Page 10 of The Forbidden Summer (Pathfinders Lake #2)

Van

The next day, the air feels lighter, as if the heaviness of the night before has burned off like morning fog in the sun. But even as I stretch and rub the sleep from my eyes, I feel the lingering ache from last night. It’s not gone. Not yet.

Père’s moving around the kitchen quietly, his back to me as he stirs something on the stove. The sound of the spoon scraping the pan fills the lull.

“Morning, Père,” I say, my voice a little rough from sleep. He doesn’t turn around immediately, but I hear him hum in acknowledgment. I lean against the doorway, watching him. “ How’d you sleep?”

“Better than you, it seems.” He finally turns, giving me a small, knowing smile. “Heard you tossing and turning late into the night.”

“I was thinking we could take a walk today,” I say, feeling the tension in my shoulders. Maybe it’s just what we need—a little time together, no distractions, no expectations. Just... us. “You know, like we used to.”

He raises an eyebrow, the way he always does when he’s unsure, but after a long pause, he nods. “Sounds like a good idea. A bit of fresh air might do us both some good.”

I can tell he’s not exactly thrilled, but there’s a willingness in his eyes that wasn’t there yesterday. Maybe that’s all I need right now—the chance to talk, to really talk, and not let this unspoken distance continue to grow between us.

After breakfast, we step outside into the sunshine, and I immediately feel better, my head clearer. The cool morning air feels like a fresh start. We walk in silence, listening to the birds sing, the wind rustling the trees, and it’s enough to soothe the tension I’ve been carrying.

The path beneath our feet is familiar, the same one we walked together so many times when I was younger.

It’s funny how, even though everything else around us has changed, this place remains constant.

The trees still stretch high above us, casting long shadows across the ground, the soft rustle of the leaves like a quiet reminder of how many seasons have passed since we were last out here like this.

I glance at Père walking beside me, his hands shoved deep in his pockets.

There’s a certain peace about him, but I can see the strain in his shoulders, the way his jaw clenches every so often.

He’s not quite as relaxed as he’s pretending to be, but maybe that’s okay.

Maybe we don’t need to be perfect today. At least we’re together.

“I thought about your biscuits last night,” I admit. “Life was simpler back then. I just wanted to make you proud... and then I went and messed it up.”

He stops walking, turns to face me, and lets out a long breath, his gaze steady on mine.

“You didn’t mess anything up, Van,” he says, but he hesitates, like he’s leaving things unsaid.

“I’ve always been proud of you. I just..

. things change, people change. It’s an inescapable part of life.

We have to learn to adapt or we…” Père looks off into the sun, shading his eyes from the glare, before his gaze resettles on me. “We get left behind.”

I take a deep breath, the cool air filling my lungs. “I don’t want to lose you,” I admit, the words spilling out before I can stop them.

Père looks at me for a long moment, his expression unreadable, before he gives a small nod. “You won’t. We’ll figure it out. I’m not going anywhere.”

We continue walking, the quiet morning welcoming us as we head down a narrow trail I don’t think I’ve ever noticed before.

It’s overgrown, the path barely visible beneath the thick grass and wildflowers.

But something about it pulls me in, like a forgotten piece of the land just waiting to be explored.

Père leads the way, and I follow behind him, feeling a sense of freedom in each step, like we’re charting a new path. A metaphor for the current state of our relationship.

The path winds around the perimeter of the lake, just out of sight of the water.

In a small clearing that looks as if it’s been created instead of naturally grown, a mossy patch of green beckons us.

There’s something different about this place, something that feels almost sacred, like we’ve stumbled onto something few others have ever seen.

Tucked into the far corner, beneath the shade of a giant tree, is a pile of rocks, stacked haphazardly, worn smooth by time.

At first, I think it’s just a random collection, but as I get closer, I notice the shape of it, the way the stones seem to form a kind of monument, like an offering to the land itself.

“Look at this.” My voice is quiet, almost reverent. I step forward, brushing my fingers along one of the rocks. They’re cool and smooth, their surfaces etched with time, shaped and smoothed by the lake water, each stone telling a story I can’t quite read.

Père comes to my side, his gaze falling on the pile of rocks. He crouches down, taking a closer look. “This wasn’t here before, was it?”

I shake my head, trying to remember. “I don’t think we’ve ever taken this path before.

” The rocks seem deliberate, like they’ve been placed with intention, each one chosen carefully, weathered by years of wind and rain.

“It’s like a marker,” I murmur, more to myself than to Père. “But a marker for what?”

He reaches out, running his hand over one of the stones, and for a moment, I see something in his eyes—recognition, maybe? Or just the kind of thoughtful curiosity that’s always been part of him.

