Page 45 of The Difference Between

She mouths, He’s hot, and fans her face.

I mock rocking a baby in my arms. He’s a child.

She pokes the index finger of one hand through a circle she makes with her other.

It’s a mistake to look at Gavin, but I do anyway. His beard is twitching, clearly having witnessed the whole exchange.

“Fine,” I say, not at all humiliated. “Now is fine.”

“Eager little thing, ain’t she, Iris?” he asks with a smirk.

Mom snorts. “You wouldn’t believe the half of it.”

To me, he says, “I’ll drive.”

If he thinks I’m letting him have one ounce of control in this beyond what just happened, he has another think coming. I snatch Mom’s keys—complete with a rabbit’s foot key ring—from the counter. “No.”

He answers with a smirk then strolls toward the door. Behind his back, Remy does pelvic thrusts and drops her head back with a silent orgasm.

I gouge one of her eyes until she screams then slam the door in their faces.

The three of them laugh like the assholes they are.

I settle in the driver’s seat and put the key in the ignition as grown-up Gavin stuffs himself into the passenger side. His sheer size shrinks the already small car. I can barely handle being in here alone, now he’s stealing half the space.

Grass. Gavin. My own demise. Sweat. Desert sand. I am not trapped.

After a deep breath, I roll the windows down.

He grins. “Fancy seeing you here.”

“No,” I snap.

Then, I drive.

Thirteen

If Chicago is a city built by glass and steel, Fontain, North Carolina is leaves and vines. The town sits smack dab in the middle of the state’s wine country in the Yadkin Valley.

A lot of people don’t even know we have vineyards, but there are over a million acres dedicated to the fruit in this region of the state alone. It doesn’t have the same name recognition or prestige as Napa, but it’s gaining traction. With its proximity to Charlotte and other larger towns in the southeast, tourists flock here every year, especially in the summer and fall.

The disaster area I was expecting couldn’t have been further from the reality of what the Nickelses’ vineyard is. Glass of Vine, as the sign indicates, looks as picturesque as most vineyards in the area. Maybe more so. Defined by rolling hills covered in trellised vines, an old white farmhouse, a small pond, and a couple of outbuildings, if the red For Sale sign was gone, it could be a photograph for the region’s tourism. Barely down the driveway, the beauty of the property itself is evident, but it’s the hazy horizon line of mountains in the distance that makes my gaze linger a little longer in every direction.

I forgot how gorgeous it is out here. How wild and free despite the hand of man.

I’ve been out of the city for almost three weeks, but when I get out of the car, it’s the first time my lungs seem to breathe at full capacity. An inhale followed by an unhurried exhale that smells like wide open spaces and sunshine. Grass and trees and wildflowers in bloom. A little sweet, a little earthy.

It’s hot—early September usually is—and my blue jeans and T-shirt are almost too much for the temperature. But like the firm press of a thumb in a deep tissue massage, it feels good. A warmth made to be absorbed through closed eyelids and a quiet pause.

If the vineyard is facing tough times, I can’t tell by how meticulously the property’s been maintained. The grapevines are green and healthy, the grass between every row is cut—there’s not a weed in sight. Unless there’s poison in the fruit, I have no idea why anyone would sell it.

Gavin steps next to me as I take in the view.

“Tell me what I’m looking at.”

He stuffs his hands in his pockets. “This here’s what we like to call a vineyard, Miss Reese.”

I give him a deadpan look. “Thanks for the intel, Captain Obvious.”