Page 42 of The Difference Between

I give her outfit—some kind of cotton onesie jumper thing that makes her look like an overgrown baby—a scathing look. “And Rue still dresses like a Cabbage Patch Kid.”

Rue flips me off; Mom asks about a vineyard; Gavin smiles and answers her.

They talk and I stare.

At grown-up Gavin Nickels.

His dirty blond hair isn’t long enough for a ponytail, but it’s long enough it hangs out from under his hat and around his shabbily bearded face. A half-hidden worn leather strap hugs the neckline of his shirt—some kind of primitive necklace. When he folds his arms over his chest, it reveals a tattoo of tongs on the outer edge of his forearm. Gavin Nickels went from a boy in a coon-skinned cap to a man with strange tattoos and jewelry.

“You’re staring,” Remy whispers.

“Of course I’m fucking staring,” I whisper back, flustered. “Why didn’t anyone tell me? What’s he doing here?”

She laughs a little. “Why are you making such a big deal about this?”

It’s a great question I don’t have an answer for. “I’m not.”

“Is it because he’s hot?”

“He’s not hot!” I whisper-shout. “He’s a child.” I look at him. “And needs to be pressure washed.”

She snorts. “You sound like such a hag, he’s not a child.” Then: “He’s single. You should go out with him.”

“I’m not going out with him,” I say through clenched teeth. “You go out with him.”

“I’m married.”

It takes all my willpower not to remind her that she’s in a tiny-ass rental house while her husband fucks a yoga teacher in their suburban marital bed.

She continues whispering as she fills me in. “He’s Mom’s neighbor. His niece lives with him.” The girl with the backpack. “Mom and Dad grew up with his parents.” I remember that from when we were younger. We’d see the Nickelses around town and sometimes when I was with Amanda and Greg. “He’s been helping out since the tumor. Works in maintenance for the city.” Explains the tattoo—hedge trimmers. He’s committed to lawn care, and this alternate universe is a weird place to be. “Good guy. And you were his first love.” When I think she’s done: “And you were flirting with him.”

I gasp. “I was not flirting with him.”

“Yes you were,” she insists. “And a little flustered.” Her brows lift. “I’ve never seen you flustered.” She makes kissy fingers in my face, and I elbow her until she grunts.

Mom offers Gavin the plate of my latest batch of cookies, and he takes one. His eyes meet mine as he takes his first bite. Crumbs fall from his mouth that he catches with his free hand.

Him eating my cookie makes my neck hot.

Something is said about his mom, and he turns his attention back to my mom whose face is filled with concern.

“What’s the deal with his parents?” I whisper to Remy.

“They bought a vineyard. Put all their retirement money into it,” she explains. “But when his brother died⁠—”

“Greg?” That can’t be right. “He married Amanda.”

Her expression turns somber. “Ree . . . they both died in a house fire over a year ago.”

My “What?” comes out of me like air from a deflating tire.

Amanda died? I haven’t talked to her in years. But . . . died? She wasn’t even forty. How did I not know?

As if reading my thoughts, Remy whispers, “Rue and Mom tried to tell you, but they couldn’t get you on the phone because you were in the middle of some big deal. Then you were . . .” Busy. A bitch. A terrible person. I know all the words she could use to fill in the trailed-off blank. “Then everything happened with the antique store and Mom, you know?”

I don’t know.

My best friend from high school died, and I had no idea.