Page 65 of The Difference Between

But that all changes next week.

I’ll be working at the vineyard.

One of the donors is in real estate and has an open house next weekend.

The doctor with the dating profile finally responded with a quick Will you be disappointed if I say family medicine?

It took me almost a half an hour to figure out what to write in response, finally landing on Tell me something else about you. It’s lame, but I didn’t know what else to say. I don’t really want to know this guy, but I can’t outright ask him if he’s going to give me shady sperm either.

My boredom won’t be an issue.

Neither will Gavin.

There will be no more bars.

There will be no more distractions.

I will make it through these next months then haul ass back to Chicago.

Which is why when I woke up this morning and had a text from Gavin that said Do you wish you would have stayed as much as I do? I didn’t respond.

Because I don’t.

Mom says, “We’ll see about that,” and jerks the handle to open the car door.

Faster than she can move, I’m at her side, forcing a walker into her hands and making her scowl. With her hair down and a floral scarf in shades of pinks and reds around her head, she looks like she always does.

Except with a walker.

Which makes her miserable enough it warms my cold heart.

We’re barely through the beaded curtains when I’m fully assaulted by machine-generated smoke and incense. It smells like a church filled with hippies.

Sylvia is covered in beads and gemstones and a tent-sized blue dress with gold embellishments. She stands behind a counter, humming as she takes a bite of what appears to be a mayo-only sandwich. Sick.

At the sight of my mother, she clicks the tips of her too-pointy fingernails together wildly.

“Iris!” she cries, wiping white goo from the corners of her mouth. “I had a feeling you’d be here today. It was in the moon and the stars and the air, I swear it. I just knew you’d be ready to see me.”

“You always do,” Mom coos.

Sylvia circles the counter and hugs my mom gently before guiding her to a chair. They talk about Mom’s surgery—which Sylvia predicted would go well—and recovery. Meanwhile, I assess the looney bin around me. Tarot cards. Egyptian eyes. Beads. A flickering neon sign advertising Spirit Guide.

Kill me.

“We’re here for Reese,” Mom explains. “You remember her?”

“Ahh, yes.” Sylvia pets her own wild mane of red hair with both hands.

I met her once at the antique store and was hopeful it would be the only time. How tragic I was wrong.

“The one who can’t stop working,” she says. She and my mom exchange high-browed looks. “I remember.”

I smile as fake as she is. “So happy to see you again, Sylvia.”

She circles me with slow steps, sweeping her eyes up and down my body.

“My Cubs T-shirt reveal something about my future?” I ask dryly. “Or maybe theirs? Ohh. Is someone bringing another billy goat into Wrigley?”