Page 10 of The Difference Between

“I’ll leave you to it,” Matt says with a rap of his knuckles on the door. “See ya in there. And good luck.”

With my acknowledging nod, he disappears down the hall. I yawn into the back of my hand, then drain what’s left of my espresso.

At the small mirror on the wall, I reapply my blood-red lipstick, aptly named Success, and rake my fingers through my hair, the shoulder-length dark strands falling into a wavy frame around my face. The inky-black mascara on my lashes enhances the brown in my eyes and the magic of contouring accentuates my straight nose and high cheeks. There’s barely a trace of my exhaustion.

Until my gaze drops to the obvious coffee stain on my shirt and I breathe out a “Shit.”

I pluck a few tissues from a box to do damage control. It doesn’t work, and I’m out of time and backup shirts after spending so many nights here. There’s nothing to do but wear it like a badge.

With files, computer, and phone in hand, the familiar pre-pitch adrenaline starts to pump; I live for it. For this. For the anticipation of nailing it and the hit of dopamine that will follow when I do. It’s what keeps me coming back for more.

I take a deep breath and one last look at the Chicago skyline surrounding my office, whispering, “Let’s go choose excellence, Reese.”

And I will. I always do.

Two

“Fizz Co is a soft drink company catching global traction due to its focus on better ingredients and taste.” I point to the large screen with my presentation displayed. On the projected slide, a list of ingredients Fizz Co has vowed to never use. “As we all know, consumer trends show the population being more health focused. This is a hot space. A purchase while they’re still gaining recognition gives us room to scale them to become the next Coca-Cola or Pepsi—” I give the room a pointed look. “But better.”

I strategically pause to let that sink into the twenty people sitting around the mahogany table. The lights are off, but much like my office, the exterior wall of windows lets enough light into the conference room to highlight every set of raised brows.

“Not only are there options for a carve out—there’s a kombucha line, sparkling waters, sodas—pop for you Midwesterners—” At the collective chuckle, I click a button, and the screen transforms to a new chart of the company’s divisions. “But they’ve also recently acquired—” My phone dings, startling me. I never have my phone on in meetings of this magnitude, but with Mom in surgery, I don’t have a choice. I murmur an apology to the committee and open the text.

Rue: Just got an update that things are a little more complex than anticipated but they aren’t concerned. Why do I want to puke? Remy is driving me crazy, btw. She’s reciting positive affirmations and I’m about to strangle her.

“Shit.”

I darken the screen and turn my attention back to the projected presentation. Where was I?

“Sorry about that.”

If complex means too much bleeding, it could cause neurological deficits post-surgery. It could make recovery harder and side effects permanent. I’m in the middle of my pitch. I stare at the slide until the point I was making comes back to me.

“Juice,” I manage to remember. “They have a new juice line. Like all their other products, even the sodas, there are no artificial colors or flavors, some options adding naturally sourced vitamins and minerals.” This earns a unified motion of approving nods and pen clicks as I knew it would. Cutting artificial dyes is all the rage now. “Of course, if this line doesn’t prove to be viable, it could be discontinued before too much capital is pumped into it.”

There’s another collective nod—if this room knows anything it’s how to cut a loss without batting an eye. We learn early on in this industry to never get emotionally attached to any one component of a deal—it reduces bias and keeps the profit-driven path forward easy to navigate. For better or worse, it’s bled into the way I view all relationships—romantic or otherwise—that don’t align with my long-term goals. Every aspect of life is easier when useless plugs get pulled early.

“And,” I continue, “as you can see in the model, despite Fizz Co being midsized, its brand recognition is well above competitors of their size which already puts us in a favorable position for ROI and scalability.”

I wonder what “a little more complex than anticipated” really means?

“What’s the working capital look like?” someone asks.

It can’t be too dramatic, or they wouldn’t say they aren’t concerned.

“That’s a great question.” And that’s a stalling line. Focus, Reese. I smile and click to the next slide, launching into a breakdown of numbers. I shove hypothetical brain bleeds aside and focus. For the next hour, I go through every number and reference the spreadsheets and graphs on the wall as we go. I don’t get another message but check my phone a dozen times. My body is fully on this thirty-second-floor conference room, but my mind is split between this deal and wondering why the hell I don’t have another update.

“Any red flags from the EPA?” Matt asks. “Or activism trends we need to be worried about?”

“Hippies against soft drinks?” I volley in jest, making the room chuckle yet again even though they would all agree hippies are the absolute worst. They might have good intentions, but they’re a pain in the ass and make every dollar hard earned.

“You never know,” he says with a slight smile. Then, more seriously, “But water consumption could be an issue. And plastic and aluminum waste is a hot topic in manufacturing with these companies.”

“You’re right . . .” I check my phone: nothing.

“Reese, do you need a minute?” Trish, one of the managing partners, asks. She’s genuine and unannoyed—if I said yes, she’d be fine with it—but the fact I’m distracted enough she notices throws me. “We can take five?” she offers.

“Of course not.” I clear my throat then smile. “No five needed. Fizz Co has passed all environmental tests and there are no known lawsuits. Clean as a whistle.”