Page 2 of Always Meant for You
My hands curl into fists. Anger fills the hollow Jamie left behind.
What else is there?
My brother had plans for this town.
Big plans.
At the age of twenty-four—only three years older than me—he wanted to revolutionize how people farmed here. Despite not wanting to have anything to do with tilling the earth, I respected his drive.
And he respected my dreams.
Two weeks ago, we stood right here in this kitchen. I told him about a graphic design program I’d mastered, then spun to show him the outfit I’d styled—a vintage Chloé dress from the 1990s, all pink floral print and ruffled trim that floated when I moved.
I told him how I found it buried in the back of a thrift store in St. Louis. How it sells online for over a thousand dollars, and I paid less than five. How I dreamed of sharing my passion for graphic design and vintage couture clothing.
He lit up like I’d spun gold out of air.
“That’s my Mabel,” he said. “Always finding beauty where no one else thinks to look.”
Jamie saw me.
I wasn’t just a waitress topping off water glasses at the diner to him.
He saw the girl who wanted more, who dreamed in couture. The one who studied vintage French fashion the way this town studies corn yields and rainfall charts. He never made me feel small for wanting a life outside of Elverna. He didn’t need tounderstand every detail. He never rolled his eyes. Never called it a phase. Never once treated my ambition like a joke.
But Jamie was no joke to this town.
His quiet magnetism made people stop and listen. He stood in his truth, and others could see it too. This town trusted him. He had a plan for Elverna to become an organic farming co-op. Even my stone-faced father softened when Jamie spoke of what this town could be.
Jamie read journals, emailed experts, and asked the questions no one else bothered to. He didn’t just talk. He got people moving. Pulled them forward, one by one.
Jamie allowed people to hope—to see past what is and believe in what could be.
I glance out the back door, its rusted hinge holding it half-open. Jamie’s cottage rests in the hush of dusk. Peeling white paint. Faded red shutters.
He left the main house last year and claimed that little bungalow as his own.
It used to be our grandparents’ place. I never knew them. They died before I was born. But Jamie made it his. He filled it with plans and ideas scribbled in notebooks.
So many notebooks.
He poured his dreams for this town into those pages.
Everything is still in its place, but the cottage feels empty.
Or maybe that emptiness is mine.
I catch movement on the cottage’s porch.
Duke is sprawled on the top step, his thick white coat catching the last of the light. Head down, one paw draped over the edge, one ear tilted, listening for footsteps that won’t come.
I sigh. “I know how you feel, boy.”
Another tear slips loose. It trails down my cheek and lands on my dress. A vintage black silk Chloé piece I found online lastyear, all soft drape and a scoop neckline that barely brushes my collarbone.
Another deal. At the time, I wasn’t quite sure where I’d wear it.
I wipe the tear away and brush my fingers over Jamie’s last gift to me.
