Chapter 35
Thirty-Five
To hell with Gavin.
It might have taken me four days to be able to say that, but now that I can, I wish I would have said it my first day back in town when he zipped up on his lawnmower.
Scratch that—I should have said it when he was seven and wearing a Davy Crockett hat and didn’t know how to read. I should have taught him the wrong alphabet. He’d probably be in the same place anyway. Happy with a job he can’t grow in and a shed house he won’t finish.
I’m sure somewhere out there a kitchen covered in farmhouse décor has a sign summarizing that mantra. Happiness grows where dreams don’t.
If he’s going to judge me for going after things that matter and assume I’m just going to drop my life to move back here with him then I have no problem judging him for doing the complete opposite.
So I want my child to have every advantage possible?
So I claim to be happy without having any friends?
So. What.
Monday, I put on a brave face and went to the vineyard. Banyan sauntered into the tasting room, gave me a necklace with a rock on it, and told me he got the heebie-jeebies just standing next to me.
I threw the necklace away then told him to go fuck a grape.
He obliged—though I don’t know to what extent—then I locked myself in the tasting room, took inventory, and glued myself to my laptop.
I doubled down on my efforts with Dr. Rhett, emailing him a long made-up story about a heartbroken friend of mine who was dating a man who thought he knew what was best for her when really, she knows herself better than he ever could because he doesn’t even live in the shed he said he would.
I could never be with a man like that, I wrote at the end, fair warning if that’s who you are.
It felt good to make up that story.
When the day was done, I got Addie off the bus, took her to Mom’s to practice Toto’s “Woof! Woof!” a few times, then turned on Overboard and decided “Baby, we like you” is the worst line of the movie. Kurt Russell didn’t even mean it.
Gavin texted. You think an apology written in dots and dashes is called a remorse code?
I didn’t respond. I will never respond again. His jokes can go right to the same place as Matt’s lollipops: a burning asshole in hell.
Tuesday I was distracted enough with Addie’s audition to pretend Gavin didn’t exist. If she didn’t get the part—any part—I’d already decided I was going to have poison-laced donuts delivered to the teacher’s lounge.
When the bus pulled up that afternoon, I could barely breathe.
Then she ran down the driveway, pigtails and backpack bouncing as she shouted. “I’m Toto, Miss Reese.”
I was so proud my heart nearly burst. By a single-lined part.
When she plowed into me with a hug like I was the only person she wanted to tell, I was overcome.
I loved this kid. I knew it right there without a care about the blood of hers that isn’t mine.
I didn’t know Amanda when she died, not the version of who she grew up to be, but I know she would have loved that Addie was going to get on stage dressed like a dog with a smile on her face in what might possibly be the worst part of the whole production.
And then I realized I would already be in Chicago when the play happened and nearly laid down and died.
Gavin doesn’t know me. Just because I’m being prudent in my efforts of choosing the best ingredients that I can to make a baby doesn’t mean I’m a monster who can’t see the pure goodness that Addie is. I can. And I do. And she’s my best friend, dammit.
And that’s when my thoughts on the situation regarding him flipped from cataclysmic sadness to full-blown pissed off.
He didn’t listen to me when I told him we’d never be anything, and, once again, I was proven right—I’m always proven right. And because of that, he’s causing stress that might impede the ease of my impregnation.
I’ll be dammed if I let that happen.
Wednesday was the same, except Dr. Rhett wrote me and told me he felt bad for my friend and that he’d been in a similar relationship once.
Feeling like I was getting somewhere, I made up another story about traits I hate in a partner that included playing mahjong, corny jokes, and wearing fitted suits, concluding with, And don’t even get me started on snacking from community bowls.
And today, instead of being sad, I am back to work on all fronts.
I made sourdough discard English muffins for breakfast and scrubbed every windowsill in Mom’s house with a toothbrush before sunrise.
Mom asked if I was sick; I forced her to begin a 1,000-piece jigsaw puzzle in the name of brain health.
With Holden off the list, I have two donors left. The doctor and one other. In three weeks, my exam and bloodwork are scheduled, and after that is my meeting with Dr. Cantor to set up the IUI procedure. There’s no time to waste; I need this donor picked yesterday.
