Page 157 of Always Meant for You
He shrugs it off like it’s another routine. A harmless quirk. But I’ve watched his gaze linger there. It means something to him.
“Do you want to tell me what the pink number stands for?” I press, trying to keep it light.
“No, not today, Mabel,” he says. He doesn’t sound angry or irritated, only weighed down.
“Okay. Then maybe you want to talk about heirloom seed preservation or companion planting?” I tap his knee. “You pick.”
He loves these topics. The other day, he and my father polished off half a casserole, debating the finer points while I snapped photos and posted them online.
“Or,” I continue, prattling on, “I could tell you about my outfit. Chloé, of course—my favorite. Early seventies, vintage floral print. It’s a skirt and blouse set from Lagerfeld’s run with the house.”
The fabric moves when I do, light and fluid, printed with oversized coral and lavender blooms scattered across a midnight-blue base. The shape is romantic, cinched at the waist, the blouse slightly puffed at the shoulders. I paired it with my pink Dior heels.
Cal swallows hard. “I better focus on the road, Mabel. I haven’t driven the dairy delivery truck before.”
It takes work to keep smiling. “Sure, I get it.”
I know he’s worried about more than steering a giant metal box. I know he’s more comfortable surrounded by soil, seed, and the rhythm of chores than crowds, neon signs, and concrete corners. And I know that when I left Elverna for the city four years ago, it didn’t ease the weight he was already carrying. I wish I could see into that part of him—the part that pulls back so hard and so fast. That’s what he does when the fear strikes. He pulls back. And I don’t want to lose him to his demons.
Downtown emerges ahead of us, its sharp silhouette cutting through the humid haze. I glance over, searching Cal’s profile for a little reassurance—a tilt of his mouth, a subtle lift in his brows. Something to tell me he’s still with me. But he stares straight ahead. Both hands locked on the wheel, knuckles white. He’s somewhere else entirely, tucked deep behind that silence.
A sedan slides into the next lane. Another car edges around us. The road tightens. Horns pierce the air. A semi rumblesup behind us, and the city swells around the delivery truck in concrete and chaos.
As if he can feel the worry rolling off me, he offers a forced smile. It doesn’t reach his eyes and vanishes before it can settle. “I’m just thinking, Mabel,” he says softly.
I sit back, trying to quell my nervous energy. It’s cool inside the refrigerated truck, but heat radiates through the windshield, settling across my skin. The noise outside builds into a relentless wall of city sounds.
I glance at the GPS.
Twelve minutes until we arrive at our destination.
Preston and Logan are waiting at the food pantry, ready to receive our donation, walk us through the facility, and then talk about sourcing fresh produce, grains, and dairy for their restaurants. It’s a massive opportunity. I want to share this victory with Cal. But I’ll call it a win if we make it back to Elverna in one piece.
He’s never been the type to wear his worries on his sleeve. He’s always been stoic. But he’s far from steady. Whatever this is, it’s older and heavier.
I want him to talk to me. Things have been good between us. Really good. And we have plenty to smile about.
Eat Elverna has taken off. The Saturday farmers’ markets keep growing, each one bringing in more customers, more support, and more momentum.
Our food swoon posts have made the rounds, drawing comments from across the globe. People have started tagging their dishes with #EatElverna. Cal has become a minor internet obsession. His face shows up in reels and reaction videos. Cougar Kathy remains entertained and playfully smitten.
We’ve begun talks with cafés and community centers about sourcing seasonal produce. There’s growing interest in subscription boxes and expanding our delivery routes. The oldfactory has come up in more than one conversation—maybe for packaging, maybe as a central base, maybe for Eat Elverna merchandise production—but nothing is set in stone yet.
I’ve been running on coffee and adrenaline, jumping between content creation, outreach, and endless planning. Cal gave up half his office to me, and the cottage looks more like a command center than a home. We do everything together: farm visits, co-op strategy meetings, supply lists, social updates. From first light until long after the sky fades, we pour ourselves into Eat Elverna.
And when the workday ends, Cal leans in close, lowers his voice, and tells me exactly what he wants to do with his hands and his mouth.
At night, the world quiets. Our pace slows. And what’s left between us hums with heat and history.
Sometimes he climbs through my window, hands braced on the sill, shoulders broad and sure in the moonlight. Other times, I slip out barefoot and meet him in the cottage or the lavender greenhouse, my pulse picking up when I catch sight of him waiting.
Every time we touch, it feels new and like it’s always been this way. His hands find my waist. My fingers slide into his hair. His mouth grazes mine like he’s relearning it. Reclaiming it.
Later, when the tension has unraveled, and our skin is damp and flushed, we talk. He teaches me about pH levels and rotating crops. I explain color palettes and ad conversion rates. We debate which pie should headline next week’s social post. Then we laugh, tangled together, breathless and worn out, but still reaching for more.
We plan in whispers. We dream without guardrails. Our ideas overlap until I can’t tell where mine end and his begin.
I’ve loved Cal for as long as I can remember, but neither of us has said the words. But when he brushes my hair behind my ear,or when I press my cheek to his chest and I feel him settle, the truth is there.
