Page 73 of The Forbidden Summer
The way the sunlight kisses his cheek.
The way his hair curls messily against his forehead.
The way his mouth is slightly parted, soft, unguarded.
Eventually, he stirs. Hazel eyes blink open slowly, then settle on me.
“Morning,” he rasps, voice rough and sleep-heavy.
“Hey,” I whisper, brushing his hair back.
He smiles lazily. “You’re still here.”
“Not going anywhere.”
His eyes search mine like he’s trying to be sure. “Promise?”
I nod, leaning in to kiss the corner of his mouth. “Promise.”
He stretches, then curls back into me with a sigh. “We should probably get up.”
“We should,” I agree, not moving an inch.
Neither of us does. Not yet. Not while we have this quiet, golden sliver of time before the world finds us again.
The kitchen is filled with the soft clatter of breakfast—forks scraping plates, the occasional sizzle from the pan, the low hum of the radio playing some old country song in the background. Van sits barefoot at the table, hair still messy from sleep, a smear of jam on his cheek he hasn’t noticed. He’s halfway through his eggs when I finally say it.
“I’ve been thinking about selling the house.”
He pauses, fork hovering midair. “What house?”
I glance at him, then back at my coffee. “My house, back home. The one Estelle and I bought after we married.”
Van lowers his fork, brows pulling tight. “You mean... the house? The one I—grew up in?”
I nod. “Yeah. That one.” For all intents and purposes, Van spent his childhood in that house with his grandmother and me.
There’s a long pause. He leans back in his chair, eyes scanning my face. “Why now?”
“It doesn’t feel like home anymore,” I say gently. “It hasn't in a long time. It’s full of things that don’t fit who I am now. Ghosts I’ve made peace with. And keeping it… it’s like I’m trying to hold on to a version of life that’s already gone.”
Van’s quiet, working his jaw the way he does when he’s thinking hard. “It just feels sudden.”
“I know.” I reach across the table and rest my hand on his. “You have a lot of memories in that house. So do I. But the life I want now—it’s not in that place. It’s here. This cabin. You. Us.”
His throat moves with a swallow. “It’s not just about the house,” he says softly. “It’s the last piece of what we were before everything got so... complicated.”
I squeeze his hand. “We don’t lose those memories, Van. We carry them. But I don’t want to live in a museum. I want to live in the present. With you, if you’ll have me.”
He gives a shaky smile, blinking fast. “You already know the answer to that.”
“Still felt good to ask.”
He laughs, sniffles once, then picks up his fork again. “Well... if you’re selling it, I’m claiming the rocking chair and that weird lamp I always liked.”
“Deal. But I get the record player. For the cabin.”
“Fine,” he grins. “But only if we dance to every album.”
