Page 23 of The Forbidden Summer (Pathfinders Lake #2)

Van

Père rests his head on my shoulder, and I’m trying not to lose it completely.

There’s this ache in his voice when he says Don’t forget me that slices straight through me. I want to turn to him, grab his face in my hands, and say How could I? You’re already in my blood.

But if I say that now, I might throw up all my feelings right here on the porch. And that’s not the move. Not yet. Not when the night’s still warm and his hand is still in mine.

So I clear my throat and squeeze his fingers.

“You know what we need?” I say, my voice brighter than I feel. “Another letter.”

Père looks up at me with that soft half-smile of his. He doesn’t say anything, just nods.

Dashing inside, I grab the folded paper from the little bundle that’s slowly dwindling as we make our way through their forbidden relationship.

It’s old, the ink faded just enough to make you slow down and read each word with care.

Père hasn’t moved, and when I reclaim my seat on the porch swing, he opens his arm and slides it around my shoulders, pulling me close.

I unfold it carefully, hold it between us, and start reading aloud:

Dearest Elliot,

I don’t know if I ever told you this, but you changed me. Completely.

Before you, I didn’t think much about who I was or what I wanted. I thought I knew. I had a path laid out, neat and narrow, and I stuck to it because that’s what you’re supposed to do.

And then you and your mother moved back home that summer, and I found you impossible to ignore. We became inseparable. You made me feel alive, really alive, in a way I didn’t understand at first. But now I do.

You showed me parts of myself I didn’t know existed. You made me see the world in color when I’d been living in black and white. You made me want more. To be more.

I pause, my throat tightening. Harold’s words resonate deeper than I thought they could. I glance at Père, who’s quiet, his head still against my shoulder, his eyes on the letter.

I keep going, even though it’s like reading my own thoughts aloud:

I never thought I’d be the kind of man who loves another man. But Elliot, you changed everything. You’re my impossible, my always, my every reason.

And I love you for it.

I stop there, folding the letter back into its envelope, because I can’t read anymore without giving myself away.

“That’s… a lot,” I say, my voice softer than I mean it to be. “Harold really laid it all out, huh?”

Père nods, and there’s something in his expression, something knowing, like he feels Harold’s words as strongly as I do. “Yeah. He did.”

I swallow hard and manage a crooked smile. “Guess it’s a good thing they didn’t have text messages back then. Could you imagine Harold trying to send all that in an emoji?”

That makes him laugh, and the sound breaks the tension in my chest, letting me breathe again. I lean my head back and close my eyes, the letter still burning in my hands.

Because Harold’s words, they’re mine, too. Every damn one of them. But I’m not brave enough to say it.

Not yet.

Père knows I love him. He knows I desire him and that I dream of a future for us. But Harold sounded as if he was pleading, begging for one last chance at happiness. I refuse to give up on us. I’m not ready to plead and beg, but if I have to, eventually, I will. On my fucking hands and knees.

“Do you think Elliot ever read these?” I ask, still holding the letter like it might flutter away if I let go.

Père moves beside me. I feel the change in him before I see it—his body going still, like he’s trying to hold something down. He sits up and clears his throat. That tells me everything. He’s just as tangled as I am.

“I think so,” he says finally, nodding. “There’s no address on the envelopes, yet they’ve been opened… and they look like they’ve been read hundreds of times.”

I run my thumb along the edge of the paper. It’s soft from being handled, like someone reached for it again and again when the silence got too loud.

“Maybe they wrote them and left them for each other here,” I say. “Maybe they visited the cabin separately. Or maybe they never even needed to send them, they just needed to say it somehow.”

Père doesn’t answer right away. He’s looking out at the lake, but I can tell he’s still with me.

“Maybe,” he says quietly. “Maybe the letters were like… anchors. Something they left behind so the other one would always know. No matter what.”

I nod, my throat tightening again.

Because that’s what love feels like, doesn’t it? A letter you write and tuck into the corners of someone else’s life, hoping they find it when they need it most.

And I wonder, when I go, will I leave behind something like that for him?

Will he know ?

His fingers slide over my thigh, seeking my hand. He doesn’t grip, just rests them there, light as breath.

I turn my hand over, let him slip his fingers between mine.

It’s nothing dramatic. No big declarations. Just warmth and reassurance. Exactly what I need.

