Page 165 of Always Meant for You
I take her hand in mine. “You know why.”
Her breath catches. Not loud, but enough that I feel it in my chest. She looks down the street, toward the food pantry we left behind. Toward the truck that brought us here. Toward the life we’re trying to build that keeps getting pulled into the past. And it will keep happening unless we face it head-on.
“I’ve wanted to tell you why I had to come home, but . . .” Her gaze drops to where our hands are joined, like the words might be hiding there.
I don’t push. I hold on and give her space.
She closes her eyes for a breath, then opens them again. “You might not like me if you know everything.” Her fingers tighten around mine. “Let’s go anywhere else to talk. I don’t know if I can handle that place and those memories.”
I tip up her chin. “It has to be there, Mabel.”
“Why?” she asks, eyes shining. “Last time we were there, everything changed. And not for the better.”
“I know.” I step in closer, letting my forehead rest against hers. “But if there’s any hope of building something real, something that holds, we have to start at the place where we broke.”
Chapter Thirty-One
MABEL
The quarry stretches before us, the still water reflecting the last light of day. Fireflies pulse above the grass. They bring me a sense of peace, even though my heart is in my throat. The willow trees sway, casting shadows across the clearing.
And there it is.
The tree.
Still rooted. Still waiting, as if the past etched itself into every ridge of bark. Somewhere in the trunk, there’s a line—a scar from that day. A quiet witness to the moment my heart broke and never healed.
Cal guides me toward the tree. With every step, the beat in my chest grows harder and heavier. Still, that willow calls to me.
The branches sweep low, brushing our shoulders as we step through the green veil. We’re cloaked in quiet, and the rest of the world fades.
He releases my hand and unfolds a quilt we found in the back of the dairy truck. He sits and pats the space beside him. I join him, every breath tight with the weight of what’s about to be said.
It’s like I’m that thirteen-year-old again.
Wait . . . no.
I take a breath.
I’m not a child. Neither is Cal.
I touch the tree trunk. This might be the same tree, but it’s changed, and so have I. I’ve grown. I know who I am. I know what I want. I don’t need Cal to lead. I’m his equal.
I rest my hand on his. “Tell me about Chicago. Tell me what that red brick row house with the crooked four means to you.”
The words settle between us. I know why Cal brought me here. But we need to begin with Chicago. I feel it in my soul. And if he can’t find the way through, I’ll help him.
He threads his fingers with mine. “It was my home once. With my mother.”
My God!
“I’m so sorry, Cal. I didn’t even know you lived in the city with her—let alone on that street.”
“You couldn’t have known, Mabel,” he says gently. “I didn’t even know. I knew I’d lived in Chicago when I was young, but I never knew where. Not until I saw that two, three, and the crooked four. Then it all came back.”
I watch him. I know how he feels about cities. But he’s not retreating. He’s not pulling away.
“I lived there with my mom until I was almost five, when she died,” he continues.
