Page 25 of The Difference Between

But at the last item on the list, my loneliness vanishes with my smile. Rub it in my sisters’ faces how rich I am.

Check.

Out the window of my room, the view from the second story looks the same as it always has, as does the little white house next door. An older couple lived there when we were growing up, but they’ve long since passed. When I was home a few months ago, Mom went on and on about the neighbor guy—she goes on and on about everyone—but I was too busy fixing her life to listen to her ramblings. I was here less than two weeks and never once laid eyes on him. He might have seven heads for all I know. My days were spent at the antique store until I’d come home after dark to cook, clean, and research surgeons before catching up on work.

With an audible sigh, I flop back onto the twin bed covered in a tattered quilt. On the ceiling, Joshua Jackson’s incredibly young face smirks at me. What a strange obsession teenage Reese had with Pacey from Dawson’s Creek.

Minutes pass, my mind wandering. Work. What I want. How I got here. If Joshua Jackson is married.

When the thoughts begin crushing my brain, I force myself to unpack.

I make it through four boxes then pause. A noise? I tilt my head. A moan? At the next sound—water running?—I take off down the hall.

Mom, who’s supposed to be in bed and at most using a walker to go short distances supervised, is at the kitchen sink in her nightgown, filling a kettle of water.

“Jesus Christ, Mom,” I bark, running to her and snatching the kettle out of her hands. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Reese Conway.” She smiles, surprised, and hugs me. “What are you doing here? I told you not to come.”

She lets me guide her to a chair at the kitchen table.

“Good thing I didn’t listen because somebody needs to make sure you don’t kill yourself. Why are you walking? How do you feel?”

“I had brain surgery, my legs are fine.” Even groggy she still manages to pin me with an annoyed look, amplified by the bruising around one eye.

“You piss the surgeon off to earn that shiner?” I ask.

She chuckles, gingerly rubbing her fingers along the stapled ridge at her hairline that hooks behind one ear.

“How do you feel?”

The hair around her ear has been shaved, the rest pulled back in a loose braid—probably Remy’s handiwork. There’s no bandage, a good sign because it means things are healing as they should. In a week and a half, the staples will be removed.

Mom sighs. “I have a headache from hell and am more tired than I’ve ever felt but mostly annoyed you stopped me from making tea.”

We exchange looks but mine’s stronger.

She’s her—a feisty pain in the ass—but only four days post brain surgery, she’s weak and tired. A barbed knot of guilt once again ties up my throat. My mom had brain surgery, and I wasn’t here.

“I’ll make you tea. And you’re supposed to be using a walker,” I remind her. “I put a bell on your nightstand to ring if you need anything. I’m working on a schedule for us to get on starting next week. I have all the therapists lined up. And meals.”

“You’re more exhausting than the tumor.” She bats a weak hand through the air. “I’m fine.”

I give her a sweet smile over my shoulder as I put the kettle on the stove. “You will be once I’m through with you.”

We’re quiet as I work.

I haven’t lived in this house since I graduated high school. In the twenty-some years I’ve been gone, I only come back to Fontain a couple times a year; the longest was for two weeks earlier this summer when we found out about the tumor. The second longest was the week after my dad died. Despite my absence, I still move through the kitchen with ease. The mismatched mugs hang from the same rack, her tea is shoved in the same cabinet. I’ll be organizing that.

“Dandelion?” I ask.

“Chamomile if I have any.” I exchange boxes and grab the last bag. In my phone, I add a note to get more, then double-check our calendar—physical therapy and post-op appointments are both in two weeks. I open my email, annoyed to find no new messages. I refresh it; still nothing.

Trish kept her word. I haven’t gotten a single email since I told her I was leaving. And though I’ve started thirteen different emails to Matt, I’ve refused to send a single one. I’m humiliated I was forced into a sabbatical, but I won’t add fuel to the fire by failing at it. To Married Matt who’s on a bowling league.

On the contrary, I plan on crushing it. And him.

And the reality is, there’s a good chance after the first day that nobody remembers I was ever there. That’s how it is in business: Emails get forwarded, org charts reorganized, and the person on top is forgotten faster than it took for them to get there. Out of sight really is out of mind.