Page 25 of The Forbidden Summer (Pathfinders Lake #2)

Van

The phone buzzes in my back pocket as I’m oiling the blade of my axe. I glance at the screen. Mom.

I wipe my hands on a rag and take a breath before answering. “Hey.”

“Hi, sweetheart,” she says, voice light like this is just a normal check-in. “How was the fair?”

It’s rare for her to check on me more than twice all summer, and I just heard from her last week.

“Good. We sold out.” I try to sound upbeat, even though I can already tell something’s coming. Her tone’s too careful.

“Oh, honey, that’s wonderful! I knew that hobby of yours would catch people’s attention.” There’s a pause. Then—“Listen… we’ll talk more when you get back, but there’s something you should know.”

Here it is. I’m still sour about her calling my passion a hobby and she’s about to layer the cake with more shit.

She hesitates. “Greg got a job offer. It’s in Idaho. We’d need to move by fall.”

It’s like the air around me evaporates, leaving my chest tight as I struggle to breathe. I sit down hard on the stool, the axe still in my hand. “Again?”

“Van,” she says defensively. “I know how hard it was last time, but that was years ago.”

Last time she followed her husband’s job, I lost everything—my school, my friends, Père. All we have now are a few phone calls and these summers together.

“You told me we’d stay put this time,” I say. My voice cracks, and I hate that it does. Idaho is even farther from Père than I already am.

“I thought we would,” she replies. “But this is a really good opportunity for him. For us.”

I almost laugh. Us. Like I haven’t been building a life of my own here. His job doesn’t affect me in the slightest.

“Maybe it’s time you find your own place. You’re almost finished with school, and I’m sure you’ll find something in computer programming right away. You won’t have any trouble paying bills.”

What planet does she live on?

“You don’t have to decide anything now,” she adds. “We’ll talk more when you’re home.”

But that’s the thing—I’m not sure where home even is anymore. I end the call with a tight goodbye and set the phone on the workbench like it’s fragile.

My chest aches. My fingers curl around the axe handle, like holding it can keep me grounded.

I think of Père, the way he danced with me in front of everyone, how his hand didn’t let go of mine. The look in his eyes when he called me amazing, like I wasn’t something temporary.

I can’t do that again. I can’t be pulled away from him like it’s nothing. Not now. Not after everything we’ve rebuilt.

I press my palms to my eyes, try to breathe, try not to let the fear win. But the truth is loud inside me.

If they move, if I go with them… I might lose him all over again. And this time, I don’t think I’d come back the same.

I set the axe down gently. Not because I’m done working, but because my hands are shaking, and I don’t trust them.

Leaning forward with my elbows on my knees, I stare at the ground, trying to think past the ache in my chest. There’s sawdust stuck to my arms, sweat drying on my neck, and that stubborn knot behind my ribs that always comes when I feel powerless. It’s back again, old and familiar.

Not again. Not again.

The first time we moved, I didn’t understand what I was losing.

I thought I’d write letters, keep in touch, make new friends, that I’d be okay.

I didn’t know how deep roots could go until they were ripped out.

And now that I’ve found Père again, touched something lasting and real, I can’t imagine having to say goodbye like that. Not again.

I close my eyes and picture his face. The way he smiled at me when the band started playing. The way his voice caught when he asked me to dance, like it mattered. Like I mattered.

If I told him what my mom just said, he’d listen. He’d pull me into his arms and let me fall apart. He’d probably even offer to visit after we’re settled in. But that’s not why I haven’t told him yet.

I’m scared that saying it out loud will make it real. Or that he’ll keep insisting I go home, wherever that is, and take time for myself. Apart from him.

I run a hand through my hair, exhale shakily, and push myself up. My legs feel heavy, like they don’t want to carry me, but I force them to move anyway.

Because as much as I want to hide out here in the quiet, there’s someone inside waiting for me. Someone who makes me feel like I belong, even when the rest of the world is sliding under my feet.

And right now, that’s the only thing I know how to hold onto.

The sun spills through the windows of the cabin, casting soft light across the wooden floor. I step inside, and before the door even clicks shut behind me, Père looks up from where he’s organizing old magazines in a crate.

His smile falters.

He sets the stack down and straightens, brows knitting. “What happened?”

I shake my head, trying for something like a grin, but it wobbles. “Nothing. Just tired.”

He doesn’t buy it. Of course he doesn’t. Père sees straight through me, he always has. It’s infuriating and comforting all at once.

