Page 29 of The Forbidden Summer
“Of course I meant it,” he defends heatedly. “That’s the problem.”
Suddenly it’s a little harder to breathe. The lake goes still again. No wind, no birds, just the heat of his hand over mine and the absence of everythingnotbeing said.
I swallow. “Okay, but like… if wehappento end up behind the shed, I won’t fight you on it.”
He closes his eyes and exhales a laugh. “You’re insufferable.”
“Yeah,” I murmur, smiling. “But I’m yours.”
“You are mine,” he confirms. His thumb brushes against the back of mine absently, like it’s a habit he picked up somewhere along the way and never let go of. Père finally lets go of my hand. Not in a bad way. Just like it costs him something. He sits up, knees bent with his elbows on them, staring out at the water. “You keep poking at it,” he says after a while. “Like it’s a joke. Like it’s harmless.”
I sit up too, arms wrapped around my legs. “It’s not harmless,” I say quietly. “That’s the whole reason I keep poking.”
He huffs out a laugh. Not mean. Just tired. “You’re trouble.”
“And you like trouble.”
“Doesn’t mean I should.”
I glance over. His profile’s all golden edges and quiet restraint. Jaw tight, lips soft. The look of someone tryingreally hardnot to want something they already have.
“Look,” I say, nudging his knee with mine. “We don’t have to do anything behind the shed. I just like being near you. I like it when you look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you’re trying not to.”
That gets me a smile. Barely there, but real. “You make it hard.”
“I know.” I grin, nudging him again. “But it’s summer. You’re allowed to want dumb things in summer. Snow cones. Fireworks. Me.” We both know I’m going to want him long after summer is over.
Père laughs, but still, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t kiss me. Just leans back on his hands, eyes on the horizon. “You keep simmering like this, Van, and one of us is gonna boil over.”
I lean into his side, just barely. “That’s the plan.”
The grill’s been cold for an hour. Smoke's gone, the lake's quiet, and the sky’s dipped into full navy blue. We lit the old fire pit in front of the cabin. Père insisted on doing it therealway, no lighter fluid, just dry pine needles and a single match like he’s some kind of mountain wizard. Of course, it worked.
We’re sitting on opposite sides of the fire, but close enough that our knees brush every so often when I move. Close enough that I can hear the way he exhales when he thinks I’m not paying attention.
He’s playing something on the old portable radio. Some dusty rock ballad I don’t recognize, but it sounds like summer and longing and missed chances. The kind of song that makes you stare into the fire too long.
I poke a marshmallow onto a stick and hold it out over the flames. He watches, smiling like I’m a dumbass about to set it on fire.
“You gonna do it right this time?” he asks.
“Define ‘right.’”
“Golden. Toasted. Not scorched and crying.”
I squint at him. “I’m a chaotic marshmallow toaster with a tendency for pyromania.”
“You’re a menace.”
I wiggle my eyebrows. “But I’myourmenace.”
Why do I keep pushing? Maybe because my life has been tossed upside down like a boat caught in a storm, and I need the reassurance that underneath everything—the feelings, the tension, the kiss—he’s still my grandad, my Père.
He leans back, hands laced behind his head, and justlooksat me. Firelight flickering across his face, softening all the lines and sharpening his eyes. It’s criminal, honestly. He should be illegal.
