Page 14 of The Difference Between

And: B.

And: C.

As the rest of the alphabet comes through, my initial relief of nothing being wrong is replaced by full-blown annoyance. Some of us are trying to work, assholes. I’ll call you later.

Trish watches me as I turn my phone off and set it on the floor, screen down, under my chair. “Sorry.” I force a laugh. “Again.”

The line of her lips forms an angle I can’t decode.

“You’re distracted,” she says simply.

“No.”

A yawn chooses that exact moment to barrel out of my mouth.

Before I can apologize, Trish adds, “And tired.”

“Not tired.”

Her gaze drops to the coffee stain on my shirt then her lips pinch with a wordless bullshit.

“A little tired,” I admit. “But not distracted. Today was—” I do not want to talk about my personal life. “Overbooked.”

“How did you say your mom was doing?” she asks.

“I didn’t. But good.” I pause, hoping that’s enough, but when Trish dips her chin in a way I know means go on, I relent to the truth. “She had surgery today, actually.”

The look she gives me is the exact reason I haven’t told anyone: She’s concerned. Or horrified. I don’t want people thinking I can’t get the job done because I’m dealing with my mother’s health. I’m forty, dealing with aging parents is part of the gig. Plus, inferior as they may be, my sisters are there.

People work through personal problems all the time. People just like me. I’ve been logging the same hours—maybe more. Sure, some of that time has been spent watching five-hour long videos of craniotomies and I’m so tired I’d like to sleep for three straight years, but I also did all the due diligence required to put today’s pitch together, and that was a solid fucking pitch.

I don’t know how to explain that without sounding like a whiny bitch, so instead I say, “My phone going off was my sisters texting me updates—they have no sense of efficient messaging.” I pause to let her agree with me—she’s the most efficient woman I know—but she doesn’t. She simply looks at me in a way that makes my mouth keep moving. “And that’s what today was. I normally wouldn’t have my phone, but they can’t be trusted. But from now on?” I mock salute. “Reporting for duty with no distractions. And regarding Fizz Co⁠—”

Trish holds up a hand. “Your mom was having brain surgery during the meeting?”

I don’t like her disbelieving tone.

“Um.” I clear my throat. “Technically now, too.” Her eyes widen as she straightens. “But she’s getting closed up.”

“Why didn’t you reschedule?” She’s stunned. “We could have pushed it back. Or had one of the associates lead the meeting in your stead. Or Matt. He clearly knew the account.”

A bitter taste fills my mouth as I unpack all that. One: Over my dead body will someone else be pitching this—especially an associate. Or Matt. That sucker-sucking nice guy stealing five minutes of my show was bad enough I plotted his murder in between thoughts of brain bleeds and business models.

And two: She knows just as well as I do that a company this desirable will get snagged up faster than we can blink; there’s no time. If we don’t buy them, someone else will. Someone else might already be having the exact same meeting we just had at a firm two blocks away as much as one in two time zones away.

Most importantly, my mom’s brain is not what I want to talk about. “It’s not a big deal.”

She almost laughs. “It’s a big enough deal that you’re worried.”

“I’m not worried,” I insist. “I’m—” Stressed. Annoyed at my sisters. Ready to get to work on this account. I take a sip of the awful tea. “She’s fine.”

Trish’s eyes narrow. “What if she wouldn’t have been?”

“Why wouldn’t she be?” My heart skips a beat. “I planned it. It was textbook. She’s fine.”

“You can’t control how things turn out in a brain surgery,” she argues. “Hell, we can barely control half of what happens in business. Most of life is a spin of the roulette wheel. If your mom’s surgery wouldn’t have turned out the way it seems to have, you would have lived with that regret for the rest of your life. Blamed us for not being there.”

“Blamed you?” I ask, panic building. “No. No, no, no. There’s no blaming. She’s fine. I’m fine. Everything went the way I planned it—I’m a damn good planner.” The increased speed of my words could compete with a semitruck rolling down a mountain road without brakes. “I researched the hell out of the surgeon and picked the best one in the whole state of North Carolina. And it’s fine.”