Page 137 of Always Meant for You
“Can I take these?” I ask.
“Mm-hmm,” Betty answers, her grin as sly as ever.
I grab the can.
“Are you sure you don’t want our help?” Margaret asks.
I shake my head. “That’s very sweet of you, but we need a lot of help, and we need it fast. And I know where to get it. We’ll meet you at the town square. I can’t wait to see your horoscope booth.”
“Do you want to know your future now?” Sally calls out behind us.
I love these women. But we’re a ticking time bomb of typo-induced chaos, and I cannot sit through another detailed breakdown of how Geminis require independence to thrive.
I glance at the clock. “Does that future include what’s going to happen in the next forty-seven minutes?”
Sally taps her chin. “It’s more of a long-term prediction.”
I hold the door open for Cal. “Can I get a rain check on that reading?”
Sally nods. “What about you, Cal? Want to know what’s written in the stars?”
“I’ll also take a rain check,” he says, already halfway across the room, scooping the massive assport box into his arms. He heads outside, full steam ahead.
“What’s the plan?” he calls over his shoulder.
I fling open the truck’s passenger door. “Baseball.”
“Baseball will fix our assports?” He doesn’t look convinced.
I jump behind the wheel. Dust and grit spit beneath the tires as I swerve onto the road and punch the gas toward the old ballpark.
We barrel past the town square. I catch a glimpse of Kenny and Abe unloading the Muldowney Farms truck.
The whole square hums with motion.
I glance at the box in Cal’s arms. “This has to work,” I say under my breath as I take a tight left that makes the tires shriek in protest.
Cal braces against the dash, the papers threatening to spill into the footwell.
“Mabel, I’m on your side,” he says, breath catching as he stabilizes the box on his lap. “Whatever the plan is, count me in. And go easy on my truck. You’re driving like a maniac.”
“There’s a little league tournament at the ball field today,” I say, scanning ahead. “I saw the flyer in the diner.”
Cal fixes the stacks. “What does a tournament have to do with the assports?”
I grip the wheel tighter, the heat from the rising sun baking through the windshield.
“Here’s the truth, Cal. My idea to fix the assports is either going to be completely genius or an epic failure.”
I look over at him, my heart thudding in rhythm with the road. And he’s smiling at me. There’s nothing broody about this man.
“I’m betting on it being completely genius,” he says, like putting faith in me is second nature.
“Hold on tight,” I say, swinging us hard around the corner. “We’re about to turn an X-rated typo into a town miracle.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
MABEL
