Page 47 of The Forbidden Summer
“Come on,” I say, a lazy grin tugging at my mouth. “Let’s take another dip to wash off. Then we’ll see about dinner.”
Van cracks one eye open, his mouth curling into a sleepy, satisfied smile. “You trying to say I’m a mess?”
“I’m saying we’re both a little sticky,” I tease.
He laughs, takes my hand, and lets me pull him up. Van doesn’t let go right away. His thumb brushes over my knuckles, and for a second, we just stand there, bare skin, soft air, everything quiet but full.
Then, without a word, he runs and cannonballs off the end of the dock, a flash of limbs and sunlight before the splash.
His laughter echoes across the lake, and I dive in right after him.
Later, when the sun’s down and the lake’s gone still, Van’s curled next to me on the porch swing, warm from the shower, hair damp against my shoulder. He’s talking about something—some memory from college, a story about a road trip with a girl—but my mind drifts.
I’m trying to memorize the feel of him against me. The way his laugh rumbles through my chest when he tells a joke only he finds funny. The way he smells like soap and night air and lake water.
Because summer’s not endless. And neither is this.
And it hits me like a cold plunge, sharp and cold, robbing me of breath.
How am I going to survive when summer ends and Van leaves?
I don’t say it out loud. I just smile at the right parts and squeeze his hand when he leans into me, like maybe I can hold him here just a little longer.
But the truth presses at the edge of every moment now. Like an hourglass running out of sand.
When he goes… who do I become without him?
Van falls quiet mid-sentence. I feel him shift beside me, just slightly. He doesn’t pull away, but he stops leaning so hard into the story he was telling, like he can feel I’m somewhere else.
“You’re quiet,” he says after a beat, his voice soft.
“I’m always quiet,” I answer, too quick, too easy.
He turns his head to look at me. I don’t meet his eyes.
“Yeah, but this feels like the kind of quiet that hurts.”
I swallow because my throat’s tight. I didn’t expect him to notice, not like this.
“It’s nothing,” I say, because the truth feels too raw, too close to breaking open.
Van doesn’t push. He never does. But his fingers lace through mine, and he just holds my hand.
We sit like that for a while, letting the placidness settle back in—not heavy, but waiting. Like the lake when a storm’s building just below the surface.
And I want to say it. I want to say,What happens when you go?I want to ask if this is real enough to survive September, or if I’m going to have to pack up my heart with the rest of the summer things and store it in some dusty corner of the shed where I won’t have to look at it until next year.
But instead, I just lean my head against his shoulder and whisper, “Don’t forget me.”
Van doesn’t answer right away. He just pulls my hand up to his mouth and kisses my knuckles. Soft. Like a promise.
“I couldn’t if I tried.”
Van
Père rests his head on my shoulder, and I’m trying not to lose it completely.
There’s this ache in his voice when he saysDon’t forget methat slices straight through me. I want to turn to him, grab his face in my hands, and sayHow could I? You’re already in my blood.
