The Difference

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and not intended by the author. All trademarked brands and brand names mentioned in this fictional book are protected by their trademark and are referenced without infringement, dilution, tarnishment, or defamation.

  Copyright © 2021 C. D’Angelo.

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, transmitted in any form or by any means stored in a database or retrieval system, or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotations in a book review.

  Printed in the United States of America

  Cover design by JRC Designs/Jena R. Collins

  Edited by Bambi Sommers

  Proofread by FWS Media/Lynda Ryba

  Internal formatting by Qamber Designs & Media

  Print edition ISBN: 978-1-7372624-1-1

  Digital edition ISBN: 978-1-7372624-0-4

  www.CDAngeloAuthor.com

  For my grandpa, Anthony, who will always be my hero.

  Contents

  PART I

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  PART II

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  PART I

  Chapter 1

  Calm down, calm down, calm down.

  This mantra isn’t working. No! It’s having the opposite effect.

  “Rachel?” Brian raises an eyebrow.

  I should be used to that look, but this isn’t normal from him. Other people, yes, Brian, nope. Help!

  My fingers tremble and my legs go limp, all the way down to my toes. Maybe I should try some deep breathing. Go. I attempt to inhale, but my lungs reject the air.

  “What’s going on? You look strange.” He reaches out and puts his hand on mine.

  Oh no, I can’t hear anything. What is he saying? What’s happening to me?

  “Are you okay? Rach?” Brian’s lips move but there’s no sound. He leans closer to me over the table, our faces almost touching, his eyes wide and alert. He grabs my shoulders and shakes me.

  Everything around me slows then the room spins and the lights go out.

  Let me get you up to speed. It’s a doozy.

  “Already?” I mumble, unable to open my eyes.

  I reach toward my alarm and hit the snooze button again, not ready to wake up for today. Despite the beautiful New York City spring day that is surely waiting outside my door, I still feel the same dark cloud that covered me yesterday, the day before, and the day before that too.

  The scent of coffee fills my nose, pulling me from under my cozy down comforter and toward the kitchen in my typical groggy morning state. I snatch the mug next to the coffee pot, fill it with heaven’s nectar, and reach for the creamer in the fridge. The drop I add spreads in the cup, and I help it with a swirl, not with the effort of grabbing a spoon. My feet automatically drag me back to my bedroom and I drop down on the bench in front of the window.

  Bright green leaves bring life back to the somber winter trees. Colorful flowers bloom in planters visible in all directions. People on the sidewalks seem to have a bounce in their step, happy to exchange their heavy winter coats for airy spring jackets. The city is waking up from its winter slumber, so why can’t I?

  I watch the people shuffle around on their way to wherever they’re going this morning. Does that person have some high-powered executive job in Manhattan? Or do they work at a fancy department store on 5th Ave? Do they compare themselves to others like I do? Are their lives exciting and spontaneous or are they stuck on repeat like I am—work, home, work, home?

  Meow.

  Pulled from my ruminations, I look down to find my sweet friend, his little brown eyes sparkling in the bright morning sunlight. “Yes, Harrison, I know. It’s time to get the day started.”

  Harrison meows again and rubs against my leg then leaps onto the bed, curling into an orange ball of fluff.

  “Okay, okay. I know you want me out of your house. Thank you for reminding me.”

  I make my way over to the closet and stare at my clothes as I take another sip of coffee. Most days, I’m all about minimal effort—no makeup, hair pulled back, and a simple outfit. An olive-green cardigan catches my eyes. I’ve always been told that color makes my green eyes glow—and with my pale skin, unruly, curly red hair, and abundance of freckles on my nose, I’ll take all the help I can get. Reaching for the sweater, I scan the row for a white shirt and my brown pair of pants to complete the look. Comfortable, yet still professional. I nod my head in emphasized satisfaction.

  After throwing it on my body, I give Harrison a quick peck on the top of his head and walk to the kitchen to drop my mug in the sink. When I reach for the loaf of bread to make my toast, I notice something on the counter.

  “Argh! How did I not see that earlier?” I shove the orange juice into the fridge as my heart beats faster and my cheeks grow warm. Every morning, my boyfriend, Brian, leaves the dumb container on the counter. And every morning, I have to put it away as I try to rush out the door. He’s brilliant, but absent minded. Get over it, Rachel.

  Looking at my watch, I realize I don’t have time to eat, and especially don’t have time for other nonsense. A snack will have to suffice. Popping a breakfast bar into my tote, I take a deep breath to insert some hope of energy into my body.

  As I step out of our building onto the Chelsea sidewalk, I see an adorable little girl walking with her small hand engulfed by a man I assume is her grandfather. I do that a lot. Assume, that is. Anyway, she has the biggest smile a girl could fit on her small face. Memories of my own grandpa come flooding in like a tidal wave. That sweet child looks like I did when I was eight years old, awe and admiration all over her face as she gazes up at him, not a care or worry in the world.

