Page 20 of The Forbidden Summer (Pathfinders Lake #2)

Van

It starts with me hauling a thick-ass log out of the pile behind the cabin and deciding that it needs a little sculptural flair . What kind of flair? Obviously, something phallic. Something bold. Something that would make Père sigh and rub his temples.

I plant the log upright, pick up the chainsaw, and fire it up. At first, I’m just trying to get the general shape. But by the time I’ve carved out a defined head and, uh, supporting structures, I’m standing there sweaty, shirtless, and undeniably proud of what I’ve created.

That’s about when I hear the screen door slam behind me.

“What in God’s name are you doing to that log?” Père calls .

I glance over my shoulder, saw balanced on one shoulder like I’m Paul Bunyan’s horny little cousin. “Art,” I say, sliding my safety glasses up on my head.

He walks closer, takes one look, and stops dead in his tracks.

“Van. That is not art. That’s a public indecency waiting to happen.”

“It’s symbolic ,” I say, wiping sweat off my brow and gesturing toward the log. “Represents primal masculinity. Natural virility. Power and?—”

“It looks like a dick.” He folds his arms, trying to glare, but there’s a twitch in the corner of his mouth. “A very large, veiny one.”

“I was going for realism.”

He groans and pinches the bridge of his nose. Mission accomplished! “You can’t just be out here wielding a chainsaw like that. What if someone drives up?”

Is he for real? “Out here?” I glance around at nothing but trees for miles. “They’ll applaud the craftsmanship.”

“Can I ask what inspired this?”

I set the saw down with a dramatic thunk, lean one elbow against the log like it’s a piece of fine sculpture, and flash him my most shameless grin. “Would you believe… nature? The raw beauty of the forest. The sacred geometry of life.”

Père cocks a brow. “The sacred geometry of life has balls now?”

I shrug. “Depends on your perspective.”

He walks a slow circle around my masterpiece, arms folded, that half-annoyed, half-amused look he gets when he’s trying very hard not to laugh. “You do realize this thing is anatomically… aggressive, right?”

“Thank you,” I say, pleased .

“That wasn’t a compliment.”

“Oh, it was. Deep down. You’re impressed.”

He stops in front of me, eyes flicking from the sculpture to my face. “I’m horrified.”

“Impressed and horrified,” I correct, stepping a little closer, voice dropping. “The ideal reaction.”

His mouth twitches again, but he fights the smile. “You’re a menace.”

“And yet, here you are.”

He opens his mouth, then closes it, like he can’t argue with that. Which, of course, means I win.

I bump my hip against the log. “You think it needs a name?”

“Please don’t.”

“Too late. I’m calling it ‘Ode to Père.’”

That finally gets a laugh out of him, short and exasperated, but real.

God, I love that sound. “Or maybe Waylon’s Wanker, ” I add, deadpan, nodding at the wood like it deserves to be in a museum.

Père groans, dragging a hand down his face. “Jesus, Van.”

“What? It’s catchy. Feels like something that belongs on a placard.”

His mouth opens, then clamps shut as color creeps into his cheeks. I’ve won again. Victory: mine.

“You're incorrigible,” he mutters, but his lips are twitching. He kicks at a wood chip near his boot and won’t quite meet my eyes now.

I peel off my work gloves and wipe my hands on my shorts, grinning at him from beneath my lashes. “You’re smiling, though.”

“I'm not,” he lies, the corner of his mouth betraying him .

I step closer, just enough to brush his arm with mine. “You’re totally smiling.”

He shakes his head, but he doesn’t move away. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

“Damn right I am.”

The sculpture looms ridiculous and obscene behind me, but Père’s eyes are on mine now, quiet, warm, a little helpless.

“You gonna help me sand it down?” I ask, all innocent.

“Absolutely not,” he says, but he’s still smiling. Still standing close.

God, I love this . Us.

Père eventually shakes his head like he’s trying to reset his brain. “We’re burning that thing tonight.”

