24. Cal
CAL
I leave the pantry with my head full of her—Margot, the way she blushed when our hands touched, the way her voice caught when she agreed to meet me tonight. I can’t sit still. Can’t focus. There’s too much anticipation coiled in my chest.
So I walk.
Past the inn. Past the orchard. Past sense, honestly. I end up in town without even realizing I was heading there. The afternoon is bright, loud with birds and chatter, but everything feels quieter in my head. Except for her.
I’m about to walk past the coffee shop—keep it moving, stay low—but something makes me pause. A little caffeine won’t hurt. Something to hold, something to do.
Inside, the familiar barista is at the counter, with a beanie and a stare that always lingers too long.
I smile and greet him like I always do. “Hey, man,” I say. “Just a black coffee today.”
He gives me a small smile and rings it up, but his eyes do that thing again. That flicker. Like he’s chewing on a suspicion.
He thinks I look like someone famous—I told him that once, made a joke about being mistaken for an actor. He laughed. But every time I come in, he watches me like he’s trying to prove himself right. Like he’s waiting for the truth to fall out of my pocket.
I take the cup, nod my thanks, and step outside before he can say anything else.
As I walk back toward the inn, the coffee burning warm in my hand, a tightness grows in my chest.
The bubble I’ve built here—quiet, safe, simple—it’s thinning.
My anonymity won’t last forever.
And tonight, after everyone’s asleep, I’m going to sit across from Margot Hartwell and try to keep pretending I’m not a liar.
Or worse—try to stop. Should I tell her everything?
I hold the coffee the whole way, gripped in my hand like it’ll steady me. But with everything in my head, I don’t even drink it. Not one sip.
By the time I do, it’s cold.
I toss it in the nearest bin, watching the cup disappear with a hollow thunk .
Then I keep walking.
Toward the inn.
Toward her.
Toward everything I probably don’t deserve. Or maybe I do deserve it. I’m being too hard on myself. I’m not a liar. I’m just a traveler looking for something, and I’ve found it. It’s not like I plan to hide the truth forever. I’ll tell her by the end of the week or the next.
The inn comes into view, all soft edges and wraparound porch and windows that glow like they’re keeping secrets.
Thea is standing by the front door, hugging a giant printer to her chest like it personally offended her.
It’s bulky, clearly dead weight, and she looks like she’s one second from launching it down the porch stairs.
She notices me and gives a small wave. “Hey, Cal.”
I stop. “What did that printer ever do to you?”
She exhales, frustrated. “It stopped working. Completely. And of course it decides to die when I actually need it.”
I nod toward it. “Where are you taking it?”
“My dad’s in town. I was thinking of calling a cab and dragging it down there. Maybe he can fix it or tell me what to buy next.”
I hold out a hand. “Mind if I take a look first?”
She blinks. “Seriously? You know printers?”
“I know broken things,” I say, flashing a grin. “Sometimes I get lucky.”
She smiles and steps aside, clearly grateful. I take the printer from her and head toward the front parlor, where the light’s better and there’s space to work. She follows.
Truth is, I don’t care about the printer. I just want to be around her people. Around the life Margot’s built here—this quiet, strange little family that feels more like home than anything I’ve touched in years.
Even this—tinkering with a dusty old printer—feels like something. Like roots. Like getting closer.
Like being allowed in. I’m grateful for it.
I set the printer down on the side table near the window and crouch beside it.
The thing’s old but not hopeless. A quick peek underneath tells me exactly what’s wrong—a tiny paper jam sensor stuck in the triggered position, probably from the last time someone yanked out a crumpled page like they were in a hurry.
I use my fingernail to gently nudge the little plastic lever back into place, flip the printer right-side up, and hit the power button. The machine hums to life like it was never mad at anyone in the first place.
Thea leans in, blinking at the lights. “Wait. That’s it?”
I smile up at her. “That’s it.”
She stares at the printer like it just betrayed her. Then she grins, wide and genuine. “You’re a genius. Thank you so much. You just saved me a cab ride and a full meltdown.”
I stand, brushing my palms on my jeans. “Glad to be useful.” Then I tilt my head. “Margot told me you’re into tech. What kind of tech, exactly?”
Her face lights up in that quiet, internal way she shares with Margot. “Mostly systems architecture. I love building infrastructure—databases, backends, server logic. Anything that needs to be functional and invisible.”
“That’s impressive,” I say, and I mean it. “You work remotely?”
“Yeah,” she says. “Cybersecurity startup. Mostly defense contracts and enterprise systems. It’s quiet work, but I like it that way.”
I nod, genuinely curious. “You ever build your own stuff?”
“Oh, totally. I’ve got like five personal projects I keep abandoning and resurrecting. Right now, I’m obsessed with offline-first apps for small businesses. Stuff that could run even without constant internet.”
That makes me smile. “That sounds like something Everfield could use.”
She laughs. “Exactly. I think half the town still runs on paper ledgers.”
I watch her for a beat, thoughtful. There’s something sharp and self-made about her, just like Margot—but quieter, less visible.
I start thinking, unbidden, about how easy it would be to help her scale those ideas.
Offline-first apps? Small-town systems? There’s a whole market for that.
A whole infrastructure I could build with her if I just?—
Not now. Not yet. First, I tell Margot the truth. Then, when everything’s on the table, maybe I’ll ask Thea if she wants a partner. The kind with unlimited resources and the will to see her succeed.
Thea lifts the printer again, cradling it like a prize. “Thanks, Cal. I owe you one.”
“Uh-oh,” I say, grinning. “I always cash my debts. Don’t forget.”
She snorts, shaking her head, and disappears through the hall with the printer.
And I’m left standing there, already counting the hours until nightfall.
