Page 95 of The Difference Between

The walls are covered in unfinished drywall and cut-off pipes protrude from the concrete floor. Capped wires dangle from holes in the ceiling.

As out of place as a yellow balloon with his name stamped on it, I imagine what it might look like if it were finished and lived in.

By me.

With him.

And Addie.

Would I hang a wreath on the door or put rocking chairs on the concrete front porch? Would we sit in those chairs while we watch kids run around a yard and pick apples from a tree before chasing each other down rows of then years old grapevines? Would I laugh? Would I cry? Would I remember the whole life I used to have in Chicago?

Like a thrown rock dropped from the clear sky, I can see it. Every detail and color. Every storm cloud and sunny day.

But when Addie calls my name from Nancy’s front porch, it’s gone. As soon as I turn my back, the image pops like a balloon that was never there to begin with.

Twenty-Six

Addie might be the first kid I’m not related to who I like. Really like, even. But for someone who quotes the hell out of the movie Overboard and swears she wants to be an actress, she can’t memorize the lines of Dorothy for shit.

I’ve tried everything.

Note cards.

Cutting the lines into strips.

Recording the lines so she can listen to them before saying them.

She is both sweet as sugar and ruthlessly defiant.

We’re running out of time until auditions, and as of right now, there’s no way in hell she’ll get the part. She knows one line. One.

I’m doing everything I can to accommodate her needs and meet her where she’s at—her speech is less refined, and academically, she’s a little behind other third graders—but . . . one line? It’s like she doesn’t even want the part.

So, once again, we’re at Mom’s kitchen table, unmemorized lines in front of us. As much as I like our time together, I’m at my wit’s end. I’m failing, and I hate failing.

“Should we try again?” I ask with my biggest smile. “And choose excellence?”

She fidgets with her glasses. “Uncle Gav told me you’re going on a date.”

“I bet he did.” My stomach twists. “But we have to do this first,” I remind her. “Because next week’s the big day, and we have a lot of lines to learn before you’re Dorothy ready.” Like all of them.

Her bright face dims. “I could be Toto.”

My attempt at schooling my disgust results in a scoff. “Toto isn’t the role for future stars.”

She frowns.

I sigh. “Addie, listen—” Her wide eyes meet mine. “If you want to be an actress, you have to memorize lines. Goldie Hawn did it for Overboard. That was all practiced, just like this.” I tap the script. “It’s part of it. You have to work hard. Really hard. Every day.”

She nods but a silence swells.

“Why do you want to be an actress?”

Her smile lights the room up. “To marry Kurt Russell.”

“What?” I can’t bring myself to tell her that there is absolutely no way that is happening. “Is there anything else?”

She pushes the bridge of her glasses. “Play mini golf.”