The Difference Between Us

  Ezra had asked me to stop by to work on the mural. He’d hired a photographer to take new website pictures, but the mural needed to be finished first.

  Nervous energy buzzed through me. I hadn’t seen him since last Sunday when I’d spent the day at Bianca painting. And we hadn’t been on a second date since we had Chinese food at my apartment.

  We did email. We always emailed. Sometimes they were work related, sometimes I found myself grinning like a fool at the computer screen and trying not to audibly sigh. But it wasn’t just emails anymore either. We’d added talking on the phone and texting to our constant stream of conversation.

  Ezra was… amazing. And thoughtful. And funny—which was the most surprising thing of all. He had become the thing I looked forward to all day long, the reason I pounced on my phone every time it made a dinging noise, the reason I constantly refreshed my email.

  He’d single-handedly softened my cynical defenses and turned me into one of those obnoxious girls that believed in relationships.

  It was wonderful.

  And terrifying.

  I was enjoying every second of getting to know Ezra, but I also couldn’t shake the paranoid feeling that eventually the other shoe was going to drop. All good things came to an end at some point. And Ezra was too good to be an exception.

  Also, the more I got to know him, the more the differences between us were highlighted…and underlined. He was a savvy businessman with an empire to run. He didn’t have free time or hobbies or shows that he’d dedicated entire weeks to binging. He spent every hour of his day working on his restaurants until eventually his body gave out and he was forced to sleep. He had confessed that he set aside an hour in the very early morning to work out, but that was it. Every other minute was dedicated to work.

  From meetings to menus, to all the logistical pieces that went into running three restaurants and working around Elena at Quince, the man was busy. But he also loved what he did. No matter what I’d thought of him before, he was not motivated by money. His drive for success was fueled by his total and complete devotion to his craft.

  His restaurants meant more to him than establishments that made money or successful restaurants shaping American food as a whole. These were his babies, pieces of his soul that felt pain and victory and worry along with him. As he revealed his struggles with Bianca while she didn’t have a chef, he shared his fears that she would fail or that he couldn’t be enough for her to succeed. He shared his very real anxiety over finding the perfect executive chef to champion her going forward.

  But at the same time, even while so much of him was wrapped up in his restaurants, there was more to know, to learn… to fall for. He was like a never ending well of only good things.

  And that’s how I knew we would never last. He was reshaping every idea I’d ever had of men. He was showing me that they could be invested in one female, that they could work hard all day long and still be patient, interested and attentive even when they were exhausted.

  He showed me what it was like to live with passion and build your life into a work of art. Not just pieces or parts, but every single day without giving up, without becoming complacent. Because it wasn’t just about trying every once in awhile, or not hating what you do. This was about going all in, throwing caution completely to the wind and betting all you had on turning your profession into a lasting tapestry of deeds well done.

  Ezra didn’t live to be happy. He strove to be satisfied and proud of what he accomplished. He didn’t just tick tasks off his to do list, he mastered and conquered and handled it. Handled everything.

  He taught me to hope for more than happy. Happiness was fleeting and fickle. I could be happy watching Netflix for fifteen hours straight. I could be happy at STS if the Little Tucker would leave me alone.

  But at the end of my life would I be satisfied with those things? Or would I realize I had missed a giant chunk of my purpose?

  I had no idea to be honest, but Ezra had inspired me to start thinking about it seriously.

  Most of all, our conversations and deep talks highlighted how very different we were. Where he was ambitious and focused, I was questioning my life choices. Where he was savvy in business, I struggled to remember to pay my electric bill on time. Where he was cool, unruffled by anything life threw at him and always considerate, I was weird and spastic. And selfish.

  He was always professional.

  I was always putting out fires I’d accidentally started.

  He was obnoxiously punctual.

  I was never on time.

  There was this huge chasm between us and it had nothing to do with our eight-year age gap. Although I couldn’t help but be anxious about that as well.

  We were nothing alike. We had nothing in common. I was always amazed when I got off the phone with him and we’d managed to fill every single space with something to say or laugh about. And with every phone call, text, or flirty email, I felt myself slipping further and further into this thing we were creating together, this… relationship.

  I was falling hard for this man that was completely opposite than I’d originally thought. I’d asked for a man instead of a boy and I’d gotten one. But now I didn’t know what to do with him or how to stop my heart from giving itself over to him so completely.

  When he finally ended things with me, I would never recover from this. I would never find another relationship that was so completely everything I’d ever wanted.

  If I was picky before, then Ezra was ruining me totally for any other man.

  Spinster life was my real future.

  I’d live out the rest of my years with my twenty cats, dreaming about the gorgeous businessman that had once swept me off my feet and tricked me into believing that maybe I had a chance at happily ever after.

  Bianca was nearing the end of dinner service when I walked in. Ezra’s hostess nodded hello, but I’d been in the restaurant enough times that she knew I was there to see him.

  Ezra had suggested a late dinner and then I could work for an hour or two while the restaurant shut down for the night. It would be a late night for me, but spending it with Ezra made it a no brainer.

