Page 43 of Always Meant for You
Her expression softens, and I see her.
I see the girl who used to laugh without apology, who ran barefoot through fields. The girl who adored the land and this town.
“I need to know,” I say, steadier now. “Who did you come back for?”
Who?
Was that a slip of the tongue?
It doesn’t matter.
The words are out.
The question hangs between us.
I hold her gaze, hoping she’ll say something, anything I can hold on to. I’m standing on a precipice.
She parts her lips, and for one suspended breath, she looks like she might speak, might open her heart. The moment holds. Stretches. I catch the sorrow in her eyes. And grief buried so deep it pulses around us, tangling with mine and thick enough to drown in.
She blinks, and it’s like watching a curtain fall. Her tenderness disappears behind something hard and rigid, something meant to keep me out.
A knot twists in my belly.
I pushed too far.
“I didn’t come back for you, Callan Horner. What do you have to say about that?”
But she doesn’t pull away. Her breath hitches. She lifts her hand and clutches the M charm. My hand remains on her cheek. Letting go isn’t an option. Not when touching her is the first thing that’s felt right in years. Maybe that Capricorn-Gemini stuff the sisters espouse isn’t total nonsense after all.
I lean in, lifting the brim of her hat a little high, not sure what I’m doing. But I can’t stop. If this were one of my dreams, I’d kiss her breathless.
I brush my thumb across her bottom lip. “This is where we left off the last time I saw you.”
A breath. A heartbeat. That’s all it takes for the world to fall away. It’s just her now. Her eyes on mine. Her breath. Her scent. She does this to me. Always has. She pulls me under. Slows time. She makes everything else feel dull and meaningless. And I let it happen—because nothing outside this moment matters. Not the years between us. Not the sharp edge in her voice.
Only this.
Only her.
“Mabel Ruth Muldowney, my goodness! Is that you?” Sally calls from the counter, not fooling anyone with the fake-surprise act.
Mabel pulls back, her eyes wide.
The spell is broken.
“Look at that, Betty, it’s Mabel,” Margaret says, equally horrible at feigning shock.
The sisters chitter and cluck toward us, skirts swishing.
I jam my hands into my pockets before instinct takes over and I reach for Mabel again.
But that doesn’t stop me from glancing at her.
Her cheeks are rosy-pink. Her chest heaves.
I did that to her. And for a second, I let myself believe I’m the only one who makes her glow like that. But I can’t go there. If I had any sense, I’d remember exactly what the city does to people. What it will always do to them.
“What brings you back to Elverna, dear?” Margaret asks. “Did you come in on the bus?”
