Page 4 of The Forbidden Summer (Pathfinders Lake #2)

Van

“Pass me a beer, old man.”

“This is your second. Just know I’m counting.”

Père hands me a frosty bottle from the ice bucket beside him. I swing my legs lazily over the edge of the dock and grip the pole between my thighs, freeing my hands so I can twist the bottle open.

“Nothing’s biting today,” I complain, tilting the bottle to my lips.

Père laughs and shakes his head. “Remember that time when you were little, and you caught that big trout? He wiggled every which way but loose. I asked you to hold him up for a picture, and I was so damn proud of you,” he muses, his voice soft and distant.

“You were terrified he’d squirm away or bite you.

Hell, you were practically in tears,” he chuckles.

I smile, shaking my head. “You told me to put him on ice for an hour, then pretend like I’d just caught him. You took that picture of me, all smiles, holding up a frozen fish.”

The memory hits me in a good way, like all the memories with Père. He’s always been the best part of my life. I lean into him, nudging my shoulder against his, and catch his gaze, holding it a little longer than usual.

The air between us thickens with unspoken words.

It’s not the first time I’ve leaned into him like this—hell, we’ve spent countless hours together, shoulder to shoulder, working, fishing, laughing—but tonight feels different.

The stillness of the lake, the way the setting sun wraps around us, and the quiet lapping of the water against the dock—it all feels like something is about to crack wide open.

These moments are the hardest for me, when the words I can’t speak are on the tip of my tongue, threatening to burst free.

Père doesn’t pull away, but I can sense his hesitation, like he’s weighing something heavy. He clears his throat, glancing at the lake before looking back at me. “You ever think about those days?” His voice is quiet, almost like he’s trying not to disturb the calm.

I know exactly what he means. The way we were back then, just a kid and his grandfather, always busy, always doing. Everything simple, everything safe. I used to think that’s how life would always be—that this place, the cabin, Père’s presence, would always be steady, like the rippling lake.

But lately, everything’s changing. And I don’t know if it’s just me, or if he feels it too .

Every summer, I return here hoping that when I see him, when I lean in for that first hug, I won’t get gut-punched with longing and desire, and every summer, I’m disappointed.

Because it’s still there. And the older I get, the more complex and deep the feelings grow.

“Yeah,” I reply, my voice rougher than I expected. “I think about it all the time.”

He doesn’t say anything at first. Then, after a long pause, he adds, “You’ve grown up, Van. Into someone... I didn’t expect.” The words hang there, loaded. I feel a knot tightening in my stomach.

“Good or bad?” I ask, trying to keep it light, but I already know the answer. It’s too late for lightness between us.

Père shifts, his knee nudging mine. He doesn’t look at me, but I can see the way his jaw tenses, the way his hand grips the edge of the dock. “I’m just... I’m trying to figure it all out,” he says, his voice quieter now, softer.

I don’t know what he’s trying to figure out, but there’s no way it’s the same thing I’ve been wrestling with for years, is it? I lean in a little closer, and before I can second-guess myself, I let the words slip out. “We’ve always figured things out, haven’t we?”

His gaze flicks to mine, sharp and searching, like he’s trying to read between the lines. For a moment, we’re trapped in the silence—his eyes on mine, my breath caught in my chest.

Then, almost imperceptibly, his hand slides to the back of my neck, warm and rough against my skin. His touch lingers, like he’s deciding whether to move closer or scoot back.

I hold my breath, waiting, the tension between us thickening with every passing second. It’d be so easy to lean in and kiss him. But that’s wishful thinking .

Finally, Père lets his hand fall away. A shiver races down my spine from the loss of his warm touch. “I don’t always have an answer for everything, son. Sometimes…” he gazes out over the lake and breathes out a heavy sigh. “Sometimes, I just don’t know what comes next.”

My chest squeezes tight. “Père?” When I have his attention again, I add, “I love you.”

He swallows hard, but then his expression softens. “I love you, too, Van.”

That night, Père makes grilled cheese sandwiches, and we eat them curled up on the couch while he reads to me.

The cabin has no TV, just an old radio and stacks of books.

We have Wi-Fi after I bugged him for two summers straight, and he finally caved, but mostly we choose quiet activities to share.

I didn’t even miss television when I came here.

