Page 66 of The Forbidden Summer
“We got lucky,” he says, nudging a charred branch with the toe of his boot. “We’ll drive into Stony Creek and see if we can help with the cleanup.”
I nod, wiping sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand. “Yeah. Whatever they need.”
We walk the edge of the property a little longer, checking for hot spots, for anything smoldering that could flare up again. Every now and then, he glances at me like he still doesn’t quite believe I’m here. Like if he looks away too long, I’ll vanish into the smoke.
I feel the same way.
The sky is gray blue now, heavy with fading smoke and the lingering scent of ash. I keep close to him, not touching but near enough to feel the heat of his body.
When we make it back to the porch, he sinks onto the steps with a grunt and pulls his boots off. I follow suit, setting mine beside his.
“We got lucky,” he says again, quieter this time, more to himself.
I sit down beside him, pressing my knee to his. “Yeah. But even if we hadn’t… I’d still have found you.”
His eyes flash to mine, and the relief in them burns bright. “You did,” he says, voice rough. “You found me.”
For a while, we just sit there, watching the wind ripple across the lake, listening to the empty hum of a world that almost burned but didn’t.
“I’ll always find you,” I say, so softly I’m not even sure he hears it. “I was always coming back. You know that.”
He reaches over and threads his fingers through mine, grounding me in that simple way only he can.
After a long moment, he says, “Let’s get cleaned up. Then we’ll drive into town. Help however we can.”
I squeeze his hand once before letting go. “Okay.”
As we stand and head inside, I catch a glimpse of us reflected in the window—two men covered in soot and sweat, tired and aching, but standing. Together.
And somehow, that feels like the luckiest thing of all.
Waylon
The drive into Stony Creek is quiet, the truck’s tires humming over the blacktop. The road is rutted in places, parts of the asphalt burned away.
I keep one hand loosely on the wheel, the other resting on Van’s thigh, keeping him close. Just in case he decides to try and leave again.
Never again.
Smoke still clings to the air. As we get closer to town, we start to see the damage—scorched tree lines, blackened fields, a few houses with boarded windows and charredroofs. Some folks are already out, clearing debris, hammering up fresh plywood.
I pull into the parking lot behind the hardware store, where a makeshift volunteer center has sprung up. Tables are set out with water bottles, masks, gloves, and donation boxes. A whiteboard leans against the wall, scrawled with job assignments: debris clearing, food distribution, supply runners.
People glance our way as we get out of the truck, a few familiar faces from around the lake, from the diner, the gas station. Some nod in greeting. A few smile. I’m braced for the questions, the judgment, the stares. I feel it tighten my chest. But when Van reaches over and gives my shoulder a firm squeeze, some of that fear melts away.
These people don’t know our secret. They just see Waylon and Van. Cap and his grandson.
We walk up to the table together. A woman I recognize, Mrs. Adler, who runs the post office, beams at us. “Well, if it isn’t the Cabin Boys!” she says, laughing. “’Bout time you showed up. We can use all the strong backs we can get.”
Van chuckles. “Point us where you need us.”
She hands us gloves and a clipboard. “There’s a barn out on the Miller’s property that needs clearing. You two up for it?”
“Absolutely,” I say, surprising even myself with how gung-ho my voice sounds.
As we head back to the truck to grab tools, I feel Van glance at me. I meet his eyes, and for once, there’s no hiding in mine. No shame. No fear.
Naked adoration and love shine blatantly for all to see. He reads me like a book, leaning in to press a soft kiss to my lips. It kills me not to glance around to see if anyone’s watching, but I hold steady, for Van. For us.
