The Difference Between Us

by Rachel Higginson

In recent years, he’d had sporadic part time work with a tree service, but he wasn’t exactly a spry twenty-something-year-old. Manual labor was hard for him at his age. So he’d given that up, to try his hand at selling boats.

  He’d managed that for eight months.

  My heart dropped to my toes like it was made of stone. I grasped at my chest where there was only a gaping hole now. “He’ll find another job, Mom,” I assured her in an insistent whisper. “He always does.”

  She didn’t turn around. She didn’t even flinch. “At least you’re not here anymore,” she said.

  I focused on the napkins again. I didn’t know what she meant by that. Maybe she was happy I didn’t have to carry these burdens anymore, that I didn’t have to watch my dad spiral into depression as he tortured himself for not being able to keep work like most other people. Or maybe she was happy she didn’t have another mouth to feed and body to take care of. Maybe she was just glad she had one less thing to worry about now.

  “If you need help, Mom, I can—”

  Her hand snapped up cutting my words off, stiff as a board. “No, we don’t need help. Especially not from our daughter. You got your bills to pay, and that new car of yours, so don’t you even think about us. This is your father’s mess. Let him figure out what we’re going to do.”

  The hole in my chest widened, cracking my body cavity with dense fissures that spread like disease all the way to my toes. “Well, just let me know if I can help,” I said stubbornly. “You’ve taken care of me my entire life, it’s important for me to be able to help you.”

  “Molly Nichole, it’s my job to take care of you.”

  And there it was, the confusion that always bit at my skin, like little stinging gnats. Was that all I was to her? An obligation? Another job where she had to pick up all of my dad’s slack?

  I accidentally bent the neck of my crane napkin. I tried to fix it, but the napkin wasn’t stiff enough and I only made it worse.

  My dad’s heavy footsteps could be heard ambling down the hallway. Without verbally discussing it, Mom and I shut down our job conversation and focused on our individual tasks.

  “Patty, have you seen my green t-shirt?” my dad started talking before he’d even reached the kitchen.

  “It’s in the laundry room,” my mother answered, still staring at her ham balls. “It’s dirty.”

  “Son of a bitch,” my dad grumbled in return. He turned the corner to the kitchen and stopped in his tracks, surprised to see me standing over his table. “Well, now, if it isn’t the most beautiful girl in North Carolina.”

  I looked up from my task and grinned at this man I wanted so desperately to be the hero instead of the villain in my life story. He was thin and gangly, but for his round belly stretched by his six-foot three-inch frame, made it an awkward effort for him to stay standing. He leaned against the doorframe and smiled back.

  “Hi, Daddy.”

  “Hey, kitten. Missed you.”

  I left the table to wrap my arms around his middle. “I missed you, too.”

  He kissed the top of my head and said the same thing he always said to me. “You know, I didn’t think this growing up thing all the way through. I didn’t think you’d move away and stay away. You were supposed to come back, Molly Monster.”

  I sniffled against him, feeling frustrated tears prick at the corners of my eyes. I would not let them fall, but the pain in my chest had become a crushing, shaking, life-smashing pain and it was all I could do to hold myself together for him.

  He smelled like cheap beer, Old Spice, and my dad. I squished my eyes closed and imprisoned every rogue tear.

  “I’m here now,” I told him. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

  He kissed my head again, not calling me on the lie. He knew I would miss this if I could. That I had missed plenty of invitations for supper with my parents. He knew I would rather be a hundred different places because so would he.

  “It’s ready,” my mom declared.

  Dad and I moved apart. He ambled over to his seat while I pulled water glasses down and filled them. My mom and I added ham balls—which sounded gross, but were, in fact, amazing—rice pilaf and lettuce salad to the table. Once we were all seated, we began passing the food around.

  “Well, Molly Monster, let’s hear it. Tell us all about your life,” my dad demanded with his rich, warm voice. “Who are the boys that are chasing after you?”

  Just like that I was transported to my twelve-year-old body that had no idea what to do with boobs or how to get my knees to stop being so knobby. “There aren’t any boys,” I answered honestly. “I’ve decided to focus on cats instead.”

