Opposites Attract: The complete box set

by Higginson, Rachel

  We were forced to interact with each other thanks to our mutual friends, but in the last few months I’d gotten really good at avoiding him. Not that it was hard. He owned three successful restaurants in Durham and co-owned a fourth. He was wealthy and busy, and it was weird that we knew the same people.

  He was all cool, important businessman. Most days, I felt like I was playing dress-up as an adult. I paid bills, went to work, and lived alone. Yet nothing about my life fit well, like when I was a little girl and would try on my mom’s dresses.

  Ezra was a man that knew who he was and what he wanted in life. I was just a girl trying to figure out how to check my own oil.

  He led me through the kitchen and around the corner to his office. I thought about bolting out the front doors. Would he chase after me? No. He was too composed for that. Sue me for being a public nuisance? Maybe. Was it worth it though?

  I sucked in my bottom lip and decided that yes, yes it was. But then I remembered I needed to talk to him about the party. The party he was hosting at his restaurant. So I reluctantly faced my fears and followed him inside the small, but organized office space.

  He turned around and propped his hands on his hips. He looked so elegant in his suit, even with the jacket discarded over the back of his chair and his tie loosened around his neck. I had the strangest urge to run my thumb over his cheekbone.

  I shivered, shaking off that oddly sympathetic instinct.

  Needing to remind myself of who this man was, I spoke before he could. “I’m sorry, Ezra. It won’t happen again.”

  He stared at me. “I hope you understand that I can’t have non-employees hanging out in my kitchen during business hours. The health inspector would love to catch you in there just to shut me down.”

  Guilt mingled with shame and my heart pinched with regret. I held my hands up. “I get it. Really.”

  Looking out the door, then back at me, he let out a slow breath. “So are you ready for Friday? Do you need anything else from me?”

  It had been Wyatt’s idea to host the party at Lilou and he’d been the one to approach Ezra about it. I had kicked myself every day for letting him talk me into it. Sure, it would be extra special to Vera and Killian, but what about me? All I got out of it was an awkward conversation with this guy, and a whole helping of guilt for how much more Wyatt and Ezra were contributing.

  I mean, it was my party, and so far, I’d sent out invitations and found a cute new dress on clearance.

  “I think we’re ready. I’ll be here Friday afternoon to set up decorations as long as that works for you?” He nodded. “Are you sure it’s not a problem to close Lilou for an entire night? I feel awful.”

  He expression relaxed, softened. “I’m happy to help.”

  I wanted to argue with him, but I held my tongue. He had been the one to offer the date. He’d picked Friday night, not me.

  Steeling my courage, I asked one more favor of him. “There is just one more thing,” I started. His dark eyes narrowed and his lips thinned. “I’m not exactly sure how to get them here. I’m wondering if you would make up an excuse and invite them over? Or call them with some big, fake emergency that you can’t handle without them?”

  Ezra Baptiste was the very definition of tall, dark and handsome. His hair was always trimmed neatly and combed in a way that screamed important. His jaw was always cleanly shaven, and his clothes always perfectly tailored and expertly pressed. He was basically the exact opposite of his best friend Killian.

  But right now he looked utterly bewildered, erasing all of that sophisticated aloofness he worked so hard to pull off. “You want me to call them?”

  “Or text,” I offered. “Whatever way works best for you. Just make up a foolproof reason for them to hurry over here.”

  “You should probably do it,” he argued. “That seems like something you’d be good at.”

  What did he mean by that? That I was good at lying? “What excuse could I possibly have for them to meet me at Lilou?”

  His jaw ticked. “I don’t like lying to my friends.”

  I cleared my throat, hating the way he made me feel guilty for trying to surprise our friends with an awesome party. I was doing a good thing, I reminded myself. It wasn’t even really lying. “Then don’t lie. Tell them you have a surprise for them. It will be the truth.”

  “That will ruin the night.”

  I placed my hands on my hips, mimicking his stand-offish pose. “Forget I asked. I’ll figure it out.”

  “Now you’re mad,” he accused.

  “I’m not mad.” I was totally pissed. “There’s nothing to be mad about.” Except that he was being unnecessarily difficult when all I wanted him to do was shoot Killian a text that said, hey come over here for a minute. “I thought it would make more sense coming from you, but it’s not a big deal.”

  He stared at me for a long moment before he said, “Do you have a coat?”

  “What?”

  “A coat,” he repeated. “Did you leave it in the kitchen?”