  My grandfather, good old Salvatore Granza, was the sweetest, kindest, most loving Italian grandpa anyone could ever have. Oh, how I miss our time together. As a kid, I was his shadow—in the house, in the garage while he tinkered on whatever project he had going, or in the backyard while he tended to the vegetables and herbs in his garden. I tried to dress like him too, with his newsboy caps and strange baggy plaid
pants. He looked like a golfer but never golfed a day in his life.

  I loved my grandma dearly, and the incredible Italian food she prepared with ingredients from Grandpa’s garden, but I had no interest in cooking in the kitchen with her. I was hanging out with my hero. My grandpa.

  There was always something extra special about my relationship with my grandpa. We had such a deep connection, and our personalities were interchangeable. Plus, we were the only two family members who were stick thin with pale skin and curly red hair. The family joke was that Grandpa and I were two peas in a pod. And since Grandpa liked gardening, it was the perfect metaphor.

  I almost walk past where my office is while deep in my reminiscing. Heaving open the heavy old door, a blast of heat hits my face. It forces me to shift my thoughts to the full day ahead of me. I take a deep breath for motivation and climb the stairs.

  You can do this, Rachel.

  One big reason I love being a psychotherapist is that I don’t have to think about my problems when I am trying to help others with theirs. I couldn’t be selfish even if I wanted to. Since my clientele is strictly children who come in for mental health therapy, it’s even more important that my focus remains on them and their heartbreaking issues. They need me. And I guess I need them too.

  When I walk into the waiting room, I’m greeted by a mother and son who are awfully early for their 8 a.m. appointment. That always throws me off. I need time to ease into my office, check my email and voicemail, and wrap my mind around my schedule for the day. But it isn’t like I can climb in through the window and avoid walking through the waiting room…could I? I wish.

  I set those thoughts aside and paste on a smile. “Hello. You must be Ethan and Mrs. Hank. Just give me a few minutes to get settled and I’ll come out to get you.”

  “Thank you.” Mrs. Hank smiles and sinks into her chair. Her shaking leg lets me know she’s more nervous than her face expresses.

  Ethan sits on the edge of his seat and swings his feet back and forth, staring down at his hands and muttering.

  I hurry into my office and shut the door behind me. Why would I have made a new client appointment first thing in the morning? I must have been feeling overly ambitious the day I scheduled it. I slide into my chair at my desk and turn on my computer to check email. One from Brian is at the top of the unread messages.

  Thursday, March 15, 2012 7:11 a.m.

  Subject: Hi

  From: Brian.Holden@TurnerM.com

  To: Rachel.Granza@myemail.com

  Hey Rach. I thought I’d send a quick hello to you this morning to brighten your day. When I left you lying in bed, you looked so peaceful and beautiful. You must have been dreaming of me. :) Have a good one and see ya tonight.

  Brian

  I’m surprised he had the time to send an email. He’s normally too busy to read my emails when he’s at work, let alone send one on his own. Aww, he can be a sweetie when he wants to be. Maybe I should forget about the orange juice.

  I scan the remaining emails for anything urgent, but no crises are present. After a quick review of my client’s preliminary information, I bring Ethan and his mom into my office. Luckily, he has a straightforward case—an anxiety disorder. I know that well, let me tell you. So, we have a productive session and I send him home with a new coping strategy to try before our next visit.

  The rest of my morning consists of a third-grade boy who can’t seem to stay seated in class, a preschool-aged boy who hardly speaks but bites everyone in sight, and a high school girl who may have an eating disorder. By noon, I am ready for a break.

  My head is in a different place today. This must be what it feels like for my kids with attention issues. Earth to Rachel. Ms. Granza…hello?

  I forgot to pack a lunch this morning, so the decision to get takeout is easy. Tacos sound appetizing and there’s a great food truck just around the corner from my office. Mmm, yes.

  I love New York City. I can find any cuisine I feel like eating, any time of day. Oh, you’ll see how much a certain lady loves to eat. But, it really is the city that never sleeps, perfect when I need a rainbow cookie fix at 3 a.m. Just kidding, I’d never be up at that time. But if I were, I could gobble it down with a side of cannoli.

  My entire childhood was spent in the suburbs of Philadelphia, or just Philly to us locals. I always dreamt of living here, thankful we were close enough to come for special events or mother-daughter outings. I enjoyed the Broadway shows, the shopping—even if it was only window shopping—and the unique restaurants. Frozen hot cocoa? Yes, please! See, my love of food started young. Anyway, I loved the museums too. There are some noteworthy museums in Philly, but nothing compares to those in my new city, at least for me.

