Page 117 of The Difference Between

I never believed she could have been right.

A woman orders a glass of the Annealed Reserve and sets off the whirlwind of the rest of the day.

Nash picks guests up and drops more off. Much like I expected, the majority of the customers are from his tours, but there are a few stragglers who stop because they were driving by and saw the crowd. People are nothing if not predictable.

All afternoon, Banyan saunters the vines, saying God knows what and blowing into his neck horn, but doesn’t earn a single complaint.

Rue laughs at the register while Mom and Nancy float between following the kids around to watching them from Adirondack chairs that dot the property. Remy is diligent in her mission to drink every bottle of rosé, teetering with a too-big smile on her flushed face, one breath away from breaking down. If I didn’t think it would make things worse, I’d take the wine and tuck her into one of the beds in Nancy’s house.

Through it all, I make small talk, I laugh, and I pour wine. When everyone on the last tour wants flights, Gavin ends up behind the bar, helping me keep up while falling into easy conversation with the guests. In between the busy, his hand finds my back and Addie finds her way onto his shoulders.

“Is that your dad?” a twenty-something here on a girls’ trip asks Addie. She’s cute, buzzed, and with two working eyes in her head, no doubt notices what Gavin looks like.

“It’s Uncle Gav,” Addie says. “My dad died.”

The woman feels horrible—I get it—but Gavin simply squeezes Addie’s shin that’s dangling over his shoulder and angles his head to wink up at her.

After our date and for no particular reason, I looked up how long it takes to fall in love with someone. One to three months is the average amount of time, with women often taking longer.

Then I found a checklist on how to know if it’s love or just infatuation. I can’t remember everything from that list right now, but the one question I do remember was do the hard things make you want to run from or to them?

I am not falling in love with Gavin—it doesn’t make sense—but right now with Addie’s confession fresh and knowing that Gavin’s chest likely aches at the thought of his brother not being here to see all this, I want to go to them. I want to tell Addie a story about her mom from when we were kids before I take Gavin’s hand in mine. I want him to tell me about the glass his brother made without having to dance around it because it hurts like a deep bruise.

I am consumed by my need to help them carry heavy things.

With the final glasses poured and bottles sold, the door closes on the last guest and I blow out the longest breath of my life. I did it. We did. Somehow. With only weeks to prepare, I opened the doors.

Mom circles the bar to steal two glasses—both Greg’s—and one of the opened bottles.

“No,” I snap.

She laughs, uncorking the bottle and pouring. “Close your eyes and pretend you don’t see me.”

“The doctor said tha⁠—”

“Reese, I don’t care.” She raises the glass. “I’m not spending the rest of my life scared of the things I want to do. If I want a glass of wine, I’m having a damn glass of wine. I don’t care what the risks are. Risks are everywhere. And the wine tastes good.”

“Fine.” She has a point. “But if your brain gets cut into again, Rue and Remy are taking care of you.”

“Pass,” Rue calls from the register.

Mom takes a sip and closes her eyes. When she opens them, she smiles. “I’m proud of you.” She looks around the room. “I don’t know how you do all this. You touch things and they turn to gold.”

I snort my disagreement and fold a hand towel. “All I did was clean and flip the closed sign to open.”

She bats a hand. “Call it what you want, but you’re smart, just like your dad. You did it with the antique store. You did it here. You see things differently. Better. You know how to make a bad thing good.” Our eyes meet. “You always have. Since you were a kid.”

I’ve never spent much time thinking about my mom’s approval—I had my dad’s approval growing up and have received constant validation from results since entering the workforce. I know I’m good at what I do, and I know today went well. I haven’t seen the numbers, but I’m sure my margin of error was very, very small. I don’t need approval from people when data proves me right all the time.

And yet.

Hearing my mom say those words is a different kind of win.

“Thanks, Mom,” I tell her. “But it really was nothing.”

She hums with her next sip. “Are you this happy with your job in Chicago?”

I know I don’t laugh this much in a day’s work. I know I don’t look around and see people I care about or have to convince myself not to touch a man who wears old jeans and T-shirts. I know I make more money in a day there than I’ll make here in months, and at work when I win, I celebrate for about three minutes before I’m focused on the next one, while today’s small win feels like enough.