I threw myself into the art of creating something without even having a fully conceptualized idea of what I was going to paint. I just let the day press in on me, crushing me beneath the weight of everything I was so unsure about until it came oozing out my fingers, spilling onto the canvas in purposeful brush strokes and arcs of color.
When I was forced to sit up straight again to give my aching neck and shoulders a break, I realized two and a half hours had passed. With the creative spell broken, I stared hard at my work, startled as if seeing it for the very first time.
Angular lines made a strong, stoic jaw. Full lips pressed into a frown. There was a sharp slash of a nose. Two chocolate eyes stared back from beneath determined brows. His hair was pushed back, unkempt in a way he would never really allow. It matched his loose tie and the perplexed scowl he wore—figments of my imagination, characteristics I’d given him in this fictional version that he’d never tolerate in real life.
Staring at my handiwork, I saw that I hadn’t really captured Ezra at all though. My lines were too hard. My colors not exactly right. His eyes were too shallow. His jawline… his cheekbones… his defined edges were too hard and too wrong, and I hated that I hadn’t done them justice. That I’d failed. And I couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that I was missing something.
This wasn’t Ezra. This was very clearly a picture of someone trying to paint Ezra.
I slumped on my stool, rolling my stiff neck back and forth. “Ugh, why am I even trying with you?” I asked the canvas. I stared at the eyes that weren’t Ezra’s at all. “I still don’t like you.”
My phone buzzed in the other room, so I left Ezra to go grab it. It turned out I had four missed texts, but this one was the first I’d heard. All from Vera.
7:03: Are you a famous rock star yet?
7:48: Are you at least the famous graphic designer for rock stars yet?
8:56: Does the silent treatment mean bad news? Want me to go down to your office and raise hell? Whose ass do I need to kick?
8:59: In other news, I’m heading to spin class at five-thirty tomorrow morning and I need a friend. Please please please? Don’t make me get into wedding shape alone!!!!
Ick, spin class. Nothing like having a bike seat up your bum first thing in the morning.
Me: Sorry, my phone was in the other room. Obviously I’m famous. But only because my sex tape is such a crowd pleaser. And spin class? Isn’t there prenatal yoga? Hot yoga? Any kind of yoga?
Vera: Last time we did early morning yoga you fell asleep in Child’s Pose.
Me: So did you!
Vera: Which is why we’re doing spin class!
Vera and I had joined a gym together shortly after her engagement. She’d decided to lose fifteen pounds before her wedding and wanted me to go through the pain and suffering too. She was one of those girls that carried her weight like a Kardashian. No, she wasn’t the skinniest girl ever. But damn… dat ass.
I didn’t have an ass. Or thighs. Or muscles of any kind. I was like the female version of Gumby. If Gumby had decent-sized boobs and hipster bangs.
Me: Vera don’t make me.
Vera: This is for your own good. I’m torturing you because I love you.
Me. I don’t love you.
Vera: Liar liar pants on fire.
Me: You’re buying me coffee after. And an Egg McMuffin. And also, I demand hash browns.
Vera: What’s the point of working out if I buy you McDonald’s after? Also, HELLO! Chef here! We’re not going to McDonalds.
Me: We’ll see.
Vera: 5:30. Don’t be late!
I realized I’d been tricked, but chances were Vera would have always talked me into it. But she better not hold back the McDonald’s. On that point, I was very serious.
My phone buzzed again, but this time it was an email. Choosing to ignore it for a while, I set to work cleaning my brushes and tidying up my workspace. After I’d dropped my wine glass off next to my sink, I double checked the locks on the front door and balcony. I didn’t really think someone would scale six stories just to steal my costume jewelry and hand-me-down furniture, but I just knew that the one night I didn’t check it would be the one night I had to deal with a serial killer. A Spiderman-impersonating serial killer.
