Page 54 of Always Meant for You
I adjust the brim of my hat. “There’s nothing wrong with wanting things, Cal.”
He still doesn’t look at me. “I didn’t say there was.”
I glance past the mudroom office. A couch sits pressed to the wall beside a narrow table set for one. Everything’s clean, but sparse. Lived-in without warmth. No clutter, but no comfort either.
“I didn’t expect that . . .” I say, trailing off.
“That life went on without you,” Cal supplies. “That maybe the changes around here weren’t all for the better. Is that what you’re thinking?”
I blink back tears and look away. “Why does my dad want me to work for you, Cal?”
He sighs. “I wasn’t expecting him to say that. I don’t know what he wants, Mabel. But it’s his farm. I just run it.”
There’s something in how he says it. How the words come out lined with quiet grief. The weight of it settles in my chest, heavy and heartbreaking.
This is what happens with us.
One second, I’m ready to snap, to throw every sharp word I’ve stored up since I left at him. And the next, I’m standing here wishing I could rest my hands on his chest and say forget it. Forget the fights and the silence between us. Please, talk to me.
I’m a fool for it, but I want to understand him.
I move toward him. “Tell me what happened to your farm.”
He doesn’t speak. He stands there, quiet as an oak. And I seehim. My Cal. The one who didn’t always keep me at arm’s length. My protector. My playmate.
“Cal,” I whisper, softer now. “Please, help me understand.”
He drags his hands down his face, and for the first time since I stepped foot back in Elverna, I take him in. He’s in a faded gray T-shirt. Dust clings to his jeans at the knees, seams worn thin. He is still a beautiful man, but he looks older. More weathered than I remember. Tired in a way that doesn’t come from a single bad night’s sleep.
And still—there he is. The exact version of the man I’ve spent years trying to shake and failing miserably.
“Mabel,” he starts, voice low and roughened by fatigue or restraint. I can’t tell.
But before anything more can surface, a chaotic chorus of meows echoes from the back room.
Cal sighs. “Dinner. I can’t forget it.”
He heads to the kitchen.
I trail after him and watch as he opens Jamie’s avocado-green fridge. He grabs a glass milk bottle stamped with the Sperry Dairy logo and sets it down beside a stack of mismatched ceramic bowls.
“I don’t have the time or energy to rehash my farm’s history with you tonight,” he mutters, retreating behind a mask I recognize all too well.
I follow the meowing and open the bedroom door.
Two orange and white cats lounge across the bed, stretched out with the entitlement of creatures who know they’re in charge. A smoky gray one winds through the legs of a wooden chair. A black-and-white cat circles my ankle, round-bodied and cautious. And the smallest—a tiny black kitten I recognize from the truck—hisses at me.
I glance over my shoulder. “Exactly how many cats live here?”
Cal steps in behind me, balancing a tray stacked with five tiny saucers of milk. He kneels, every movement precise, like this routine has structure and purpose.
“You’re a brooding farmer with a house full of cats,” I say, not teasing, simply observing.
He lifts his eyes. “You say that like it’s an insult.”
I shake my head. “No. It’s unexpected. But it fits.”
I pause, watching him as he strokes the gray cat’s head.