“Van.”

He walks over, stopping in front of me, eyes searching mine. I can’t hold the gaze long. I look at his chest instead. Sunburnt collarbones, the threadbare Coca Cola t-shirt I’ve seen him wear since I was a kid. He smells like lemonade and cedar.

“Talk to me,” he says gently.

I shrug. “My mom called.”

His expression hitches in the smallest way—just a flicker—but I see it. He knows this isn’t just a check-in. He waits.

“They’re… moving.” My voice is thin. “Greg got a job out of state. Idaho.”

He exhales like he’s been punched. “Shit.”

“Yeah.”

Dead air descends on us, choking off my words. Outside, I can hear the wind chimes stirring in the breeze.

“I don’t want to go,” I admit, voice low. “I can’t—I won’t —do it again.”

I feel it rise in my throat, sharp and wild: the fear, the fury, the grief of something being ripped away before I even had the chance to hold it properly.

Père steps closer, cups the back of my neck with one hand and rests his forehead to mine. He doesn’t say it’ll be okay, or we’ll figure it out —not yet. He just stands there with me, quiet and solid, the way I need him to.

I breathe him in. Feel my shoulders drop, just a little.

“I’m not ready to lose this,” I whisper.

“You’re not going to,” he murmurs.

He says it with so much certainty I almost believe him. I want to. I want to press time between my palms and freeze it here—his hands on me, the kisses and contact we shared behind us, summer all around.

But nothing ever stays, does it?

I let myself lean into him and he welcomes it.

He keeps his hand at the back of my neck, warm and sure, grounding me.

I didn’t realize how much I needed someone to hold me still until now—until him.

Everything inside me is trembling, but I feel the way he breathes, slow and even, and I try to match it. Inhale. Exhale. Stay here.

Père tilts his head just enough that our noses brush, his forehead still resting against mine. Not kissing. Not speaking. Just being , and that’s somehow more intimate than anything else.

“I’m scared,” I admit.

It slips out before I can stop it, like I peeled back something in my chest and handed it to him.

“I know,” he says. His thumb rubs slow circles against the base of my skull. “You don’t have to pretend with me.”

And I don’t. God, I don’t.

He pulls me into his arms, wrapping them around me like he’s putting me back together piece by piece. I press my face into his shoulder and let my body go slack against him. His lips brush the side of my head.

“We’ll figure this out,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “Whatever it takes. You’re not doing this alone.”

“So, I can stay? Here, with you?”

Père’s arms stay around me, but the warmth cools. He pulls back, his eyes softening, and he cups my face in both hands.

“I want you here,” he says, voice quiet but firm. “More than anything.”

I nod, already hoping.

“But,” he continues, and my stomach dips.

He shakes his head slowly, reluctantly. “You still have to go back. Even if it’s just for a little while. Help your parents pack. Say goodbye to the place, the people. Sit with your feelings. Let yourself feel the importance of what you're leaving behind.”

I want to argue. I want to say no, this is enough — he’s enough. But I know he’s right. There’s a kind of closure I owe myself, a thread I need to knot before I can really move forward.

Père brushes his thumb along my cheek, catching a tear I didn’t realize was falling. “It’s not a step backward,” he says. “It’s the last step before home.”

Tears threaten my eyes at the word home. I nod, swallowing thickly. “Promise you’ll wait for me?”

He smiles, something aching and beautiful in it. “I would wait a thousand lifetimes for you, sweet boy.” He leans in and presses his forehead to mine. “You always know where to find me. When you’re ready.”

“I’m coming back,” I vow, my voice breaking on a sob. I wipe my snotty nose across his shirt, and he presses a kiss to my head.

And I mean it. Even as the thought of leaving makes my chest cave in, I know this time it’s different.

This time, I’m coming back.

“I want to keep you here, Van. Believe me. Every part of me does. But this—running away—it can’t be how we start. You deserve better than that. We do.”

I look up at him, eyes stinging. “I’m scared if I leave, something’ll change. That I’ll come back and it’ll be too late.”

Père exhales through his nose and rests his hand over my heart. “Then let this remind you,” he says. “This won’t go away. I won’t go away. And when you're ready—when you’ve said goodbye to that old life—you come back. For good. And I’ll be right here.”

He presses a kiss on my forehead like he’s sealing a promise into my skin.

“I’m not asking you to leave,” he whispers. “I’m asking you to come back whole.”