After brushing my teeth, washing my face, and changing from the oversized t-shirt I used for painting to the oversized t-shirt I used for sleeping, I crawled into bed and wiggled my toes under the sheets. It wasn’t very late, but if I was seriously going to meet Vera at the crack of dawn in the morning, an early bedtime was in order.
Checking my phone one last time before I plugged it in for the night, I saw the email I’d ignored earlier. My heart jumped in my chest and a large horde of butterflies suddenly took flight in my belly, dipping, diving, and flapping giant wings.
[email protected] A strange panic stirred the already fidgety nerves inside me. I wondered how he’d gotten my email address until I belatedly realized I’d been the one to give it to him. For his florist.
Because he had a florist.
The man had a florist!
Could we all just take a minute to roll our eyes in unison? Please and thank you.
My finger hovered over the email, but I couldn’t make myself open it. What did he want? Why had he emailed me? Why did I care so much?
I thought about the half-finished painting of him in my office and decided to burn it. All evidence that I’d contemplated the shape of his eyes and curve of his jaw must be destroyed ASAP.
Ugh, it was stupid, but the truth was hard to face. I wanted to hate Ezra. Or maybe not hate him, but at the very least be unaffected by him. And I still couldn’t make myself not care.
He was too cool, successful, and larger-than-life. I couldn’t help but be mildly fascinated by him. I wanted to know how late he worked every day, and how early he got up. I wanted to know how he took his coffee, and which of the four restaurants he owned was his favorite? I wanted to know if the rumors were true that he really named his restaurants after his ex-girlfriends. I wanted to know so many things that I shouldn’t want to know.
Seeing his name in my email inbox did funny things to my resolve to ignore him. He’d made a terrible first impression on me, but if he wasn’t so wholly intimidating, I might have given him a second chance. Instead, it wasn’t just that a business owner had insulted my sense of design… it was that Ezra Baptiste had belittled me.
Another email came in while I stared at Ezra’s. The email was from my boss, Henry the Little Tucker, and had Ethan Baker cc’d. I opened it with a touch of my finger and zero fear or uncertainty.
I scanned the work details, noting our meeting time tomorrow. Henry sent a second email before I’d finished the first one. When I opened it, I had to pause at the oddity of it. He was apparently back to being inappropriate. I deleted it as soon as I finished reading, Really looking forward to working with you on this, sweetheart. Let’s kick some Black Soul ass.
Wrinkling my nose, I somehow found it easier to open Ezra’s email after reading Henry’s. Although it took me a second to see the words. It was hard to shake off the creepy feeling Henry managed to vibe my way through email.
It was probably nothing. He just wanted this account to do well. So did Ethan and me. There wasn’t anything to read into. I decided to forget it ever happened and never bring it up again. There. Done.
Denial was a sign of maturity, right?
I blinked and Ezra’s concise and unexpected email came into focus.
To:
[email protected] From:
[email protected] Date: February 20, 2017 19:48:22 EST
Subject: Friday Night Confirmation
Molly,
I never confirmed that I would get Killian and Vera to the restaurant. I’ve got it covered so don’t worry about it.
I also reached out to my florist and she will be in touch with you tomorrow.
What are your thoughts on wine? Would you
like to look over my cellar? I have time this week, but I’ll need to schedule in advance.
Let me know,
Ezra
P.S. The temperature isn’t supposed to get above thirty tomorrow. Wear a coat.
I read the email three more times. And then another three times for good measure.
Was he serious?
I rolled over and contemplated forwarding the email to Vera. This situation seemed like it needed a second opinion. But then Vera was all in love right now and she might not see everything with clear eyes.
Her vision was currently clouded with hearts and wedding bells.
And it would ruin the surprise of her surprise engagement party.
Wear a coat.
Ezra Baptiste. Businessman, restaurateur, weatherman.
After twenty more minutes of staring at my phone until the battery icon turned red and I had to plug it in, I decided on my reply.
