Page 24 of The Forbidden Summer (Pathfinders Lake #2)

Waylon

Van’s sleeves are rolled to his elbows, sawdust clinging to his forearms, sweat gleaming at his temples. He’s standing over the half-shaped block of wood like it’s something sacred, coaxing life from it with every pass of the chisel.

Crowds have gathered, drawn in by the roar of the chainsaw earlier, his axe now leaning against the stump. Kids sit cross-legged up front, wide-eyed. Grown-ups murmur their admiration. But I don’t hear much of it.

I’m watching him .

His focus is absolute. Every movement is confident. There’s power in his body, but there’s also care and finesse. The way his fingers check the grain before each strike. The way he pauses to assess the emerging shape. Today it’s a bear, mid-climb, reaching. Like always, there’s a story in it.

He doesn’t notice how people are looking at him. But I do.

He finishes just as the sun dips behind the tree line, turning everything gold. The crowd claps. A few cheer. Van gives a crooked smile, scratches the back of his neck, and says something humble I can’t quite hear.

The rest of his pieces sold out hours ago. I helped pack them, each wrapped in brown paper and tied with string.

We close up the booth. Wander the aisles arm in arm, tasting peach wine and smoked meats, something fried and impossible to name. Laughter floats on the warm air. Lights strung between tents begin to glow.

A band plays on the small wooden stage under the oaks. A guitar, a fiddle, a rough, sweet voice. Van taps his foot along with the rhythm, head tilted toward the sound. He’s always liked music that feels a little sad around the edges.

I stop walking. He looks back at me, cheeks flushed from the heat or maybe the wine, his lips parted like he’s caught between laughing and saying something he’s not sure he should.

The glow from the festival lights brushes over his face, catching in the gold of his hair, the line of his jaw.

He’s beautiful in the way summer evenings are beautiful—soft and fleeting, but powerful enough to linger long after they’re gone.

I hold out my hand to him in invitation. He steps closer, that grin tugging at the corner of his mouth, like he can’t quite believe I’m serious. But I am.

“In front of everyone?” he says, half incredulous, half charmed.

I don’t say anything. Just offer my hand again .

Van watches me like he’s trying to read between the lines, but his fingers slide into mine anyway. A yes.

The music spills out around us, something slow and rich with feeling, the kind of song meant for swaying and leaning in close.

Van glances at the band, then back at me, and something flickers behind his eyes, like he’s letting go of whatever reservations he was carrying about being seen. About being held.

We step into a patch of grass near the edge of the stage, where the shadows are dark enough to partially hide us, and the music swells around us.

The band’s playing something slow, something that sounds like it’s meant for dusk and softness and unforgettable firsts.

He moves close, hands tentative at first, one finding my shoulder, the other curling into mine.

“I didn’t think you danced,” he murmurs.

“I don’t.” I glance down at our feet. “Not usually.”

His grin tips sideways. “And now?”

“Now I do.”

Van lets out a breath of a laugh, one of those rare, warm ones that comes from somewhere deep. “God,” he says quietly, “you really know how to wreck a guy.”

I tug him closer. “Good wreck or bad wreck?”

He tilts his head like he’s thinking, but his eyes are soft, lit from inside. “The kind you don’t recover from. Not that I’d want to.”

I feel his breath against my neck as we sway, slow and offbeat, but perfect in its own way. He leans in, lips close to my ear.

“You ever think about them?” he asks.

There’s only one them he can be referring to. “Harold and Elliot? ”

He nods. “Yeah. Just… wondering if they ever danced out in the open like this. Where people could see.”

I glance around. No one’s staring. A few couples dance nearby. A little girl in cowboy boots spins in a circle by herself. The world feels safe tonight.

“I hope they did,” I say.

Van is quiet for a moment, then rests his cheek against my shoulder. “It’s nice,” he says. “Not hiding.”

“Yeah,” I whisper. “It is.”

People pass by with funnel cakes and craft beers, but the world narrows until it’s just the two of us. Van’s thumb strokes the back of my hand. My chest feels full in a way I don’t have words for.

We don’t talk for a while after that. The song melts into the next, and we keep moving, arms wrapped around each other because neither of us want to let go.

“I wish I could kiss you,” he whispers against my ear.

My body clenches tight. If only…

The song fades into something quieter, the strum of the guitar soft and slow like a heartbeat. Van leans back just enough to look at me, eyes half-lidded, lips parted.

“Think they’ll kick us out if we keep hogging the grass?” he murmurs.

I smirk. “Let them try.”

He laughs, light and warm, and steps out of my arms, but not far. Just enough to link his fingers with mine again. We start walking aimlessly through the rows of flickering booths, our hands swinging between us like a secret we’re not hiding anymore.

The fairgrounds are thinning out. Parents scoop up sleepy kids, vendors start packing boxes, and music hums quieter under the buzz of insects and soft conversation. A breeze rolls through, and Van tilts his face into it like it’s something holy.

“I haven’t felt like this in…” he trails off, then shrugs. “Maybe ever.”

I squeeze his hand. “Yeah,” I agree. “Me too.”

My courtship with Estelle was a whirlwind, fast and dizzying.

She had a young child, and we rushed through all the good parts, either because there wasn’t enough time to slow down and enjoy them or because of appearances.

But this, with Van, this sick-to-my-stomach euphoric high that somehow also feels like the most natural thing in the world, is giving me life.

Breathing joy back into these old bones.

We walk in easy silence, gravel crunching under our boots. Van leans into me just enough that our arms press together, the heat between us still lingering, but softer now, less fire, more ember. That kind of warmth that lasts.

Ahead, the truck is dusted in pollen from the trees, The red paint reflecting the festival lights like glittering stars. He checks on his tools stowed in the truck bed.

“You’re amazing, you know that?” I say, not really thinking. Just feeling.

Van looks up at me, that crooked smile sliding back into place. “Took you long enough to say it.”

Van reaches out, grabs the edge of my shirt, and pulls me in. Not for a kiss, but to rest his forehead against mine. We stand like that while the night folds around us.

“I wish it could always feel like this,” he says. “Like we don’t have to look over our shoulders.”

“Yeah.” I breathe out. “Wouldn’t that be something?”

Van nods, slowly. “I think I’m okay with dreaming. As long as I get moments like this sometimes. ”

That fills my chest with a heaviness that smothers all the joy of the evening.

Van deserves more than just sometimes . He deserves every sunrise beside someone who makes him feel seen.

Every ordinary Tuesday filled with warmth and laughter.

He deserves a life where love isn’t rationed out in fleeting moments, but poured, overflowing into every corner of his world.

We climb into the truck and roll the windows down. The night hums with cicadas. His pinky brushes mine on the seat between us, then curls around it, like a promise too tender to name.

As we drive out of the fairgrounds, the lights behind us blur into golden streaks in the side mirror. I catch his reflection there—thoughtful, a ease, wind ruffling his hair—and I think: I want to remember this.

We don’t talk much on the drive back. But before we reach the cabin, he speaks, barely above a whisper.

“I’d like to stop hiding one day.”

I glance at him, heart caught somewhere in my throat. “Me too.”

It’s not a vow. Not yet. But it’s enough for tonight.