“Maybe it’s an old monument,” he says slowly, his voice soft with wonder.

“Something the early settlers left behind. Or maybe it’s a place of significance, for someone long before us.

” He straightens, dropping his hand on my shoulder.

“Have I ever told you about the legend of Pathfinder’s Lake?

” Père asks, his voice taking on a mysterious tone, as though he’s about to weave a tale from another time .

“You’ve told me about the monster hiding in the woods that steals children who don’t listen to their grandfathers,” I remind him with a smirk.

He scoffs, giving me an exaggerated eye roll. “That’s a classic, and it’s still true. But this is different. A real legend. A bit more... tragic, I guess, if you’re into that sort of thing.”

I cross my arms, intrigued despite myself. “Tragic, huh? Okay, I’m listening.”

“According to legend, a Cheyenne Pathfinder fell in love with a preacher’s daughter. She was collecting water for her pioneering missionary group, and he was on a scouting mission. They crossed paths at the lake and fell in love at first sight.”

Père pauses, brushing leaves from the base of the monument, a small gesture that somehow makes the legend feel even more real.

“Anyway, they... you know,” he blushes, his cheeks turning a soft pink.

“Right there by the water’s edge, they swam together and baptized their love in the lake.

But they were soon discovered by both their people.

Her party and his tribe. They were so enraged that they chased the lovers, trying to divide them.

The couple decided they'd rather be together forever in the lake’s depths than be separated, so they gathered as many rocks as they could carry and, with one last kiss, drifted beneath the surface. ”

It isn’t until he finishes that I realize I’ve been holding my breath the entire time. The air feels thick, full of history and aching nostalgia.

“Do you think it’s true?” I ask, my voice barely more than a whisper.

Père shrugs. “Could be. Who knows? What matters is that you believe. ”

My heart aches for those young lovers, real or not. There’s something about their story, something haunting in their sacrifice, that sticks with me. “Believe what?”

Père moves closer, his movements slow and deliberate. It’s a subtle change, but it feels so much more significant than just physical proximity.

“In the power of love,” he says, voice soft but firm. “That’s what matters. It’s what’s inside a person’s heart that counts, not the color of their skin.” He stands a little closer now, and I can feel his energy. “Or the age of their body.”

He’s talking about us. About the difference in our ages. It’s more than just a physical gap between us. It feels like something forbidden, a love that shouldn’t exist, like we’re swimming against a current that wants to pull us under.

“I wonder if these stones are a tribute to the lovers,” I murmur, looking at the pile again.

Père nods, his gaze tracing the rocks with an intensity that matches my own thoughts. “Perhaps. Maybe they were placed here by others who resonated with their love... or their loss.”

“Forbidden lovers?” I count the stones in my head, trying and failing to keep track. There are too many. “You think so many people have visited this spot?”

Père gazes at the monument, the wind tugging at his hair. “The concept of forbidden love isn’t as strange as you might think. You can’t help who you fall in love with. The object of your heart’s desire is a curious thing. All you can do is choose to heed the call or let go of it.”

I watch with a heavy heart as he disappears to the water’s edge.

Père crouches down and carefully chooses a worn rock from the shallow water.

It’s marbled in shades of gray and shaped like an egg.

He returns to me, not making eye contact as he approaches, and squats to place the stone at the base of the monument.

Is that it? Is he placing the rock as a token of what could be between us? Is Père letting me go?

“And if you choose to let go?” I ask, my voice thick with something that’s not quite bitterness but feels close enough. “What then? Do we all jump in the lake and drown ourselves because the misery is too much to cope with?”

Père’s face falls. He takes a long breath, holding it in his chest for a moment before letting it out slowly.

“Only you can answer that, Van.” His voice is quiet, a little sad. “Some people would rather not live at all than live without love. Others...”

He trails off, letting the sentence hang in the air, unfinished. The wind picks up again, carrying his words away. “Come on,” he says, his tone shifting. “Let’s head back. I’m ready for lunch.”

As we make our way back toward the cabin, skirting the edge of the lake, I can’t stop thinking about what he said. About what he didn’t say.

Am I one of those people who would rather live without love than face the consequences of loving someone I’m not supposed to? Can I even picture myself telling my parents the truth? That I’m in love with my grandfather? Can I hold his hand in public without the weight of shame?

We approach the clearing where the lake gleams in the midday sun, its surface smooth as glass.

The knot in my stomach, the one that had dragged me down last night, feels heavier than ever now.

But it’s not a misery I think I can live with, not anymore.

Not if it means I have to deny what’s inside my heart.