To:
[email protected] From:
[email protected] Date: February 20, 2017 21:58:52 EST
Subject: Friday Night Affirmation
Dear Ezra…
Dear Mr. Baptiste…
Jerkface…
To whom it may concern…
Ezra,
Thanks for getting the happy couple to Lilou. I really appreciate everything you’re doing for the party. I’m sure your florist knows exactly what she’s doing. She can just do her thing. If she’s taking it over, I don’t think I need to be involved with that part. As for the wine, I have zero thoughts. I’ll defer to your expertise. Unless you don’t have time. Then we can just make Wyatt do it.
See you Friday.
MM.
Also, in case you’re interested, I’m wearing a blouse tomorrow. And a pencil skirt. But no plans for a coat so far.
I pressed send before I could overthink it. Although in hindsight, I probably could have come up with something way wittier had I given it a few more minutes.
Refusing to dwell on it, I turned off my phone and shut off my lamp. Of course, it took me another hour and a half to fall asleep. And when I finally did, I dreamed of a strong jaw and a better brush that would get the arc of his eyebrows right and the curve of his barely there smile. I dreamed of dark, dark eyes and a weird fascination with my coat.
I woke up regretting my late-night email and wishing I cared about wine, and flowers, and Black Soul Records.
I also woke to a simple, concise, infuriating email.
To:
[email protected] From:
[email protected] Date: February 21, 2017 01:19:38 EST
Subject: Re: Friday Night Affirmation
Stubborn woman.
Chapter Four
“You’re officially dead to me.”
Vera collapsed against the wall gasping for breath. “I’m officially dead,” she panted.
I wiped my sweaty forehead with the back of my hand and glared at her. “I can’t feel my legs.”
“I can’t feel my butt,” she countered.
“I can feel mine way too much. After what I just went through I’m pretty sure that machine owes me dinner.”
Vera giggled, but it was weak and breathless. We’d walked out of spin class like pros, high-fiving random strangers on the way, and sipping from our water bottles like we could care less about hydration.
But once we’d turned the corner, we’d let our true colors shine. I couldn’t suck down my water fast enough, and someone had crawled inside my body and lit my lungs on fire. Owie.
“Maybe spin class was a bad idea,” Vera relented. “We should have at least started in the beginner’s class.”
My eyes bulged. “That wasn’t the beginner’s class?”
“Does that make it better or worse?”
I glared at her. “Vera, I can’t move my body. My muscles have gone on strike.” Demonstrating my point, I waved my foot around weakly before dropping it back to the ground. “You could have at least warned me that I was facing an expert level class.”
“What would that have mattered?” she laughed.
I lifted my chin stubbornly. “Because then I could have prepared.”
“By getting in shape in less than twelve hours?”
“By running away to Mexico where you couldn’t find me.”
She rolled her eyes, grabbed my hand and tugged me toward the locker room. “Come on, lazy bones. I’ll buy you breakfast off the dollar menu to make up for it.”
Vera’s promise of McDonald’s was the extra burst of energy I needed to survive the walk to the showers. I stood under the hot stream for longer than I should have, and still my motor skills were jerky at best when I emerged and tried valiantly to get dressed. Thank goodness the workout we’d survived was all legs because my makeup could have ended in disaster if my arms were as tired as my trembling thighs.
“Did you even go to sleep last night?” I asked Vera as she leaned forward with an open mouth to apply her mascara.
She moved the wand away from her face so she could yawn. “For a couple hours. I thought opening a food truck was a lot of work. It’s nothing compared to the restaurant.”
“Have you and Killian decided on a name yet?”
She snorted. “Nope. Right now, we’re bouncing between Verian, which is our two names squished together, and The Blue Table, which has no significance whatsoever, but it sounds cool.”
“I like both of them,” I told her. “Verian is clever.”
“Cheesy,” she corrected. “It’s super cheesy. But I don’t mind the sound of it.”
I smiled at my reflection while I applied lip stain. “You know what you should name it, right?”
