Page 7 of The Forbidden Summer
Fucking fuck yes, you are. “I guess so.”MyDaddy bear.
His eyes twinkle with mirth. “Glad to know I’m your type, then. Must be why we get along so well.”
“Must be,” I tease, letting my head rest in his lap. His hand lingers on my shoulder, but I need more. I grab his hand and guide it toward my hair, silently asking him to drag his fingers through it.
Père chuckles softly. “You're a spoiled brat, boy.”
For a while, we don’t speak. The only sound is the steady, calming rhythm of his fingers gently scratching my scalp, lulling me into a quiet, drowsy haze.
“What about you, Père?” I ask, already knowing the answer. He isn’t one to go out much, and as far as I know, he’s not seeing anyone. He would’ve told me if he was, right?
He shrugs, his eyes briefly flicking away before settling back on me. “I go out every now and then. But it’s nothing serious.”
My heartbeat spikes, the sudden rush of adrenaline making me sit up straight. A wave of panic grips me, and I can’t quite hide the flash of confusion and concern that crosses my face.
“What do you mean, nothing serious?” My voice sounds a little higher than usual, betraying my unease.
Père raises an eyebrow. “It’s not like I’m out looking foranything. Just getting out, keeping busy.” He doesn’t meet my eyes, focusing instead on the window.
But my mind races, the sour wave in my stomach rising. The unspoken implications swirl in the air. I’m not sure why it affects me this much, but something in the way he said it makes me feel like I’ve missed something important.
My tongue feels dry in my mouth, slowing my words. “Do you want to find someone?”
“Sometimes, when I’m lonely, I think it would be nice, but…” He trails off, his voice softening.
“But?” I press gently, leaning in.
He sighs, his expression shifting to one of quiet nostalgia. “I haven’t met anyone I could see myself with. Your grandmother, she was…” He pauses, a fond smile tugging at his lips, his eyes distant, lost in the memory of the woman who had been a cornerstone in my life as well as his.
I can see the way her memory still holds him in its grasp. The kind of love that doesn’t easily fade.
His gaze returns to me. “She was everything, you know? I don’t think I could ever find someone like her again.”
I think about my own mother, and how she’s never really been there. She had her own life to live, a life that didn’t include me. If it did, I certainly wasn’t her priority.
When my mom got pregnant with me at sixteen, it was my grandparents who stepped in and raised me. They didn’t have to, but they did. And after she’d finished school and then went on to live the life she felt entitled to—as if she didn’t have responsibilities weighing her down—it was too late for us to bond.
She remarried, uprooted me, and settled down three hours away from my grandparents and the only life I’d ever known.My grandma passed away a couple of years later, leaving my grandad as lonely as I was. We’ve moved twice more since then, always farther away from Père.
Père’s voice brings me back to the present, soft yet firm. “I was lucky to have her. But sometimes, I wonder if I’ll ever find someone who could make me feel the way she did.”
Père has told me the story of how he met my grandmother countless times. She was older than him, a widow with a young daughter, but she was beautiful, smart, and kind—everything that made Père fall for her with a depth that still lingered in the way he spoke of her. Hard enough to ignore his parents' protests, to defy their expectations of who he should love.
I let my finger trail down the sliver of hair peeking out from the parted halves of his flannel, feeling the roughness of his skin. The motion is almost absent-minded, but it feels intimate. “I don’t want you to be lonely, Père, but you can’t just settle for anyone.”
The idea makes me a little sick—settling, letting loneliness dictate your choices. I can’t bear the thought of him with someone who doesn’t truly see him or appreciate him the way he deserves. Like I would if he belonged to me that way.
He turns to me, his expression unreadable. “I know,” he says quietly, his hand coming to rest on my knee. His thumb brushes over my bare skin, a slow, almost subconscious motion. “I don’t think I could settle, even if I tried.”
Hearing that from him feels like a quiet relief.
What if he were with someone who demanded all of his time and attention? Someone who insisted he spend summers with her instead of disappearing for weeks on end with me, like he always has?
The thought twists something deep inside me. I’d die without this—withouthim—without the summers spent together, without these moments where the world felt small, just the two of us, the lake, and the quiet intimacy that’s always existed between us.
I can’t bear to think of him being tied down to someone who would take what little I have left with him away.
My petting grows bolder, and I slide my hand over his pec, loving the feel of his hard nipple rubbing against my palm. Père gives me an odd look, and I lower my hand reluctantly.
