Page 39 of The Forbidden Summer
He opens his mouth, then closes it, like he can’t argue with that. Which, of course, means I win.
I bump my hip against the log. “You think it needs a name?”
“Please don’t.”
“Too late. I’m calling it ‘Ode to Père.’”
That finally gets a laugh out of him, short and exasperated, but real.
God, I love that sound. “Or maybeWaylon’s Wanker,” I add, deadpan, nodding at the wood like it deserves to be in a museum.
Père groans, dragging a hand down his face. “Jesus, Van.”
“What? It’s catchy. Feels like something that belongs on a placard.”
His mouth opens, then clamps shut as color creeps into his cheeks. I’ve won again. Victory: mine.
“You're incorrigible,” he mutters, but his lips are twitching. He kicks at a wood chip near his boot and won’t quite meet my eyes now.
I peel off my work gloves and wipe my hands on my shorts, grinning at him from beneath my lashes. “You’re smiling, though.”
“I'm not,” he lies, the corner of his mouth betraying him.
I step closer, just enough to brush his arm with mine. “You’re totally smiling.”
He shakes his head, but he doesn’t move away. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”
“Damn right I am.”
The sculpture looms ridiculous and obscene behind me, but Père’s eyes are on mine now, quiet, warm, a little helpless.
“You gonna help me sand it down?” I ask, all innocent.
“Absolutely not,” he says, but he’s still smiling. Still standing close.
God, I love this. Us.
Père eventually shakes his head like he’s trying to reset his brain. “We’re burning that thing tonight.”
“You can‘t burn it. I’m going to enter it in a local art show. ‘Found Wood and Forbidden Thoughts.’”
He laughs again, louder this time, and it echoes through the trees. That sound makes something deep in my chest ache.
We stand there for a moment in the pine-dappled sunlight, just… looking at each other. Me, with sap-sticky hands and a stupid grin. Him, with that worn-in t-shirt, threadbare and riddled with holes, arms crossed like a shield.
“You’ve got bark in your hair,” he says softly.
“Do I?” I lean in slightly, maybe too far. “Get it for me?”
He hesitates, then reaches out, fingers brushing gently through my hair, pulling away a flake of bark and flicking it to the ground. His hand lingers. My breath catches.
“Van,” he says, almost a warning. But he doesn’t pull back.
“I know,” I say. “But it’s not a joke. Not for me.”
He nods, barely, like it hurts to do it.
Then I step into him. Slow. Careful. My arms wrap loosely around his waist, like I’m giving him every second to stop me.But he doesn’t. He lets me lean into his chest, lets my forehead press into his collarbone. Lets his chin rest on top of my head.