I turn to look at him. His eyes catch the porch light, all shadow and gold. I don’t say anything as I watch him. Because I want to remember this. The way he looks in this moment. The way he feels beside me.

And maybe he feels it too—the ache of it, the sweetness—because after a moment, he leans in, slow and unhurried, and presses his lips to my shoulder.

It’s so simple. So intimate.

My whole body exhales.

The heat from his lips lingers like it’s trying to say more than words ever could. I don’t move at first. I just let it settle, let it soak into my skin, into the parts of me that are always bracing for things to break.

Then I turn. Not a lot, just enough to face him, enough for our knees to brush and for our hands to still be tangled. His eyes find mine in that quiet way he does when he’s unsure if he’s allowed to want something.

So I close the distance for him.

Our mouths meet, slow, deep, like we’ve got all the time in the world and still not enough. His fingers slide into my hair, gentle but possessive, and I let him pull me closer until I’m practically in his lap, the swing creaking beneath us.

His hands roam my back, under my shirt, fingertips skimming skin, making me shiver. I kiss him again, this time with more want, more need, like I’m trying to memorize the shape of his mouth before the summer takes him from me .

I straddle him, our bodies pressing flush together, and he exhales against my neck, this soft, broken sound that goes straight through me. My name in a whisper.

“Van…”

I thread my fingers through his hair, tug just enough to tilt his head back so I can kiss down his jaw, his throat, tasting the natural salt of his sweaty skin.

His hands grip my hips, grounding me as mine wander—over his chest, his waist—until we’re both breathing harder, caught in something deeper than just heat.

It’s not just wanting him. It’s needing to feel close, to make the most of every second we still have.

Because I know this won’t last forever. But right now, I need him to feel it too—that this matters. That he matters.

That we could have a future just like this.

Père’s breath stutters when I move against him, my hips rolling slow and deliberate. His grip tightens like he’s trying to hold onto the moment, or maybe to keep himself from falling apart.

I don’t want to rush this.

Not with him.

I want to feel every second of it, the way his hands roam like they’re memorizing me, the way his body responds with this quiet, desperate honesty. I want to make him feel as wanted as I’ve felt since the day I showed up here, and he looked at me like I might ruin him.

His shirt is the first to go, damp and clinging, peeled off between kisses and laughter muffled against skin. I trail my mouth down his chest, tasting him, and the sharp inhale he makes when I reach his ribs. He’s so sensitive there. I file it away for later .

I kiss him again, slow and deep and wanting, and he arches into it, gasping my name like a prayer he doesn’t even know he’s saying.

We move together like we’ve done this a hundred times in our dreams. Like our bodies already know the way.

The rusty chain protests our movement, but I couldn’t care if it quits on us and we fall flat on our asses. There’s not a chance in hell I’m stopping now.

When he looks up at me—eyes dark, lips parted, hair mussed from my hands—my whole chest aches.

Because this isn’t just foreplay. It’s something raw and real and terrifyingly beautiful.

It’s the feeling I’ve been trying to swallow all summer.

I want to tell him. I almost do.

But instead, I kiss the words into his mouth— I’m yours, I’m yours, I’m yours —and hope that, somehow, he hears it.

Père lifts his head, watching me with this softness that guts me. His hair’s a mess. His lips are kiss-bitten and pink. And he looks... peaceful. Like he’s exactly where he’s meant to be.

I want to freeze time right here.

We don’t always get this—ease, safety, love without conditions. Sometimes it’s just borrowed. Sometimes it’s all we get.

I glance up at the stars blinking in the navy sky. “Do you think they felt like this?” I ask quietly.

Père doesn’t pretend not to know who I mean. “Yeah,” he says. “I think they did. You okay?” he asks, voice low, full of concern.

I nod. “More than okay.”

And I mean it. Because I’ve never felt more seen, more wanted. More like myself.

We lie there a little longer, with my head resting against his solid chest, and he strokes his fingers through my hair. I think about the letter, the cabin, the history holding us like a quiet witness.

And I wonder, when we’re gone, when someone else finds this place, will they feel us in the walls? In the dock planks? In the reflection of the stars?

I hope so. Because even if we’re lucky enough to have a lifetime of love and memories together, it won’t be enough.