Page 11 of The Forbidden Summer
“You’ve got me for as long as you need,” he adds, his voice ringing strong with conviction.
Waylon
I should have gone back inside the second I heard his footsteps. But I stayed. I didn’t turn around. Didn’t even flinch when he sat near me.
I thought, if I don’t move, maybe he’ll stay quiet. Maybe I can pretend this is nothing. That we’re nothing.
But he didn’t.
Of course, he didn’t.
Van has this way of speaking—soft, sincere. And when his words start to carry too much weight, he switches to humor, and wants you to think it’s all just a joke, but if you listenclosely, it’snot.
“You ever feel like everything’s about to change,” he asks, “but you’re the only one who knows it?”
He doesn’t look at me when he says it. Thank God. Because I’m already looking at him.
He looks pale in the moonlight. Fragile. Vulnerable.
And I—God.
I edge closer, just a hair, letting my shoulder settle near his as if by accident, and let myself imagine what it would feel like if he reached back.
Of course, he doesn’t.
And I’mrelieved.
And I’mdisappointed.
I don’t know what I’m doing. My head’s a fucking mess.
He flirts like it’s nothing. Like the risk doesn’t cost him anything. And I don’t know how to live like that. With all thisfeelingon the surface. Like it’s not dangerous. Like it won’t ruin everything.
But I sit here anyway. Breathing the same air. Feeling everything shift beneath me like ice underfoot.
And I don’t move.
I still haven’t decided what that means. It’s not supposed to be like this.
When did Van grow up? He resembles a man now, albeit a young one, but the boy I raised is long gone.
Want is supposed to be clean. Tidy. You feel it, you shelve it. You act on it or you don’t. It shouldn’t feel like unraveling. It shouldn’t sit in your chest like a secret you don’t have language for.
But Van—he makes everythingmessy.
Not on purpose. Well, maybe a little. He’s just...so easy tolove. Loud and bright and careless in ways that don’t make sense. He talks to me like I’m someone special. Like he sees me.
And I hate how badly I want to be seen.
His eyes linger when he looks at me, and I can feel the heat sparking in his gut and mine. I know what those looks mean. I’ve watched them develop every summer for the past few years. He’s become bolder in his flirting. It used to feel harmless, like hero worship. Now, though, it feels dangerous. Like fanning the tiniest ember could cause a raging wildfire to burn out of control.
I’ve beenso good. For so long. Careful. Boundaried. You don’t let yourself want things, and you don’t get hurt. That’s the trade. That’s how you stay upright when everything else cracks.
And now he’s in my head.
Van, with his crooked smile and his hands always reaching for something—tools, trouble,me.Not really. Not yet. But almost.
He brushes past me too closely. Makes jokes that hang in the air like questions. Looks at me like he’s waiting for me to catch up to something he already knows.
