8. Cala
The day before she died, my grandma gave me her favorite necklace.
“When you don’t know which way to go,” she said, “hold this lapis lazuli in your hands and ask me. I’ll guide you.”
She was always a mystical kind of woman, and somehow all that magic of hers settled in my brain too.
I believed her. Always did.
I never really had to ask her anything—life usually made sense to me.
But today, for some reason, I do.
I clutch the stone between my palms and whisper,
“So, Grandma… what the hell am I supposed to do about Roger?”
Not much around here for her to use as a sign—just a few cows grazing lazily, looking bored out of their minds.
She’s probably mad at me for swearing. I’ve tried to explain—they’re therapeutic words.
Swearing, in its odd way, has always helped me process things, letting off steam when nothing else works.
But my grandma never quite understood it.
Her world was full of gentle wisdom and quiet magic, not sharp language.
Still, I couldn’t help myself; sometimes, the only way to cope with everything—Roger, my parents, the constant feeling of being alone—was to let a few choice words slip out.
Maybe she’s shaking her head wherever she is, but I hope she knows it’s just my way of handling life when it gets overwhelming.
These last few weeks, Roger’s communication style has… evolved.
First it was texts, then voice notes, and now he’s moved up to calling me out of nowhere.
“Do you miss me too?” he asked last night.
So, I grabbed a candy wrapper, rubbed it against the mic, and made noises like,
“Eh… shhh… juuu… rrrhhh…” Then I hung up.
I texted right after: Sorry, bad reception out here. Talk later.
Truth is, I don’t miss him.
Maybe I miss having someone around.
Since I started this job, loneliness has been sitting heavy on my shoulders.
I spend long hours by myself—mostly talking to myself too—since neither the plants nor the horses have started answering back.
My parents are in full-blown crisis mode.
Mom suddenly forgot a century of women’s rights and has turned into Dad’s personal maid—literally waiting on him hand and foot, as if that’ll fix anything.
And Dad… he’s an ogre these days. His attitude toward his new reality is anything but positive. Mostly he just sulks inside, barely moving. He doesn’t even bother checking on what I’m doing anymore.
So, no, talking to them isn’t much of an option.
Then there’s Eliza—Mr. Walker’s housekeeper—who reminds me of one of the fairy godmothers from Sleeping Beauty. The one in red… was that Flora or Fauna? I can never remember.
Anyway, she’s the sweetest soul—always smiling, always feeding the rich boy—sorry, Lord Walker—and somehow always ready with good advice.
The other day she caught me talking about Roger. I didn’t get far before I chickened out, but she did say I should probably be honest about not wanting anything serious.
“Maybe just a touch-and-go,” she called it—with a wink, of course.
I lift my eyes from the necklace, and—huh.
The cows are gone.
Well, not gone, exactly—they’ve all bunched up by the fence, practically begging for attention… from Mr. Walker.
I stare at the sky, raising a brow.
“Really? That’s your answer, Grandma?”
I walk carefully toward my boss, forcing a polite smile—not too bright, not too serious—and ask,
“Can I help you with something, Mr. Walker?”
He looks up. The faint smile he’d been wearing while petting the cows disappears instantly.
“No. Am I not allowed to spend time with my own cattle?”
Okay then…
Why does he always use that tone with me?
When he talks to anyone else, he sounds calm, steady, reasonable.
With me, it’s like every word comes out through clenched teeth.
“Of course you can,” I say sweetly. “I just wondered if you needed to tell me something, give me some direction…” I turn halfway around and mutter under my breath, “…criticize the thousand things I apparently do wrong.”
“I heard that, Miss Saint-Clair.”
Crap.
“Shouldn’t you be rounding up the cattle by now? The sun’s almost gone.”
There it is. The daily complaint.
I turn back and flash a fake smile.
“I was just about to, but they seem pretty entertained at the moment.”
Can’t blame them.
I mean, I’m not blind.
Mr. Walker is ridiculously good-looking.
It’s the strong, chiseled jaw, those thick dark brows, and those deep, unreadable eyes.
I have a theory: he’s part of that rare ten percent of the population whose pheromones cause immediate attraction.
Basically, he’s one of the most handsome men I’ve ever seen.
“Come on,” he says. “I’ll help you. It’s getting dark.”
What is it with this man and the night?
And then he does it—like some kind of cowboy magician—whistles loud and clear, and the cows start moving, following him back toward the barn like he’s the Pied Piper of Texas.
He walks slowly, the picture of calm authority, his expensive clothes catching the last rays of sunlight.
If someone hung a neon sign over his head, it would read: ALL MAN.
If I took a picture right now, I could probably make a fortune on Instagram.
“Anything else?” he asks casually, handing me another sack of hay to stack.
“Nope. The horses are already asleep. I let them graze a little longer—because, you know, I’m nice like that.” I smile, but he doesn’t respond in kind. He just stares at me with that bored, unreadable face of his.
We’re almost done when I hear that familiar throat-clear—the one that always means he’s about to correct me.
“Miss Saint-Clair…”
Here we go.
“Cala,” I interrupt. “Miss Saint-Clair’s way too formal, don’t you think? Cala’s fine.”
I’m determined to crack the ice that’s permanently frozen around this man.
He clears his throat again—awkward now—clasps his hands behind his back, shifts on his heels, and finally says, “Cala…” He drags my name out like he’s testing it. “…Good job.”
I freeze mid-motion, hay still in my arms. For a moment, the two meters between us feel like two inches.
“What?”
I must’ve misheard him.
No way.
“Don’t make me repeat it,” he grumbles, already turning toward the door.
I can’t help laughing.
“Okay, okay! You can’t blame a girl for wanting to hear a compliment twice, Mr. Walker!”
He stops in the doorway, crosses his arms, and looks back at me.
“Oliver.”
Right. But I wanted to wait for him to say it first.
I nod, still smiling. “Thanks, Oliver. I really needed to hear that.”
His sea-green eyes soften for just a second, and that’s when I remember—he overheard my dad yelling at me earlier, tearing me down.
Oh. So that’s why. Pity.
And just like that, the warmth fades.
“There it is,” he says suddenly, frowning.
I blink. “What?”
“That expression,” he says, walking toward me. His hands slide into his pockets, voice low and curious. “It’s quick, then you hide it.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
I cross my arms—because what else do you do when someone’s dissecting your face?
“It’s like you don’t allow yourself to feel something negative. You cover it up with a smile.”
He tilts his head slightly. “What were you thinking just now?”
That you only said that because you felt sorry for me.
“Nothing. I swear.”
He presses his lips together, shaking his head like I just disappointed him. “Alright. You don’t have to tell me. I’m your boss, not your therapist.”
It sounds sharp, but the way he says it… feels more like he’s talking to himself.
Before I can reply, he turns on his heel and storms out of the barn.
I inhale sharply, hands on my hips, the air thick with all the things I didn’t say.
And then—against all logic and common sense—I make the worst decision possible.
I run after him.