It forces Père and me to spend time together, talking, cuddling, and focusing on each other rather than a screen.

I’m bored out of my mind listening to The Adventures of Tom Sawyer for the umpteenth time, but last year, in a rebellious and juvenile attempt to get him to see me as an adult and not some kid, I’d replaced our stock with gay erotica I’d ordered online.

Père didn’t see the humor and brilliance of my prank and refused to read it to me.

The truth is, I don’t care what he reads, as long as I get to hear his deep voice rumble in my ear and curl up in his arms. His thumb absently brushes my nipple, since I’m again shirtless.

My gut tightens, wishing he’d done it deliberately and wanting more. Much more.

“Are you even listening?” Père asks, his voice tinged with mild annoyance.

“Uh-huh, yup.” I nod absentmindedly, though my mind isn’t fully present.

He chuckles, shaking his head as he sets the book down on his lap. “Let’s talk about something more interesting.”

“Like what?” I ask, genuinely curious.

“Like you.”

I turn in his arms, adjusting so I can meet his gaze. “What do you want to know?”

“What have you been up to this year?”

I shrug, trying to keep it simple. “I told you, Père. Work and school.”

“That’s it? No friends to hang out with? You don’t go out and have fun?”

“Not really,” I say with a small sigh. “There’s this girl I know from high school I still talk to, but we only catch up every other week during her lunch break. Not exactly enough time to really hang out.”

His frown deepens. “You haven’t made any friends at school?”

“There was this one guy I thought I’d connect with. I asked him if he wanted to hang out. He said I wasn’t his type. I guess he thought I was hitting on him.”

“Were you?” he asks with an amused smile.

“No. He wasn’t my type, either. He’s a skinny twink, like me, and we’re the same age.”

Père processes that, looking curious. “A twink?”

“You know, smooth and lean.”

“So, what’s your type, then?”

Why in the hell were we having this conversation? “Thicker, solidly built. Lots of chest hair. Someone patient and kind. Someone who’s wise and has their shit together. Maybe someone older.” No maybe about it, but I’m trying not to be too obvious.

“And what do they call that?”

“A bear? A Daddy?” I admit with a blush.

“Sounds like me. Am I a Daddy bear, Van?”

Fucking fuck yes, you are. “I guess so.” My Daddy bear.

His eyes twinkle with mirth. “Glad to know I’m your type, then. Must be why we get along so well.”

“Must be,” I tease, letting my head rest in his lap. His hand lingers on my shoulder, but I need more. I grab his hand and guide it toward my hair, silently asking him to drag his fingers through it.

Père chuckles softly. “You're a spoiled brat, boy.”

For a while, we don’t speak. The only sound is the steady, calming rhythm of his fingers gently scratching my scalp, lulling me into a quiet, drowsy haze.

“What about you, Père?” I ask, already knowing the answer. He isn’t one to go out much, and as far as I know, he’s not seeing anyone. He would’ve told me if he was, right?

He shrugs, his eyes briefly flicking away before settling back on me. “I go out every now and then. But it’s nothing serious.”

My heartbeat spikes, the sudden rush of adrenaline making me sit up straight. A wave of panic grips me, and I can’t quite hide the flash of confusion and concern that crosses my face.

“What do you mean, nothing serious?” My voice sounds a little higher than usual, betraying my unease.

Père raises an eyebrow. “It’s not like I’m out looking for anything. Just getting out, keeping busy.” He doesn’t meet my eyes, focusing instead on the window.

But my mind races, the sour wave in my stomach rising. The unspoken implications swirl in the air. I’m not sure why it affects me this much, but something in the way he said it makes me feel like I’ve missed something important.

My tongue feels dry in my mouth, slowing my words. “Do you want to find someone?”

“Sometimes, when I’m lonely, I think it would be nice, but…” He trails off, his voice softening.

“But?” I press gently, leaning in.

He sighs, his expression shifting to one of quiet nostalgia. “I haven’t met anyone I could see myself with. Your grandmother, she was…” He pauses, a fond smile tugging at his lips, his eyes distant, lost in the memory of the woman who had been a cornerstone in my life as well as his.

I can see the way her memory still holds him in its grasp. The kind of love that doesn’t easily fade.

