Page 32 of The Forbidden Summer
“Comeon.” I nudge his leg with mine. “Tell me.”
“Van…” Père sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m just coming to grips with these feelings, and you want me to go intodetailabout them. It’s hard for me.”
I grin, teasing because I know it softens him. “Think of it like therapy.”
He huffs out a laugh, but it’s a fragile one. He leans back, his fingers still lightly gripping the letter, his eyes tracking the flicker of flame in the fireplace.
“I’ve always felt the closeness of our bond,” he says finally. “You’ve always been my boy. And I’ve always been the man you looked up to.”
There’s a pause. I can hear the rain starting outside, a gentle tap against the roof, and the soft crackle of wood giving way to heat.
“Remember that wet dream?” he says, almost like he’s testing me. “The one that got you booted to the couch?”
My ears go hot. “Hard to forget.”
He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “At the time I thought it was just adolescence. Hormones. Growing pains. But in the summers that followed, I started wondering if maybe it had something to do with me.”
I don’t say anything. I don’tbreathe.
“You’re terrible at hiding your flirting,” he says, glancing at me, just for a second. “Your attraction. It’s as blatant as the nose on your face.”
I try to look innocent. He raises a brow.
“When you were in high school, I realized you had a crush on me,” he continues. “But that’s all I thought it was. You, figuring yourself out. Practicing on the man you felt safest with.”
Something twists in my chest. I want to protest. Tell him it wasneverpractice. But I don’t interrupt.
“It wasn’t until last year… maybe the year before,” he says slowly. “When you started college. When you brought that… that written porn up here.”
I stifle a laugh. “It was research.”
Père gives me a look.
“I realized it was more than just a crush,” he says. “And that it wasn’t so harmless, either. That’s when I started reevaluating things. Started seeingyoudifferently.”
My heart is beating too loud in my ears. I can’t move. I can barely sit still.
“It was just a thought here or there at first,” Père explains. “An image I couldn’t shake. Something… unwanted. Invasive. But it didn’t stop there. It got into my dreams. My subconscious. I’d picture you in ways I shouldn’t. And I didn’twantto, Van. I didn’t want to feel that way.”
I feel like I’ve just stepped off a cliff, but he’s not done.
“I don’t know what to do with all these feelings,” he says, voice hoarse now. “I want to act on them selfishly… but sensibly. Because I know what you think you want, but I also know I’m older, and this world doesn’t give men like us much room to make mistakes.”
I swallow hard. My voice is quiet when I finally speak.
“It’s not a mistake.”
He looks at me then. Really looks. Like he’s trying to find some version of himself in my eyes that he’s not ashamed of.
I reach out. Not dramatic. Not some movie-scene lunge. Just my hand, slow and deliberate, crossing the quiet divide between us. My fingers brush his. Then his wrist. And then I wrap my hand around his and anchor him to me like I’m grounding us both.
His fingers twitch in mine before settling.
“I see you,” I say, voice barely above a whisper. “I’ve always seen you. Even before I knew what I was looking at.”
He stares at the fire for a long time without speaking, without pulling away.
So I go on, softer still. “I’m not a kid anymore. I know what this is. What it isn’t. You don’t have to protect me from myself.”
