Page 47 of The Difference Between

“No dancing, noted.” His smile might be tattooed there. “Still doesn’t explain why you’re mad, though.”

I bat my fight around my mouth with my tongue. He’s kind of right. It’s not mad as much as blindsided. By him. By Amanda being gone.

In my pause, he takes his hat off, rakes a hand through his unruly head of hair, then returns the hat to his head—backward—and settles his hands on his narrow hips.

“I’m not mad,” I finally say with less fight in my voice. “I’m surprised. And I don’t like to be surprised. I have a lot going on and—” I can’t bring myself to admit that I didn’t know about Amanda and Greg. “And you being you caught me off guard.” My eyes wander over this very grown-up version of a kid I once knew. “I never expected you to be a man, I guess.”

Another laugh, this one with a sound as big as the sky. “You think I was going to grow up to be a woman?”

I fight a smile. “Deceased at the Alamo, actually.”

He flicks the tip of his nose with his thumb. “What do you like, then?”

My eyes narrow.

“You don’t like surprises or hugs or dancing.” He scratches his chin, the hairs of his beard making a coarse sound beneath his fingers. “What do you like?”

Why does that question make me feel naked? “Like?”

“Yeah. Like. Anything. Movies. Hobbies.” What is it with people and hobbies? In my silence: “What kind of music do you listen to?”

“I don’t have time for music.” I turn to the vines, coolly saying, “And I like you telling me what we’re looking at.”

“Is the reason you won’t go out with me because I’m thirty and cut grass?”

“As a matter of fact, it is.” This moron laughs. “Now tell me what we’re looking at or I’m leaving.”

He sighs, dramatically bereft, then takes in the same scene as me and complies. “Mom and Dad bought the house on twenty acres a few years ago. An active retirement plan, as they called it. Dad couldn’t sit still after he left the classroom, and they dumped all their money into it.”

I had Mr. Nickels as a teacher in high school—I liked him. He liked reminding me that I taught his son to read. I’d raise my hand to answer a question, and he’d often call on me with a, “If Ms. Conway is answering, we all better listen. My son can vouch for that.” I’d roll my eyes, he’d smile, sometimes tell a stupid joke—I guess that’s where Gavin gets it—and class would go on. Other than the few times my mom and sisters brought it up, that was the last time I thought about Little Gavin. And now here he is. Not so little and telling me about his mom’s failing vineyard.

Life: what a trip.

“Property is twenty acres but there’s ten acres under two varieties,” Gavin continues. “Vines you see were already established and thriving when they bought it.” He points to a white building that could be a house as much as an updated barn. It has dark-stained double doors, lots of windows, and a high roof. “That is—was—the retail shop and tasting room.”

I can easily imagine it as a venue for weddings or parties, or like he said, store and tasting room. “Was?”

His long sigh could tell a whole story. “Things were different after Greg.”

The air doesn’t change—it’s still hot as hell, the bugs still buzz a late summer song as a single cloud doesn’t drift through the bright blue sky—but it goes heavy with unspoken grief. This time not about Amanda, but about him losing his brother.

I fantasize about killing my sisters every time I see their faces but wouldn’t want to live in a world that they aren’t in.

“I’m sorry,” I say genuinely. “That they’re gone. I—” Our eyes meet. “I didn’t know.”

His eyes widen—he’s shocked by this—but instead of reading me the riot act, he says nothing, melting my shame into gratitude.

“A few months after that, my dad’s cancer came back.” He looks out over the vines. “A few months after that, he passed. That was about six months ago.”

Once again, the world stays the same, just a few tons heavier. I lost my dad a decade ago, but I feel the bruise of his absence just the same. I was him and he was me. Two nerds driven by the puzzle of numbers and making decisions based on black and white information. The difference between us was that he was content with Fontain-sized numbers, and I never was.

At a row of vines, I pinch a leaf between my fingers and rub a small circle, the velvety underside and raised veins soothing to the touch. A ripening cluster of grapes is framed by a wiry tendril tucked just beneath. I don’t know much about the crop, but I know we’re approaching harvest season. September’s a big month for the region.

“Chambourcin,” Gavin supplies as I gently prod the fruit. “Harvest starts in a few weeks. Good crop this year.”

We stroll toward the tasting room, and he continues. “Store’s been closed a while. Addie—Greg and Amanda’s daughter—lives with me now. Mom keeps her sometimes, but between losing a son and missing the man she spent a life with, it’s been tough for her to bounce back. She’s ready to get away from here. Even if it wasn’t the emotions of it all, it’s too much for her to maintain. There’s a smaller house in town she wants. I think she’s so eager to leave this place behind that she doesn’t see the lowball offer she has for what it is.”

Worried lines crease his face, and for the first time since finding out Gavin is Gavin, I see him as someone other than a little boy I once knew. He’s a man with a whole life lived. I pegged him as a sloppy bachelor bopping through a life of fun and games. He might be anything but.