Page 80 of The Difference Between

“I’m not sharing with you.” I slap her hand away as she fights me for my bag. “It’s Chanel.”

Remy frowns. “So.”

“So buy your own.”

She sticks her tongue out at me then returns to making tea and I toss my bag to the side.

“I keep telling her she needs more color in her life,” Mom chirps from the table.

“Black suits my soul.” It does, but after three days of Banyan telling me that black was harshing the grapes’ ability to get their ripe on, here I am, in purple. “And I’m not an idiot. Gavin’s infatuated with me because I’m an older woman he had a crush on when he was a kid. A fantasy. Probably Freudian. It’ll pass as soon as he gets it through his raggedy mug that it’s not happening. Because it’s not.” At least this is what I’m telling myself. At their skeptical expressions: “What? It’s basic psychology. Read a book.”

Remy fills the kettle with water. “I read lots of books, thank you. All of them calling this reverse age gap a five-star read.”

“I meant books other than Aunt Mabel’s literary porn,” I say with a sneer.

Remy rolls her eyes but doesn’t argue. Mom’s sister, Mabel, was a nun turned smutty romance author, and Remy gobbles that trash up.

Rue props her feet on a vacant chair at the kitchen table, Mom snacks on a plate of cheese and marmalade—weird—and Remy makes tea as we slip into a recap of our week.

They’re maddening, but it’s also comfortable. I’ve been away from them so long there’s a bit of magic in being pulled back into the everyday fold of us.

I give them a laugh with my latest donor rejection, a man named Marv who somehow had his last name redacted. Even without it, I was able to find an alternative video streaming platform where he posts videos of himself passionately defending conspiracy theories, including one where he cited his reasoning for donating sperm was “overtaking the system.” It was shocking, even for the internet. And an immediate hell no.

“And the vineyard?” Remy asks.

I replay my mornings with Banyan and the completed clean-up of the tasting room. “And Gavin’s in that shed every afternoon,” I tell them. “The man has an obsession with mowers.”

My sisters and mom exchange a look. Remy says, “You should go out and see it—might surprise you.”

“Surprised by lawn mowers?” I ask dryly. “The reopening is next weekend, I’m too busy for sheds.”

Remy mumbles under her breath as Rue abandons her chair to make a ham sandwich and asks, “You gonna relax and run for mayor after that?”

“President, actually.” I eye the processed meat in her hand and toss her an apple. “That’s bad for conception.”

She tosses the apple back to me and shoves a whole piece of ham in her mouth.

“Did you hire someone to help?” Remy asks.

“I’m doing it alone for now.” I’ve made projections, but until I know what actual revenue streams will look like, I don’t want to bring other people on board until I can confirm it’s viable. Plus, the posting for the job I put up has only drawn subpar applicants—I have standards.

And nobody will do it as good as me.

“We can help,” Remy offers. “Can’t we, Rue?”

Rue cuts her eyes to mine. “Only if Ree-Ree says please.”

“I’ll take my chances alone, thanks.”

“You should see Reese with Addie,” Mom says. “They got into the old home videos and did that Spice Girls dance you three did. You remember?” She laughs. “You thought you were going to be famous.”

My sisters have a whole conversation with their eyes before Rue says, “You were dancing?”

“What?” I pick at a fleck of hot pink paint on my fingertip. “She was struggling with her lines and I needed her to warm up to me.”

After the stretch of silence the first day, there hasn’t been another. Every afternoon when she gets off the bus, we help pack a few boxes at Nancy’s house before coming here. Addie loves asking questions and appreciates every answer I give her.

I showed her the Peloton and told her sometimes I ride it for ninety minutes straight. She looked at me like an Olympian.