  I always assumed my mom was uninterested in this conversation or at the very least rebelliously uncooperative. But tonight, she surprised me by asking, “I thought you had a date with someone last week?”

  “No, not in months. I’ve given up going on dates forever and ever amen for now. I always end up with refreshed disappointment with the human race as a whole,” I corrected. “I hung out with Wyatt and Vann last week. Is that what you’re thinking of?”

  “Now what’s wrong with Vann?” Dad asked. This wasn’t the first time or the hundredth time he’d tried to convince me to go after Vann. Since I was a kid, dad had constantly been pushing me toward him. “He’s a nice boy. And he won’t disappoint you like the rest of them poor bastards.”

  I smiled patiently at my dad. “Vann and I are never going to happen, daddy. We’re friends. Nothing more.”

  My mother’s left eyebrow rose. “What about the other one?”

  “Wyatt? He’s a friend too.”

  “All these friends,” my mother tsked. “You say they’re good guys, but you’re never interested in them. Maybe you’re too picky for your own good, Molly Nichole.”

  I was definitely that. “Is it so bad to be picky?”

  “Of course not,” my dad assured me.

  My mom’s voice hardened and she threw surreptitious glares at my dad from across the table. “Of course, be picky. You’re not in a hurry. Just make sure they do what they’re saying to do. Don’t just listen to the words they say or believe them at their word. Most of the time those mean nothing. Find a hard worker, Molly. Find someone that’s going to work hard all his life.”

  “Patty,” my dad growled, picking up on the dig. “Is that really necessary?”

  My mom’s unrelenting stare jerked to him. “I just want her to be careful, Tom. Decisions have consequences. Or have you forgotten?”

  My dad’s teeth clicked together and he gritted out, “Oh, I’m perfectly versed in consequences. My entire life is built on a house of consequences.”

  “So maybe you should stop encouraging her to go out on these dates. We don’t want her to marry the first guy that asks and get stuck with someone that can’t carry their share of the burden.”

  “I got a new project!” I announced as cheerfully as any human was capable of. “There might be a promotion of sorts at the end of it!” And by promotion, I loosely hoped people would start noticing me.

  So like a social promotion.

  “That’s nice, kitten,” my dad mumbled.

  “You already told me about it,” my mom muttered.

  I pushed my ham ball around, my appetite disintegrating. “Well, it’s a big deal.”

  “Is this about work, Patty?” my dad demanded. He jabbed his fork down in a ham ball so it stood up straight on his plate. “You’re still pissed off that I got canned? If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a hundred times, the company couldn’t support four salesmen! There’s only room for two or three and the jobs go to the guys that have been there the longest.”

  My mother leaned forward, a dark storm cloud brewing over her head. “It’s not about this job, Tom. It’s not about this one! It’s about all of them!”

  “Oh, for crying out loud!” My dad shoved back from the table, his plate rocking precariously in protest. “I am so sick of your holier than thou attitude about this, Patty.�
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  “You’re sick of me?” my mom railed. “Of me?!”

  And on and on it went. I felt sick to my stomach, but I forced myself to eat, knowing it would be worse if I didn’t. I tuned out the familiar fight and focused on counting my bites of food, and sipping my water as slowly as possible. I drew little pictures in the sweet sauce that went over the ham balls with the tip of my fork. I didn’t engage. And I didn’t speak. I simply listened and endured and waited for the moment I could slip away unnoticed.

  Eventually my mom stood up from the table and started clearing the dishes, and my dad stomped back to the bedroom with a few more beers in hand. Mom would spend the rest of the night regretting every minute of her life up until now while she furiously cleaned the kitchen. And dad would drink until he passed out in a blissful heap of unconsciousness. They would go to bed, not really recognizing their dysfunction. Or at least not caring enough to do anything about it. And then tomorrow it would start all over again.

