Page 19 of The Difference Between

“It’s a damn good view,” she says, breaking the silence. “But it isn’t the best one you’ll see in a lifetime. Not by a long shot.”

We stand there a beat, staring at the city, and all I keep thinking is this can’t be happening. It can’t. It’s a dream. A nightmare. Anything but the reality of a woman who has worked her ass off to get to this very spot.

Trish returns to her desk and collects a few papers. “I have a meeting to get to.”

I nod, equal parts sad and mad. I should follow her out, but the tips of my heels have fused to the floor and won’t let me budge.

At the doorway of her office, Trish pauses. “Don’t let a job be the reason you don’t live the life you want.”

The funny thing is, this is the life I want. At least I thought it was until ten minutes ago.

She disappears down the hall and I stand alone in a cage of windows.

I want to shatter every single one.

Five

Ibought the top-floor condo when I had my first million-dollar year six years ago. As soon as the real estate agent led me through the front door, I was in love. An unassuming mix of industrial and rustic, it’s modern city with old-school character and windows for days. The open ceiling is lined with raw beams and metal pipes, topping exposed brick walls. It’s everything I ever imagined for myself.

And while I loved the interior, it was the roof that closed the deal: a 1,500-square-foot outdoor oasis smack dab in the middle of the city. When I stepped under the rooftop pergola that covered an outdoor sectional and fire table, I imagined my future family and my sisters and Mom when they would visit.

I bought the condo, and other than the men who only stay long enough for me to get what I want, I’ve yet to entertain a single person; the guest room hasn’t been used once in the six years I’ve lived here. The handful of times my sisters asked about coming to visit, I was in the middle of deals that wouldn’t allow me to take time off.

Friends, it seems, also require an effort I’ve never had time to make. And, clearly, there is no family.

For the first time in nearly a year, I’m on the rooftop patio I once thought I’d fill with people and strings of lights. From here, above the rooflines of the dozen blocks of houses and condos and smaller high rises that fill the streets in between, I spot the skyscraper I work in instantly.

It was yet another appeal of this property: a straight line of sight to the place that got me here. A constant connection to work. The city changes with the sun, and as it sinks lower in the horizon and the sky transforms, the building goes quiet. Less like a tower of power and more like a work of art.

I wish it would get hit by a meteorite.

Toeing my shoes off, I release the most hopeless sigh of my life. For the nine millionth time, I hear Trish’s words, each one accompanied with a new emotion.

Anger tops the list—scratch that, I’m fucking pissed. My ego has been smashed to pieces. I’m humiliated The Family thinks I’m burning out. Matt got my account. But the shocking realization is that a very, very small part of me is sad. Not about work—that’s straight-up rage—but that maybe Trish wasn’t completely wrong.

I have a condo that nobody visits.

Other than work, I don’t have a life. And while I’ve never minded—mostly because I don’t give myself time to think about it—since Trish pointed it out, it’s all I see.

I have millions of dollars to my name and the only thing I have time to spend it on is clothes for work. I like the money—love it really—and the recognition that comes from winning, but ultimately, I can’t stop chasing the satisfaction of the win and being in control of every step of the process it takes to get there. If I believed in psychics, I might consider myself one for my ability to almost predict what’s going to happen in a deal and foresee any problems that may arise, pivoting accordingly. But people—feelings and relationships—that’s all messy. Unpredictable. When data isn’t involved—like Trish and her brothers having a little roundtable about my mental well-being—there’s no telling what people will do. Guts and hearts leading the way. All that stupid bullshit. I’m not good at it and I don’t have time for it. Maybe William was right when he said that I don’t let people get close, but I’ve also never felt compelled to do so or dwelled on it. I do well at work, so why do I need a personal life?

Until this moment, it’s been easier just to push all that aside. I figured the reason I haven’t found people to spend time with is because I haven’t found the right people. So I work.

And I work and I work.

And every hour and day and cycle and fund leads to the next, making it easy to forget that there’s a whole side of life where people go home to other people and live entire lives outside of working hours.

Those same people would look at a three-month break with stars in their eyes, but I don’t know what I’ll do if I’m not working.

I don’t sleep in.

I don’t do downtime.

The thought of participating in something called couch rot makes my skin crawl.

Worse than all that is the fact there was a conversation about me. That other people—my superiors—are responding to my long hours like a disease requiring treatment. My sisters and Mom joke about my inability to stop, but hearing it come from Trish’s mouth stung.

Before I left this afternoon, I saw Matt, lollipop in mouth, smiling like my whole life didn’t resemble the implosion of a dying star. In the doorway of my office, he rounded his back, straightened his arms, and put his fists together, taking a swing with an imaginary golf club. “You busy?” He grinned. “We’re going to Big Mini Putt Club for celebratory drinks for our account.” The firm loves this place—it’s a bar and grill with mini golf holes throughout the building. I’ve never been, of course. Someone has to work. Also, how dare he say our account. “Kick your vacation off in style.”