Page 5 of Always Meant for You
The words come out too fast. Too open. And now they’re hanging there.
Worse, I care what she says.
I want to know where he is.
“I’m not sure, dear,” she replies with a faint smile. “You know my grandson. Stubborn as the day is long. He wanted some time alone at the cemetery with Jamie. They’ve been thick as thieves since they were five, since my Cal came to live with us. But of course, you know that. You’ve been trailing after those boys since you were crawling.”
Yep. That was me. The tagalong. Dirt-smudged and determined to keep up.
I was part of their world—this wide, beautiful world—until I wasn’t.
I’ve tried to forget Cal’s smile, but it’s carved into my memory. It’s rare to see it now, but back then—before he shut me out—it lit everything up. When Jamie cracked a joke, Cal’s laugh would spill out like sunshine.
I used to collect those Cal moments. Keep them tucked away. Little flashes of happiness I didn’t want to lose.
God, I was naive.
“Forget Cal Horner,” I mutter under my breath.
Mrs. Horner tilts her head. “Did you say something, dear?”
I clear my throat. “No, ma’am. I mean . . . just . . . thank you. For being here. For the casserole.”
“It’s tuna noodle, dear.”
“Great,” I say, but my thoughts are elsewhere.
Not on Jamie.
Only on Cal.
Always Cal.
I shake my head, hoping the thoughts scatter.
Gladys looks me over. “You’re still wearing your purse, honey. You must’ve forgotten to take it off. Want me to hang it up for you?”
I glance down at the slim blossom-pink strap cutting across my chest. Out of all my vintage couture finds, this Chloé crossbody purse is my favorite. The bag’s soft pink leather has deepened with time, the stitching still tracing delicate arcs over the rounded saddle-shaped flap.
I found it crumpled at the bottom of a box at an estate sale, the leather scuffed and the buckle dulled to a tired brass.
I spent weeks restoring it—cleaning the calfskin by hand, polishing the brushed hardware until it caught the light again.
And no, I haven’t forgotten I’m wearing it.
I rest my palm over the flap.
“It’s not in the way, Mrs. Horner. My phone’s in there. And a few things I want near me. But thank you for offering.” I gesture toward the sink. “I should finish cleaning up. Most of the town is in the living room. My dad will be glad to see you.”
That’s not exactly true. My dad hasn’t been glad to see anyone—save for Jamie—in years.
Especially not me.
His rebellious daughter.
Mabel Ruth Muldowney.
Too much. Too opinionated. Too different.
