Page 53 of The Forbidden Summer
What planet does she live on?
“You don’t have to decide anything now,” she adds. “We’ll talk more when you’re home.”
But that’s the thing—I’m not surewherehome even is anymore. I end the call with a tight goodbye and set the phoneon the workbench like it’s fragile.
My chest aches. My fingers curl around the axe handle, like holding it can keep me grounded.
I think of Père, the way he danced with me in front of everyone, how his hand didn’t let go of mine. The look in his eyes when he called me amazing, like I wasn’t something temporary.
I can’t do that again. I can’t be pulled away from him like it’s nothing. Not now. Not after everything we’ve rebuilt.
I press my palms to my eyes, try to breathe, try not to let the fear win. But the truth is loud inside me.
If they move, if I go with them… I might lose him all over again. And this time, I don’t think I’d come back the same.
I set the axe down gently. Not because I’m done working, but because my hands are shaking, and I don’t trust them.
Leaning forward with my elbows on my knees, I stare at the ground, trying to think past the ache in my chest. There’s sawdust stuck to my arms, sweat drying on my neck, and that stubborn knot behind my ribs that always comes when I feel powerless. It’s back again, old and familiar.
Not again. Not again.
The first time we moved, I didn’t understand what I was losing. I thought I’d write letters, keep in touch, make new friends, that I’d be okay. I didn’t know how deep roots could go until they were ripped out. And now that I’ve found Père again, touched something lasting and real, I can’t imagine having to say goodbye like that. Notagain.
I close my eyes and picture his face. The way he smiled at me when the band started playing. The way his voice caught when he asked me to dance, like it mattered. Like I mattered.
If I told him what my mom just said, he’d listen. He’d pull me into his arms and let me fall apart. He’d probably even offerto visit after we’re settled in. But that’s not why I haven’t told him yet.
I’m scared that saying it out loud will make it real. Or that he’ll keep insisting I go home, wherever that is, and take time for myself. Apart from him.
I run a hand through my hair, exhale shakily, and push myself up. My legs feel heavy, like they don’t want to carry me, but I force them to move anyway.
Because as much as I want to hide out here in the quiet, there’s someone inside waiting for me. Someone who makes me feel like I belong, even when the rest of the world is sliding under my feet.
And right now, that’s the only thing I know how to hold onto.
The sun spills through the windows of the cabin, casting soft light across the wooden floor. I step inside, and before the door even clicks shut behind me, Père looks up from where he’s organizing old magazines in a crate.
His smile falters.
He sets the stack down and straightens, brows knitting. “What happened?”
I shake my head, trying for something like a grin, but it wobbles. “Nothing. Just tired.”
He doesn’t buy it. Of course he doesn’t. Père sees straight through me, he always has. It’s infuriating and comforting all at once.
“Van.”
He walks over, stopping in front of me, eyes searching mine. I can’t hold the gaze long. I look at his chest instead. Sunburntcollarbones, the threadbare Coca Cola t-shirt I’ve seen him wear since I was a kid. He smells like lemonade and cedar.
“Talk to me,” he says gently.
I shrug. “My mom called.”
His expression hitches in the smallest way—just a flicker—but I see it. He knows this isn’t just a check-in. He waits.
“They’re… moving.” My voice is thin. “Greg got a job out of state. Idaho.”
He exhales like he’s been punched. “Shit.”
