Page 23 of The Forbidden Summer
Theirs.
Ours.
As we sit down to look through the pictures, I know we’re doing more than just reading about Harold and Elliot. We’re honoring their love, giving them the voice they never had. And in a way, we’re giving ourselves something too—permission to share our own story, whatever it may become.
Waylon
That night, after dinner, a shirtless Van curls up in my arms on the couch. His skin feels impossibly soft and smooth, and he smells of cedar and pine scented body wash, fresh from his shower, hair still damp.
I take the first letter from the pile and carefully unfold it, fingers tracing the faded paper. The handwriting is elegant, almost a little too beautiful for the messy, complex emotions contained within the words. It’s a love letter, pure and raw, with no shame in the way it speaks of a longing that stretched far beyond physical distance.
I read aloud, my voicecarrying the weight of what they must have felt.
“My dearest Elliot,”
I begin, and Van leans closer, his attention entirely on the words.
“There is not a moment I don’t think of you. The nights feel endless without you beside me, and the days pass in a blur of ache, waiting for the next chance I have to see you. I wish I could hold you close, where no one could question our love. But until then, I will carry you with me, every step of the way. Yours, forever—Harold.”
Van’s bright eyes meet mine after I finish reading. There’s something unspoken in his gaze, an understanding that passes between us. “They were brave,” he says quietly, his voice thick with emotion. “To love like that, despite everything.”
I nod, my heart heavy with respect for them. “Yeah. They were. And maybe that’s what we’ve been afraid of all along. But look at them. They didn’t hide, not really. They just found their own way to make it work.”
He reaches for another letter, his hand brushing mine as he does, and I feel something stir deeper between us. It’s not just the words we’re reading, it’s the meaning behind them. The love. The defiance. The hope that no matter how hard or uncertain the road is, we canwalk it. Together.
Maybe.
Van’s fingers linger over the next letter, and I can tell he’s not just listening to the words but feeling them, too. “We’re not alone in this,” he mutters, almost to himself. “Harold and Elliot, they made it. They loved each other, even when it was hard. We can, too.”
My heart threatens to pound right out of my chest at his daring confession. Every time he speaks of our feelings out loud, the same tornado swirls in my gut. I clear my throat, forcing myself to focus on the letters in front of us. What I wish I could say is, “We can. And when the time’s right, we’ll make our own story, our own way.” But instead, I choke on the words. They taste bitter as I swallow them back.
A pang of something, fear, maybe, or regret, tightens in my chest. Van’s so sure of himself, so fearless in the face of what we are. He doesn’t care about the stares, the whispers, or the judgment that could come crashing down on us if anyone knew. I envy that. Hell, I admire it. But for me? The weight of all those eyes, of the world watching, feels like a constant pressure against my ribs. It’s not easy to be this exposed. To want someone so badly but know the world isn’t ready to accept it.
I let out a slow breath, trying to steady myself. “You’re brave, you know that?” My voice feels rough as I say it, like the words don’t quite match what’s in my head. I want to tell him I’m scared. I want to tell him I’m terrified of what I feel. But how can I say that when he’s looking at me like he is, like he believes in us, like he’s ready to throw everything on the line?
“Maybe it’s easier when you don’t think about the consequences,” he says, his voice uncharacteristically quiet, as if he’s weighing his own thoughts now. “But… I don’t think I’ve ever thought about it like that. Maybe it’s just easier for me to want something and go after it. Maybe I don’t think about the repercussions until after.”
I swallow thickly, trying to push past the lump in my throat. “And you’re okay with that? With it all? With what people might say?”
Van shrugs, that cocky grin tugging at his lips again. “Honestly? Yeah. I think you’re worth it.”
His words slap me in the face, but in the best way possible.
“I want our love to be more than just a rock in a monument. I don’t want to lock it up in a nasty shed for decades in the dark. I want to live our story out loud, Cap. I want to shout it from the rooftops. I want the world to know what we have. Because what we have is real, and it’s worth something. It’s worth every risk, every consequence, and every damn opinion out there. It’s us, Cap. And I want everyone to see it.”
His words are bold and fearless, a promise wrapped in defiance. I feel my heart stutter in my chest, a mix of admiration and terror rising within me. He’s so sure. So fucking sure of us, of this, of what we’re doing. It makes my stomach churn with a thousand different emotions, but beneath it all, there’s something else—a flicker of something I’ve been trying to ignore.
Hope.
I blink, realizing I’ve been holding my breath. “Van,” I start, my voice thick with uncertainty, “it’s not that simple.”
This isn’t only about public opinion or distancing what’s left of our family. This is about me and Van. I could lose him. And he’s the only thing I have left that matters.
His grin falters for just a second, but it’s gone before I can fully catch it. “I know it’s not. But I think it’s worth trying.”
His eyes hold mine with that intensity, that confidence. It’s like he sees something I don’t, something worth fighting for,something worth putting everything on the line. And for a brief, terrifying moment, I wonder if maybe he’s right. Maybe we don’t need to hide. Maybe we don’t need to be quiet about this.
Maybe we deserve to shout our love, too.
