Page 23 of The Difference Between

“And?” I snip. “What’s wrong with that? You’re procreating with a man who dresses like Bozo.”

“Do you even want kids?”

“Of course I want kids.” I roll my shoulders. “This wasn’t the way I imagined having them, but people do it all the time.”

Rue barks out a laugh, but Remy looks solemn. “Are you sure about this, Reese? Having a kid for work seems a bit . . . dystopian.”

Remy is a librarian, and all roads always lead to literary references.

“It’s not dystopian, it’s practical. I’m forty. And I don’t have a lot of time for dating. And even though it was maybe a little bit of a lie, the more I think about it, the more sense it makes. You two have kids. Remy, you’re a single mom and⁠—”

“I’m not a single mom,” she defends. “Darren just wanted some space.”

“With a yoga teacher,” Rue pipes in.

At this, my jaw drops. “What?”

Remy glares at Rue and she shrugs. “You weren’t going to tell her.”

Remy sighs. “I found Darren at yoga.”

Darren and Remy have been married for nearly twenty years until this summer when he said he wanted space. “Found him how?”

“How the fuck do you think, Reese?” Remy snaps.

If Remy is using the f-word, shit’s gone south. “Oh.”

Remy’s a romantic, and because of this, she won’t outright tell us what’s going on, so Rue and I have to follow the breadcrumbs she gives us. We know Darren asked for space, which is why she’s “temporarily” renting a place here in Fontain with her two kids and took a “temporary” position as the elementary school librarian. And now we know he’s been bumping uglies with a yoga teacher.

Darren’s always had a bit of a wandering eye. I’ve never mentioned it, but I’ve seen him blatantly stare at other women more than once. I’ve also seen him check his phone and send messages in a way that he was clearly trying to hide from my sister. Him going to yoga isn’t the least bit shocking.

“Yoga’s for dirty hippies,” I offer. “And I have an appointment in a few weeks.”

Rue bites back a smile. “To have a baby?”

“To research sperm,” I correct. “So I can help repopulate this planet with another specimen of perfection like myself and save all of humanity.”

Rue laughs. “You would have a baby by picking sperm. Bet that thing will come out just as controlling as you. Bet you birth a label maker.”

“It’s called methodical mating,” I defend. “Look what happened when Mom went rogue and got knocked up with you.”

Rue doesn’t take the bait; she knows we all loved her dad. “Tell me, Ree,” she says, “will you swaddle your methodically mated baby with a spreadsheet?”

I throw a wadded-up napkin at her and snort a laugh. “Old bitch.”

She throws the napkin back then takes a sip of her wine. “I’m only two years older than you, and we all know you’re the bitch.”

“You shouldn’t drink alcohol if you’re trying to get pregnant.”

“This?” She downs the rest of her wine and smiles at me, smug. “Being pregnant at the same time as you might be worse than the hemorrhoids I hope you get.”

“What about adopting?” Remy asks. “You have enough money you could give some kid a great life.”

“I don’t want someone else’s kid,” I argue. “I want it to be mine.” Because I do. I want to feel a baby grow inside me and then see my nose or chin or eyes on its face. I’m not half-assing starting a family. And I help people in other ways. I donate thousands of dollars every year to the American Heart Association since Dad died ten years ago, and after Mom’s diagnosis, I wrote a fat check to benign brain tumor research. My generosity isn’t the point; I want my own baby. With a grin, I add, “My contribution is creating another me.”

Rue mutters under her breath as a loud knock on the door bangs through the house—I will be hanging up a sign so that doesn’t happen again—then heads to answer it.

The moving company.