Page 51 of The Forbidden Summer
The music spills out around us, something slow and rich with feeling, the kind of song meant for swaying and leaning in close. Van glances at the band, then back at me, and something flickers behind his eyes, like he’s letting go of whatever reservations he was carrying about being seen. About being held.
We step into a patch of grass near the edge of the stage, where the shadows are dark enough to partially hide us, and the music swells around us. The band’s playing something slow, something that sounds like it’s meant for dusk and softness and unforgettable firsts. He moves close, hands tentative at first, one finding my shoulder, the other curling into mine.
“I didn’t think you danced,” he murmurs.
“I don’t.” I glance down at our feet. “Not usually.”
His grin tips sideways. “And now?”
“Now I do.”
Van lets out a breath of a laugh, one of those rare, warm ones that comes from somewhere deep. “God,” he says quietly, “you really know how to wreck a guy.”
I tug him closer. “Good wreck or bad wreck?”
He tilts his head like he’s thinking, but his eyes are soft, lit from inside. “The kind you don’t recover from. Not that I’d want to.”
I feel his breath against my neck as we sway, slow and offbeat, but perfect in its own way. He leans in, lips close to my ear.
“You ever think about them?” he asks.
There’s only onethemhe can be referring to. “Harold and Elliot?”
He nods. “Yeah. Just… wondering if they ever danced out in the open like this. Where people could see.”
I glance around. No one’s staring. A few couples dance nearby. A little girl in cowboy boots spins in a circle by herself. The world feels safe tonight.
“I hope they did,” I say.
Van is quiet for a moment, then rests his cheek against my shoulder. “It’s nice,” he says. “Not hiding.”
“Yeah,” I whisper. “It is.”
People pass by with funnel cakes and craft beers, but the world narrows until it’s just the two of us. Van’s thumb strokes the back of my hand. My chest feels full in a way I don’t have words for.
We don’t talk for a while after that. The song melts into the next, and we keep moving, arms wrapped around each other because neither of us want to let go.
“I wish I could kiss you,” he whispers against my ear.
My body clenches tight. If only…
The song fades into something quieter, the strum of the guitar soft and slow like a heartbeat. Van leans back just enough to look at me, eyes half-lidded, lips parted.
“Think they’ll kick us out if we keep hogging the grass?” he murmurs.
I smirk. “Let them try.”
He laughs, light and warm, and steps out of my arms, but not far. Just enough to link his fingers with mine again. We start walking aimlessly through the rows of flickering booths, our hands swinging between us like a secret we’re not hiding anymore.
The fairgrounds are thinning out. Parents scoop up sleepy kids, vendors start packing boxes, and music hums quieterunder the buzz of insects and soft conversation. A breeze rolls through, and Van tilts his face into it like it’s something holy.
“I haven’t felt like this in…” he trails off, then shrugs. “Maybe ever.”
I squeeze his hand. “Yeah,” I agree. “Me too.”
My courtship with Estelle was a whirlwind, fast and dizzying. She had a young child, and we rushed through all the good parts, either because there wasn’t enough time to slow down and enjoy them or because of appearances. But this, with Van, this sick-to-my-stomach euphoric high that somehow also feels like the most natural thing in the world, is giving me life. Breathing joy back into these old bones.
We walk in easy silence, gravel crunching under our boots. Van leans into me just enough that our arms press together, the heat between us still lingering, but softer now, less fire, more ember. That kind of warmth that lasts.