So, with sourdough baked and the air ripe with bleach, I open the dating app and boldly type I kind of hate getting to know someone via email—is it too soon to meet? and hit send.
And now here I am, smiling at how much I’m not thinking about Gavin before I get ready for work.
I put on a Ralph Lauren midi dress—black, Victorian inspired, and with a full-body button-front closure and mesh bodice—and a pair of knee-high black Jimmy Choo boots.
Casual Reese is dead.
My mom tells me to say hello to Morticia Addams on my way out the door, and Banyan is stricken when he sees me.
I don’t care what they think because I don’t care what anyone thinks.
“Harvest is starting,” Banyan whines, gesturing at the workers in the fields as he looks at me. “And you look like you’re about to blast the girls with glyphosate.” His gaze drops to my boots, and he blows out a wild breath. “I feel the point of those shoes in my chest, Fire Lady.”
The echo of the workers voices float through the air. “Tell the girls I need the money too badly to blast them with glyphosate.”
Banyan cocks a hip, wipes the tip of his crooked nose, and squints at me. “Is this about Gavin?”
I scroll through emails on my phone. “No.”
“There it is, folks!” He snaps his fingers. “I knew it!”
I press my tongue to the roof of my mouth and glare at him. “And if it is?”
He throws two lazy hands in the air. “What’s the problemo? He likes you, you like him.” He swivels his hips in a way that guarantees nightmares. “Anyone with three working eyes can see it.”
“He’s ten years younger than me.”
I’ve given up worrying about that, but maybe it will get Banyan off my back.
“Age is a human construct. Next.”
“My job is in Chicago.” The job I was pushed to pause and was contemplating walking away from just days ago.
“Feet don’t have roots, Fire Lady. Why do you think my house has wheels?”
I glance at him. “So the cops don’t catch you, actually.”
“There’s that funny.” He wags a finger and smiles like a leprechaun. “What else?”
I let out a sharp sigh. “He’s an ignorant idiot who assumes he knows everything about me when in reality knows nothing about me or how the world works.”
At this, he laughs. Loud. “Pot meet kettle.”
This man is impossible, and I’m done. “No.”
“Did I ever tell you about the woma—”
“We’re done here,” I snap. “Go make out with a tree or help with the harvest. I’m busy.
” Nancy is moving into her new house this weekend, and I have a handful of loose ends to tie up before she does.
“I’ll see you Saturday.” My gaze drops to his exposed chest. “Buttoned up when the first bus arrives.”
To my retreating back he calls, “Resisting change. Classic human move, Fire Lady. Real cute.”
I wave my middle finger over my head but keep walking. “Thanks for noticing.”
He groans.
For the first time all week, my smile is genuine.
Nancy’s house is organized chaos. Half-packed boxes are stacked between rolls of bubble wrap and the furniture is buried under piles of clothes and blankets.
“C’mon in, Reese,” she calls through the screen door.
I step inside and smile. I’ve popped in most days that I’ve been here as she’s packed to help with a few things, but for the most part, she’s wanted to do it alone.
She sweeps her hair out of her face and blows out a breath as we look around. “Hard to believe we were only here a few years and collected all this junk, huh?”
I make an agreeing sound. “Anything I can do to help?”
“Rest is for the movers.” She chuckles. “In here’s what I have for you.”
I follow her into the kitchen. The counters are covered with bags and boxes, spatulas and spoons.
She motions to the kitchen table.
Being around this family as much as I have, I shouldn’t be surprised by what’s there, yet I am. Glass covers every inch of it. Vessels of every shape, size, and color. Bowls and platters. A wine decanter. A candlestick holder. Abstract sculptures to practical dinnerware.
At my wide eyes, she laughs. “You seem to like it.” She picks up a semi-translucent purple pumpkin with delicate tendrils of green coming from a stem.
“I kept boxes of it for myself, but I’m downsizing so .
. .” She sets the pumpkin down and sighs again.
I wonder if she sees Greg in every reflection of light and artistic imperfection.
“Anyway, I didn’t know if you wanted any of it for the tasting room.
