Page 27 of The Difference Between

There’s a sign.

In my flight attire of a black blouse, pencil skirt, and pumps, I’m impossible to miss standing in the grass with my hip cocked and arms folded over my chest. He plows straight toward me, and for a split second I wonder if he’s going to stop. I don’t budge—I refuse. I’ll sue his ass if he runs me over.

Just inches shy of the black pointed toes of my Jimmy Choos, he stops, cuts the engine, and lifts his chin. With a smile. Wearing a sweat-stained white T-shirt, worn jeans, and boots that look like they’re three steps shy of falling apart, he strolls toward me, peeling his gloves off as he moves.

I would bet all the money in my bank account he’s never had a professional haircut in his life or used a mirror while trimming his shaggy-ass beard.

His eyes fasten onto mine, but his expression trips, somewhere between amused and confused as he sizes me up, darting his tongue across his bottom lip. When I think he’s going to talk—God forbid apologize—he spits something out of his mouth.

Spits—like a Neanderthal—then smirks.

“You spit.” I don’t hide my disgust.

Who does that?

“Seeds,” he explains. At my look, he wills another one up from somewhere in the pit of his mouth, displays it between his shockingly white front teeth then spits it out. “Sunflower seeds. I like the salt. Spitz are my favorite.”

As he repeats the appalling process, I make a too-easy assessment. He’s the epitome of a Fontain blue collar—probably eats pizza from a gas station and drinks cheap beer from a can. He was probably born and raised in Fontain and has no knowledge the rest of the world exists. Might even think it’s flat.

Seemingly out of seeds, he smiles. “Reese Conway, right?”

My eyes narrow. I have never seen this guy in my life.

“And who the hell are you?”

Eight

Gavin

My dad had cancer twice and beat it once. Half a year later, the sting of that math doesn’t hurt any less.

As hard as it was when I got the news that second time—I took the call in the middle of weed whacking by the old oak in front of the elementary school—an unexpected gift came from the diagnosis: time.

It was running out; I was determined to stretch every second to a minute.

Just a year prior, we’d suffered a loss that changed us all. It came at the end of a nothing day and without warning.

We were in the shop—we were always in the shop. My brother Greg was always in the shop. I think he spent more time there than he did at his actual job.

He was prodding pipes, toying with frit, and getting too close to the furnace the way he always was while Dad poured us each a glass of wine. The Torch Red was their favorite. The two of them were buzzing about the equipment they were ordering. Soon the vineyard would become a full-production winery.

Mom and Dad had had the vineyard for three years, casually learning the ropes while my brother and I became more and more involved and could finally see how it could be the future for all of us.

It was a weird concept at first, but I loved what we were building. The difference between the industries couldn’t have been greater, but they worked. And if anyone could do it, it was the three of us. And Mom. Mom kept us all in check.

Judging by the way things were received in the limited hours of the tasting room, we already were—the guests loved it. Glass and wine.

“Whatcha say, Gav?” Greg asked around his glass. “You ready to finally start pulling your weight around here?”

I grinned. “No can do, asshole.”

I took the letter out of my back pocket that I’d been carrying around until the time was right. I handed it to him then took a sip of my wine. He and Dad huddled together to read.

Dad looked up from the letter like he was about to cry—he was a damn softie to the day he died—but it was Greg who yelled like he just won the lotto before clapping me on the back and pulling me into a hug. The letter was nearly two decades in the making, and it took all of us to get it here.

Greg pulled his phone out of his pocket, poked around the screen, then put it up to his ear. To us he said, “We’re having dinner to celebrate.” Before I could argue, he pointed a finger and added, “Tonight.”

I was on cloud nine and loved Amanda’s cooking. How could I say no?