Page 40 of The Forbidden Summer
His arms circle me with a softness I don’t expect.
We stay like that, just breathing each other in, as the birds rustle overhead and the sun starts to dip, painting gold across the log, and the mess we’ve made together.
Well, that I’ve made in his honor.
A fitting tribute to the man I love.
***
The letter’s paper is soft and yellowed at the edges, the ink faded to a dusky brown, like it’s been reread too many times to count. Père sits beside me on the porch swing, holding it delicately in his calloused fingers, like it might dissolve if he grips too tight.
He clears his throat once, quietly. Then again. Then he begins to read.
My Dearest Elliot,
The air stills. Even the bugs seem to hush.
The sun’s just dipped behind the trees, and the fireflies have begun their dance...
His voice is softer than I expect. There’s something reverent in it, something… cracked open. Like the words are sliding under his skin as he reads them, getting inside him.
I barely breathe.
I keep looking to the spot where you sat this morning, barefoot and muttering about the coffee grounds I left floating in your cup. I would’ve gladly ruined a hundred pots if it meant hearing you grumble with sleep in your voice.
Père pauses there, lets out a short huff of a laugh, a laugh that sounds quiet, and sad, and fond. I watch the corner of his mouth twitch. That sound curls around something in my chest and tugs.
I’ve been trying to name this feeling, what it is you stir in me. I used to think it was admiration. Simple and harmless. Then I thought maybe it was envy, the way I watched you move through the world, sure of yourself even when you weren’t. But today, as you laughed with your whole face, head thrown back and hand gripping my knee like it was nothing at all, I knew.
It’s you. It’s always been you.
His voice falters.
My heart aches with how much I want to reach for him, but I don’t. Not yet. Not while he’s still holding the letter like it’s a lifeline, or maybe a mirror.
There was a moment,after you stole that biscuit from my plate and didn’t give it back, when I caught myself looking at your mouth longer than I should have. And you looked back. We didn’t say anything, but the moment held us both like a held breath. I think you knew then, too.
I’m not brave enough to say this aloud. Not yet. Maybe not ever. But writing it, at least, gives me somewhere to put the ache.
I love you, Elliot. Not as my cousin. Not as a friend. I love you as a man loves another.
Père doesn’t read the last line. He folds the letter carefully, eyes still on the page long after it’s closed. I can see the tremble in his hands.
When he finally looks up, his eyes shine in the dim light.
“What?” he says, like he doesn’t know why I’m watching him so closely.
“You felt it,” I say. “Didn’t you?”
His silence says more than words ever could.
I reach for his hand, and this time, he lets me take it. Doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t pull away. Just holds on, like maybe he’s finally letting himself be held.
Père’s thumb traces over the back of my hand, slow and absent, like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. But he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t say anything, either. Not yet.
The cicadas buzz low in the trees. The porchcreaks beneath us. It feels like the whole world has exhaled and now waits to see what he’ll do next.
“They were brave,” I say softly. “Even if it was just to each other. That kind of honesty? That kind of love?”
