Page 6 of The Forbidden Summer
Then, almost imperceptibly, his hand slides to the back of my neck, warm and rough against my skin. His touch lingers, like he’s deciding whether to move closer or scoot back.
I hold my breath, waiting, the tension between us thickening with every passing second. It’d be so easy to lean in and kiss him. But that’s wishful thinking.
Finally, Père lets his hand fall away. A shiver races down my spine from the loss of his warm touch. “I don’t always have an answer for everything, son. Sometimes…” he gazes out over the lake and breathes out a heavy sigh. “Sometimes, I just don’t know what comes next.”
My chest squeezes tight. “Père?” When I have his attention again, I add, “I love you.”
He swallows hard, but then his expression softens. “I love you, too, Van.”
That night, Père makes grilled cheese sandwiches, and we eat them curled up on the couch while he reads to me. The cabin has no TV, just an old radio and stacks of books. We have Wi-Fi after I bugged him for two summers straight, and he finally caved, but mostly we choose quiet activities to share. I didn’t even miss television when I came here. It forces Père and me to spend time together, talking, cuddling, and focusing on each other rather than a screen.
I’m bored out of my mind listening to The Adventures of Tom Sawyer for the umpteenth time, but last year, in a rebellious and juvenile attempt to get him to see me as an adult and not some kid, I’d replaced our stock with gay erotica I’d ordered online. Père didn’t see the humor and brilliance of my prank and refused to read it to me.
The truth is, I don’t care what he reads, as long as I get to hear his deep voice rumble in my ear and curl up in his arms. His thumb absently brushes my nipple, since I’m again shirtless.
My gut tightens, wishing he’d done it deliberately and wanting more. Much more.
“Are you even listening?” Père asks, his voice tinged with mild annoyance.
“Uh-huh, yup.” I nod absentmindedly, though my mind isn’t fully present.
He chuckles, shaking his head as he sets the book down on his lap. “Let’s talk about something more interesting.”
“Like what?” I ask, genuinely curious.
“Like you.”
I turn in his arms, adjusting so I can meet his gaze. “What do you want to know?”
“What have you been up to this year?”
I shrug, trying to keep it simple. “I told you, Père. Work and school.”
“That’s it? No friends to hang out with? You don’t go out and have fun?”
“Not really,” I say with a small sigh. “There’s this girl I know from high school I still talk to, but we only catch up every other week during her lunch break. Not exactly enough time to really hang out.”
His frown deepens. “You haven’t made any friends at school?”
“There was this one guy I thought I’d connect with. I asked him if he wanted to hang out. He said I wasn’t his type. I guess he thought I was hitting on him.”
“Were you?” he asks with an amused smile.
“No. He wasn’t my type, either. He’s a skinny twink, like me, and we’re the same age.”
Père processes that, looking curious. “A twink?”
“You know, smooth and lean.”
“So, what’s your type, then?”
Why in the hell were we having this conversation? “Thicker, solidly built. Lots of chest hair. Someone patient and kind. Someone who’s wise and has their shit together. Maybe someone older.” No maybe about it, but I’m trying not to be too obvious.
“And what do they call that?”
“A bear? A Daddy?” I admit with a blush.
“Sounds like me. Am I a Daddy bear, Van?”
