Page 160 of The Difference Between

“What happens to a vine that doesn’t produce fruit?” I finally ask.

He lets out a disgruntled sigh. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re obsessed with productivity?” His brows raise. “You probably ran a sweatshop in a past life.”

I snort a laugh. “I don’t know why I talk to you.”

“Ladies can’t resist Banyan.” His brows raise. “And I think you like me.” He grins; I kind of do. “And since you’ll get your too-tight panties in a twist if I don’t answer you, nothing happens to vines in nature without fruit. Exist as they are. Leaves still make oxygen, roots still keep Big Mama in place.” He shrugs. “Everything doesn’t have to be good at everything, ya know?”

I track a V formation of geese across the sky.

“In my world,” I tell him, “if we buy a business with a division that’s draining capital like”—I look at him sideways—“a vine without fruit, we try to fix it or merge it or unload it.” I shrug. “But if none of that works, we shut it down.”

Once upon a time—two months ago, really—I’d barely bat an eye with a decision like that. The numbers would’ve wordlessly instructed me, and I’d easily cut any loss and feel about as much pain as when I clip a fingernail as I do it. Snip—done! Gone like it never existed, allowing me to focus on what’s thriving. Now the idea of it brutalizes me. Rubs my chest as raw as a cheese grater to my flesh.

“Buddha in temple,” Banyan mutters under his breath. “No dreams are safe with you cutthroat capitalists lurking around every corner.” He sighs his disapproval. “Not so different than here though.” He points to the vines. “Commercialized agriculture is the only place where something can grow from a seed and get judged for what they aren’t.” He eyes me. “Do you know how big a grape seed is?”

“No.” I wipe my nose with the back of my hand.

He pinches his fingers together. “Five millimeters!”

I do not tell him that’s bigger than my too-thin endometrial lining. “What do you do if you see a vine like that here? In the vineyard, I mean.”

“Well—” His cheeks fill with air before they slowly deflate. “First, I play a mixtape out of respect of the miracle for the vine simply existing. I say, ‘Little lady, your presence has been my present.’ Then, because it’s taking up space and resources the other vines need, it’s removed.”

Whether it’s a big business or a boutique vineyard, the useless get eliminated. Those who don’t produce—or reproduce—are worthless.

Like me.

Never once in any hypothetical outcome of how this played did I think I’d be the one who wouldn’t be able to give Gavin everything he wants. I’ve spent months scrutinizing Fontain—and Gavin—and what my life would be like here, with him. I dissected it like a science experiment to ensure every detail would fit into my life—my timeline, my goals. How ironic that at the end of it all, I’m the broken piece who won’t fit here. My timeline and goals don’t mean jack shit.

Banyan continues. “I want the record to show that the vine didn’t do anything wrong, it was just bad luck. The critters of nature wouldn’t judge that vine for not growing fruit, that’s a problem of the people.”

I mentally sift through his pile of hippie bullshit.

“The vine’s in the wrong place?”

He points a lazy finger my way. “Bingo, bango, Fire Lady.”

As much as the answer guts me, it solidifies my path forward. A fruitless vine in the wrong place needs to be somewhere it can be useful or it does more harm than good to everyone around it. Unless the vine was sent to said wrong place to bear fruit it can’t bear. Then maybe it doesn’t belong anywhere. Maybe it should move to a shack in the woods and live with stray cats and canned vegetables.

I look at Banyan—really look at him—his bandana and yarn necklace, his flowy clothes and crooked nose—then around the bizarre space he calls home. “Why do you live like this?” I ask him, struggling to comprehend any one piece of it. The van. The absence of any kind of plan or goals or safety nets. If the vineyard would have been bought by anyone else, he wouldn’t even have a place to park. “Do you even know the future exists?”

“Eh.” He drops his elbows to his knees and leans into them, gazing out over the vineyard. “Only thing that really exists is the minute we’re in. Just because you write it on a line of a list or put it in your fancy phone doesn’t mean it’ll happen. And Banyan has better things to do than wasting time and mind worrying.” He wiggles his brows. “Can’t please the ladies if I’m stuck in my head.”

I let out a hollow laugh. “God, you’re weird.”

He grins in response, reaching into his pocket to pull out a joint and lighter, wordlessly lighting it up, inhaling deep, then offering it to me.

“Fuck it,” I mutter. I take a long, throat-scorching hit, coughing as I pass it back to him. “Haven’t done that in about twenty years.”

He chuckles around his next toke. “You want to tell me what’s going on?”

I don’t. I don’t want to tell anyone. I don’t ever want to talk about it ever again.

“I’m a vine without fruit.” I look at him until what I haven’t said registers. “So now I’m coping by getting stoned with you after you did God knows what with a nipple-pierced woman named Harmony.”

I’m ready for him to press me or parable me or tell me some weird story about him and a band of cultural outliers, but he doesn’t. He passes me the joint, reaches into the van, and pulls out a long—at least four feet—slightly crooked, conical tube made of wood decorated with primal dots and dashes.

“What the hell is that?”