Page 28 of The Forbidden Summer (Pathfinders Lake #2)

Waylon

The cabin feels hollow without him.

I move through the days like a ghost, fixing things that don't need fixing, stacking wood I'll never burn, organizing tools I've already organized a hundred times. The lake is still, the trees heavy with summer, but it all feels muted now, like someone turned the world down low.

At night, it's worse. I sit by the fire pit, the stars burning brightly overhead, and think about him. Wondering if he’s lying awake in his bed too, missing me, or if he’s slipping back into his old life without a second thought.

I want to call—God, I want to hear his voice—but fear pins my hand to my side.

What if he sounds different? What if he’s already moving on, and my call just drags him back to something he’s trying to forget?

The start of the new semester is coming up. I keep checking the calendar, even though I know the date by heart. I wonder if he’ll stay, or decide to come back home.

Home .

Here.

With me.

I lean back in the creaky porch chair, staring out at the dark water, and let the longing settle deep into my bones.

I would wait forever if he asked me to.

I just hope he doesn't make me.

A loud buzz grows closer, and I lift my hand in a lazy wave as a boat hums past, its lights twinkling on the dark water. One of my neighbors, probably. Their laughter floats across the lake, too far away to touch, but enough to make me smile, just a little.

I crack open a beer, the sound sharp and hollow against the heavy quiet. The first sip is cold and bitter, and I sink deeper into the old porch chair, letting the night wrap around me.

Out here, when it gets late enough, the ghosts come easier.

I swear I can hear Estelle humming inside the kitchen, that soft, tuneless sound she used to make when she thought no one was listening. Although she’d never been to the cabin, my mind recalls what’s familiar.

I hear Van too, younger, lighter, his laughter ringing through the trees, the sharp clatter of his bare feet on the dock. I glance at the empty chair beside me and for a second, just a second, I almost believe he'll come sprinting up the path, hair damp from the lake, grinning like he used to.

Ghosts, all of them. Gentle ones, maybe. But they leave me hollow .

Somewhere, maybe, Harold and Elliot are sitting by a fire like this too, across some wide stretch of forever, watching over us all.

I raise my beer to the stars. Silent toasts to old loves, lost dreams, and hopes that still stubbornly cling to life.

“Come home, Van,” I murmur into the dark. “Come back to me.”

Then I close my eyes and listen.

Just in case he can somehow hear me.

The boat disappears around the bend, and the ripples it leaves behind shimmer like silver fish in the fading light. I take a slow pull from the bottle in my hand, the beer gone flat and bitter, but it fills the silence somehow.

The porch creaks beneath me as I lean back. The cabin feels too big now. Every stroke of the clock, too quiet. Every chair, too empty.

I stare out across the lake, watching the last colors of the sunset bleed away. An owl hoots in the distance, that lonely, aching sound that always used to soothe me. Tonight, it cuts right through my ribs.

I think about picking up the phone. About hearing his voice, just for a minute. But what if I hear regret in the way he says my name?

Instead, I sit frozen and let the loneliness pool in my lap like spilled water.

The stars prick through the sky, one by one. I pull my sweatshirt tighter around me. Night falls heavy and slow.

I wait. And wait. And wait.

When the cold finally gets to me, I shuffle inside, shutting the door behind me with a hollow click .

The cabin smells like woodsmoke, the way it always does when no one’s been cooking or laughing or living inside it.

I wander without meaning to, hands trailing over the worn surfaces, the edge of the counter, the back of a chair.

Looking for something.

Anything

I find myself staring at Van’s half of the bed. His half of the closet, now empty but for the hangers.

On the nightstand, tucked behind a stack of old books, I spot a forgotten sweatshirt faded and soft with wear. His.

I pick it up and press it to my face before I can even think better of it. It still smells faintly like him, like pine soap and sawdust and sun-warmed skin.

My chest cracks open.

God, I miss him.

With a heavy heart, I sink down onto the edge of the bed, the sweatshirt balled up in my hands.

For a long time, I just sit there, clinging to a piece of him. Feeling the minutes stretch and pull, thinner and thinner, until it feels like I might snap right in half.

I lie back on Van’s half of the bed, boots dangling off the edge, not bothering to undress. The memory of him, the absence of him, presses down on my ribs until I can hardly breathe.

Eventually I close my eyes. Somewhere between waking and dreaming, I hear them again, the ghosts.

Estelle’s soft laughter in the kitchen.

Young Van’s bare feet thudding across the porch.

The life I had.

The life I could have had.

The life I might still have, if fate is kind for once.

A gust of wind rattles the windowpane, and I jolt upright. For a moment, I think the sound is a knock, my heart hammering so hard it deafens me.

But it’s nothing. Just the night playing tricks.

I sag back down, exhausted beyond reason, and finally drift into a shallow, aching sleep.

Dreams find me, vivid, clinging fantasies. Van’s smile, the warmth of his hand sliding into mine, the soft press of his lips.

The way he looked, sunlit and alive, carving sculptures that stole the breath from my chest with his talent.

I should have held on tighter.

I should have followed him.

What if letting him go was the biggest mistake of my life?