Page 59 of The Forbidden Summer
I would wait forever if he asked me to.
I just hope he doesn't make me.
A loud buzz grows closer, and I lift my hand in a lazy wave as a boat hums past, its lights twinkling on the dark water. One of my neighbors, probably. Their laughter floats across the lake, too far away to touch, but enough to make me smile, just a little.
I crack open a beer, the sound sharp and hollow against the heavy quiet. The first sip is cold and bitter, and I sink deeper into the old porch chair, letting the night wrap around me.
Out here, when it gets late enough, the ghosts come easier.
I swear I can hear Estelle humming inside the kitchen, that soft, tuneless sound she used to make when she thought no one was listening. Although she’d never been to the cabin, my mind recalls what’s familiar.
I hear Van too, younger, lighter, his laughter ringing through the trees, the sharp clatter of his bare feet on the dock. I glance at the empty chair beside me and for a second, just a second, I almost believe he'll come sprinting up the path, hair damp from the lake, grinning like he used to.
Ghosts, all of them. Gentle ones, maybe. But they leave me hollow.
Somewhere, maybe, Harold and Elliot are sitting by a fire like this too, across some wide stretch of forever, watching over us all.
I raise my beer to the stars. Silent toasts to old loves, lost dreams, and hopes that still stubbornly cling to life.
“Come home, Van,” I murmur into the dark. “Come back to me.”
Then I close my eyes and listen.
Just in case he can somehow hear me.
The boat disappears around the bend, and the ripples it leaves behind shimmer like silver fish in the fading light. I take a slow pull from the bottle in my hand, the beer gone flat and bitter, but it fills the silence somehow.
The porch creaks beneath me as I lean back. The cabin feels too big now. Every stroke of the clock, too quiet. Every chair, too empty.
I stare out across the lake, watching the last colors of the sunset bleed away. An owl hoots in the distance, that lonely, aching sound that always used to soothe me. Tonight, it cuts right through my ribs.
I think about picking up the phone. About hearing his voice, just for a minute. But what if I hear regret in the way he says my name?
Instead, I sit frozen and let the loneliness pool in my lap like spilled water.
The stars prick through the sky, one by one. I pull my sweatshirt tighter around me. Night falls heavy and slow.
I wait. And wait. And wait.
When the cold finally gets to me, I shuffle inside, shutting the door behind me with a hollow click.
The cabin smells like woodsmoke, the way it always does when no one’s been cooking or laughing or living inside it.
I wander without meaning to, hands trailing over the worn surfaces, the edge of the counter, the back of a chair.
Looking for something.
Anything
I find myself staring at Van’s half of the bed. His half of the closet, now empty but for the hangers.
On the nightstand, tucked behind a stack of old books, I spot a forgotten sweatshirt faded and soft with wear. His.
I pick it up and press it to my face before I can even think better of it. It still smells faintly like him, like pine soap and sawdust and sun-warmed skin.
My chest cracks open.
God, I miss him.