Or your house. Or whatever. No pressure, but it’s yours. ”
“Nobody likes to talk about it,” I say, picking up a vase, smooth and cool to the touch. “Especially Gavin.”
She hums her agreement. “Everything changed when Greg died. It was the same day he got accepted to Corning—you know what that is?”
I shake my head, exchanging the vase for a platter.
“Prestigious museum of glass up in New York. He was going up there for an eight-week residency. Worked his ass off for it.”
“I didn’t realize.”
“Of course not.” She makes an amused sound.
“Humble to a fault, that one. Probably don’t know about the commissioned pieces either.
” She digs through a box and pulls out a stack of photos.
Ceilings and walls and windows covered with glass fill every single one.
Platters and globes and every shape in every color.
“Holy shit,” I whisper. Greg wasn’t just good, he was good.
Nancy laughs.
My eyes flick to hers. “When did he start doing this?”
“Soon as he could,” she says. “Got serious about it in high school.”
I do a double take. I knew Greg in high school, and he never once talked about glass. Amanda never talked about it. He was a football player. And apparently had a whole double secret, artistic life I never knew about.
“Was it his profession?” I could have sworn at my dad’s funeral he was an electrician.
“For years,” she says. “Made a name for himself. Made good money. And then . . .” She loses herself in the past before coming back to the present, bright smile returning to her face.
“But lately?” She pauses. “He’s made more than he has in years.
” Her brows lift. “I’m guessing that has something to do with you. ”
He’s made more? But also . . . me?
That can’t be right.
Unless I’ve been wrong—there’s no way I got something this wrong. Greg made the glass and he is gone and this is Nancy’s way of . . . what? Hanging on? Unless it was never Greg and . . . no. That simply can’t be right. I misheard. “Nancy, do you mean tha—”
I cut myself off as two cars come down the driveway toward Gavin’s shop. Then a third. Then Gavin’s truck.
I hope he wrecks.
“I forgot it’s Thursday,” Nancy says.
I pass the photos back to her. “Thursday?”
“One Thursday a month he opens the shop for the public. Thirsty Thursday he calls it.”
How nice.
“You should go,” Nancy says. “Addie likes to pop in. They all love her, and she loves the attention.”
“Maybe.” Nope. “I’ll come by tomorrow and take a few of these.” The platters would be great when I get snacks on the menu. The pitchers for water. “Thank you for offering.”
She follows me as I start to leave. “You know better than anyone there’s nobody else he’d want to have them.”
What?
My mind is reeling at what she’s implying, but I can’t make it make sense or bring myself to ask. Because if I’ve been wrong—I’ve been wrong, wrong. We pause on the porch, looking out over the vineyard to Gavin’s shop as an SUV parks.
“He makes it look easy, doesn’t he?” Nancy asks me.
My brows lift.
“Dropping one dream for another.”
Addie has her first rehearsal this afternoon and Nancy is picking her up. Now that I know Gavin is a hop, skip, and property line away having whatever Thirsty Thursday is, I want to get out of here and collect my thoughts. “Sure.”
Plus, I’m still stuck on the fact Greg had a secret hobby for all the years I knew him and why Nancy thinks his ghost is making glass and it’s because of me unless it’s not Greg.
It was Greg. Nancy’s emotions over moving are making her delusional, and she needs a gentle nudge back to reality. She’s misspoken or I’ve misheard.
“Nancy,” I call from the car, making her look. “It’s kind of ironic that I taught Gavin to read with a book about glass and Greg ended up being a glassblower, isn’t it?”
“What?” Nancy laughs. Really laughs. She raises a finger then disappears inside, her giggles floating through the screen door and open windows. She reappears, carrying a blob of glass—the ugliest piece I’ve seen—still working through how funny this is.
“Greg made this,” she says, look on her face saying she thinks it’s as ugly as I do. “A few years ago.”
“Okay . . .”
“Reese,” she says, almost dumbfounded. She hands me a photo, this time of Gavin, wearing his suit and a wide smile as he stands next to one of the glass installments. “Greg wasn’t a glassblower, honey. Gavin is.”