Page 161 of Always Meant for You
Logan rests his hand on my shoulder. “You’ve done a hell of a job leading your town.”
I nod, that crooked four still weighing on me.
“Cal’s held Elverna together,” Mabel says, swooping in. “He’s the reason we’re here.”
She’s trying to draw me out and put the focus back on what I know. I need to speak—act like a damned human. I can’t.
She smiles warmly at the chefs. “Now, I know you don’t have much time, but I believe you promised a quick tour?”
Preston waves toward the building. “Absolutely. This way.”
I hang back a few steps, settling in the best I can. The center is a thoughtfully designed structure—blond brick, broad and low, with soft arches that make it inviting and not intimidating. Basil and rosemary grow in tidy planters along the walkway. Their scent catches in the warm air, and while it doesn’t completely soothe me, the earthy scent is comforting. To the side, a fenced play area gleams with brightly painted equipment and smooth mulch underfoot. I don’t recall any of this. All I remember is a sagging building wrapped in rusted chain-link fence.
“Has it always looked like this?” I ask.
Preston reaches for the handle and guides the door open. “The building’s been here for around fifty years. It was renovated and got an addition about fifteen years ago. The food pantry was added nine years back.”
I haven’t been here in over twenty years.
We walk inside, and the orderly food bank unfolds around us. White tile stretches beneath our feet, gleaming under warm overhead lights. The shelves are stocked, every label facingout, each row precise. Carts stand ready at the entrance. Soft instrumental music drifts through the air. To the left, there’s a counter for bagging items. A register sits at the end, but no one mans it, and the cord trails unplugged against the floor.
“What a facility,” Mabel says, taking it in.
Preston and Logan set the casserole and muffins down on the bagging table.
“We wanted this to feel like a grocery store. There’s a cash register for aesthetic purposes only,” Logan explains. “People come here for help. That doesn’t mean they should be reminded of everything they’ve lost. Choosing what to eat shouldn’t induce anxiety.”
“It shouldn’t,” I say softly, more to myself.
Logan gestures to a hallway. “There’s a medical clinic through there. Mental health services, addiction counseling, and a childcare area.”
I peer at a glass freezer case stocked with ice cream, and a memory breaks through. A blurry image of a scowling man with cold, beady eyes and sagging jowls, his lip curled in disgust.“You’re a nickel short, kid. Get the hell out of my store.”
And suddenly, I’m that boy again. Heat pressing in. Stomach hollow and gnawing. Sweat clinging to the back of my neck. I’d dug under the couch cushions looking for money, not knowing how much I needed, not understanding what the coins were worth—only that sometimes, if I got lucky and had enough, I got to eat.
But not that day.
That day, I lugged those coins to the corner store but came up short for an ice cream sandwich. I’d walked there by myself and found my way home thanks to the crooked number four marking my house.
A little boy bolts past me.Tap, tap, tap.His footsteps pull me from the past. He can’t be older than six. He’s got dark, shaggy hair and a wilted dandelion hanging out of his back pocket.
“Easy, kiddo,” Preston says, stepping aside.
The boy chases after a woman pushing a cart. His shoes keep slapping the tile. His socks pool around his ankles.
I freeze, and the pressure comes fast. I press a hand to the back of my neck and try to breathe through it. I want to look away from the child. But I don’t. I can’t.
Is that what I looked like back then?
I have no sense of what I looked like to the world before I moved to a place where I got a bath every day, and my grandmother trimmed my hair on the back porch like clockwork every six weeks.
Mabel steps closer. She doesn’t reach for me, but I feel her beside me.
Preston leads us into the milk and produce section. The air turns cool against my skin. Our crates have been unpacked and arranged on the shelves. Ripe tomatoes. Carrots in neat bundles. Berries gleam in shallow containers. Greens, still wet from rinsing, curl at the edges. Wedges of cheese share space with clear glass jugs filled with fresh milk and stamped with the co-op’s logo.
Every bit of it came from Elverna.
And now it’s here.