  I was the one that would carry this with me when I left, that would wrestle with it all night and tomorrow, and on and on, forever. I would tuck it into the imaginary backpack I’d carried since I was a child and add it to all the other memories like this one that have never left me.

  Tomorrow, I would go to work and I would bust my ass to do the very best I could at every single element of my job. I would make a conscious effort not to end up like my dad who didn’t value a steady job or a bright future. And I would vow to never to turn into my mother who never let my dad hear the end of it, who didn’t care about whatever ailment he had that wouldn’t let him work or kept him from being successful. I would swear to myself that I would never be a nag or cruel for the purpose of being cruel.

  I would love my parents always, but I would never let myself become them.

  As for tonight? I would paint.

  I all but crawled back to my apartment after I left my parents. I thought about a bottle of wine, but then I remembered my dad carrying half a six pack back to his room and couldn’t stomach the idea of drowning my own sorrows in alcohol too.

  So instead, I settled for my favorite playlist, a Diet Coke, and my paints. Despite work in the morning and an irresponsible agreement to meet Vera at the gym even earlier than that, I didn’t leave my canvas until after eleven.

  And when I had finally finished purging my emotions and frustrations, and expelling everything I didn’t say or think or want anyone to know, I stumbled back from my easel and sucked in a steadying breath.

  For once, it wasn’t a version of Ezra staring back at me. I hadn’t focused on minute details of eyes or lashes or lips. I hadn’t bothered to make anything lifelike, eye-catching, or pretty.

  Instead, it was all slashes of bright paint. Red, blue, and yellow. Splotches of orange, green, and black.

  And then just black, and black, and black.

  And red on top of that.

  And so much color in places it hurt my eyes and then so much more color everything turned black and I wanted to weep.

  I left my brushes without washing them and my palette without cleaning it. I turned my back on the room, not having the energy to deal with it tonight.

  The mess would wait for me until morning, just like this room and all of the paintings that remained in it.

  I leaned against the doorframe for a long minute, examining the room with tired, frustrated eyes. Part of me wanted to walk away from painting forever. For a hobby, it was a painful one. It demanded too much of my soul, forced me to admit too much of myself. And then it put all of those pieces and parts of me I tried so desperately to keep hidden on display for everyone to see.

  On the other hand, yes it was a hobby, but it also felt like so much more. It felt deeper and more stable than anything else in my life. But most of all, it felt like the lifeline back to sanity I needed so desperately.

  When I finally fell asleep it was with tears in my eyes, but if you would have asked me why I was crying, I wouldn’t have been able to tell you.

  Maybe it was for my parents that couldn’t even be decent to each other.

  Maybe it was for myself and my perpetual state of singlehood, the inability to find a decent guy, and the very real prospect that I was going to be alone for the rest of my life.

  Or maybe it was for the art that meant so much to me, the creative outlet I relied so heavily upon to heal the broken pieces of my spirit.

  Maybe it was because I knew I didn’t have the ability to fix any of the things that haunted me. I couldn’t mend my parents’ marriage or make them respect each other. I couldn’t make Mr. Right suddenly show up in my life and sweep me off my feet. I couldn’t make Mr. Tucker give me lead on a good account. I couldn’t make my coworkers respect me and take my ideas seriously.

  From where I sat everything felt impossible. Everything except painting.

  Chapter Eleven

  Monday morning the office drummed with the beat of a funeral dirge. Any other day of the week, people moved around with a spark in their step, hurried with the drive to get the job done, overwhelmed with all they needed to do before lunch.

  But not on Mondays.

  Instead of the insistent, purposeful buzzing of the rest of the week, people stumbled from their desk to printers, guzzling coffee as they went. Their expressions were droopy and insincere, and their eyes slowly blinked with the memories of a beloved weekend that had died very suddenly the night before.

  Usually, I enjoyed the amusement of Monday morning. Emily and I would play Guess Who’s Hungover over our second, third and fourth cups of coffee and laugh at our Monday-oppressed coworkers.

  But this morning, after a fitful night’s sleep and a stressful weekend, I was the worst of the worst. I didn’t have a case of the Mondays, I had the bubonic plague of the Mondays.