  “Er, no.” Trying to recover from conversational whiplash, I explained, “I didn’t wear one. I came straight from work.” I also hated coats. Sure, it was frigid outside and my car would be an icebox by the time I left, but coats always got in my way. I had a long, cashmere duster on over my rosy pink blouse and gray trousers, and that was enough for me. Plus, my office was hot as Hades in the winter and even if I wore a sweater to work, I usually shed it before lunchtime.

  Ezra scowled at me but didn’t press the coat issue.

  “So we’re good for Friday?” I asked, hoping to wrap this up. I had an exciting night of eating supper alone and washing my hair ahead of me that I was anxious to start.

  “What decorations are you going to use?”

  Another topic shift and I felt dizzy trying to keep up with him. I just wanted to go home, heat up a cup of soup, and binge watch bad reality TV. “Nothing too extravagant,” I told him. “Lilou is pretty enough. But I wanted to grab some flowers for the tables, and I have some pictures and stuff I want to display.”

  “I have a florist,” he volunteered. “You don’t need to worry about flowers unless you want to.”

  “Oh, it’s not a big—”

  “She’s used to the space,” he continued. “I’ll call her now.”

  Translation: Don’t bring your crappy carnations into my pristine sanctuary.

  “I don’t want to add to your plate,” I offered weakly.

  He moved around to the back of his desk. Picking up his cell, he started scrolling through his contacts. “Did you have a specific flower in mind?”

  “Vera loves peonies,” I heard myself say. “But it’s February so I was going to see what was available.”

  He nodded, absorbing the information. “Color scheme?”

  “Red,” I told him. “I found these vintage spice racks that are flat with slots in them. I was going to use them as centerpieces.”

  “Here, write down your email address and I’ll send you the florist’s info. You can drop off the spice racks before Friday and she’ll handle all the details.”

  I numbly picked up the white pad of paper and scrawled my email address for him. I should have stood up to him more, and told him I had the flowers and the decorations covered. But I was intimidated.

  Severely intimidated.

  He took the notepad back and inspected my email address as though I’d given him a fraud. He looked up at me and I could see wheels spinning in his head. He had something to say and it was anybody’s guess what that was.

  “There’s one more thing,” he said.

  A nervous flutter trembled in my stomach. “What is that?”

  He opened his mouth to answer just as the cellphone in his hand went off. He glared down at the screen and let out an impatient sigh. “I have to take this,” he murmured.

  I could recognize a brush off when it was aimed directly at me. “No problem. I’ll see you Friday. You have my email if you need anything else.
”

  I turned to look at him as I walked away. He glanced up at me from across the room and I was once again hit with how attractive this man was. Usually, personality meant more to me than looks, but Ezra apparently didn’t need a sparkling temperament for me to find him striking. I wanted to paint him. I wanted to capture that consternated expression on his face by immortalizing it on canvas.

  His thumb swiped over his phone, answering the call before I’d left the office. “Bye, Ezra,” I whispered to his stoic face. He didn’t respond.

  Turning around at the door to his office I fled Lilou, his part of town, and this whole entire day.

  Three

  I grabbed a bottle of wine on the way home and uncorked it as soon as I walked in the door. My sixth-floor apartment on the edge of downtown was cute, mostly affordable, and close to work. I had moved in two years ago when I finally trusted that my salary at STS wasn’t going to suddenly disappear.

  It was supposed to be this big landmark of adulthood. I had a full-time job and my own place, yay! Except mostly it felt lonely. And I wasn’t one of those girls that needed people around me all the time. I liked space. I liked privacy. But there was something about living alone that had started to feel… isolated. Like it wasn’t my choice anymore.

  I was thinking about getting a cat.

  After my promised cup of soup, I tried watching something on Netflix, but I couldn’t settle on any one show. I set down the remote when I’d spent forty-five minutes scrolling through the endlessly mediocre options. There were only so many times a girl could binge watch The Office without demanding her very own Jim Halpert from the universe. And nobody wanted bitter Pam walking around in real life.

  My afternoon played on repeat in my head, until I’d poured myself another glass of wine and given up trying to dissect why getting the project I wanted badly felt so very empty. Black Soul would be a huge step forward for my career. I’d already spent weeks mentally devising an advertising plan that was both relevant and original.

  This was the thing that was going to solidify my place at SixTwentySix, gain respect from my coworkers and make Mr. Tucker finally remember my name. But now that it was go time, I second guessed my life goals. Was this really living the dream? Could I really spend the rest of my life making social media packets for people that didn’t understand the proper use of hashtags?