“You can‘t burn it. I’m going to enter it in a local art show. ‘Found Wood and Forbidden Thoughts.’”

He laughs again, louder this time, and it echoes through the trees. That sound makes something deep in my chest ache.

We stand there for a moment in the pine-dappled sunlight, just… looking at each other. Me, with sap-sticky hands and a stupid grin. Him, with that worn-in t-shirt, threadbare and riddled with holes, arms crossed like a shield.

“You’ve got bark in your hair,” he says softly.

“Do I?” I lean in slightly, maybe too far. “Get it for me?”

He hesitates, then reaches out, fingers brushing gently through my hair, pulling away a flake of bark and flicking it to the ground. His hand lingers. My breath catches.

“Van,” he says, almost a warning. But he doesn’t pull back.

“I know,” I say. “But it’s not a joke. Not for me.”

He nods, barely, like it hurts to do it.

Then I step into him. Slow. Careful. My arms wrap loosely around his waist, like I’m giving him every second to stop me. But he doesn’t. He lets me lean into his chest, lets my forehead press into his collarbone. Lets his chin rest on top of my head.

His arms circle me with a softness I don’t expect.

We stay like that, just breathing each other in, as the birds rustle overhead and the sun starts to dip, painting gold across the log, and the mess we’ve made together.

Well, that I’ve made in his honor.

A fitting tribute to the man I love.

***

The letter’s paper is soft and yellowed at the edges, the ink faded to a dusky brown, like it’s been reread too many times to count. Père sits beside me on the porch swing, holding it delicately in his calloused fingers, like it might dissolve if he grips too tight.

He clears his throat once, quietly. Then again. Then he begins to read.

My Dearest Elliot,

The air stills. Even the bugs seem to hush.

The sun’s just dipped behind the trees, and the fireflies have begun their dance...

His voice is softer than I expect. There’s something reverent in it, something… cracked open. Like the words are sliding under his skin as he reads them, getting inside him .

I barely breathe.

I keep looking to the spot where you sat this morning, barefoot and muttering about the coffee grounds I left floating in your cup. I would’ve gladly ruined a hundred pots if it meant hearing you grumble with sleep in your voice.

Père pauses there, lets out a short huff of a laugh, a laugh that sounds quiet, and sad, and fond. I watch the corner of his mouth twitch. That sound curls around something in my chest and tugs.

I’ve been trying to name this feeling, what it is you stir in me.

I used to think it was admiration. Simple and harmless.

Then I thought maybe it was envy, the way I watched you move through the world, sure of yourself even when you weren’t.

But today, as you laughed with your whole face, head thrown back and hand gripping my knee like it was nothing at all, I knew.

It’s you. It’s always been you.

His voice falters.

My heart aches with how much I want to reach for him, but I don’t. Not yet. Not while he’s still holding the letter like it’s a lifeline, or maybe a mirror.

There was a moment, after you stole that biscuit from my plate and didn’t give it back, when I caught myself looking at your mouth longer than I should have. And you looked back. We didn’t say anything, but the moment held us both like a held breath. I think you knew then, too.

I’m not brave enough to say this aloud. Not yet. Maybe not ever. But writing it, at least, gives me somewhere to put the ache.

I love you, Elliot. Not as my cousin. Not as a friend. I love you as a man loves another.

Père doesn’t read the last line. He folds the letter carefully, eyes still on the page long after it’s closed. I can see the tremble in his hands.

When he finally looks up, his eyes shine in the dim light.

“What?” he says, like he doesn’t know why I’m watching him so closely.

“You felt it,” I say. “Didn’t you?”

His silence says more than words ever could.

I reach for his hand, and this time, he lets me take it. Doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t pull away. Just holds on, like maybe he’s finally letting himself be held.

Père’s thumb traces over the back of my hand, slow and absent, like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. But he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t say anything, either. Not yet.

The cicadas buzz low in the trees. The porch creaks beneath us. It feels like the whole world has exhaled and now waits to see what he’ll do next.

