Page 168 of The Difference Between

For the first day all week, none of them have called.

At some point, I have to apologize to Rue. She’s having a baby, and I was a complete asshole. But since an apology also means an explanation, I can’t do it. Not yet. Not until every time I think of her having a baby I don’t think of Gavin and Addie and the life I won’t have.

Maybe I’ll never apologize.

The elevator arrives on the top floor, and the doors slide open as I drop my phone in my coat pocket.

This time it’s not empty, and I know who’s in there before I know who’s in there. Before I see the width of his shoulders or blue of his eyes or glass-carved scars dotting his hands, I know who it is.

Because there stands Gavin.

In a tux.

Fifty-One

We stand on opposite sides of the threshold, staring at each other so long the doors slide to close twice. Both times, Gavin wordlessly sticks his arm out to rebound them open.

Looking at him is like looking at the sun: It hurts but I can’t look away.

Finally, I step inside and stand next to him, the silence filled with our unsaid words and my ache to touch him. My trembling finger manages to find and push button thirty-two.

The door closes, and though it’s just him and me, the space is smaller than when it’s packed full of people. There’s no anchoring myself to my senses. My typical panic over being trapped in this moving box is overruled by the gravity of Gavin being here—in a tux.

We start our descent, my heart and head rioting as I stare at the floor.

“Didn’t expect you’d wear your mowing shoes to work,” he says, nodding at the nude toes of my pumps.

My amused sound lacks the gumption to grow into a full laugh. Since I’m the merciless masochist of my mental well-being, I’ve worn these shoes to work every day this week to ensure I remember to miss the very man standing next to me. Even my feet didn’t get a free pass from my misery.

Gavin’s pinky brushes against mine, his familiarity nearly smothering me, and I lift my gaze to his where it stays for two painfully silent floors.

“I didn’t expect you to wear a tux,” I finally say.

He responds by smacking the end of his fist against the emergency button, making us stumble as the elevator jolts to a halt and a dulled alarm sounds.

My eyes widen. “What the he⁠—”

“This is Daniel with security,” a man’s voice asks through the intercom. “Is everything okay?”

“Fine,” Gavin says without looking away from me. “Just need a minute to find something I lost.”

There’s a pause—Daniel’s no doubt watching the security camera footage—and I look toward the camera in the corner and nod.

“Okay,” the voice finally says.

I turn back to Gavin, and before I can say anything, he says, “Come here, Reese.”

And as abruptly as we stopped, his arms open and pull me to him, and I do not fight him.

My forehead smashes against the crook of his neck and my arms slip under his jacket, hands clawing at his back until they find the perfect spot to rest. He smells like him and feels like him and holds me in a way that lets me know it’s him.

Him.

Gavin.

Here.

Holding me.