Page 29 of The Forbidden Summer (Pathfinders Lake #2)

Van

It’s like walking through a dream where everything’s familiar but nothing feels right.

Being home— this home—instead of at the cabin with Père is a quiet kind of ache. The days stretch out long and empty. The walls are the same color. The furniture hasn’t changed. But it all feels... hollow. Like someone hit the mute button on the world.

I wake up expecting the sound of him moving in the kitchen, humming tunelessly while making coffee.

I half-turn in bed like I’ll find him there beside me, warm and half-asleep, only to remember he’s miles away.

That ache lives in my chest, deep and dull, and it flares whenever I reach for something and realize he’s not here to hand it to me with a quiet smile and a joke I pretend not to laugh at.

I miss his touch in the way you miss a body part—not with drama, but with a constant, background awareness. My skin remembers the shape of his hands, the press of his palm against my back, the way his thumb would trace circles absentmindedly when we sat close. Nothing touches me like that here.

Even sound is different. His laugh—deep and husky, cracking through the stillness like sunlight through clouds—is gone. All I get now is silence, broken by familiar noises that used to comfort me but now just feel like ghosts.

I catch myself narrating things in my head, like I would if he were near. Père would like this, I think. He’d roll his eyes at this. I keep imagining his responses, craving them like food I can't quite taste.

It’s not just missing him. It’s being homesick for him. For the version of myself I only seem to be when I’m with him. Everything feels a little dimmer without his light. And I realize, I don’t just want to be near him. I want to be known by him. Every day.

And that’s the ache: knowing what it feels like to belong somewhere, and being just far enough away that I can’t reach it.

Père’s always been home to me, even when we were separated by state lines.

I wonder if he’s thinking of me, the way I think of him, without meaning to, without trying.

Maybe he’s lying in bed right now, staring at the ceiling in that soft glow of early morning or the deep blue hush of midnight.

Maybe his hand drifts to the other side of the bed, still half-expecting to find me there.

Skin warm. Breath deep and even. My leg slung over his without thought, the way I always did.

Is it cold without me? Is it too quiet?

Does he shift in the sheets and feel the shape of the space I used to fill?

I think about the way his fingers used to find mine in sleep, like magnets, like instinct.

Does his hand slip inside his briefs and touch himself while thinking of me?

Maybe he hears a song on the radio, or catches the scent of sawdust in the air, and I flash through his mind like lightning, brief but burning.

Maybe he closes his eyes and sees my smile. My stupid carved heart. My hands. Woody, the statue I carved in honor of his dick, sits outside in the clearing beside the fire pit. Does he stare at it and think of me? Of the way I made him laugh that day, despite how hard he tried not to?

God, I hope I’m still with him.

Even if it’s just in the way his chest tightens when the bed feels too big. Even if it’s just in the way he misses me like I miss him. Not in big, loud ways. But in those quiet, aching ones that sit just beneath the skin.

My mother may have said she understands, but she looks at me differently now.

It’s not overt, there’s no anger in her voice, no slamming doors or hushed whispers behind my back.

But it’s in the way her smile sometimes falters when she thinks I’m not looking.

The way her eyes linger a little too long on my face, like she’s trying to figure out who I am now, or maybe who she thought I was.

She still makes dinner for me. Still asks about my day. Still smiles at me when she walks through the door. But there’s a hesitation tucked into her warmth, a slight pulling back that wasn’t there before.

Like she’s loving me through a filter she didn’t mean to install.

Maybe it’s confusion. Or grief. Maybe she’s mourning the idea of a son she had carefully stored away in her heart, and now she’s trying to make room for the real version of me, the one who loves a man she used to worship with child-like innocence.

The one who has found a kind of happiness that doesn’t look anything like what she pictured.

I don’t blame her. But I feel it.

In the stillnesses between our conversations.

In the way she sometimes changes the subject too quickly.

In how she hasn’t said Père’s name since I told her.

Greg is even worse. He makes wide circles around me, like he’s afraid of having to talk to me.

It makes me feel smaller in my own skin. Like I have to re-earn something I didn’t know I was at risk of losing.

Her acceptance. Her comfort. Her full embrace.

And maybe that’ll come with time. Maybe she’ll learn that this part of me doesn’t make me a stranger, it just makes me whole.

But for now, her eyes tell a different story than her words.

And I feel the space between us more than I ever have.

