Page 50 of The Forbidden Summer
When he looks up at me—eyes dark, lips parted, hair mussed from my hands—my whole chest aches.
Because this isn’t just foreplay. It’s something raw and real and terrifyingly beautiful.
It’s the feeling I’ve been trying to swallow all summer.
I want to tell him. I almost do.
But instead, I kiss the words into his mouth—I’m yours, I’m yours, I’m yours—and hope that, somehow, he hears it.
Père lifts his head, watching me with this softness that guts me. His hair’s a mess. His lips are kiss-bitten and pink. And he looks... peaceful. Like he’s exactly where he’s meant to be.
I want to freeze time right here.
We don’t always get this—ease, safety, love without conditions. Sometimes it’s just borrowed. Sometimes it’s all we get.
I glance up at the stars blinking in the navy sky. “Do you think they felt like this?” I ask quietly.
Père doesn’t pretend not to know who I mean. “Yeah,” he says. “I think they did. You okay?” he asks, voice low, full of concern.
I nod. “More than okay.”
And I mean it. Because I’ve never felt more seen, more wanted. More like myself.
We lie there a little longer, with my head resting against hissolid chest, and he strokes his fingers through my hair. I think about the letter, the cabin, the history holding us like a quiet witness.
And I wonder, when we’re gone, when someone else finds this place, will they feel us in the walls? In the dock planks? In the reflection of the stars?
I hope so. Because even if we’re lucky enough to have a lifetime of love and memories together, it won’t be enough.
Waylon
Van’s sleeves are rolled to his elbows, sawdust clinging to his forearms, sweat gleaming at his temples. He’s standing over the half-shaped block of wood like it’s something sacred, coaxing life from it with every pass of the chisel.
Crowds have gathered, drawn in by the roar of the chainsaw earlier, his axe now leaning against the stump. Kids sit cross-legged up front, wide-eyed. Grown-ups murmur their admiration. But I don’t hear much of it.
I’m watchinghim.
His focus is absolute. Every movement is confident. There’s power in his body, but there’s also care and finesse.The way his fingers check the grain before each strike. The way he pauses to assess the emerging shape. Today it’s a bear, mid-climb, reaching. Like always, there’s a story in it.
He doesn’t notice how people are looking at him. But I do.
He finishes just as the sun dips behind the tree line, turning everything gold. The crowd claps. A few cheer. Van gives a crooked smile, scratches the back of his neck, and says something humble I can’t quite hear.
The rest of his pieces sold out hours ago. I helped pack them, each wrapped in brown paper and tied with string.
We close up the booth. Wander the aisles arm in arm, tasting peach wine and smoked meats, something fried and impossible to name. Laughter floats on the warm air. Lights strung between tents begin to glow.
A band plays on the small wooden stage under the oaks. A guitar, a fiddle, a rough, sweet voice. Van taps his foot along with the rhythm, head tilted toward the sound. He’s always liked music that feels a little sad around the edges.
I stop walking. He looks back at me, cheeks flushed from the heat or maybe the wine, his lips parted like he’s caught between laughing and saying something he’s not sure he should. The glow from the festival lights brushes over his face, catching in the gold of his hair, the line of his jaw. He’s beautiful in the way summer evenings are beautiful—soft and fleeting, but powerful enough to linger long after they’re gone.
I hold out my hand to him in invitation. He steps closer, that grin tugging at the corner of his mouth, like he can’t quite believe I’m serious. But I am.
“In front of everyone?” he says, half incredulous, half charmed.
I don’t say anything. Just offer my hand again.
Van watches me like he’s trying to read between the lines, but his fingers slide into mine anyway. A yes.
