Page 92 of The Difference Between

With a sharp sigh, once again, I do.

“Reesey-piecey, your shoulders are at your ears. Re-lax.” When my eyes spring open he adds, “Should we try some—” He pinches his fingers together and takes an imaginary toke. “Green enlightenment?”

“No,” I say through clenched teeth. “And never call me that again.”

“What’s the progress on you getting laid?”

“Why is everything about sex with you?”

He laughs. “What else would it be about?”

I make a disbelieving sound. “Literally anything.”

“Does literally anything bring you pleasure?”

My jaw drops. “Do you understand the concept of professionalism in the workplace?”

“Workplace.” He bats a hand like that’s nonsense; judging by our current situation, I might agree. “I know how to feel good, and you don’t. We are sex embodied, and we need to figure out what you want.” He dips his chin. “And like.”

I shoo a gnat from my eyes. “What I want is to learn about these damn grapes and get on with my day. And I’d like for you to stop making that so difficult.”

He gestures to the grapes, outraged. “They’re right here.”

He’d have a stroke if he knew I wanted to light him and them on fire. “Can you please be normal?”

“Normal, shmormal,” he whines. “We need to set you free from the chains of the perfectionism.” He tugs at the collar of his white linen shirt like it’s smothering him. “Your attachment to the illusion is holding your joy hostage, Fire Lady.”

My blood boils. “Will. You. Stop. Cal⁠—”

“We’re a species of change,” he says over me, spinning his hands then swaying like he’s possessed by Sylvia. “Evolution. Enjoying the ride not controlling it. Do you ever stop working against the energetical current and lean into Big Mama’s rhythms?”

We both know the answer to that. “That what you call whispering sweet nothings into the ears of fruit?”

His heavy sigh represents how I feel.

He folds one arm over his chest while bringing the opposite hand to his mouth, pondering, as he, a van-living, unemployed, grown-ass hippie man fulfilling community service hours, sits cross-legged in the middle of the damn day. He stares at me for roughly nine thousand years, extending his hand toward me like he wants to say something only to remain silent and snap his hand back to his mouth.

Repeatedly.

I want to strangle him with the yarn cords of his necklace but opt to remain sitting cross-legged in the grass like a kid on a field trip.

Finally, he points his fingers at me like guns. “She told me.”

I don’t even need to ask to know he’s talking about Big Mama.

He rubs his hands together. “Close your eyes.”

Here we go.

We tried this yesterday, and it was a waste.

And while I don’t buy into any of the bullshit he’s babbling, I also know I’m here for the long game. Money’s been invested, and I refuse to lose a dime because some bandana-headed hippie chains himself to a grapevine on account of me not being able to relax. I can relax. Like a boss . . . if bosses ever had time to relax. And if not for this vineyard, for the baby. I’ll choose excellence, even it means sitting here and doing nothing.

I blow out a breath and close my eyes.

At first, I feel the warmth. The grass poking through the blanket beneath me and an ant crawling up my shin. And then: I fucking hate this—I feel that one all the way to the depths of my bowels.

“Imagine your thoughts are balloons being held by a hand,” Banyan instructs. “Every thought, stress, and worry is written on each balloon.”