Page 42 of The Forbidden Summer
“I used to think about this,” I say, my voice quiet, hesitant. “Not just the kissing. But... this part. The after. Sitting with you like this. Letting it feel real.”
Père looks down at me, something unreadable in his eyes. “You did?”
“Every summer.”
His expression falters. Then he lets out a long breath, like he’s exhaling all the years we tiptoed around this.
“You deserve someone better,” he says eventually.
“Too late,” I tease gently. “I already picked you.”
He snorts under his breath and pulls me closer, his cheek resting against the top of my head. We sit there in the slow sway of the swing, wrapped in the hush of a summer night, while the stars spill across the sky above us like they're eavesdropping on something sacred.
Neither of us rushes. Not now. Not when we’ve waited this long.
Van
“We should go out tonight. I need a break from the wilderness.”
Père looks up, still stirring the pot of spaghetti sauce. “Out? To where?”
“Isn’t there a bar in Stony Creek? We could get a drink.”
He blinks at me like I’ve just suggested we drive to Vegas. “You want to gooutout?”
I grin, tossing a dishtowel over my shoulder. “Yeah. You know, chairs that aren’t splintery, music that isn’t frogs and crickets, drinks that don’t come from the bottom shelf of your old pantry.”
He chuckles but doesn’t meet my gaze, busyinghimself with another stir of the sauce. “And what do we tell the locals when they see us? Sit on opposite ends of the bar like we don’t know each other?”
I move in behind him and brace my hands on the counter beside his. “We’re just two guys getting a drink.”
He doesn’t say no, and that’s as close to a yes as I need.
For Pete’s Sake Saloon is all rough edges and worn charm. Weathered barn wood walls, twinkle lights strung above the bar like a forgotten Christmas decoration, a jukebox crooning old country songs in the corner. It smells like beer and bar nuts, with that faint stickiness underfoot that lets you know they mop more out of habit than effect.
“You always this fun on a night out?” I tease, nudging his boot under the table.
He doesn’t smile, not quite, but there’s something softer in his gaze now. “Just thinking.”
“Me too. You mentioned wanting to spend more time at the cabin this year.” Thinking of leaving at the end of summer makes my stomach knot. “What will you do to keep busy?”
He shrugs. “Same as always. Think. Fish. Whittle. Take the boat out. Fix whatever breaks.”
“That sounds lonely.”
“I like lonely. Gives me space.”
I try not to let that sting. “And me?” I ask, a lump forming in my throat.
“You,” he says, swirling the ice in his glass, “need to go home.”
My stomach turns. Not jealousy. Not even hurt. Just that slow-rolling ache of a good thing with an expiration date.
“I don’t want to go,” I admit, watching the way thecondensation beads on my glass. “I know I have to. I just...don’t want to.”
He looks at me, really looks at me. There’s warmth in it, but also steel.
“You need space. Time to sort out what this is. Talk to your folks. Feel things without me muddying them.”
