Page 84 of The Difference Between

Mom says nothing, lips tight, while Rue and I exchange a wordless what the fuck?

“Well,” I say as nonchalant as I can muster, “he must be a real chickenshit if he can’t climb rocks outside like a grown-ass man.”

Remy sniffs and wipes her eyes, but she manages a smile. “Thanks, Ree.”

Remy’s marriage is dead; if I didn’t know it before, I do now. If she wasn’t hiding her hurt with big smiles and birthday party décor, I’d throw my arms around her. Instead, I do everything she tells me to, no matter how unnecessary or how much better my way would be. Her kid is growing up and her heart is broken, the least I can give her is my fraudulent compliance.

An hour later, everything is as perfect as she wants it—partially because she chugged rosé straight from the bottle and the bar of perfection has lowered—and the backyard is full of kids and a karaoke machine that sounds just as wretched as I expected.

The crowd also meets my expectations. The parents—mostly moms—are a direct reflection of the minivans and oversized SUVs lining the street in front of the house. They all know each other, easily falling into conversations as they drift between pecking at snacks and redirecting kids. Other than my mom and sisters, I’m a stranger, proven by my spot at a table on the fringe instead of the fray.

I probably have more money than anyone here and I might be one of the smartest.

I’ve traveled the world, I know three languages, and I buy a brand-new vehicle every two years.

My condo is modern and spotless, and I’d bet most of these people live in houses that need a decorator and a deep clean.

I’m as casual as they are in linen pants and a T-shirt, but mine cost three times as much.

And yet.

They have things I don’t.

Holiday cards covered in snapshots.

Warm bodies filling their beds and arms, and the ability to speak a tongue of silent words only understood by a select few.

Someone whose hands rub sunscreen between their shoulder blades on summer days and snuggle next to them on the couch on winter nights. Designated sides of the bed and dirty dishes in the sink.

People they hug because they simply like hugging them.

Across the yard, Rue leans into Nash. He’s wearing an idiotic shirt covered in cupcakes and she’s wearing overalls. When he drapes his arm around her shoulders, she looks away from the woman talking to them to give him her full attention. She’s happy. They all are. Every damn person in this yard. At Remy’s frazzled face: almost everyone.

It’s a different kind of humbling to be surrounded by so much joy felt from things I thought I’d have but don’t.

Yet.

I flatten a palm against my belly, and for reasons that have nothing to do with Fizz Co or a childhood checklist, my desire for a baby swells.

I want this.

The noise, the chaos, the brightly colored streamers.

Nora runs to Remy, and they exchange smiles—they look just alike; I want that too. The best parts of me reflected in someone else.

A deep “Heard the punch is a real knockout” makes me turn.

Gavin’s in a clean white tee, jeans, and boots, looking exactly like him. Since our interactions this week have consisted of waves across the vineyard and exchanged pleasantries when Addie goes home, his presence brings the trademarked tingle of awareness at seeing him this close. “Hi.”

Addie barrels into me with a hug—she’s secured her spot on my short list. “Hi, Miss Reese.”

“Hi yourself.” I tap her nose.

She’s wearing a cotton dress with red polka dots that match the frames of her glasses, and her hair is in two tidy braids with a straight part. I wonder if Gavin did that. I also wonder if the visual of a man braiding a little girl’s hair is supposed to change the cadence a heart beats.

A shout of her name from across the yard pulls her out of my arms. She sets a gift on a table then joins the other kids who greet her with screams and hugs.

She doesn’t talk much about the kids at school, but I’ve always wondered if they look at her and see her differences then forget them or altogether forget to see. The way they’re including her now, I wouldn’t be surprised if they don’t even know. Oblivious to the single chromosome that makes her different from them.