Page 120 of The Difference Between

“I have to go meet a guy for the firm’s acquisition project.”

I forget the project name I told him before, but he doesn’t seem to notice.

The remaining donors have been tricky. This one, Holden Griffin, is a tech entrepreneur but has zero evidence of existing on the internet. He’s a ghost. And messages with Dr. Rhett are moving at a snail’s pace. Online dating etiquette told me twenty to thirty emails before meeting, but at the rate he responds, we’ll hit that quota in nine years.

“Fine,” Gavin says, “I’ll come with you.”

I’m going to the donor’s home address; the help might be nice. And a witness in case he’s a sociopath or I get trapped in a closet again. And maybe the perfect time to tell Gavin what’s really going on and let the chips fall.

My gaze drops to his mouth—stop that!

“Fine.” I lift the wine to my lips then pause before taking a sip. “But it’s not a date.”

Gavin grins, settling back in his chair. The tattoo on his forearm jumps as he lifts his own glass of wine. “You said that last time.”

Remy says, “I think I’m going to be sick.”

Before any of us can react, she pukes on the bar.

As Rue and I rush to help her, Banyan says, “No shame in purging the body of what the spirit doesn’t need, Remy Pemy. Should’ve seen me after one night on the ayahuasca.”

With Remy’s next heave, Banyan blows into his ocarina.

Thirty-Three

Holden Griffin lives in a brick house with a tidy lawn in a nice subdivision on the outskirts of Fontain. Since I couldn’t find any information on his social life—or anything about him at all—I’ve resorted to a stakeout. Due to the conspicuous nature of Mom’s lime-green car, we’re in Gavin’s truck, parked on the street.

I eye him across the cab. I’m as far away from him as the space allows, but it’s not nearly far enough. I’m a magnet fighting the pull of a pole. All I want to do is be close to him.

Saturday ended the minute Remy barfed her marriage up, but today while I was working, Gavin stopped in. I expected a hi, but he came directly behind the bar. I thought he was going to kiss me—I would have let him—but instead, he hugged me. A real, both arms holding me up kind of hug. Not because I was convinced a tight space was homicidal or because something was wrong, it was a no-reason hug right in the middle of the room in broad daylight.

I hugged him back, burying my face in his chest hard enough that the charm of his necklace pressed into my cheek through his shirt. It felt like home.

“You’re getting better at this,” he said.

I got my mouth as close as I could to his ear. “Just learning to embrace my mistakes.”

He laughed then, so loud the guests looked. When he released me, I was smiling. He said, “I love knowing you’re in here.”

I spent the next thirty minutes half filled with butterflies asking every customer to repeat their question twice.

And that’s the second I knew I didn’t care that he was thirty and cut grass and never aspired for more than what he had. I knew it so much that breathing hurt and I felt ill.

Which is why, after we do this, I’m telling him everything about my job and the baby I want.

He dropped out of college and has a former dream of shed living; maybe me wanting to have a sperm donor baby because I’m a workaholic sent here on a forced sabbatical who lies about a social life isn’t a far-fetched scenario for him to accept. Maybe he’ll think it’s funny. Maybe he’ll admire my commitment.

And maybe I’m delusional.

But if I’m not, maybe, just this once, I can try something that doesn’t have a calculated plan or clear exit strategy. With him. And Addie. And my baby.

But first, I need to figure out who Holden is.

I wipe my palms on my jeans. “I can’t believe you brought popcorn.”

Gavin shoves a handful in his mouth. A few pieces miss then fall to his lap.

Sadly, it does nothing to decrease his standing on the fuckability scale.