My mom’s vacuum drones in the background as I’m half-watching some mindless show, trying not to count the hours since I last heard from Père, when the news flashes across the screen.

WILDFIRES RAVAGE NORTHERN MINNESOTA

Evacuations Underway Near Stony Creek

My heart stops.

I sit bolt upright, the remote clattering to the floor.

The news anchor’s voice drones on—words like ‘unprecedented heat,’ ‘strong winds,’ ‘difficult terrain,’--but all I hear is Stony Creek.

Pathfinder’s Lake.

The cabin.

Père.

“Mom, turn that off!” I shout, scrambling for my phone, hands trembling so badly I almost drop it.

The call goes straight to voicemail.

I try again. And again. But no answer.

Panic coils hot and wild in my chest.

The image of the woods around the lake, the towering pines, the sun-dappled trails, the dock where we kissed, all of it swallowed in smoke and flame, fills my mind until I can't breathe.

I text him.

Are you okay? Please answer. Please.

Nothing.

I grab my keys without thinking, already halfway to the door, my pulse pounding louder than the TV still blaring in the background.

I don’t know what I’m going to do—drive up there, find him, drag him out if I have to—but I know I can’t just sit here.

I can’t lose him .

Not now.

Not ever.

Greg runs after me, the front door slamming behind him. “Van, wait!”

“I can’t. I have to…”

“I know, but wait. Come back inside, just for a minute.”

I only follow him because I can’t think straight. My mind is whirling with panic and a thousand scary thoughts.

Greg helps me pack a duffle bag with clean clothes, a cooler with drinks and snacks for the road, and I kiss my mother goodbye.

“Be careful, Van. Let us know when you get there,” she pleads.

The highway stretches out ahead, endless and dark, but I barely register anything except the roar in my ears. I don’t even remember getting on the road. I just drive, white-knuckling the steering wheel, my foot heavy on the gas.

I’ve been driving for hours, but I can’t even feel the time passing. Even this far out, I hit patches of smoke, a strange, acrid smell that makes my eyes sting and my throat close up. My mind reels with what-ifs and ugly scenarios I can't shove away no matter how hard I grip the wheel.

Every mile I cover, I see flashes of him in my head.

Père laughing, sunlight catching the streaks of silver in his hair. Père chopping wood in the late fall, the air crisp and his breath clouding. Père sleeping beside me, one hand sprawled over my chest like he never wanted to let go.

What if I never see that again ?

What if he’s gone before I can even tell him that I’m coming back for good?

Tears blur the road signs. I blink hard, wiping my sleeve across my face. I can’t fall apart. Not now.

When I hit the familiar turnoff that leads toward Pathfinder’s Lake, the backroads narrow into shadowy tunnels between the trees. The horizon glows with an amber haze. My stomach turns over. The air is thicker here, smoky and hot, even though the fires are still miles off, according to the radio.

But I know how fast things can change.

The truck bumps over the rutted road, and then?—

Through the trees?—

The faintest glint of water.

The dock.

The cabin.

Still standing.

My throat thickens with emotion. Tears sting my eyes and then rush forth all at once. Relief, adrenaline, fear. Love .

I slam on the brakes and jump out before the truck even stops rolling.

“Père!” I scream, my voice ripping from my chest.

No answer.

The wind whistles through the trees. Smoke curls above the treetops, too close for comfort. I sprint toward the cabin, heart hammering.

“Père!” Louder this time, throat raw.

And then?—

The creak of the screen door.

A figure steps out onto the porch, silhouetted against the dying light.

It’s him .

It’s him.

I stumble up the steps, feet barely working, vision swimming. He’s there, standing like he can’t believe I’m real, like he’s afraid if he blinks, I’ll vanish.

“Van?” His voice cracks. It’s hoarse, like he hasn’t used it in days.

I don’t even try to answer. I just throw myself at him, arms wrapping tight around his middle. He catches me with a grunt, staggering back a step before clutching me just as hard. I feel his heart slamming against mine, wild and frantic.

“You’re okay,” I rasp against his chest. “God, you’re okay.”

His hands are everywhere—my back, my hair, my shoulders—like he’s reassuring himself I’m whole, like he can’t decide where to hold me first. I feel his mouth press into my hair, the side of my face, my temple.

“I tried to call—” I start.

“No service,” he murmurs into my skin. “Lines went down.”

