Page 26 of The Difference Between

A call of “Reese” pulls me from the entire world that once lived in my phone.

“Yeah?”

“The kettle.”

The kettle screams. Right. “Sorry.”

I put the tea bag in a mug and drown it with the hot water then set it in front of her. Hip against the butcher-block counter, I study her as she bobs the bag. She hid the tumor from us for ten years and it still blows my mind.

“What are you doing here?” she asks.

“Saving you from Rue and Remy.”

“Liar.” She blows the steam from her mug. “Why are you really here?” She eyes my outfit. “Dressed like a professional mourner.”

There are two types of people: those who look like hungover college kids when they fly, and those who look like they’re shareholders of the airline. I fly first class; I’ll be damned if I don’t look the part.

“I look good in black, so I’ll take that last bit as a compliment,” I say. “And I’m here to help, believe it or not.”

She quirks a brow. “And?”

Mom always knows. I’m far from emotional and lean toward what some—like every man I’ve dated—might—and do—call guarded. I don’t need to talk about everything I’m thinking or feeling. While me saying I’m here to help would be accepted by most people, Iris Conway knows there’s more.

I once liked a boy named Jeff Mullings in high school. I never told a soul, not even Amanda. One day, he asked another girl out. I was devastated in that teenage way where my heart crumbled inside my chest and I was convinced I was going to die, but on the outside, I aced a test, went to work at the diner, then came home and ate dinner with my family and did homework. It was the exact same routine I followed every other day as I said the exact same snarky things I always said. I kept my hurt hidden.

When my mom came in to say good night that night, she sat at the foot of my bed and said, “He’s an idiot.”

The reasons are different but the ache in my chest is the same, and she senses it. Like the blood of hers that runs in me makes her privy to all my secret struggles. I’ll get it one day when I have a kid of my own, but for now, it’s simply a mystical power that I’m at the mercy of.

“Work sent me.”

Her brows raise, letting me know that’s not good enough.

I trace a grain line of the countertop with my index finger. “Work said I work too much and—” I blow out a breath. “That I need a break.” I brave a look at her. No need telling her about the baby I volunteered to create. “Among other things. So—” I wiggle my fingers. “Here I am. Doing what they told me to and saving you from my incompetent sisters so I can go back to work.”

If my mother weren’t days post surgery, she’d huff and throw an exasperated “I told you that you work too damn much,” but today, she’s quiet, taking another sip of her tea. “Well, I’m glad you’re here.”

“I—”

The loud roar of a mower blasts through the air.

Out the kitchen window, my gaze snaps to the end of Mom’s driveway—right next to my no loud noises or unexpected guests sign—where a man stands on the back of a lawnmower, zipping down the short driveway then barreling through the yard.

He flies toward the house, mower so loud he might as well be in the middle of the kitchen. I’m annoyed, but the way Mom winces lets me know it’s worse for her.

I smack the glass of the window to get his attention. “Hey!”

He doesn’t see me.

“It’s fine, Reese,” Mom says. “It’s Gavin. He won’t take long.”

“I don’t care if it’s the fucking pope,” I bark at her. “He shouldn’t be doing that right now.”

“Reese, just⁠—”

“No.”

I march outside to the middle of the yard to stand in the direct path of the mower.