Page 128 of The Difference Between

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.