Page 56 of The Forbidden Summer
The fire has died down to embers by the time Père finishes reading.
I don’t speak. I can’t. My eyes blur, and I blink hard against the stone pressing against my chest. The letter rests between us, fluttering slightly in the night breeze like it still breathes, like it still aches.
Père doesn’t say anything either. He just leans his head against mine and exhales slowly, like he’s letting go of something heavy, or trying to hold something in.
We stay like that for a long time. Wrapped in each other, in the tranquility, in the ghosts of a love that never got to be.
“They deserved more,” I whisper, finally.
He nods against me. “They did.”
The stars blink overhead, cold and endless. Somewhere in the woods, a night bird calls. Everything feels suspended, like if we move, if we speak too loudly, we’ll shatter the moment into pieces we can’t gather back.
I think about Elliot, about the impossibility of choosing a life that fits the world instead of the heart. I think about Harold, standing by this very lake, reading that letter with trembling hands, trying not to fall apart.
I think about how love like theirs—like ours—deserves to be seen, not hidden in envelopes or dusty sheds or piled beside a lake with a hundred other stones that represent the same heartbreak.
Père kisses the top of my head, and I close my eyes. I memorize the sound of his heartbeat beneath his ribs. The way histhumb strokes my arm. The quiet strength of his presence beside me, always so sure, even when everything else is uncertain.
I press closer, my voice barely audible. “I don’t want to be someone’s almost.”
His grip tightens just slightly. “You’re not.”
But still, I hold onto him like we’re both trying to rewrite the ending of someone else’s story—one where love doesn’t end in goodbye. One where no one has to let go to prove how much they care.
The letter rests in my lap, worn and creased, full of all the things they couldn’t say out loud.
I think we hear them anyway.
And for a moment, I believe that maybe we’ll write a different ending.
When the fire dies completely, we move to the bedroom in silence. The sheets are cool, the windows open. The world is so still, like it’s mourning us.
He wraps his arms around me from behind, one hand flat on my chest like he’s trying to keep my heart steady. I absorb his touch without saying a word. If I open my mouth, the grief will spill out. So I stay quiet, soaking up the heat of him, the solid, familiar feel of his body pressed against mine.
His breath slows, but I stay awake.
Silent warm tears slip down my cheeks, soaking into the pillow, but I don’t wipe them away.
This is our last night.
And I don’t want to miss a second of it.
Van
I sit on the floor of my old room, the carpet rough under my legs, cardboard boxes gaping open around me. The walls are bare now. No posters, no shelves. Just the quiet hum of a ceiling fan that never did work quite right.
My fingers brush over the sketchbook in my lap. One of the ones I thought I lost in the last move. As I flip through it slowly, I notice most of the pages are filled with messy lines and half-finished drawings. Trees, mountains, and a dock that looks suspiciously like the one behind Père’s cabin. My hands pause on a page near the back. Tucked between twosheets is a photo, faded at the corners and creased like it’s been handled too many times.
It’s of me and Père at the lake. We’re standing side by side, wet hair plastered to our faces, both of us grinning like idiots. I don’t remember putting it here. But there it is, hidden in plain sight.
My throat tightens. I press the photo to my chest like it might keep my heart from breaking open. Like if I hold it close enough, I can keep it all—Harold and Elliot, me and Père, the lake, the summer, the firelight, the feeling of being loved exactly as I am.
It’s just a photo. A little wrinkled from time, two guys sporting terrible haircuts. But it holds lifetimes.
The door creaks open behind me. I don’t turn around, but I know it’s Mom. She steps in quietly and sits beside me without saying a word. We look at the boxes for a while, the silence not uncomfortable, just… full.
“Find something good?” she asks eventually.
