Page 48 of The Forbidden Summer
But if I say that now, I might throw up all my feelings right here on the porch. And that’s not the move. Not yet. Not when the night’s still warm and his hand is still in mine.
So I clear my throat and squeeze his fingers.
“You know what we need?” I say, my voice brighter than I feel. “Another letter.”
Père looks up at mewith that soft half-smile of his. He doesn’t say anything, just nods.
Dashing inside, I grab the folded paper from the little bundle that’s slowly dwindling as we make our way through their forbidden relationship. It’s old, the ink faded just enough to make you slow down and read each word with care. Père hasn’t moved, and when I reclaim my seat on the porch swing, he opens his arm and slides it around my shoulders, pulling me close.
I unfold it carefully, hold it between us, and start reading aloud:
Dearest Elliot,
I don’t know if I ever told you this, but you changed me. Completely.
Before you, I didn’t think much about who I was or what I wanted. I thought I knew. I had a path laid out, neat and narrow, and I stuck to it because that’s what you’re supposed to do.
And then you and your mother moved back home that summer, and I found you impossible to ignore. We became inseparable. You made me feel alive, really alive, in a way I didn’t understand at first. But now I do.
You showed me parts of myself I didn’t know existed. You made me see the world in color when I’d been living in black and white. You made me want more. Tobe more.
I pause, my throat tightening. Harold’s words resonate deeper than I thought they could. I glance at Père, who’s quiet, his head still against my shoulder, his eyes on the letter.
I keep going, even though it’s like reading my own thoughts aloud:
I never thought I’d be the kind of man who loves another man. But Elliot, you changed everything. You’re my impossible, my always, my every reason.
And I love you for it.
I stop there, folding the letter back into its envelope, because I can’t read anymore without giving myself away.
“That’s… a lot,” I say, my voice softer than I mean it to be. “Harold really laid it all out, huh?”
Père nods, and there’s something in his expression, something knowing, like he feels Harold’s words as strongly as I do. “Yeah. He did.”
I swallow hard and manage a crooked smile. “Guess it’s a good thing they didn’t have text messages back then. Could you imagine Harold trying to send all that in an emoji?”
That makes him laugh, and the sound breaks the tension in my chest, letting me breathe again. I lean my head back and close my eyes, the letter still burning in my hands.
Because Harold’s words, they’re mine, too. Every damn one of them. But I’m not brave enough to say it.
Not yet.
Père knows I love him. He knows I desire him and that I dream of a future for us. But Harold sounded as if he was pleading, begging for one last chance at happiness. Irefuse to give up on us. I’m not ready to plead and beg, but if I have to, eventually, I will. On my fucking hands and knees.
“Do you think Elliot ever read these?” I ask, still holding the letter like it might flutter away if I let go.
Père moves beside me. I feel the change in him before I see it—his body going still, like he’s trying to hold something down. He sits up and clears his throat. That tells me everything. He’s just as tangled as I am.
“I think so,” he says finally, nodding. “There’s no address on the envelopes, yet they’ve been opened… and they look like they’ve been read hundreds of times.”
I run my thumb along the edge of the paper. It’s soft from being handled, like someone reached for it again and again when the silence got too loud.
“Maybe they wrote them and left them for each other here,” I say. “Maybe they visited the cabin separately. Or maybe they never even needed to send them, they just needed to say it somehow.”
Père doesn’t answer right away. He’s looking out at the lake, but I can tell he’s still with me.
“Maybe,” he says quietly. “Maybe the letters were like… anchors. Something they left behind so the other one would always know. No matter what.”
