Page 153 of The Difference Between

The rays of sun hit the shoe then refract to the walls, exposing a new detail: It’s filled with bubbles.

“Why do you call Addie a glass bubble?” I ask.

He shifts on the mattress, and I prop my chin on his chest so our eyes meet.

“In mass-produced glassware, trapped air bubbles are considered a defect, and any piece with them is pitched. Recycled. Whatever you want to call it. But in a handmade piece—” He taps his fingers down my spine. “One where a man, fire, and sand come together, bubbles are seen as unique. Highly valued. No two bubbles are the same. The difference between pieces can come down to those bubbles.” He smiles a little. “What some call a defect actually makes it better, isn’t that something?” The look of admiration he has for his niece liquifies me. “There’s Addie.”

I prop myself on my elbows. It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard. The definition of unconditional love. Our eyes bounce and he tucks my hair behind my ear.

“She’s lucky to have you,” I tell him, leaning into his palm.

“Hm.” He smiles a little. “I’m lucky to have her.”

I want to tell him I love him, because right now, I think I do. I might know it. I want to give him babies he wants and spend the rest of my life proving I can be someone who deserves him. I want to say Chicago or Fontain, I’ll be wherever you are.

But when I open my mouth, a loud knock on the bedroom door cuts the moment.

“Reese,” Mom calls, making my eyes widen and Gavin stifle a laugh. “I’m making pancakes.”

I clear my throat. “Okay.” Then: “I’ll be down in a minute if you just want to wait.”

Gavin reaches under the blanket.

“You put all that healthy stuff in yours,” she says.

Gavin’s hand settles between my thighs, challenging look in his eyes. I shake my head.

Mom continues. “I’ll make them.”

To Gavin, I mouth, stop; he does not. His smile only widens as his fingers start to play me like a fiddle. To the door, I say around a laugh, “It’s fine.” Gavin’s blessed fingers are also fine. And now they are inside me. And my eyes are closed. “I’ll make them unhealthy.”

“I got it, Reese. I’m not dead, for God’s sake,” Mom snips. “And I’ll make enough for Gavin. He can use the front door this morning.”

My eyes fly open, and Gavin’s fingers go still before retreating. His smile is so big it barely fits in the room.

“Thanks, Iris,” he shouts.

“I hope you’re quieter than you were last night,” Mom says before her footsteps travel down the hall and to the stairs.

“Oh, God.” My mouth drops open as a mortified heat consumes my skin and I pull a blanket over my head. “She heard us.”

Gavin laughs, loud, and yanks the blanket down to kiss me before getting out of bed. “You were really loud.” He pulls his T-shirt on. “And I’m starved.”

I want to die—my mother heard me break a bed—but I follow his lead.

And with tangled hair, swollen lips, and an ache I feel when I sit, stand, or speak, I eat pancakes with Gavin and my mom.

Gavin puts his hand on my knee under the table.

I smile the whole time.

Even when my mom says, “It’s about time you listened to me.”

Forty-Five

“You broke the bed?” Remy’s in pure awe as she lifts her mug for Rue to pour coffee. “Does Mom know?”

“I heard the whole thing,” Mom shouts from another room.