“They were brave,” I say softly. “Even if it was just to each other. That kind of honesty? That kind of love?”

His throat bobs. He nods once. “Yeah.”

“You don’t have to say it,” I add. “I just want you to feel safe enough to.”

“I’ve never been afraid to tell you I love you, Van.”

“Yeah, but it means something different now.”

He leans back against the swing, eyes fixed on the tree line like it holds answers. “I don’t think I’ve ever told anyone anything the way Harold did in that letter,” he admits.

“You could,” I whisper. “You could start now.”

He turns toward me slowly, like he’s been holding his breath for decades and just remembered how to let it go. His gaze skims across my face, lingering at my lips, my eyes, my cheek where a mosquito’s left a tiny red welt. Something about the way he looks at me makes my skin buzz like static.

“You’re not just my grandson,” he says finally, voice raw. “You’re… you’ve become something else entirely. Something I don’t have a name for yet.”

My heart stumbles. “You don’t have to name it.”

But God, I want him to. I want to hear it from his lips. I want to know he sees this for what it is.

He moves, his shoulders turning toward me fully. “Do you remember the first summer you stopped calling me Grandpère?”

I blink, surprised by the shift. “Yeah. I was… what, fourteen?”

“You said it sounded too old. Made me feel like a relic,” he chuckles .

I grin. “I remember. I called you ‘Père’ instead, like it was some kind of French honorific I made up.”

He smiles, eyes softening. “It always made me feel like something different to you. Something... special. Someone just yours.”

“You were,” I say. “You are.”

He’s quiet again. Then: “I think the shift started then. I realized you wanted me to be something other, something more, and I wanted to be your everything. I just didn’t know being everything could mean this .”

My breath catches.

Père reaches up, his fingers brushing a curl off my forehead, and I lean into the touch like I’ve been waiting for it my whole life.

“I didn’t want it to,” he murmurs. “Didn’t let it, not for a long time. But here we are.”

“Yeah,” I whisper, my voice barely there. “Here we are.”

And when he leans in, when our lips meet for the softest, most tentative kiss, there’s no thunderstorm this time, no desperate breathlessness. Just warmth. Just quiet. Just the solid press of his mouth against mine and the fireflies blinking lazily around us, like they’ve been waiting for this too.

The swing creaks beneath us again, slow and rhythmic. Père's arm is warm around my shoulders, his thumb still brushing soft arcs against the curve of my bicep like he’s memorizing me by feel.

I settle deeper into his side, letting my head rest against him, and I swear I can feel his heartbeat.

“You always smell like cedar and coffee,” I murmur, not even trying to filter myself.

He huffs a laugh, low and fond. “You always say that. ”

“Because it’s always true.” I tilt my head to look up at him. “It’s like… comfort and home, all in one.”

He doesn’t say anything at first, just shifts slightly to press a kiss into my hair. The kind of kiss that doesn’t need anything back. One that’s given freely, like breath.

The night air is thick with summer smells—damp grass, the smokey trail of a dying fire in the pit, a whiff of old pine from the trees lining the lake.

Crickets trill. The wind stirs the wind chimes on the eaves, and their delicate clinking fills the pause between us.

“I used to think about this,” I say, my voice quiet, hesitant. “Not just the kissing. But... this part. The after. Sitting with you like this. Letting it feel real.”

Père looks down at me, something unreadable in his eyes. “You did?”

“Every summer.”

His expression falters. Then he lets out a long breath, like he’s exhaling all the years we tiptoed around this.

“You deserve someone better,” he says eventually.

“Too late,” I tease gently. “I already picked you.”

He snorts under his breath and pulls me closer, his cheek resting against the top of my head. We sit there in the slow sway of the swing, wrapped in the hush of a summer night, while the stars spill across the sky above us like they're eavesdropping on something sacred.

Neither of us rushes. Not now. Not when we’ve waited this long.