Page 157 of The Difference Between

Whatever Dr. Cantor’s about to tell me is irrelevant, but I’ll hear her out. And after she goes over my bloodwork and explains the IUI process, the meeting will end with me telling her I’m never coming back here. That truth has been building for days, but any last threads of doubts were stripped away last night.

Addie painted my fingers and fingernails then we performed a dance we made up—both of us wearing a pair of my pumps and completely offbeat—and Gavin applauded like we were the Rockettes.

We ate frozen pizza with canned pineapple that Addie made—it was disgusting—and sat on the couch and watched Overboard. When Goldie Hawn told Kurt Russell he could give her a little girl, Gavin leaned over and whispered in my ear, “You’re going to be a great mom.”

That’s when I knew everything. Fully. I loved him, I never wanted to be where he wasn’t, and I wanted to have as many kids with him as I could whenever he wanted to start making them. I knew it the way I know a good deal from bad and Gavin knows how to turn molten glass into art. This is where I belong.

Of course, I didn’t tell him that. I want to surprise him. All of them. After all, my first go at surprising them went so well at the farm—Addie hasn’t stopped talking about it—this soirée would be even better. Perfect even. Excellent.

Which is why this morning I texted my sisters—and Gavin—and invited them over for dinner. Where I’m going to tell them—and Gavin—that I own the vineyard and I want to spend my life running it with them instead of chasing the next deal in Chicago.

I don’t know what the logistics look like—I’ll talk timing with Gavin after tonight—but my smile is permanent, and my body feels like a cage of hummingbirds has been set free inside of it. After so many years of my only relationship being with work, I, Reese Conway, am going to have so many people in my life I’ll be one of those women who seek quiet refuge by going grocery shopping.

My veins are fizzy—my blood might have been replaced by champagne. Two months ago, I wouldn’t have believed I was capable of feeling like this, but here I am, drunk on life without drinking a drop of alcohol. I’m getting what I want, but more than that, I’m happy in a way I didn’t believe was possible. I’m going to make Addie a big sister and Gavin the dad he wants to be.

“I’m having a baby,” I whisper to the room, palm flat against my belly.

At the photo of Dr. Cantor on the wall with her family in Switzerland I once stared at to hide the fact I stole medical information, I imagine it’s me. My kids in puffy coats, Gavin and Addie, all of us smiling.

The door opens.

“Reese,” Dr. Cantor says with a warm smile as she steps in the office. “Thank you for waiting.”

She slips into the chair behind her desk and clicks the computer to life.

“No problem.”

Now that I’m here and she’s here and this is real, I can’t believe I ever imagined myself doing this with anyone but Gavin. Every difference between us ceases to exist. I don’t care where I live or where I work or he works or if he eats from a community bowl and drinks beer from a can.

I can’t stop smiling. I feel so . . . silly.

Maybe I am besotted.

Dr. Cantor folds her perfectly manicured hands on a file and looks at me. “How’ve you been feeling?”

“Good.” I temper my enthusiasm. “I’ve been following the fertility diet you recommended. Meditating.” Banyan’s perverse face comes to mind. “Exercising. I feel good.” I smile wide—I can’t help it. This overwhelming feeling within me could manifest into a whole damn parade. I laugh. “Excited, if I’m honest.” Excited doesn’t hold a candle to what I’m feeling.

Dr. Cantor’s quiet. Her position doesn’t change, and her smile stays, but it’s as if her eyes dim, just slightly.

My gaze bounces from the computer back to her and my phone dings in my hands.

Gavin: Good luck today. Can’t wait to see you tonight.

Dr. Cantor slides a single paper across the desk and turns her computer monitor so I can see the screen. It’s filled with numbers I can’t decode.

“We’re going to go through each of these together,” she says. “And I want you to stay with me, or tell me if you need a break, okay?”

A break?

“Um.” My gaze drops to the paper. “Okay . . .”

Then she points to a number and starts talking, and my joy and the world start to crumble.

My AMH—some protein hormone that indicates ovarian reserve—is low. Very low. Point one, to be exact.

Healthy and thriving is one.

A slow-to-grow pit forms within me, but still I ask, “What does it mean?”