Page 26 of The Forbidden Summer (Pathfinders Lake #2)

Van

We spend the day like we’re trying to bottle it—every second, every glance, every laugh. No talk of tomorrow. No talk of leaving.

We take the rowboat out one last time, gliding across the lake in silence, the only sound the drip of the paddle and the hum of insects along the shore.

Père reaches over and laces our fingers together.

We don’t need words. We never have. I memorize the shape of his hand in mine.

The way his eyelashes catch the sunlight when he squints into the breeze.

My heart is an open wound, my love for him seeping out like blood, and I’m helpless to stop it from staining every part of me.

Later, we cook dinner side by side, bare feet on worn floorboards, shoulders bumping. We don’t rush. Every moment stretches out, slow and thick like honey. There’s music playing, something old and tender. He hums along. I want to record it, trap it in amber. Keep it forever.

I’m desperate to collect all of these memories and take them with me because I’m afraid that when I’m alone, without him, I won’t remember what this feels like.

I want to ask him to dance with me again, like we did at the fair, but I can’t taint that perfect memory with the pain of my heartbreak now.

The sun dips behind the trees, gold fading to violet, then blue.

We carry blankets outside and sit by the fire pit even though it’s warm enough without them.

Sparks swirl into the sky, joining the first stars.

We don’t talk about goodbyes. Instead, we drink cold cider, our legs tangled together.

I lean into him and close my eyes for a while, just to feel his chest rise and fall beneath my cheek.

“One last letter?” Père asks, like he’s not just saying goodbye to me, but to Harold and Elliot as well.

I nod, my throat swelling with emotions. Père goes inside to retrieve it and rejoins me, sliding his arm around my shoulders.

Carefully, he slips the aged letter from the envelope, handling it with the utmost care.

Harold,

Saying goodbye to you today nearly broke me. I’m sure it will, before the day is over. You were so strong, stoic in the face of my tears, but I know that was for my benefit. Your eyes gave you away, my love.

I waited until you left, and then I sat down to write you this last letter.

Yes, my last.

I’ve made a decision, not lightly. I’m going to ask Margaret Perkins to marry me. I’m sure she’ll say yes.

Harold, I can feel your heart breaking as you read this. I wish I could say something to make it hurt less, but I can’t. It hurts. I’m hurting as well. But we both know there’s no future for us, no matter how strong our love is. It will endure, for years and years.

For as long as I breathe, I will love you.

Which is why I’m letting you go. I know you won’t move forward until I do.

I won’t be returning to the cabin. Too many memories. I can carry them with me in my heart, but being here, it’s just too much to bear.

You altered my life for the better. Your love shaped me into the man I am today.

Sharing the last ten years with you was the greatest joy of my life.

I’ll never love another like I do you, sweetheart.

And I’ll spend the rest of my life remembering every second spent with you, and cursing fate for tearing us apart.

Be safe, my love. Be strong. And most importantly, be happy. Know that wherever you go, whatever you do, you are loved.

Yours always and forever,

Elliot

The fire has died down to embers by the time Père finishes reading.

I don’t speak. I can’t. My eyes blur, and I blink hard against the stone pressing against my chest. The letter rests between us, fluttering slightly in the night breeze like it still breathes, like it still aches.

Père doesn’t say anything either. He just leans his head against mine and exhales slowly, like he’s letting go of something heavy, or trying to hold something in.

We stay like that for a long time. Wrapped in each other, in the tranquility, in the ghosts of a love that never got to be.

“They deserved more,” I whisper, finally.

He nods against me. “They did.”

The stars blink overhead, cold and endless. Somewhere in the woods, a night bird calls. Everything feels suspended, like if we move, if we speak too loudly, we’ll shatter the moment into pieces we can’t gather back.

I think about Elliot, about the impossibility of choosing a life that fits the world instead of the heart. I think about Harold, standing by this very lake, reading that letter with trembling hands, trying not to fall apart.

I think about how love like theirs—like ours—deserves to be seen, not hidden in envelopes or dusty sheds or piled beside a lake with a hundred other stones that represent the same heartbreak.

Père kisses the top of my head, and I close my eyes. I memorize the sound of his heartbeat beneath his ribs. The way his thumb strokes my arm. The quiet strength of his presence beside me, always so sure, even when everything else is uncertain.

I press closer, my voice barely audible. “I don’t want to be someone’s almost.”

His grip tightens just slightly. “You’re not.”

But still, I hold onto him like we’re both trying to rewrite the ending of someone else’s story—one where love doesn’t end in goodbye. One where no one has to let go to prove how much they care.

The letter rests in my lap, worn and creased, full of all the things they couldn’t say out loud.

I think we hear them anyway.

And for a moment, I believe that maybe we’ll write a different ending.

When the fire dies completely, we move to the bedroom in silence. The sheets are cool, the windows open. The world is so still, like it’s mourning us.

He wraps his arms around me from behind, one hand flat on my chest like he’s trying to keep my heart steady.

I absorb his touch without saying a word.

If I open my mouth, the grief will spill out.

So I stay quiet, soaking up the heat of him, the solid, familiar feel of his body pressed against mine.

His breath slows, but I stay awake.

Silent warm tears slip down my cheeks, soaking into the pillow, but I don’t wipe them away.

This is our last night.

And I don’t want to miss a second of it.