Page 2 of The Forbidden Summer
When I was little, he was the center of my world. My rock. Père chartered boats on the Minnesota lakes, catering to tourists and fishermen. I’d watch him standing on the bow, or behindthe wheel, and think he was a god. Like Poseidon, ruling over the water and all its creatures, like loyal subjects. I believed him to be all-powerful.
But he couldn’t save me from being shipped off with my mom and her husband, and realizing he was only human, a mere mortal like the rest of us, was a crushing blow to my ten-year-old heart. It shattered the image I’d built of him—the untouchable, invincible figure who seemed like he could do anything.
When I left, I tried to hold on to that memory, tried to keep him in my thoughts as the steadfast protector, the one who would always be there, no matter what. But the distance grew, the visits became fewer, and with each passing year, I learned that no one, not even Père, could shield me from the things I couldn’t control.
I glance out the window, the fading light outside casting long shadows across the yard. “You ever wish things were like they used to be?”
Père pauses, the spoon in his hand hovering over the pot. “Can’t go back, son. But I wouldn’t trade the days we’ve had for anything.”
Son.He’s always called me that. Always treated me as if I belonged to him, even though I wasn’t really his. It’s a word that’s always carried weight, like a promise he made without saying it aloud.
I’ve always either called him Père, short for Grandpère, for his French-Canadian heritage, or Captain. I don’t think I’ve ever addressed him asWaylon. To me, he was never just a name. He was more than that—a title earned through years of loyalty, sacrifice, and love.
Père carries the steaming bowls to the table and takes a seatnext to me. He eyes my bare chest, a dark brow lifting questioningly. “What happened to your shirt?”
“It’s damp and sweaty. I’ll shower after dinner.”
He grunts, clearly not satisfied with the answer but not pressing the issue. He sets his beer down beside his plate and picks up his fork, digging in without another word.
As we eat in comfortable silence, I can tell Père’s watching me, probably waiting for me to open up. But I’m not ready. Not yet. After being separated for so many months, it always takes me a few days to settle in and slip back into our familiar routine.
Finally, he puts down his fork, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “So, how’s the carving coming along?” His voice is casual, but I can hear the underlying curiosity. He always wants to know how I’m doing—what I’m really doing, not just the surface-level answers I like to give.
“Good.” I take a slow bite of pasta. “Still figuring things out, though. It’s not something I’ll likely make a career out of, but I enjoy it.”
“What about the computer programming?”
I pause, the fork halfway to my mouth. My stomach twists a little, not from hunger, but from the question. I’m two semesters away from earning my bachelor’s, but my heart isn’t in it. I can’t see myself dressing up in a suit and tie every day, face glued to a computer screen for hours on end.
I set the fork down and lean back in my chair, running a hand through my hair. “It’s not for me, Père. I don’t know what I was thinking. I’m not cut out for that office life. It feels like I’m just going through the motions.”
Père studies me quietly. “You gotta do what makes you feel alive, son. You’ve always been the kind of person who needs tomove, to be out there, in the world. That computer stuff? That’s not you.”
I let out a breath, relieved by his understanding. It’s not that I don’t appreciate the opportunities or the way the degree would open doors, but I know deep down I’m not made for that kind of work. Not when I could be outside, feeling the wind and sun against my skin, working with my hands.
“I can’t breathe in an office, Père. I’m not myself if I’m not outside, sweating and breathing in fresh air. It’s the only place I really come alive.”
He nods, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “I know exactly what you mean. Just don’t forget that. Don’t let anyone tell you what you’re supposed to be. Find your own path.”
I study him, his rugged face a mix of wisdom and experience. There’s no doubt in my mind that he’d been through struggles of his own. He understands the need for freedom, the desire to carve out your own life. And for the first time in a long while, I feel like maybe I can.
Despite being twenty-two and no longer a little boy, I feel the overwhelming urge to crawl into his lap and hug him. There’s something about the way he sits there, steady and unshakable, that makes me want to be that small child again, seeking refuge in his arms. He always smells like fresh, clean man—a scent I associate with safety and comfort, one I’ve carried with me for years because of him.
I resist the impulse, but the warmth in my chest only grows stronger. Père’s my rock, the one person who’s never wavered, even when everything else in my life has changed. I feel the pull to him, the need to be close, to lean on him for a bit of that oldstrength I’ve been missing. The kind of strength that makes everything else seem a little easier to handle.
Instead, I sit quietly, watching him as he takes another sip of his beer, his weathered hands still steady, his gaze calm. I realize that no matter where life takes me, no matter how far apart we are or how much time passes, he’ll always be that pillar in my life. And for the first time in a long while, I don’t feel so lost.
Van
The northern Minnesota lake region at sundown is nothing short of breathtaking. As the sun begins to dip below the horizon, the sky transforms into a brilliant canvas of rich hues. The lake’s calm, reflective surface mirrors the colors, creating a seamless blend between sky and water.
The tall pines and birches stand as dark silhouettes along the shoreline, their branches swaying gently in the cool evening breeze. As I bound down the porch steps, I take a deep breath of the crisp air. A chorus of crickets greets me. My subdivision back home is much quieter at night. It’s nothing like the raw, wild beauty of the forest surrounding the lake.
Père stretches out in a hammock, lazily rocking in the breeze. Grabbing the edge, I plant my butt next to him.
“Careful, Van. You’ll tip us on our asses.”
“Not if you lay very still,” I tease, lying beside him.
