Page 56 of The Difference Between

I take a sip of my club soda and home in on the wall across the room lined with dartboards. A group of people are assembling—mostly men—a few tossing out warm-up darts between conversation. If the internet can be trusted, Leland Cooper is in that group.

The bartender, a cute girl in her twenties with curly hair and a curvy figure, smiles as she sets a community bowl of trail mix next to me—gross. I push it away then exchange my drink for my phone, pulling up Leland’s profile.

The photo is him from the waist up, squared to the camera with a slight dip of his chin and his arms folded over his chest. He’s clean-shaven, has a good jaw, and is wearing a pink polo that gives him an Easter-egg vibe. Lucky for my future offspring, fashion isn’t DNA bound and can’t be held against Leland in the court of me.

He has a good career, a good credit score, and no criminal record. Combined with the information provided by the sperm bank, he has stellar donor-dad potential.

My phone dings in my hands with a text from an unknown number. You hear about the woman who got kicked off the soccer team for running away from the ball? My eyes dart around the bar as the next one comes through. Think they called her Cinderella.

I look at my nude Sam Edelmans and fight a smile, typing Bet she mows in pumps.

A pour decision, if you ask me.

I rescan the room, this time looking for the only person alive who would send such nonsense as another one comes through. Are you here to unwine?

I pinch my lips between my teeth as I respond. Bad.

I thought it was pretty grape, actually.

At this, I laugh out loud, ironically responding with Stalking is illegal.

Two seconds later, the stool next to me is filled.

By Gavin.

His blue-jeaned legs are wide, his T-shirt fitted—white and clean—and the hair spilling out of his City of Fontain ball cap—backward—again—is slightly damp. The thin strap of his leather necklace peeks from his neckline.

Remy must be brainwashing me, because I would dare call him good looking as he stares straight ahead to the mirrored wall lined with shelves of liquor bottles and the TV on ESPN. I force myself to remember that I’ve seen him toothless and wearing a coonskin cap to counteract the thought.

“Gavin,” I say dryly.

He turns to me, face filling with faux shock. “Reese Conway?” He smiles with pure surprise and, at this proximity, dimples are revealed beneath all that scruff. “I didn’t know you were here.”

“Funny.” I take a sip of my drink. “How’d you get my number?”

“Mom.” Explains the wine-focused puns. “Right after she told me about the deal.”

I make an acknowledging sound but say nothing, replaying the last twenty-four hours as I stir the ice in my glass with a straw.

After my mother scolded me on my plan to get pregnant, we ate Nancy’s lasagna then I rode my Peloton until I could barely walk. When I finally cracked open the file of the offer, it was as Gavin thought: complete shit. As were her books.

I dug into vineyards—called a guy in the city I know who owns one—before deciding that Glass of Vine was in good enough shape that they could turn down the bad offer and have no problem getting a good one. A great one even. Even though Nancy isn’t making money, she could probably walk away recouping more than they’ve put into the place.

But it would require her to be patient, and it likely wouldn’t save Gavin’s shop.

On the off chance the firm would be interested in this and not scold me for trying to work when I’m supposed to be not working, I drafted an email explaining the situation and numbers. I was about to hit send when my mom came into the bedroom.

She unpinned my life’s checklist from the corkboard and chuckled, doing the same at a picture of me and Amanda.

She put both back in place then ran her fingers through my hair. “You know what the best part of being a parent is?”

I angled my head to look at her. “Having at least one of us turn out to be competent?”

“No.” She laughed. “Seeing how you change. Become the next version of you.” She pointed to the list. “You were that girl once. Now you’re this one.” She smiled a little. “You’ll be another one too, I’m sure.”

Mom kissed me on the head like I was a teenager doing homework then went to bed.

Instead of sending the email, I looked up how Amanda died.