  When I finally moved here for college, no other city made my heart soar like this one did. But something has changed. My flame died out long ago and I’m drifting, waiting for something to bring that spark back into my life.

  The hour hand on the clock finally lands on the five and I pack up my belongings in record time. I turn off my office light, lock my door, and poke my head into Annabelle’s office on the other side of my wall to let her know I’m leaving. Oh, she owns the practice with me.

  She points at her phone and waves. She must be talking to her husband, from the smile on her face. They’re disgustingly adorable.

  Annabelle’s the best office mate, though. With our similar work ethic and yin and yang personalities, we complement each other well. I work with kids and she only sees adults, so our separate businesses don’t compete. To have someone to bounce ideas off of and share the expenses of an office within this city doesn’t hurt either.

  I mouth a goodbye and head for the front door of our waiting room. Rushing down the three flights of stairs, I exit the building and gulp the fresh air like my life depends on it. I always look forward to this moment, the time of no obligations for the rest of the day. Until tomorrow, you brick beauty.

  As I walk home, I remember Brian has a work dinner tonight so I’m on my own until at least 9 p.m. While I love our evenings together, I’m looking forward to the glorious quiet waiting for me. I’ve got big plans to curl up with Harrison and the new book I’ve been obsessed with lately. The thought speeds up my gait.

  Harrison’s sitting next to his empty food bowl when I walk in my apartment. Throwing my keys on the counter and dropping my tote, I say, “It’s coming, little guy.” I refill his water bowl and dump a can of wet food into his other bowl then pet him. He closes his eyes at my touch and digs into his feast.

  The light’s blinking on the answering machine, so I click play. “Hey, girl. It’s Maggie. I just wanted to see if you’d be up for being my wing-woman tonight at that new bar in Soho. Call me and let me know. I really don’t want to go alone but need to leave here tonight. My roommate is driving me up the wall. Love ya. Bye!”

  She knows I never want to go out, especially to a bar. I’d much rather stay in comfy clothes in my comfy apartment than dress up and be surrounded by uncomfy drunk strangers. I love my best friend, Maggie, but she dates a lot of men. When she meets a new man, she nitpicks him for a week or two before finding the dealbreaker. Then she’s on to the next one.

  The last guy she dated didn’t blink at the rate she thought was normal, so she felt like he was staring at her. The one before that cleared his throat too much and she couldn’t stand it. She would always sing that old ‘90s song “Let Me Clear My Throat” as a joke when talking about him. It’s humorous but gets old.

  I drop onto the couch and wonder if Maggie is too picky. Or am I not picky enough? Brian certainly isn’t the world’s most perfect man, but we’ve been together for four years now and living together for two of those. I’m happy with him. I think. Marriage is the logical next step, right? Maybe it would fill the void in me that feels so out of reach as the years go on. And I want to be Mrs. Brian Holden. Rachel Holden sounds nice. Or Rach
el Granza Holden. But why is he taking so long to propose? And why am I so afraid to talk to him about this? I do love him and I think he still feels the same. I should be able to talk to him about anything if he’s the one, right?

  My cell phone chimes, bringing me out of my thoughts. I look over and see a text from Maggie. Do I really have the energy to help her find another throw-away guy tonight? I let out a deep sigh and click the call button. She’ll keep calling both phones and texting if I don’t respond.

  “Rachel, you gotta get me out of here.” Mags usually doesn’t waste any time with hellos.

  “Why now?” I laugh as I speak.

  “No, this is for real. SOS. I can’t deal. Save me! Go out with me.”

  “I’d love to, but I have a date with a ginger tonight.” I look over at Harrison, whose belly must be full since he’s licking his paws.

  “Don’t you want to get out of that apartment and see the world? You know, there’s more to life than books.” She tsks to add a little umph. I know her moves by now.

  “I do know that, ironically. But thanks for reminding me.” I giggle. Her antics always lift my mood. Why doesn’t it last more than a few seconds?

  “Come ooooon. I know you want to.”

  Usually, her rebuttals are stronger. Hmm, she must be getting weak in our old age of thirty-two. My guilt won’t win tonight, though. “I’m so sorry. I just sat down and I’m exhausted from today. You know sometimes I can’t talk, listen, or even think after work. It’s one of those days.”

  “It’s been like that a lot lately…so I’m here to shake it up. Third time’s the charm tonight?”

  “Love ya, but nah. Rain check. I promise.”

  “All right.” She takes a deep breath and exhales into her mouthpiece for dramatic effect. “I’ll see who else wants to go. But you’re always my number one. Don’t you forget it.”

  “Thanks, Mags. And you are too.”

  “Later, Rach.”

  “Talk soon.” I set my phone on silent and turn it face down on the couch as soon as we disconnect.