Page 64 of The Forbidden Summer
And for the first time in weeks, I believe we’re going to be okay.
A low hum rises over the treetops, vibrating through the ground beneath our feet. I pull back just enough to look up, wiping my sleeve across my wet cheeks.
The silhouette of a helicopter glides across the sky, a heavy bucket swinging beneath it like a pendulum. We watch quietly as it dips low over the lake, the bucket plunging into the water with a splash. Then the helicopter lifts, the bucket dripping, and banks toward the smoke rising in the distance.
Père’s arm curls around my shoulders, pulling me in tight against his side. I lean into him, watching the helicopter disappear into the haze.
“They’re still fighting it,” I say quietly, my voice rough.
He nods, his chin brushing my hair. “They’ll get it under control.”
I close my eyes for a second, feeling the steady beat of his heart against me, grounding me. “I was so scared.”
His hand finds mine, fingers threading through like they were always meant to be there. “Me too,” he says. “I didn’t know if—” He stops, swallowing hard. “But you’re here.”
The quiet settles around us again, but my mind won’t. I pull back, just enough to look at him, really look at him. His face is weathered and tired, smoke still faintly clinging to his clothes.
Suddenly, the fear I felt on the drive here twists into something sharper. Anger, raw and helpless.
“You should’ve left,” I say, my voice shaking. “You should’ve evacuated, Père.”
He doesn’t flinch. Just looks at me with those dark, sorrowful eyes. “I know.”
“Then why didn’t you?” I shove my hands into his chest, not hard, but enough to make the point. “You could’ve been trapped. You could’ve—” My voice breaks, and I hate it, hate how scared I still am.
Père catches my wrists, gently, like he’s handling something fragile. He presses my hands against his chest, right over his heart.
“I stayed,” he says softly, “because I thought… if you came looking for me and I wasn’t here—” He cuts himself off, his throat working like the words physically hurt. “I couldn’t stand the thought of you coming back and finding this place empty.”
I stare at him, breathing hard.
He shakes his head, a broken laugh slipping out. “Maybe it was stupid. Maybe it was selfish. But I waited. I waited for you.”
My anger collapses under the weight of that. I curl my fingers into his shirt and press my forehead against him, feeling him breathe, feeling him alive beneath my touch.
“I came back,” I whisper.
“I knew you would,” he says, his arms wrapping around me.
We stay there as the night creeps in, the fire somewhere behind us, the smoke drifting farther away. I let myself believe, just for now, that the worst is over.
The smell of burning wood permeates everything—our clothes, the air inside the cabin. Stray embers flutter like fireflies on the breeze. We make our way inside, and I follow him down the familiar hallway, my hand brushing his as we go, needing that tiny bit of contact like a tether.
In the bedroom, Père hesitates by the door, glancing back at me. His hair’s mussed from the wind, his eyes shadowed and tired. I move past him without a word, pulling back the covers and climbing into bed like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
He chuckles low under his breath—a sound so full of aching tenderness it nearly guts me—and joins me, sliding under the covers.
We just lie there, facing each other in the dark. His hand finds mine between us, our fingers lacing together without thought.
I scoot closer until I can tuck myself against his chest, my forehead resting beneath his chin. He holds me like he’s afraid to let go, arms tight around my back.
The wind rattles the windows. Somewhere far off, the low thrum of a helicopter fades into the night. I squeeze my eyes shut, pressing myself even closer, feeling his heart beat against mine, steady and real.
I fall asleep like that, breathing him in, with silent tears drying on my cheeks.
Safe. Home. Loved.
Van
