Page 54 of The Forbidden Summer
“Yeah.”
Dead air descends on us, choking off my words. Outside, I can hear the wind chimes stirring in the breeze.
“I don’t want to go,” I admit, voice low. “I can’t—Iwon’t—do it again.”
I feel it rise in my throat, sharp and wild: the fear, the fury, the grief of something being ripped away before I even had the chance to hold it properly.
Père steps closer, cups the back of my neck with one hand and rests his forehead to mine. He doesn’t sayit’ll be okay,orwe’ll figure it out—not yet. He just stands there with me, quiet and solid, the way I need him to.
I breathe him in. Feel my shoulders drop, just a little.
“I’m not ready to lose this,” I whisper.
“You’re not going to,” he murmurs.
He says it with so much certainty I almost believe him. I want to. I want to press time between my palms and freeze it here—his hands on me, the kisses and contact we shared behind us, summer all around.
But nothing ever stays, does it?
I let myself lean into him and he welcomes it. He keeps his hand at the back of my neck, warm and sure, grounding me. Ididn’t realize how much I needed someone to hold me still until now—until him. Everything inside me is trembling, but I feel the way he breathes, slow and even, and I try to match it. Inhale. Exhale. Stay here.
Père tilts his head just enough that our noses brush, his forehead still resting against mine. Not kissing. Not speaking. Justbeing, and that’s somehow more intimate than anything else.
“I’m scared,” I admit.
It slips out before I can stop it, like I peeled back something in my chest and handed it to him.
“I know,” he says. His thumb rubs slow circles against the base of my skull. “You don’t have to pretend with me.”
And I don’t. God, I don’t.
He pulls me into his arms, wrapping them around me like he’s putting me back together piece by piece. I press my face into his shoulder and let my body go slack against him. His lips brush the side of my head.
“We’ll figure this out,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “Whatever it takes. You’re not doing this alone.”
“So, I can stay? Here, with you?”
Père’s arms stay around me, but the warmth cools. He pulls back, his eyes softening, and he cups my face in both hands.
“I want you here,” he says, voice quiet but firm. “More than anything.”
I nod, already hoping.
“But,” he continues, and my stomach dips.
He shakes his head slowly, reluctantly. “You still have to go back. Even if it’s just for a little while. Help your parents pack. Say goodbye to the place, the people. Sit with your feelings. Let yourself feel the importance of what you're leaving behind.”
I want to argue. I want to sayno, this is enough—he’senough.But I know he’s right. There’s a kind of closure I owe myself, a thread I need to knot before I can really move forward.
Père brushes his thumb along my cheek, catching a tear I didn’t realize was falling. “It’s not a step backward,” he says. “It’s the last step before home.”
Tears threaten my eyes at the word home. I nod, swallowing thickly. “Promise you’ll wait for me?”
He smiles, something aching and beautiful in it. “I would wait a thousand lifetimes for you, sweet boy.” He leans in and presses his forehead to mine. “You always know where to find me. When you’re ready.”
“I’m coming back,” I vow, my voice breaking on a sob. I wipe my snotty nose across his shirt, and he presses a kiss to my head.
And I mean it. Even as the thought of leaving makes my chest cave in, I know this time it’s different.
