Page 22 of Always Meant for You
My throat tightens. My body tenses.
I try not to think about Elverna. But it’s always there, waiting beneath the surface. No matter how many skyscrapers crowd my view, part of me belongs to those fields.
It’s June, and the city hums with thick air and restless life. The scent of warm bagels drifts over hot sidewalks, tangled with bursts of fresh fruit stands in corner carts. Every breeze carries the pulse of the city that never sleeps.
In Elverna, summer moves slower. The air smells of honeysuckle and wet hay, heavy and sweet under an endless stretch of blue.
Berries ripen. Rhubarb bleeds across cutting boards, destined for pies. Lists are scribbled on the backs of receipts, sticky with sweat and the dust of dirt roads.
I can taste it even now—the afternoons with Jamie and Cal, our hands and lips stained red from gorging on wild strawberries, our laughter spilling across open fields.
I used to bring berries to the diner. My father would help load the truck, the fruit warm against my palms, each crate a basket of sun. The sisters who ran the place would come running, skirts brushing their knees, already plotting glazes and crumbles before the doors swung open.
Now, my father and I speak four times a year.
One call for each season.
He tells me about the weather in Elverna. I describe the weather in the city. And every conversation ends with a pause stretched long and hollow, a space where Jamie’s name should live, but we never mention him.
What’s done is done.
That’s what my dad says.
And Cal? He’s a ghost. No social media, nothing I can follow. I’ve looked—more than once—but there’s not even a hint of him online.
I haven’t asked my dad about him. He’d probably say Cal’s fine and go mute. That would be the end of it. For him, maybe. But not for me.
I’ve tried, but I can’t forget Cal.
Each night, my mind churns over the last time I saw him. His hands on my body, the slow drag of his thumb across my lower lip. But when I’m asleep, it doesn’t end with my father’s voice. In my dreams, my father never comes up those stairs, and Cal stays. He pushes me against the door, lifts me into his arms, and devours me with a kiss that tears me apart. He’s primal and passionate. He grinds into me, his breath hot and wild, rough hands gripping my ass.
I taste him. I feel him.
He’s desperate with desire.
I run my fingers through his hair as his lips claim mine again and again and again. In the real world, he’s never reached out—not once. But in my dreams, the man burns for me. I’d never admit it, but I crave him. I miss the way his dark auburn-kissed hair would fall across his face when he bent over the tractor. The way it would brush his cheekbones—those sharp, unfair cheekbones I hated noticing.
But I noticed.
I noticed everything.
There are nights when I give in to these fantasies. When the loneliness claws too deep, and the ache for something—someone—hits too hard. With my hand in my panties, I surrender to Cal, letting him take me where no one else can.
His rough hands move over my skin. He touches me with purpose—slow, sure, and hungry—like I’m something he was never supposed to want but can’t resist.
I hate how easily he lives in my head, how he shows up without warning and takes over. It’s been years, and still, he’s the only one who makes me feel this way. I’ve tried dating. A few pleasant dinners. Some polite conversations that died somewhere between the salad and the check. Not one of them sparked anything real. Not one made me feel the fire I did that night when Cal touched me.
Maybe it’s for the best.
I don’t have room for love in my life.
I’m building something from scratch, and that kind of ambition doesn’t leave space for lazy mornings in bed or texts that demand immediate replies. Love takes time, and I’m giving every second to Bella Mae.
“Mae, will you show me how you do the fake travel backgrounds?” Lily’s voice pulls me out of my Cal Horner spiral.
I check my vintage Bulova watch, its ivory face softened with age but still ticking.
“We have to be quick. I need to leave soon for my big meeting.”
