Page 30 of The Difference Between

His hand is filthy; I’m not shaking it.

“Okay, Gavin Nickels.” Nickels is a local name—Greg and Amanda are Nickelses—but I’ve been away so long it doesn’t hold much meaning. “Can you read?”

Two seconds pass then he smirks and drops his hand. His lips cinch to one side like he really has to think about that. Figures.

“Barely.”

“There’s a sign,” I say slowly, pointing to the end of the driveway, “that says no visitors.”

“I’m not visiting,” he says. “I’m mowing.”

I take a deep breath, trying to find my sanity before I snap his neck. My mother doesn’t have a lawn service. “Why?”

He looks around the yard. “Grass is long.”

“Grass is long?” I repeat, annoyed.

He’s young—much younger than me—but his body is all man. The sleeves of his T-shirt are struggling to contain his biceps, but his face has a youthful quality. No grey in his sandy-colored, scraggly hair that peeks from his ball cap or in the haphazard beard covering his face. Every line around his blue eyes lacks the depth and stretch that comes with age. I put him between twenty-five and thirty. Poor kid. He doesn’t know the wrath I’m about to unleash on him.

“Did you see the sign?”

Again, he looks around the yard then teeters his head. “I can barely read, remember?” He fights a smile. “And a sign doesn’t change the fact the yard needs to be mowed.”

I eye the logo on his hat. City of Fontain. “Why is someone from the city mowing my mother’s yard? On a Saturday.” He opens his mouth to respond, but before he can, I add, “And don’t give me some bullshit answer about the grass being too long.”

“No bullshit allowed, got it.” He gives me a solemn nod. “I know Iris.”

“And?”

“And nothing.” He hooks a thumb over his shoulder. “I live next door.”

I follow the direction of his thumb to the small white house. The neighbor I’ve never met.

“Okay.” Like that explains anything. “Well, she just had brain surgery and⁠—”

“I know.”

“So you know she had surgery. Saw the sign. And are mowing her yard anyway?” What a dumbass. “You planning on playing a set of drums next? Maybe bringing in a parade? My sisters are throwing a karaoke party with twelve screaming kids in a couple weeks, you part of that idiotic plot too?”

He fights a smile.

I shift my weight between my pumps, which are now sinking into the grass. “What the fuck is so funny?”

“You, for one.” His lips twitch; I might hate him. “This situation.” He squints around the yard again. “I told her I’d mow while she recovers. I can come back. Unless you’ll be taking care of the yard.” He eyes my outfit until his gaze settles on my feet. “Shoes might make it difficult. That a Cinderella thing?”

My eyes narrow.

“You know,” he continues. “You lose one of those and Prince Charming finds it so you can ride off in a pumpkin.”

I press my tongue against the roof of my mouth and debate karate chopping this blue-collared boy’s face.

“These aren’t made of glass, so no. And my mother’s probably in there”—I point a finger over my shoulder to the house—“doing cartwheels because I had to come out here and deal with you.” We exchange looks: mine icy, his playful. “Please stop mowing.” I give him a sweet smile I know he knows means fuck off.

His chin dips—slightly—and lips twist to the side. After a second, his eyes dance around the yard, mine following suit. It’s overgrown. Dammit.

As I walk toward the house he calls, “How’s Iris feeling?”

I pause mid-step to face him, hands on my hips.