Page 159 of The Difference Between

Dr. Cantor’s features soften. “Reese, this doesn’t me⁠—”

“And I have names picked out.” That hangs over us like a thick fog, and her mouth snaps closed. “The boy will be Greg, and the girl Amanda.” Tears form in my eyes and the world goes as blurry as it feels. “And I have a registry. And a college fund. And drank fucking beet juice. And excellence is a choice, and I choose it, goddammit.” I smack my hand on her desk. “Just like I’m choosing to be a mother, and you don’t get to tell me no.”

“Just because the path forward isn’t what you expected doesn’t mean that⁠—”

“It doesn’t mean?” I laugh maniacally. “I fell in love.” And right there my voice cracks in half. “With a man who wants babies. Lots of them. And grandkids.” I scoff. “Who’s thirty and thinking of grandkids? And I’m just supposed to say—what?—I can’t give you those?” I swipe my cheeks and sniff. “I want to do the tests again.”

“Reese. If you wou⁠—”

My cool is long gone. “I said do the fucking tests again!”

Dr. Cantor manages to keep her voice calm. “We have a counselor we recommend, if you want me to put you in touch. Before you make any decisions. I know this is a lot to process.”

“What I’m processing is incompetence,” I snap. “What lab do you use for the bloodwork?”

“It’s not just the bloodwork.” She swallows. “The ultrasound confirmed.”

I close my eyes and try to take a deep breath, but there is no air in this room. My lungs won’t work—they’ve turned to metal—to glass on the cusp of a shatter—and I can’t make this make sense.

I have to go tell Gavin that not only can I not conceive naturally or with an IUI, but IVF is only a maybe, not likely option. I don’t have to be a fertility specialist to know if that’s where we’re starting—me with another woman’s egg being implanted in my body after I’m treated for thinned whatever—my chances of success are low.

I can’t get pregnant.

Ever.

I waited too long, and I’ll never have it.

While I was busy working and filling my bank account, my eggs and uterus shriveled up and died. It’s there in black and white markers and notes in a margin. Every misuse of my time fills one page and highlights the difference between numbers that are both minuscule and massive.

Dr. Cantor looks at me sympathetically, her perfect family mocking me from over her shoulder. A family I’ll never have. That I’ll never be able to give to Gavin and Addie.

I reach my arm out and, with a guttural scream and in one swift motion, knock everything from her desk. The computer, the cup of pens, the framed photo, and the Newton’s cradle go scattering across the floor. It does nothing to ease the ceaseless pain in my chest.

Dr. Cantor stands, stunned, but I don’t care.

I pick up the piece of paper with my failures and walk out of the room.

The meeting ends just like I thought it would: with me never coming back.

Forty-Eight

I’m as indifferent to the topless woman who opens the van door as I am to her gold hoop-adorned nipples.

“You here to join?” she asks, breathless.

“No.” I sniff. “Where’s Banyan?”

Banyan emerges from behind a colorful beaded curtain, thankfully clothed.

“The Fire Lady finally visits the fu—” He cuts himself off when his eyes land on my face. It’s impossible to miss the state I’m in: My mascara might as well be war paint on my cheeks. To the topless girl, he says, “Harmony, we’ll have to finish this later.”

Harmony grabs her shirt, whispers something in his ear that makes him nip at her, then gets on a bicycle and pedals away.

Banyan and I sit on the step of the side-door opening of his van in silence, facing the vineyard. The summer greens have been fully absorbed by autumnal reds and yellows and oranges. The steady breeze kisses my skin. I might be cold, I might be hot, I might be dead.

Banyan, for all his flaws, has enough sense to keep his mouth shut. For a long time. We simply sit there next to each other on a step of his van that smells like incense, weed, and sex.

I didn’t know where else to go. I’m not ready to face Gavin, my sisters have kids—they won’t get it—and my mother will cite Sylvia. After rereading the test results too many times and melting down like a madwoman in my mother’s toy car, Banyan appeared to be the lesser of all evils.