Page 77 of The Difference Between

Addie pushes the bridge of her glasses, quiet.

I don’t know what I expected out of today, but it wasn’t this. It wasn’t a deafening silence while my own words choke me and worries of how I’m messing this up worm through my brain. I thought she’d just pick up the script and read and I’d say good job then hand her a cookie. Instead, the silence drags and drags and drags and the anxiety builds and builds and builds.

When I’m scouting new acquisitions, I’m business focused—goals, numbers, plans—but sometimes, especially with the companies we deal with, there are people who want to get to know me. It’s not my favorite, but I do it. Learn about who they are and tell them just enough about me to build a trust that will carry us through negotiations.

This is no different. I need to get Addie to feel comfortable so we can get to work.

“You like living with your Uncle Gavin?” I ask.

She nods.

“I live in a condo,” I tell her. “Do you know what that is?”

She shakes her head.

I pull out my phone and find a few pictures of my building. I don’t expect much of a reaction—they’re a dime a dozen in Chicago—but Addie’s eyes light right up.

“Wow,” she says.

I swipe to the next picture, this one of the rooftop patio. “This is right in the middle of the city.” I point to the tall buildings in the background. “I can see skyscrapers.”

“You can play hide-and-seek there.”

I laugh. “I could.”

“Is it loud?”

“Kind of,” I admit. “But you get used to it.” I set the phone down. “Did you know that I knew your mom? We were friends when we were kids.”

“She died.” Her gaze drops to her lap. “With my dad and brother.”

I didn’t know the baby was a boy. Now that I think about it, she was pregnant at my dad’s funeral ten years ago and Addie’s only eight. Something must have happened. Something else I don’t know about.

“I’m sorry. She was a good person.” Her eyes meet mine. “Bet she was a good mom too.”

She nods.

“And I bet she’d love that you were auditioning for a play.”

Her smile returns.

“Let’s try reading this first line.” I point to the script and read a line from Aunt Em. “‘Where have you been, Dorothy? I’ve been calling for you!’”

Addie looks at her line, her tongue resting between her lips, then looks at me. “At the barn in Kansas.”

“Good.”

It was not. There are two full sentences, and the only word she got right was barn.

“You missed a few words.” I point as I read in my most dramatic Dorothy voice, “‘I was at the barn looking at the sky. Wouldn’t it be so nice to fly away on a cloud, Aunt Em?’’” I smile; Addie’s is bigger. “Let’s try again.”

I spin the script so she can read it.

“There was pizza at lunch today,” she says. I expect her to tell me why that’s relevant to the task at hand, but she says, “Bobby put his peaches on it.”

“Gross,” I say. “Now this line says tha⁠—”

“Your face is pretty,” she interrupts.