Turning her head, she looked at me. “What’s that?”
“Salt,” I told her, referring to one of Killian’s very first interactions with her cooking. “Just call it Salt.” Expecting her to laugh with me, I was surprised when she didn’t. “I’m just kidding,” I added quickly.
She slammed her palm against my shoulder like she was high-fiving my clavicle. My poor, abused legs wobbled, but miraculously didn’t give out. “Molly, you’re a freaking genius!”
“Huh?”
“Salt. It’s brilliant. Fucking brilliant! I can’t believe we didn’t think of it sooner.”
“Are you serious?”
Her head bobbed wildly. “So serious. It’s simple and memorable and so meaningful to us. It’s seriously the best name I’ve ever heard.”
My lips lifted in a proud smile. Having worked in marketing for so long, I knew she was right. Salt sounded cool. It broadcasted like the trendy new restaurant taking the city by storm that it was. Of course, with Killian and Vera at the helm, that was always the restaurant’s destiny, but a stellar name would give it that extra something special that would keep people talking about it.
She had already pulled out her phone and called Killian before I could say another word. “He’s probably sleeping,” she muttered distractedly.
It was only seven-thirty in the morning. Which for them was practically the middle of the night. Killian and Vera were basically nocturnal. They started work when most of us got off, and stayed well into the early morning hours to clean up and shut down.
Currently, they were working to open a gorgeous new space where they would cook side by side, leading the city to new heights of culinary genius. For now, before they officially opened, their lives had somewhat balanced out. But understandably, after so many years working in busy kitchens night after night, neither one of them could really give up the late-night life.
“Salt!” Vera practically shouted into the phone as soon as she heard Killian’s sleep-roughened voice.
I heard him grunt out a confused, “Wha?”
“Salt,” she squealed. “For the restaurant. Let’s call it Salt!”
The next time he spoke, his voice sounded much more alert. Vera began prattling off how it was my idea, but also how it was perfect. She moved to the side of the locker room for
some privacy. And some space. She always used her hands to talk. When she was this excited she was bound to give someone a black eye if she wasn’t careful.
I finished my makeup and gave my bangs a little extra TLC. I’d pulled the rest of my long hair into a bun at the nape of my neck, hoping to look professional for my first day on the Black Soul project. I’d also gone with the exact outfit I’d described to Ezra in my email last night.
My plum pencil skirt hit just below my knees and molded to my body over thighs and a butt that still burned. I’d paired it with a gray long-sleeve, ruffled blouse and matching gray pumps. And because it was winter and cold outside, I’d even worn pantyhose. The kind with the seam running up the back of the leg because, obviously, I needed extra incentive to get myself into pantyhose.
I added some jewelry, and checked the lines of my tucked in shirt making sure the frills lay nicely and hadn’t been waywardly placed. Staring at myself in the locker room mirror under terrible lighting and with not enough sleep, I wondered what was missing. Because something wasn’t totally right.
My makeup was on point, and my style trendy enough to get by. My hair was tamed today, and my nails had been recently manicured. I looked how I was supposed to look for the job I was supposed to have.
Sure, there were things that I would change about myself if I could. I’d always thought my nose was too upturned and my eyes too big beneath my small forehead—which was why I did the whole bang thing. I definitely wouldn’t have complained about bigger boobs or hips that had some flare. There was a scar on my collarbone that I liked to keep hidden. It was from when Vera and I were kids and Vann thought he was a ninja. Vann still apologized for the throwing star incident to this day.
Anyway, there were definitely things about me that I would change. But this missing something was hard to pinpoint. It didn’t feel physical to me. It was deeper than that. Trickier than that.
My chest ached as I examined myself and nibbled on my bottom lip, hoping to figure out why I couldn’t just be happy with where my life was. Why couldn’t I just be happy for my best friend without having this existential crisis in which I questioned every single life choice I’d ever made?