Page 165 of The Difference Between

“Reese,” he calls.

“Go away.”

“No.” He grabs me by the arm and spins me around. “What just happened?”

“I just saved you.” I raise a hand toward the house. “All of you.”

“Saved us?” His eyes are wide. “You just made an ass of yourself in there. You’re the one who needs to be saved.”

The champagne hits me all at once and I sob.

He pulls me to him, worried lines bracketing his eyes and mouth. I bring my hands to his face, his perfect face. He looks young—young enough he should get everything he wants with someone who can give it to him. Young enough that in a world where excellence is a choice, he should get to choose it, over and over, and not be stuck with some woman who can’t let him.

I kiss him like it’s the last time I’ll ever kiss him because it is.

“Maybe I do,” I admit. “But I’m a vine that belongs somewhere else.”

“What are you talking about?” His eyes narrow. “You belong here.”

“I don’t.” I laugh a little and wipe my eyes. “It’s the first thing Banyan’s ever said that makes sense. And I lava you—and Addie—more than you can ever lava me.”

His mouth opens and I drop into the car, shutting him out with a slam of the door.

“The airport?” the driver asks, tapping a finger on a map-covered screen.

“Yeah.”

I press a splayed hand to the window as he starts to drive, watching Gavin turn from the man I fell in love with to a speck in the distance I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to forget.

Fifty

“Reese?” Trish’s tone is as surprised as her wide eyes. She raises to a stand to reveal her suit dress and the fact her style hasn’t improved in the two months I’ve been gone. “I wasn’t expecting you for another month.”

My mouth makes a plastic smile as I smooth my skirt and step into her office. “You know how I like to be ahead of schedule.”

She laughs softly. “Sit down.”

I’ve been in Chicago just over week, the exact amount of time it took me to be able to get out of bed and will myself to do something other than sulk and ignore phone calls. The movers brought my things back, and the only person from Fontain I’ve talked to is Banyan because he’s running the vineyard until I figure out what to do with it. Desperate times call for desperate measures and all.

“How’s your mom?” Trish asks when I’ve settled across from her.

“Good. Her recovery went better than anyone could’ve hoped. She’s going back to work part time. Hopefully driving in the next month.”

“That’s wonderful.” Her eyes drop to my midsection. “And everything else?” She’s almost giddy. “Did you select a donor?”

“Yes,” I say matter-of-factly.

She sucks in a delighted breath and claps her hands. “Reese that’s⁠—”

“But it turns out my body is unwilling to comply.” It’s the closest I’ve come to saying the truth out loud and relay it to Trish like I’m reporting EBITDA in a QBR. Just a fact, just numbers. Nothing personal, no emotions. Fontain was a fucked-up fever dream and I’m going to treat it as such. “Therefore, any more time on sabbatical is unnecessary.”

Her mouth opens, but she doesn’t say anything. It’s fine because there’s nothing to say. I don’t want her to tell me the options or how people have it worse. I don’t want to hear a personal story or that it’s part of God’s plan and things happen for a reason. The plan or reason don’t change what is or isn’t. I just want to get back to work. Unless, of course, my inability to procreate will be used against me.

Which, at this point, fuck it. If she sends me away, I’ll be the woman in the woods with cats and canned goods, what do I care?

“If it suits you and your brothers, I’d like to come back to work early. Matt can keep Fizz Co.” Once it occurred to me that every time I dealt with the account I’d think of what it took for me to get it and remind me of the worst heartache of my life, I realized how little I cared. “I have other accounts to work on.”

Sympathetic lines crease her face. “Okay.”