smirking over the rim of my beer. “With all the screaming going on in that room.”

Nate takes a bite of pizza and grins around the mouthful. “You’re one to talk. You treat sex like a fucking competition. Half the time, I swear you’re only trying to see who can make them scream louder.”

“Oh, please.” I scoff, waving pizza crust in his direction. “That’s not a competition. That’s a public service.”

He laughs, mouth still full. “Honestly… I’m shocked you didn’t come knocking. Moaning girls are usually your bat signal.”

I lean back, take another sip of beer, and nod solemnly. “My dick and I had a very serious talk. He wanted to help. I told him no.”

Nate laughs and some fucked-up part of me loosens at the sound.

“Why didn’t you?” he asks, licking sauce off his thumb like we’re not talking about the girl he’s always wanted to fuck.

I pause. Not because I’m unsure, but giving the truth its space.

“I know you’ve wanted that since the day she shut you down with all those pick up lines,” I say, tilting my head toward him. “Don’t bother lying. You smiled through every rejection.”

That grin spreads again. All teeth, mischief, and yeah, the nostalgia. He remembers.

“Was it everything you imagined?” I ask.

Nate leans back, pizza still in hand, eyes on the ceiling like it’s got answers he never thought to ask.

“You know, back then, my teenage brain had it all mapped out. Quick. Messy. Loud.” He huffs a laugh. “Probably would’ve lasted all of thirty seconds and still thought I’d nailed it.”

He glances over, and something shifts behind his eyes.

“I wouldn’t have known how to fuck her like that. Wouldn’t have known how to pull an orgasm out of her so hard she’d forget her own name.” His voice dips. “Back then, I would’ve just screwed the whole thing up. So yeah. I’m glad she shut me down.”

I nod, lips twitching. “Look at you. All grown up and sentimental. Do we get you a little trophy? Or perhaps a condom wrapper with ‘well done’ stamped across the front?”

He snorts, head tipping back against the couch as he lets out a short laugh. “Fuck off.”

But he’s smiling, and he doesn’t deny a thing.

After that, the room goes quiet. Not awkward. Only the kind of silence that settles in when you’ve both said enough for a minute.

I take a breath and let the silence sit for a moment more before I say: “I feel bad for her, man.”

Nate turns toward me, one brow lifted.

“You know... the way we left her there. In that fucked-up town. After everything.” My jaw tightens. “Bianca dies, and we run. Meanwhile, Quinn stays behind, carrying it all.

He doesn’t answer right away. Just continues chewing before swallowing hard.

“Yeah,” he finally says, voice quieter now. “But you know why we had to go.”

I do. Of course I do.

We weren’t just running. We were crawling toward something that didn’t hurt to look at. The dream we both promised Bianca we’d follow. That town was a fucking graveyard. Every street, every beat of every song had her ghost stitched into it. Staying would’ve gutted us.

So we left. Packed up our grief with our gear and ran.

And Quinn. She fucking stayed in the ashes. In the silence. In the shadow of every place Bianca ever smiled.

“Where is she?” I ask, dragging my thumb along the label of my beer.

Nate runs a hand through his damp hair. “Shower.”

I nod. Cool. Casual. Pretending the word doesn’t hit low and dirty. That I’m not picturing her naked, dripping, soap sliding over that skin. Pretending I didn’t hear her scream his name so loud the neighbours probably need a cigarette.

“You’re falling for her,” I say.

The words come out low, barely a breath. No smirk. No sarcasm. Only the truth, stripped bare and dropped between us as though meaningless. When in reality, the truth is everything.

Nate freezes.

He turns his head, and meets my eyes.

And in that split second, I see everything. The weight pressing heavy in his chest. Not fear or doubt. Only the quiet fucking truth.

He’s already gone.

Already fucked.

The kind of fucked that rearranges your whole damn wiring.

And I understand.

God, I fucking understand.

Because saying the words out loud, that’s what makes everything real. That’s when the clock starts ticking. That’s when the universe starts looking for ways to rip it away from you, because nothing good ever lasts.

He probably won’t say the words. That’s easier. He’ll bury the truth. Shove the feeling down somewhere it can’t be seen or touched or stolen. Somewhere nothing can shatter the parts of us that are still bleeding.

But before I can get another word out, Quinn walks in.

And fuck me… everything stops. My pulse. My breath. Even the fucking earth stops spinning.

Her hair’s still wet, hanging in tangled strands that cling to her skin like they know how lucky they are. A loose oversized shirt hangs off one shoulder teasing the line of her chest, hitched just high enough to show the tops of her thighs.

Bare legs. Long, toned, but still slick in places the towel didn’t catch. And those fucking thighs my head was between days ago, my mouth buried in her like I needed the taste of her to stay alive.

Her eyes cut straight to us, pinning us both like she knows what we’ve been talking about.

She’s not just beautiful, she’s fucking lethal. And right now, she’s the most dangerous thing I’ve ever seen.

Nate doesn’t say a word. Only fucking stares at her like his body forgot how to move.

She walks in slow, bare feet whispering against the tiles, skin still dewy from the heat of the shower. Her eyes flick to the pizza box, casual as if she didn’t just walk in here looking like sin itself.

“You want pizza?” I ask, my voice rough, catching in my throat before I can smooth it out.