  I found him at his usual table, a tablet in front of him as he tapped out an email to someone. Something low in my belly heated at the memory of his emails to me.

  He looked up as I approached, sliding to his feet so he could pull me against him and drop a sweet kiss on my lips. “Molly,” he whispered against my mouth.

  I made a humming sound and let him have his wicked way with me.

  The kiss was too short and too demure and all I wanted was more of him and that talented mouth and for everyone in his restaurant to leave now, please. Thank you.

  He gestured at the table. “I ordered for us, I hope that’s okay.”

  “Since the menu makes zero sense to me, I appreciate it.”

  His mouth curled in that crooked smile I found irresistible. “It’s in French,” he said obviously, like that was the reason I didn’t know what was on it.

  “No, it’s in food,” I countered. “Which is so much worse than French.”

  He stared at me for a long moment. “You should let me help you. I’ll teach you the basics so you don’t have to be so afraid of a kitchen.”

  My heartbeat quickened. My best friend wouldn’t even teach me how to cook. “You’re so busy,” I reminded him, not wanting him to promise something that he didn’t really want to follow through on. “I’m a commitment that you don’t have time for.”

  “Are you in a hurry?” His hand moved over my back, soothing both my physical body and emotional mind. “I mean, we have time, don’t we?”

  His gaze was achingly sincere and maybe he hadn’t meant time as in the rest of eternity, but there was a deep, hidden part of me that relaxed. Let’s be real, I didn’t need him to mean the rest of eternity. I wasn’t sure I wanted the rest of eternity. But I wanted his immediate future. And I hoped he wanted mine too.

  Of course, I needed to n
ot vomit these thoughts all over him, so I deferred to sarcasm. “So you’re saying hold back on my application for Chopped?”

  He wrinkled his nose and made a disapproving sound. “Reality shows are what’s wrong with America.”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa, Mr. Judgmental. Let’s not throw insults around like they’re candy.”

  His lips twitched. “I’m afraid to ask which shows you like.”

  “Real Housewives.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Have you ever watched an episode?”

  “Not an entire episode but I’ve seen—”

  I put my fingers over his lips stopping his next words. “Okay, so your argument is null and void. Don’t worry, I’ll introduce you to the Real ladies. It will be fun.”

  His smile finally broke free. “You’re going to introduce me to the Real ladies?”

  “We’ll make a night of it. Netflix and chill.”

  “Relationship goals?”

  I laughed. I couldn’t help it. “Was that a pop culture reference?”

  He shrugged, looking embarrassed, adorable and enamored all at once. “This gorgeous girl I know is teaching me all about hashtags. I can’t help it.”

  “Wow, she sounds amazing.”

  Ezra’s head dipped toward mine. “Oh, she is.”

  We kissed again. Nothing more than a PG, end of a Disney movie lip-lock, but it was perfect and meaningful, and my skeptical heart grew three whole sizes.

  A waiter appeared with food for supper, which ended up being tonight’s special—crispy frog legs with lemon aioli, and sausage and pork belly cassoulet. We were like the romantic version of Fear Factor, only everything was incredibly delicious and I would never be able to go back to eating Hot Pockets and cereal for supper again.

  Ezra had ruined me for all other men and food that wasn’t five stars.

  Great. I was wasn’t setting myself up for a lifetime of regret and disappointment. Not at all.

  After dinner, Ezra disappeared into the kitchen or his office to get more work done and I meandered over to my wall where my vision was beginning to take shape.

  I ran my fingers over an unpainted section of white and smiled at what I knew it would become. I had heard once that art wasn’t supposed to be beautiful, it was supposed to make you feel, make you think make you step outside of your own life and view the world with a bigger perspective.

  Personally, I thought art could be both. Beautiful and emotive. I liked beautiful things. I liked drawing, painting, and creating them. But my definition of beauty was also broader than the societal norm. I didn’t pay attention to the flat beauty of a pretty face or perfect body.

  Beauty was found in the things that caught my eye, that made emotions flow. It was deeper than the skin, buried in the spirit, in the soul, in eyes that sparkled, or a mouth that twisted in an interesting way. It was at that one moment of life when you knew everything would be different, when you were finally forced to wake-up and pay attention, or change something about yourself, or even let go of something you loved. Beauty was not just an opinion, it was a way of life. Something I aspired to capture every time I picked up a brush.

  I spread a generous amount of black and white on my palette and added a spot where I could mix the two colors to blend a neutral gray. Then I got to work.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  My pouncing brush danced over the wall, twisting together smoke from one end with smoke from the other. I added dark lines of black to give it depth and quick flicks of white to give it light. I intertwined wisps and tendrils until the entire wall from floor to ceiling was covered in smoke. There were large sections where white was the predominant color, and others where I’d went heavier with the black. But the overall story was smoke.

  Stepping back, I surveyed my work. It wasn’t finished. I had places to touch up and rough edges to smooth, but it was getting there. Looking around the restaurant, I noticed for the first time that everyone had left. Even the kitchen was dark and quiet.

