Page 30 of The Forbidden Summer
“I ever tell you about the time I tried to kiss someone at this fire when I was nineteen?” he says suddenly.
I raise my brows. “Ooh, storytime. Do tell.”
“She was… wild. A little dangerous. Wore too much eyeliner. Thought she was invincible.”
I smile, gently. “And?”
“And I chickened out.” He shrugs. “Sat here trying to be brave, trying to lean in… and didn’t. Regretted it all summer.”
I watch him quietly. “You ever see her again?”
He nods. “Once. Twenty years later. At a gas station in town. She was just as sharp. And married to a woman who looked like she could bench press me.”
I laugh. “Sounds like she won.”
“She did,” he agrees.
The marshmallow finally catches fire. I panic and blow it out, waving the stick around like an idiot. The blackened puff drops into the dirt.
Père smirks. “Told you.”
“Don’t mock my process,” I mutter, stabbing another one.
There’s a silence after that, but it’s not empty. It’sfull. With music and heat and the kind of wanting that fills up your chest like smoke.
I glance at him. “If I kissed you right now,” I say softly, “would you regret it in twenty years?”
He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t joke. “No,” he says. “I’d regret it if I didn’t.”
And still, he doesn’t move. Just lets it sit there. Letsmedecide.
Like I really have a choice? How could I not do it?
I slide around the fire slowly and settle beside him, our shoulders pressed together. I don’t kiss him yet, just lean into the warmth of him, feeling his breath change.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I whisper.
“I know,” he says.
We sit like that for the longest time, watching the flames rise and fall, stars blinking into existence above us.
Simmering.
Always simmering.
I’m still half-focused on the marshmallow I just yanked out of the fire, way too proud of myself for getting it golden-brown this time. I slide it onto a square of chocolate and graham cracker with more drama than necessary, and he gives me a look like he’s trying not to smile.
“See?” I say, offering it up. “Icanbe gentle.”
Père takes it from me, and our fingers brush again. He bites into it, a little too fast. Some of the marshmallow squishes out the side and sticks to the corner of his mouth. I can’t stop staring at it. Shiny and white and soft.
“God,” I say, grinning. “You’re a mess.”
He licks at it with the tip of his tongue and misses completely.
“Where?” he asks.
Instead of answering, I lean in. Just a few inches. Close enough that I can feel the heat off his skin, the faint smell of woodsmoke and toasted sugar. Close enough to see the way his breath hitches.
