Page 53 of Always Meant for You
But one thinghaschanged.
There are whiteboards everywhere. He’s even got a massive one, taking up nearly a whole wall.
Jamie wasn’t a fan of whiteboards. He lived and died by those black composition notebooks—his precious paper trail of ideas and sketches. They’re still here on a bookshelf. I run my fingers over the spines, my chest aching.
But the whiteboards . . .
That’s all Cal.
Neat lines. He uses blue and black for everything except one glaring outlier.
The number 1-4-6-4 is written in hot pink. It practically taunts me.
“What are you doing in here, Mabel?”
I spin around. Cal stands in the doorway, looking like every shade of annoyance.
“What areyoudoing in here?” I fire back.
His eyes flick to the whiteboard. “You didn’t touch anything, did you? I’ve got important information on those boards.”
“I didn’t touch anything,” I reply. “Not even your pink number that . . .” I glance at my Dior heels. “That matches the color of my shoes.”
His stance stiffens, and before he can hurl some signature judgmental glare my way, there’s a soft shuffle behind him.
It’s Duke.
Jamie’s Great Pyrenees squeezes past Cal and trots toward me.
My throat clenches.
I drop to my knees and scratch behind his ears. “Hey there, baby boy.” My voice cracks.
One wet spring day, Jamie drove up with a tiny ball of fluff riding shotgun. He’d said the pup picked him. Ran out into the middle of the road. Somebody must have dumped him. NowDuke’s steady eyes are locked on mine, loyalty written in every line of his stance.
I stand and square my shoulders. “You took his dog too?”
That comment earns me a full-blown glare.
Cal takes a step toward me. “I didn’t take anything. I work here. I run your family’s farm. And there’s no version of this life where I’d ever kick Jamie’s dog out of his home. He belongs here.”
My thoughts jam. None of this makes sense.
“When did this happen? Why didn’t anyone tell me?”
He doesn’t answer. He turns away and walks into the kitchen, running a hand through his hair. The movement is restless, automatic. He looks worn down. That edge of exhaustion cuts deeper than I expect.
“I lost the farm. I had to make a decision when some bills came due.”
“But it’s your family’s. It’s Stan and Gladys’s land. They built everything out there. And where is your grandmother living? Is she okay?”
“Why do you care, Mabel? You couldn’t wait to leave thisdead-endtown,” he hisses.
That stings. But I deserve it.
“I’m sorry, Cal. I shouldn’t have said that. It was cruel.”
“You wanted more,” he says, not meeting my gaze. “You always had your eyes on something bigger.”