  This was how the zombie apocalypse would start. I was person zero.

  “You look like the Grim Reaper’s undead bride.” Emily sympathized as I plopped into my chair across the aisle from her.

  I waved her off. “Stop with the compliments already. You’re making me blush.”

  She pushed her chair over to my desk, her four-inch stilettos clicking across the bamboo floor. “Seriously, Molly, are you sick? Hungover? Did something happen to Chris Pratt?”

  Giving her a look that reminded her not to joke about Chris Pratt, I took a shaky sip of my coffee and said simply, “I’m tired.”

  Emily’s eyes bugged. “This is more than tired. Girlfriend, you look like eight miles of hard road.”

  I mustered a laugh, even though I really wanted to slither off to the bathroom and cry. “I just need coffee.” Tipping my to-go triple espresso latte at her, I added, “This is my first cup.”

  “Well, drink it quickly,” she warned. “Rumor has it there is a very important potential client here to see you.”

  Perking up at her announcement, I rolled my neck and tried to will energy into my limp appendages. “Black Soul?”

  She shook her head. “No, someone new.”

  My coffee hit my stomach with a weird gurgle and I abruptly felt nauseous. “You didn’t get a name?”

  Her eyebrows danced over her very expressive eyes. “Only that he asked for you specifically.”

  “He who?”

  Emily shook her head, her lavender hair bouncing around her shoulders. “Molly, I have no idea.” She leaned forward pressing the back of her hand to my clammy forehead. “Are you sure you’re okay? You look white as a ghost all of sudden.”

  My desk phone rang and I made a squealy noise and flailed in my chair. Ignoring Emily’s deeper expression of concern, I reached for my phone and answered as confidently as I could. “Th-this is Molly Maverick.”

  “Hi, Molly,” Mr. Tucker’s secretary greeted pleasantly. “Mr. Tucker would like you to join him in his office. There is a client here to see you.”

  “Oh.” I silently fretted and worried my bottom lip as I tried to think of an excuse to leave for the day. Or maybe I would just quit. A s
inking feeling of intuition had snaked through my gut, warning me that going to Tucker’s office would be a giant mistake. “I’ll be right there.”

  I hung up the phone and gripped my travel mug with two hands, bringing it to my lips for a steadying gulp of lukewarm coffee. “Is it too late to call in sick?”

  Emily glanced down the aisle and then back at me. “What is going on, Molly? You’re making me nervous.”

  “I’m fine.” I lied. “I’ll be fine.” Another lie.

  The heat kicked on over my head, sending a puff of stifling air all around me. Beads of sweat popped up around my hairline and I desperately wanted to start shedding layers. I immediately regretted the rose pink blazer I wore over my white blouse. I couldn’t take it off because I’d stupidly worn a paisley print bra that my thin shirt would be helpless to hide.

  Why did I make such bad decisions before coffee?

  With one last long sip, I stood up from my desk, grabbed my notebook, thick planner and a Tic-Tac. I stuck a pen in the base of my high bun and waved goodbye to Emily. She stayed at my desk to watch me walk away, a look of worried consternation on her pretty face. Shooting her a confident smile, I had to admit that I was acting a bit crazy—even by my standards.

  Mr. Tucker’s secretary, Teresa, waved me through to his office where my worst nightmare came true. I tried not to make a face even though I mentally admitted to myself that I should have seen this coming.

  I should have known he wouldn’t take no for an answer.

  I should have realized that as a general rule, STS would be thrilled to land a high-profile client like him.

  Ezra Baptiste.

  He sat across from Mr. Tucker looking way too suave for his own good. His long legs were crossed casually showcasing his tailored charcoal dress pants. His hands rested in his lap, an expensive watch blinking from his wrist. His strong torso leaned back in the chair, clothed in a layered black sweater that molded perfectly to his too-toned body, a white dress shirt poking out at his wrists and collar. His hair had been styled, laying in expert waves that begged fingers to run through it or brush it back or grab it and pull it and...