  I spun around, disbelieving that I’d painted my way through closing. Ezra sat at his usual table, his long legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles, his arms crossed over his chest. There was a laptop and papers spread out in front of him, but he was staring at me, lost in thought.

  “Don’t let me interrupt you,” he said quietly, his voice rough and deeper than usual.

  My mouth lifted in an embarrassed smile. “I didn’t realize it was so late. I must have been in the zone. Sorry, you probably want to go home for the night.”

  He gazed at me, but his eyes were unreadable from this distance. “Go back to it,” he said. “I have more work to do anyway.”

  “Are you sure?”

  He ducked his chin in a succinct nod. “Absolutely.”

  My progress had inspired me to do more and I was anxious to start a new section, so I turned back to the wall. Keeping the colors I’d been using, I talked to Ezra over my shoulder.

  “So, tell me about Bianca?” I asked, my voice only barely trembling with nerves.

  “What do you mean?”

  “The woman,” I clarified. “Not the restaurant.”

  He did not sound willing to release details when he demanded, “Why?”

  “I’m about to paint her soul,” I told him. “I need to know what kind of woman she is.”

  He remained silent for a while, thinking. Tension rolled through the room as his mood shifted and changed. I couldn’t turn around to look at him. I stared at the curls of smoke in front of me, adding details in an effort to distract my skipping heart.

  I heard him exhale in a long forced rush, like he’d been holding his breath and couldn’t keep it in any longer. “Cold,” he finally said. “Calculating. She never smiled.”

  Staring at my shoes I tried to imagine Ezra with a woman that never smiled. A few months ago, it would have made sense to my uninformed mind. I would have pictured him with a woman just like that. The two of them arm in arm, never smiling, never laughing, never talking about anything important.

  But now? I couldn’t reconcile Ezra without laughter, without deep, late night conversations or secret smiles. He was the opposite of cold and calculating. Careful maybe. Shrewd for sure. But not distant, not deliberately cruel.

  “She didn’t like Dillon,” he added, not as an afterthought, but the crux of his entire point.

  My rounded arc became a harsh slash. I swiped the paintbrush through my palette and transformed the pair of eyes I was working on from exotic and mysterious to angry, bitter… tired.

  Without looking at Ezra, I asked, “How long did you date?”

  He loosed another long exhale. “A year.”

  I had been afraid to look at him until now, afraid that he would see the insecurities floating so close to the surface. But I wasn’t expecting a year, and had to turn to see his face.

  For someone that couldn’t make it past the first date, let alone secure a long-term boyfriend, a year felt like forever. A year felt almost permanent. A year felt messy.

  “You dated her for an entire year?” I didn’t mean to sound accusing or disappointed, but I felt both.

  His gaze met mine across the restaurant. “Are you judging me?”

  I lifted one eyebrow to let him know that I was and pointed my paintbrush at him. “She didn’t like your sister. That’s pretty unacceptable.”

  “We weren’t as serious as you think,” he argued. “We dated for a year, but we barely knew each other. Barely even saw each other.”

  “You named a restaurant after her.”

  He leaned forward in his chair, dropping his elbows on his knees. “I named a restaurant after a pretty name that for a long time reminded me not to get distracted by pretty things.”

  I laughed because… honestly. “So, Bianca, Sarita, and Lilou are all cautionary tales? Past mistakes that you’re unwilling to make again?”

  “Kind of pathetic it took three of them, right?”

  I shook my head at him, slowly moving
it back and forth. He was unbelievable. “I can’t decide if you’re sugarcoating or not.”

  “I lost my mom when I was twelve.” His voice grated with deep grief that sounded surprisingly fresh. “She was my entire world. Even when she was sick. And then one day, she was gone. Not just her, but my whole life was over. I lost my home and my friends, my school, my neighborhood, but most of all I lost the one person that loved me. I spent the next four years in and out of foster homes until I finally met Jo, the one woman on the planet who wouldn’t put up with my shit. She was brutal sometimes—so heartless I questioned if she wasn’t a robot. She whipped my ass into shape and I will always be grateful for my time with her, but she did not come into my life and love me. She didn’t replace the missing piece that I lost when my mom passed. And I’m okay with that now. Jo is a hard woman that has her own grief to contend with. But for a long time, I thought that not having someone in my life that loved me was a character flaw that belonged to me. I took the weight of that burden and carried it around for years. And as people came into my life offering something that looked like love, I couldn’t help but be attracted to it. Even when it turned out to be false or broken… or attached to strings.”

  My hands trembled as he opened up to me. I hadn’t been expecting him to say or admit these things. I didn’t expect him to feel these things. His raw truth scraped at my chest, clawing its way to the heart of me, desperate to make me feel something so much deeper than what I was ready for. “Ezra.”

  He gave me a helpless look and a deprecating half smile. “Tragic, right?”

  “You’re not,” I promised him.

  He turned his head and it felt like he had torn his gaze away from me, like I’d been clinging to it, grasping it with two fists and he’d ripped it away from me. I was left with aching fingers and a hollow feeling carved out in the center of my chest.

  “After Elena, I should have known better.”

  “There are certain women out there that—”