Page 21 of The Forbidden Summer (Pathfinders Lake #2)

Van

“We should go out tonight. I need a break from the wilderness.”

Père looks up, still stirring the pot of spaghetti sauce. “Out? To where?”

“Isn’t there a bar in Stony Creek? We could get a drink.”

He blinks at me like I’ve just suggested we drive to Vegas. “You want to go out out?”

I grin, tossing a dishtowel over my shoulder. “Yeah. You know, chairs that aren’t splintery, music that isn’t frogs and crickets, drinks that don’t come from the bottom shelf of your old pantry.”

He chuckles but doesn’t meet my gaze, busying himself with another stir of the sauce. “And what do we tell the locals when they see us? Sit on opposite ends of the bar like we don’t know each other?”

I move in behind him and brace my hands on the counter beside his. “We’re just two guys getting a drink.”

He doesn’t say no, and that’s as close to a yes as I need.

For Pete’s Sake Saloon is all rough edges and worn charm.

Weathered barn wood walls, twinkle lights strung above the bar like a forgotten Christmas decoration, a jukebox crooning old country songs in the corner.

It smells like beer and bar nuts, with that faint stickiness underfoot that lets you know they mop more out of habit than effect.

“You always this fun on a night out?” I tease, nudging his boot under the table.

He doesn’t smile, not quite, but there’s something softer in his gaze now. “Just thinking.”

“Me too. You mentioned wanting to spend more time at the cabin this year.” Thinking of leaving at the end of summer makes my stomach knot. “What will you do to keep busy?”

He shrugs. “Same as always. Think. Fish. Whittle. Take the boat out. Fix whatever breaks.”

“That sounds lonely.”

“I like lonely. Gives me space.”

I try not to let that sting. “And me?” I ask, a lump forming in my throat.

“You,” he says, swirling the ice in his glass, “need to go home.”

My stomach turns. Not jealousy. Not even hurt. Just that slow-rolling ache of a good thing with an expiration date.

“I don’t want to go,” I admit, watching the way the condensation beads on my glass. “I know I have to. I just...don’t want to.”

He looks at me, really looks at me. There’s warmth in it, but also steel.

“You need space. Time to sort out what this is. Talk to your folks. Feel things without me muddying them.”

“Muddying them,” I repeat, wrinkling my nose. “You think you’re mud?”

He doesn’t answer, just sips his whiskey and stares out at the crowd like he’s memorizing all the ways to not say how he feels.

I trace the condensation down my glass, watching the droplets race to the coaster below. “I hate that this ends,” I say, finally breaking the silence. “Us. The cabin. You.”

“It doesn’t end,” he says, eyes fixed on his drink. “It just… becomes something else.”

I snort. “You always talk like a poet when you’re uncomfortable.”

“I’m not uncomfortable.”

“You’re dodging.”

He sighs, long and low, then finally lifts his eyes to mine. “You can’t stay, Van. You know that.”

I swallow the knot rising in my throat. “I could . I could figure something out. Move classes to online. Stay a little longer. I’m almost finished with school.”

“And then what? You get stuck in limbo? Waiting for me to sort through my mess of feelings while we both pretend the world doesn’t exist outside that tree line?”

I don’t answer, because I don’t have an answer. Just that gnawing ache in my chest, the one that feels like homesickness, except home is sitting across from me, guarded and quietly breaking .

“I’m not asking you to forget,” he says, softer now. “I’m just asking you to breathe. To go back. Get your bearings. Talk to your parents. Hell, talk to yourself. Spend some time not tangled up in me.”

“I don’t want space from you.”

“That’s the problem,” he says, with a crooked smile. “Neither do I. Which is why you need it.”

I think of Harold and Elliot. They took a breather and look what happened to them. They never found their way back to the cabin, back to each other. What if Père and I are doomed to repeat the same fate?

He downs the last of his whiskey and sets the glass down gently, like the weight of his words might crack it.

“You can’t make a decision this big from inside a dream, Van.

The cabin’s always been magic. It makes everything feel…

bigger than it is. Sweeter. Closer. But that doesn’t mean it’s real, not forever. We need to be sure.”

His honesty stings worse than silence.

I push my drink away, appetite gone. “And if I go back and realize it is real?”

He looks at me like I’m something precious and dangerous all at once. “Then you’ll know. And I’ll still be here.”

The jukebox skips to another slow, mournful track. He rests his hand on the table, not quite reaching for mine, but close enough that I feel the warmth.

And even though we’re surrounded by strangers and neon beer signs and the hum of small-town chatter, in this tiny booth in the back of a bar, it’s just us.

It still feels like home.

And I don't know how to leave it. Leave him .

On the way out, I stop at the old bulletin board near the entrance. Flyers flap lightly in the summer breeze coming through the open door. My eyes catch on one in bright orange— Stony Creek Summer Fair: Crafts, Music, Pie Bake-Off. Vendors Wanted.

“Hey, look at this.” I tap the flyer. “I could set up a booth. Sell some of the stuff I’ve carved.”

Père makes a gruff noise, too close to a laugh. “You gonna sell Woody ?”

I bark out a laugh, shaking my head. “Not a chance. Woody stays in the family.”

He huffs out another soft laugh, the corners of his eyes crinkling. He looks younger, less burdened, more like the man I know in the quiet moments back at the cabin.

We step back out into the night. The warm, pine-sweet air wraps around us. I feel his hand brush mine, like a question. I answer by tangling my fingers with his, holding tight, even as we walk back into the dark.

“You know I’m going to miss you like crazy, right?” Père admits.

I squeeze his hand. “Then don’t let go.”

He chuckles softly, but there’s no humor in it. “It’s not that simple.”

“It could be.”

We walk a few more steps, our boots crunching on gravel, the lake in the distance shimmering with moonlight.

We reach the truck, and he opens my door for me like always, like it’s just another night.

But his hand lingers on the edge, knuckles brushing mine again, that same wordless question still hanging between us.

“I’ll come back,” I say, heart thudding .

He nods slowly, his face unreadable in the dark. “I’ll be here.”

He leans in just slightly, his eyes dipping to my mouth, then flicking back up. I tilt my face toward him, not all the way, just enough to give him room to meet me in the middle.

Père’s lips brush mine, feather-light, no heat or hunger this time. Just the shape of him, the soft press of a promise he’s not sure he can keep. His hand finds my cheek, thumb grazing beneath my eye, and I forget how to breathe.

It’s not a kiss to claim. It’s a kiss to remember.

He pulls back, barely, resting his forehead against mine.

I close my eyes.

This feels like goodbye.

And as the truck bounces along the pitted road back to our cabin, my heart splinters into a thousand pieces.

He drives with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the gearshift between us.

Close enough to touch, but not touching.

The cab is quiet, just the hum of tires on gravel and the occasional creak of the old suspension.

I watch the trees blur past the window, shadows chasing moonlight, and try not to let the ache in my chest swallow me whole.

I should say something. Should ask him not to let this be the end. But the words stay lodged in my throat.

So I sit in the quietness, biting my tongue, memorizing the way he looks in this moment. His profile lit in soft blue from the dash lights. The faint lines around his eyes. The steady, careful way he drives.

Every bump in the road feels like it jars another shard of me loose. And I don’t know how I’ll leave this place with all of them scattered behind me.