  Sidenote: #iateasaladforlunch is a useless hashtag.

  Second sidenote: #hashtag— also useless.

  But you try explaining the term “searchable content” to anyone not carrying a millennial card. And yet I always got stuck with outdated clients that refused to grow their business with the “pound sign.”

  I gnawed on my bottom lip while I moved my glass and cell phone to my office. Well, office-ish space. I’d intended to set up the second bedroom with a desk, bookshelves, and if I was feeling frisky, a fern. Instead, I kept my laptop on my coffee table, my work odds and ends in a drawer in the kitchen and my books in waist-high stacks next to my bed.

  In this room I’d covered the floor with old sheets and propped an easel perpendicular to the windows. The small walk-in closet was filled with canvases of every size—some fresh, some finished, a few were somewhere in between.

  I had moved a folding table in here that I’d snagged at a garage sale in my parents’ neighborhood. I’d covered it in another sheet and used it to organize my paints, brushes and other odds and ends. The adjoining bathroom had been turned into a drying room—more cleaned brushes were laid out on every available surface.

  Vera called it my studio. But for me, it felt more like a guilty pleasure. An embarrassing hobby that sometimes cured boredom, sometimes became an outlet for frustration and disappointment, and sometimes was more important to me than breathing.

  But it wasn’t anything more than that. Once upon a time, I’d had an adolescent dream of becoming a world-famous painter, spending my days hovering over canvas, wielding a paintbrush and my soul as inspiration. But that was before I’d come to terms with necessary evils like bill-paying, car-owning, and meal-planning. I was a real grown-up now with a real, grown-up job. A job that I sometimes even liked. The whole starving-artist thing just wasn’t practical.

  I’d indulged my creative side throughout high school, and then done what most other artists did after graduation. I found a job in a loosely creative field and walked away from all of the other impractical daydreams that wouldn’t offer stability or consistent paychecks or a 401k.

  But on days like today, when I was reminded of how bad adulthood tasted and how desperately I wished I could run back to my younger years when I didn’t have to pay bills or live alone or wonder what men like Ezra Baptiste were really thinking, I quietly escaped to this sacred place and poured out all of these irrational, conflicting thoughts onto stark, white, glorious canvas. In essence, I stopped thinking altogether.

  My landlord had tried to sell me on a roommate when I first moved in, but the thought of dealing with another person day in and day out sounded exhausting. And when I’d leased this place, Vera had still been in Charlotte. She was the only human I could imagine sharing a living space with for longer than three days.

  But now she had Killian for that.

  Their relationship was another current event that turned funny in my gut. I was so happy for my friend. Like beyond happy. Like maxed out with happiness. Vera deserved every single second of bliss and marriage and happily ever after. She had been through absolute hell with Derrek, and Killian was so perfect for her in every way. They were #relationshipgoals to the extreme. See that proper use of a hashtag? Suck it Green City Mowing.

  So why did I feel left behind?

  I pulled a hair tie off my wrist and piled my long mane of nearly black hair onto the top of my head. Fiddling with my bangs until they were out of my way, I stripped out of work clothes and threw on the over-sized t-shirt a past boyfriend from college had never claimed. Not that I’d offered to give it back.

  There were zero lingering feelings for Brady… Brady… Brady-something. But his high school football t-shirt was large and super comfortable and something I was unwilling to part with.

  I went about preparing my paints and setting up a fresh canvas on the easel, replacing the latest portrait I’d been working on. I had been in the middle of a winter sunset. Pinks, oranges, and deep purples streaked across a sky filled with thin gray clouds. The sun was an orange globe over a downtown Durham dusted with layers of white snow that had never actually fallen this year. Windows glowed in yellow light and the streets below were… still a work in progress.

  I had plans to finish the piece, adding people and vehicles and all the little details I loved about my city. My fingers itched to deepen the sun, blur the edges and streak the pastels with richer color. But I didn’t have a sunset in me tonight. It was cold outside, but there was no snow and my thoughts were wild and disorganized and I didn’t want to paint something beautiful.

  I needed raw and vulnerable and confused.

  I needed to unleash these erratic emotions and turn them into something I could see, fix, and then abandon.

  My fingers trembled as I picked up my brush, so I gripped it harder, digging the end of it into my palm. Sitting down on the very edge of my stool, I gave up fighting internal battles and turned them over to the canvas. It was more than cathartic. It was healing and thinking and soothing all at the same time.

  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?