Page 5 of The Forbidden Summer
We cast our lines. The quiet lapping of the water against the dock fills the stillness between us.
Père glances at me out of the corner of his eye, sensing something’s off. “What’s got you so distracted, son?”
I turn my gaze back to the water, watching the ripples form around my line. “Nothing. Just thinking.”
“Thinking about what?” he presses, his voice softer now, as if he can sense the deeper current behind my words.
I hesitate for a moment, my mind still drifting back to the shed. “Just... you ever wonder what’s hidden in the past? What gets left behind, just sitting there?”
Père’s expression tightens, a flicker of caution in his eyes. “Sometimes,” he says warily, “but sometimes, it’s better to let things stay buried. You never know what you’ll find when you go digging.”
If I force the issue, would I be opening a door to something that isn’t meant to be uncovered?
Hell, that just makes it more exciting. I totally blame those Hardy Boys chapter books Père made me read when I was little. One way or another, I’ll find a way into that trunk.
Either it’ll be a dud, filled with moth-eaten quilts and old clothes, or it’ll be the most exciting thing I do this summer.
Van
“Pass me a beer, old man.”
“This is your second. Just know I’m counting.”
Père hands me a frosty bottle from the ice bucket beside him. I swing my legs lazily over the edge of the dock and grip the pole between my thighs, freeing my hands so I can twist the bottle open.
“Nothing’s biting today,” I complain, tilting the bottle to my lips.
Père laughs and shakes his head. “Remember that time when you were little, and you caught that big trout? He wiggled every which way but loose. I asked you to hold him upfor a picture, and I was so damn proud of you,” he muses, his voice soft and distant. “You were terrified he’d squirm away or bite you. Hell, you were practically in tears,” he chuckles.
I smile, shaking my head. “You told me to put him on ice for an hour, then pretend like I’d just caught him. You took that picture of me, all smiles, holding up a frozen fish.”
The memory hits me in a good way, like all the memories with Père. He’s always been the best part of my life. I lean into him, nudging my shoulder against his, and catch his gaze, holding it a little longer than usual.
The air between us thickens with unspoken words. It’s not the first time I’ve leaned into him like this—hell, we’ve spent countless hours together, shoulder to shoulder, working, fishing, laughing—but tonight feels different. The stillness of the lake, the way the setting sun wraps around us, and the quiet lapping of the water against the dock—it all feels like something is about to crack wide open.
These moments are the hardest for me, when the words I can’t speak are on the tip of my tongue, threatening to burst free.
Père doesn’t pull away, but I can sense his hesitation, like he’s weighing something heavy. He clears his throat, glancing at the lake before looking back at me. “You ever think about those days?” His voice is quiet, almost like he’s trying not to disturb the calm.
I know exactly what he means. The way we were back then, just a kid and his grandfather, always busy, always doing. Everything simple, everything safe. I used to think that’s how life would always be—that this place, the cabin, Père’s presence, would always be steady, like the rippling lake.
But lately, everything’s changing. And I don’t know if it’s just me, or if he feels it too.
Every summer, I return here hoping that when I see him, when I lean in for that first hug, I won’t get gut-punched with longing and desire, and every summer, I’m disappointed.
Because it’s still there. And the older I get, the more complex and deep the feelings grow.
“Yeah,” I reply, my voice rougher than I expected. “I think about it all the time.”
He doesn’t say anything at first. Then, after a long pause, he adds, “You’ve grown up, Van. Into someone... I didn’t expect.” The words hang there, loaded. I feel a knot tightening in my stomach.
“Good or bad?” I ask, trying to keep it light, but I already know the answer. It’s too late for lightness between us.
Père shifts, his knee nudging mine. He doesn’t look at me, but I can see the way his jaw tenses, the way his hand grips the edge of the dock. “I’m just... I’m trying to figure it all out,” he says, his voice quieter now, softer.
I don’t know what he’s trying to figure out, but there’s no way it’s the same thing I’ve been wrestling with for years, is it? I lean in a little closer, and before I can second-guess myself, I let the words slip out. “We’ve always figured things out, haven’t we?”
His gaze flicks to mine, sharp and searching, like he’s trying to read between the lines. For a moment, we’re trapped in the silence—his eyes on mine, my breath caught in my chest.