His gaze returns to me. “She was everything, you know? I don’t think I could ever find someone like her again.”

I think about my own mother, and how she’s never really been there. She had her own life to live, a life that didn’t include me. If it did, I certainly wasn’t her priority.

When my mom got pregnant with me at sixteen, it was my grandparents who stepped in and raised me.

They didn’t have to, but they did. And after she’d finished school and then went on to live the life she felt entitled to—as if she didn’t have responsibilities weighing her down—it was too late for us to bond.

She remarried, uprooted me, and settled down three hours away from my grandparents and the only life I’d ever known. My grandma passed away a couple of years later, leaving my grandad as lonely as I was. We’ve moved twice more since then, always farther away from Père.

Père’s voice brings me back to the present, soft yet firm. “I was lucky to have her. But sometimes, I wonder if I’ll ever find someone who could make me feel the way she did.”

Père has told me the story of how he met my grandmother countless times.

She was older than him, a widow with a young daughter, but she was beautiful, smart, and kind—everything that made Père fall for her with a depth that still lingered in the way he spoke of her.

Hard enough to ignore his parents' protests, to defy their expectations of who he should love.

I let my finger trail down the sliver of hair peeking out from the parted halves of his flannel, feeling the roughness of his skin. The motion is almost absent-minded, but it feels intimate. “I don’t want you to be lonely, Père, but you can’t just settle for anyone.”

The idea makes me a little sick—settling, letting loneliness dictate your choices. I can’t bear the thought of him with someone who doesn’t truly see him or appreciate him the way he deserves. Like I would if he belonged to me that way.

He turns to me, his expression unreadable. “I know,” he says quietly, his hand coming to rest on my knee. His thumb brushes over my bare skin, a slow, almost subconscious motion. “I don’t think I could settle, even if I tried.”

Hearing that from him feels like a quiet relief.

What if he were with someone who demanded all of his time and attention? Someone who insisted he spend summers with her instead of disappearing for weeks on end with me, like he always has ?

The thought twists something deep inside me. I’d die without this—without him —without the summers spent together, without these moments where the world felt small, just the two of us, the lake, and the quiet intimacy that’s always existed between us.

I can’t bear to think of him being tied down to someone who would take what little I have left with him away.

My petting grows bolder, and I slide my hand over his pec, loving the feel of his hard nipple rubbing against my palm. Père gives me an odd look, and I lower my hand reluctantly.

“I’ve been thinking about spending more time here, actually,” he admits, taking me by surprise. “Maybe an extra trip during the year, now that I’m retired with nothing to do.”

I raise an eyebrow, trying to mask the sudden surge of emotions that fill me. Spending more time here? With him? The thought makes my heart beat a little faster.

"That sounds nice," I say carefully. “I’m almost finished with school. I could join you. Maybe ride out the winters here together.” It was easy to picture us cozied up just like this in front of a warm fire, talking long into the night.

“Van,” Père hedges, looking conflicted. “You can’t put your life on hold for me. You have a whole world to conquer before you waste away in this cabin.”

My breath stutters in my lungs. “But…” It feels like he’s talking about moving on without me, coming here, to our sacred place, alone. A wave of loneliness crashes down on me, threatening to drown me. Why can’t it always be like this? Just me and Père shut away from the world.

“It’s just a thought, anyhow. No need to get worked up tonight. I’m heading to bed,” he announces, sitting forward to stretch his arms above his head .

“Père?” When he turns to me, I add, “Wherever you go, just don’t leave me behind, alright?”

I’m not talking about bed, and he knows it. I don’t want him moving on without me, no matter where he has in mind.

He pauses, his gaze softening as if he understood exactly what I meant. His expression is quiet, thoughtful. “You don’t have to worry about that.” His voice is filled with a sincerity that makes my chest tighten. “I’ve never thought of leaving you behind. You’re my everything.”

Warmth floods through me at his words, a quiet reassurance that settles deep in my bones. The uncertainty that’s been gnawing at me for the past few moments eases.

“I guess I just… don’t want things to change, y’know? Not with you. Not with us.”

The corner of his mouth tugs up into a knowing smile, the kind he always gives when he’s trying to reassure me without saying too much. “Some things don’t change, no matter what.” He leans closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. “I’m not going anywhere, son. Not without you.”