Page 35 of The Difference Between

“It’s settled then,” he says. “Money isn’t an issue—because we make the same amount—so you’ll let me take you out.”

The beep of a horn cuts through the air, making us turn to his truck. The girl waves again, and Gavin holds up a finger.

“You should take out someone your own age,” I tell him, my ankles wobbling as I pry his hands from the mower. “And I have work to do. And my mother is already doing God knows what without me watching.” I make the mistake of glancing toward the house and see my mother’s face in the kitchen window—smiling. Gavin lifts a hand to wave; she does the same. “No time for dates with thirty-year-old little boys who spend their time cutting grass.” I give him a smug look. “But if you have an older brother who knows how to tell a joke and use a razor, feel free to send him my way.”

“Hm.” His open expression falters, just briefly, then he eyes the mower. “Have I mentioned I’m mow-tivated?”

“Sadly.”

A laugh sticks in the back of his throat. “I’ll work on it then.”

I don’t tell him not to.

He jogs across the yard, gets in his truck, and tosses me a wave as he drives away.

When I finish the job two hours later—after changing my shoes—the yard is a wreck. Nothing is even, patches have been missed, and clumps of grass I kept digging out of the blade lay in haphazard piles, already half dead in the midday sun.

That evening, I go to the grocery store. When I get home, Gavin’s truck is in his driveway, and the piles are gone.

The yard’s been mowed clean.

Eleven

In a white coat, pink blouse, and perfect blond hair, Dr. Laura Cantor looks more like a Barbie doll than a fertility specialist. If I didn’t see her take the seat behind the large wooden desk, I’d swear she was photoshopped in.

Her desk is tidy. Aside from the computer and files she carried in with her, there’s only a single cup of pens and a Newton’s cradle that I doubt anyone plays with. Dotting the walls around us are certificates, accolades, and numerous family photos. Her children and husband are as equally perfect looking as she is.

They probably attend a lot of dinner parties.

To look less like I’m between meetings as a funeral director, as my mom so eloquently put it, and more like an excited mother to be, I wore blue jeans, a pair of strappy flat sandals, and a slouchy tee.

Today, I am Reese Conway: Domestic Baby Maker.

“Tell me about yourself, Reese,” Dr. Cantor says through her glossed, smiling lips.

“I . . .” Hate that question. “Live in Chicago and work at a private equity firm. I’m here helping my mom recover from brain surgery and thought it would be a good time to get pregnant.”

Dr. Cantor nods. “And why’s that?”

Because my boss backed me into a corner.

“Because I’m forty.” At her pinched brows, I add, “And I’ve been busy . . . too busy, some might say.”

“And you’ve always wanted to be a mother?”

“Yes,” I say with a nod. This, at least, is not a lie, as proven by teenage to-do list pinned to a corkboard.

Dr. Cantor shifts in her seat and opens the file of my medical history. She flicks her gaze to me. “No medication or health history noted. Is that correct?”

“Healthy as a horse.”

She continues to riffle papers, and I pull one of the balls back on the Newton’s cradle then release it. It sets off a chain reaction of metallic clicks that makes her look.

I stop it with my palm.

“Sorry,” I murmur. “And I’ve never had an irregular Pap test or bloodwork. I was on birth control in my twenties but got off a few years ago.” She looks at me, and my mouth fills with too many words that have no place to go but out. “I don’t have a particularly active dating life. Or sex life. I mean I have sex, just not a lot of sex. We use condoms when I do.” She keeps looking at me. “It’s been a while though.” I sputter out a Morse code-like breath, trying to think of how long it’s been. Definitely months. There was that one guy after the Zickerman deal . . . “I’m healthy as a horse, just not a horse with a lot of riders. Not a whorse, if you catch my drift.” I wink.

Either Gavin the idiotic neighbor is contagious, or sperm banks make me stupid.