Page 71 of The Difference Between

I’m mid-turn back toward Addie and Mom when he says, “And do your terms include thinking about you? Because I don’t know how to stop doing that either.”

My heart sputters to a near stop.

“And,” he continues, leaning in closer. Close enough I almost think I could dive right into his blue eyes and drown. “I’m not sure about the other thoughts either.”

I want him to shut up, so on a breath I say, “What other thoughts?”

“The ones where I imagine what you’ll say the next time I see you. Or—” He pauses, eyes searching mine. “That you drive me crazy, yet I can’t stay away from you. And that your mom having brain surgery feels like the best thing that’s happened to me in years.”

It’s the most morbidly romantic thing I’ve ever heard. “You need to stop that too.”

“Okay.” He rubs his jaw. “Then I’ll be sure to never tell you that I’ve been wracking my brain to figure out how I can be one of the people you let hug you.”

The world stops spinning right there. He is a foolish, foolish man to think we can ever be anything more than nothing, but damn if that line doesn’t make my heart take off on a hockey stick curve.

Gavin spins to face my mom and Addie, taking my breath right along with him. I must follow suit because when I blink, there they are. I wish he didn’t say that almost as much as I wish he would have written it down so I can reread it anytime I feel alone.

We’re close now, close enough his pinky brushes mine.

I hate that pinky so much I brush mine against his then say to Addie, “I’d love to help.”

She grins and charges me with a hug.

I do not look at Gavin nor wonder if this is the kind of hug he wants to give me.

“I’m still tacky,” Addie says, looking up at me with bright eyes and a joy that consumes her face.

Gavin chuckles. “It’s from Overboard.”

Right.

I take a step back, give my brain and body the space to think clearly, then we formulate a rehearsal plan. Addie and I will work on the lines for the next few weeks—auditions are just over two weeks away. She’ll go to Nancy’s after school like she always does, then I’ll take her back to Mom’s when I’m done working at the vineyard, and Gavin will get her when he’s done with work.

The play is in early December—I’ll be in Chicago by then. If I do a terrible job at helping her, at least I won’t be here to bear witness.

“That was a fun surprise,” Mom says, nonchalant as I fumble to unlock the front door.

My heart is in my throat and my temples and my toes. I don’t need to look at her to know what her face is doing. “Shut up, Mother.”

“I didn’t say anything,” she says in a singsong. “Just fun is all.”

An hour on my Peloton puts no distance between me and every word Gavin said.

Twenty

Parkinson’s law says, among other things, that work expands to the time allowed. Applying the concept to Glass of Vine, it means I can either take the entire time I’m here to get it open, or I give myself a deadline: I choose two weeks.

The Nickelses’ original plan was to have a fully functioning winery with production of the grapes occurring on property, but that’s a long game. I need to get people in the door and buying wine ASAP.

Which requires Banyan.

A hippie.

Who is currently wearing an unbuttoned white linen shirt, a red bandana around his head topped with a pair of corded headphones that lead into a pocket of flowy pants covered in some kind of elephant print, and no shoes.

As he prunes a vine, he hums along to the music in his ears—it might be Marvin Gaye—oblivious to my presence.

“Hello,” I say to his back. When he doesn’t answer, I tap his shoulder, shouting, “Hello!”