I spend the rest of the evening pretending to be busy. Folding laundry. Reorganizing my room. Answering two emails I’ve ignored for weeks. But none of it sticks. My mind keeps circling back to her.
By the time night falls, the inn is quiet, and I make my way out of my room and enter the kitchen.
I step through the doorway to see Margot standing by the counter, talking to Aunt Edie in that low, familiar voice I’ve come to know too well.
Her hair is tied up in a loose knot. She’s wearing some soft cotton thing that shouldn’t make my throat dry, but it does.
I freeze.
I’m about to take one quiet step backward, disappear before they notice me—when Aunt Edie turns.
“Oh don’t worry,” she says with a mischievous smile. “I was just about to leave.”
Margot’s eyes snap toward me in surprise.
“No wonder she’s been trying to get me out of here all evening,” Edie adds as she grabs her tea and slips past me. “Ten minutes ago it was, ‘Don’t you want to rest, Aunt Edie?’ and five minutes ago it was, ‘Are you sure you’re not tired, Aunt Edie?’ Honestly, it was suspicious.”
I glance at Margot. She’s blushing. Bright red. And I’m pretty sure I am too.
Edie hums as she walks out. “Young people,” she says, half-singing to herself. “Always so obvious.”
Margot won’t meet my eyes.
And just like that, we’re alone.
We stare at each other quietly, the kitchen wrapped in a hush that hums just beneath the surface. The tea kettle lets out a soft puff of steam. Margot leans against the counter, her arms loosely folded, her eyes on me. There’s a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. I match it without thinking.
Neither of us says a word.
Until she breaks the silence.
“Should we take a walk?” she asks, her voice soft but certain.
I nod, my chest already lighter. “Yeah. I’d like that.”
We slip out through the back door. The night air is cool, but not cold.
The orchard behind the inn glows in the moonlight, rows of trees stretching wide beneath the stars.
It’s quiet in that magical way only small towns can be at night—just the crunch of our footsteps on grass and the sound of wind moving through branches.
Margot wraps her arms around herself as we walk. Not because she’s cold, I think, but because she’s nervous. I get it. I am too.
I want to reach for her hand, but I don’t. Not yet.
Instead, I say, “This place is so dreamy.”
She glances at me, her mouth quirking. “Yes. Aunt Edie and my dad planted most of it when I was a kid.”
“Wow. What was your childhood like in Everfield?”
She pauses, glancing around like she can still see the echoes of her childhood between the trees. “It was a good one. My childhood.”
I wait, letting her speak in her own rhythm.
“My parents… and Aunt Edie—they made everything feel safe. Warm. We didn’t have everything, but we had each other. There were bonfires out here in the fall. Homemade jam in the summers. We made up stories under these trees, pretended we were fairies and witches and secret agents.”
I grin. “Secret agents, huh?”
“Oh, absolutely. Thea had a decoder ring and everything.”
She laughs, and the sound feels like it tugs something in my chest. There’s so much heart in her. So much history.
She looks up suddenly, then pulls me gently by the sleeve. “Come on. Let’s sit.”
She leads me off the path to a wide, knotted tree with thick roots stretching out like arms. She lowers herself to the ground, and I follow. We sit shoulder to shoulder, our legs stretched out in front of us, staring up at the moon through the branches.
Everything’s still. Quiet.
I want to reach for her hand.
I want to tell her I haven’t stopped thinking about her since the first day I saw her standing behind the counter, bossing me around with her hair pinned up and her mouth set like she had no time for nonsense.
But I don’t say anything yet.
“What about you?” she asks me, tilting her head so her eyes catch mine. “What was your childhood like?”
I sigh, glance at the sky, then at her. As beautiful as the stars are, she’s the better view. “My childhood’s probably the best part of my life. I’ve got more money and stability now than I did then, but I’d go back if I could.”
She nods slowly, like she understands that kind of ache. “I was the only child,” I add. “That’s why I envy you and your family. The day I had breakfast with you guys… it was surreal.”
“What? You liked the chaos?”
“I loved it. It was awesome. I’ve never had that before.”
She goes quiet for a beat, then says, “Where are your parents now?”
“Dead.”
She gasps, instinctively reaching for my hand. Her fingers wrap around mine—warm, grounding. She doesn’t say anything right away. Just holds on.
I smile, grateful for her silence. “They got into an accident when I was about twenty-one. I lost them both.”
“I’m so sorry, Cal.”
“Don’t be. The memories are good. They stay with me. That’s why I love spending time fixing things with your dad. He reminds me of mine. That’s how we spent time together too—fixing stuff. Even if sometimes we left it worse than it was before we touched it.”
Margot bursts out laughing, her head tilting back, that warm, unrushed kind of laughter that makes everything in me soften. “I’m loaning you my dad,” she says. “Use him for as long as you want.”
I laugh too. “How about we draft a contract? I’d love to take you up on that offer.”
She’s about to respond—something soft forming on her lips—when we hear the sharp thud of hurried footsteps crashing through the orchard.
We both shoot up.
It’s Glen. He’s always so calm and unhurried, it’s weird to see him look so… rushed.
His silhouette limps toward us, moonlight catching the white of the cast still wrapped around his leg. He’s out of breath, wild-eyed, panic bleeding through his voice before he even gets to us.
“Glen?” I call.
“I—” he pants. “I thought everyone was asleep. I just wanted to take a walk.”
Margot’s already moving toward him. “Are you okay?”
He shakes his head violently. “It’s Aunt Edie. I found her on the floor in the hallway. She passed out. I couldn’t—I couldn’t help her.”
My chest tightens. “Where exactly is she?”
“She’s just outside your room,” he says, looking straight at Margot. “Hurry, we need to get her to the hospital.”
Margot’s eyes meet mine, full of horror—and trust.
We run.