Page 83 of The Difference Between

“Would you want to date someone actively trying to have a baby with someone else?” She gives me a pointed look. “Whom they’re stalking?”

“I haven’t told him because it’s none of his business, not because I care what he thinks.” Why do I feel cornered? “And it’s never come up.”

“Right.” Rue drags the word out in a way I despise. “That question of ‘are you in the market for poached sperm?’ usually takes a few dates to come into play. My fault.”

She is the worst person I know.

Remy guides the conversation to Nora’s birthday party—still being held here in a couple of days—but I zone out.

Trish would want me to do this. What do you do for fun? she had asked the day she all but fired me.

If she asks me when I get back, other than having a baby, I still won’t be able to answer that. And the vineyard . . .

I might need to do this. Spend time with Gavin to ensure I return to Chicago so maternal and socialized the entire firm will choke on their communal happy hour cocktails while I shove a lollipop up Matt’s nose.

My focus floats back to Gavin’s truck—it’s less of an eyesore now that I know it belonged to Greg—and his small house.

I can be his friend.

I already am . . . I think. I could ask him. Is that weird? To ask another adult what the status of a friendship is? It is—we aren’t in second grade—but I grab my phone anyway.

Are we friends?

If I say yes will you go out with me?

I bite my cheek. No.

You know what they call a skeleton with no friends? He doesn’t wait for me to respond: Bonely.

I laugh at my phone, swallowing it when Rue’s dumb face looks my way.

Bad.

This is easy. Safe. So obvious I don’t know why I didn’t think of this to begin with. I’m self-aware enough to admit I like spending time with him. And I have lots of time. And me having a baby is none of his damn business. And I can be friends with him without it becoming something else even if I do like him flirting with me.

Do you have plans Saturday afternoon? I send. I have something to do for work.

Twenty-Three

Remy runs around Mom’s yard all morning like she’s sprinting a marathon with a blowtorch pointed at her ass.

“Nora’s only turning ten,” I remind her as she uses her teeth to rip a plastic wrapper from glittery paper plates. “Will you chill out?”

I momentarily stop breathing from how Banyan-esque that sounded.

“Get the forks.” Remy spits an invisible piece of plastic into the air. “And you’ll see, Ree. When you have a kid.” Her gaze drops to my belly. “Ten isn’t just ten, it’s—” Her eyes flit around the backyard covered in folding tables and streamers hanging from the trees. “Bigger than the two digits makes you believe. Another line in the sand that reminds you how fast it goes. Having kids . . .” Her voice trails off as moisture lines her eyes. “You’ll see.”

It strikes me: I will.

I’ve been so busy on, well, everything, I haven’t thought about things like this. Birthday parties. The baby becoming something other than a baby. A ten-year-old like Nora who loves karaoke or an eight-year-old like Addie whose lack of caring toward accomplishing our goals frustrates me yet seems to be contagious.

Mom and Rue step up to lend hands with whatever Remy needs to be less insane.

“Is Darren coming?” I ask.

We haven’t used his name in weeks, and Remy’s turned into a vault when it comes to discussing the state of her marriage.

She furiously recounts goodie bags and avoids my gaze. “He’s opening a rock-climbing gym.”