I tighten my arms around him, desperate, aching. “I thought—” I choke, the words refusing to come.

“I know,” he whispers. “I know, sweetheart. I’m here. I’m right here.”

Hot tears soak my cheeks. I press my face into his neck, breathing him in—smoke and wood and home. His hands cradle my face, tipping it up so he can see me. His eyes are glassy, rimmed red.

“You came back for me,” he says like he can’t believe it.

“I never left you,” I say, voice trembling.

He kisses me then, hard and tender all at once, like he’s trying to pour everything he’s feeling into me—the fear, the relief, the love. I kiss him back just as fiercely, fingers threading into his hair, heart breaking and healing at the same time .

Behind us, the sky glows faintly orange at the edges, a reminder that the fire still burns somewhere out there. But here, in his arms, I’m safe. We’re safe.

And for the first time in weeks, I believe we’re going to be okay.

A low hum rises over the treetops, vibrating through the ground beneath our feet. I pull back just enough to look up, wiping my sleeve across my wet cheeks.

The silhouette of a helicopter glides across the sky, a heavy bucket swinging beneath it like a pendulum.

We watch quietly as it dips low over the lake, the bucket plunging into the water with a splash.

Then the helicopter lifts, the bucket dripping, and banks toward the smoke rising in the distance.

Père’s arm curls around my shoulders, pulling me in tight against his side. I lean into him, watching the helicopter disappear into the haze.

“They’re still fighting it,” I say quietly, my voice rough.

He nods, his chin brushing my hair. “They’ll get it under control.”

I close my eyes for a second, feeling the steady beat of his heart against me, grounding me. “I was so scared.”

His hand finds mine, fingers threading through like they were always meant to be there. “Me too,” he says. “I didn’t know if—” He stops, swallowing hard. “But you’re here.”

The quiet settles around us again, but my mind won’t. I pull back, just enough to look at him, really look at him. His face is weathered and tired, smoke still faintly clinging to his clothes.

Suddenly, the fear I felt on the drive here twists into something sharper. Anger, raw and helpless.

“You should’ve left,” I say, my voice shaking. “You should’ve evacuated, Père. ”

He doesn’t flinch. Just looks at me with those dark, sorrowful eyes. “I know.”

“Then why didn’t you?” I shove my hands into his chest, not hard, but enough to make the point. “You could’ve been trapped. You could’ve—” My voice breaks, and I hate it, hate how scared I still am.

Père catches my wrists, gently, like he’s handling something fragile. He presses my hands against his chest, right over his heart.

“I stayed,” he says softly, “because I thought… if you came looking for me and I wasn’t here—” He cuts himself off, his throat working like the words physically hurt. “I couldn’t stand the thought of you coming back and finding this place empty.”

I stare at him, breathing hard.

He shakes his head, a broken laugh slipping out. “Maybe it was stupid. Maybe it was selfish. But I waited. I waited for you.”

My anger collapses under the weight of that. I curl my fingers into his shirt and press my forehead against him, feeling him breathe, feeling him alive beneath my touch.

“I came back,” I whisper.

“I knew you would,” he says, his arms wrapping around me.

We stay there as the night creeps in, the fire somewhere behind us, the smoke drifting farther away. I let myself believe, just for now, that the worst is over.

The smell of burning wood permeates everything—our clothes, the air inside the cabin. Stray embers flutter like fireflies on the breeze. We make our way inside, and I follow him down the familiar hallway, my hand brushing his as we go, needing that tiny bit of contact like a tether .

In the bedroom, Père hesitates by the door, glancing back at me. His hair’s mussed from the wind, his eyes shadowed and tired. I move past him without a word, pulling back the covers and climbing into bed like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

He chuckles low under his breath—a sound so full of aching tenderness it nearly guts me—and joins me, sliding under the covers.

We just lie there, facing each other in the dark. His hand finds mine between us, our fingers lacing together without thought.

I scoot closer until I can tuck myself against his chest, my forehead resting beneath his chin. He holds me like he’s afraid to let go, arms tight around my back.

The wind rattles the windows. Somewhere far off, the low thrum of a helicopter fades into the night. I squeeze my eyes shut, pressing myself even closer, feeling his heart beat against mine, steady and real.

I fall asleep like that, breathing him in, with silent tears drying on my cheeks.

Safe. Home. Loved.