The Difference Between Us

by Rachel Higginson

  “We’ll keep that just between you and me.” His head dipped down and he pressed a slow-burning, heart-stopping, over-too-quick kiss on my lips. “Goodnight, Molly the Maverick.”

  Then he stepped back and jogged the distance to his car while I was left internally flailing as I fell and fell and fell down an endless well of uncharted territory.

  I stepped inside my building and went straight up to my studio. If ever there had been a reason to paint, a gentle kiss by a man like Ezra Baptiste was it.

  So, paint I did. Until I couldn’t keep my eyes open. Until my fingers were stiff and my back ached. Until, without any of the details or specs, I had the perfect idea for Ezra’s mural.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Sunday did not go anything like I wanted it to. I hadn’t realized how much work I had agreed to until I started to plan out all of my different projects for the week.

  As promised, Ezra had emailed the details of his mural along with dimensions and pictures of the space. I could see what he meant about the wall being awkward in his otherwise trendy restaurant. The artwork he’d picked nagged at my creative eye, demanding more of something. But that something was hard to put my finger on. Despite the sizes of the various pieces, they looked small in the big space.

  He’d included another picture of a design he’d tried in the past that had featured more artwork in an effort to fill the space, but that had only made it look cluttered and overly decorated.

  To his credit, a mural would be perfect. It would fill the wall without making it feel chaotic or overused. He wanted something attention grabbing and eye catching without trying too hard to be those things. I had the perfect idea. Well… if I could get it just right.

  I spent the majority of the afternoon sketching ideas, still disbelieving that I’d actually agreed to do it. Especially considering the time I would have to spend at Bianca before and after hours.

  Ezra wanted the project done as quickly as possible, understanding my limitations both with my real job and his dining hours. We would set up screens until it was finished, but they weren’t ideal.

  We’d planned a time to meet this week so I could scout out the space in person. But knowing it would take weeks to finish, he wanted me to start next weekend.

  When I’d told Vera what Ezra asked of me, she hadn’t been fazed at all. “Obviously, he hired you,” she’d said. “Why wouldn’t he?”

  “It’s weird though, right?” I’d pressed. “He’s stalking my professions.”

  “You’re the best, Molls. He recognizes that. He wants it for his businesses. You should feel flattered.”

  She was right. And I did feel flattered. But I also felt too hot and breathless with nerves and maybe like I was going to puke at any given moment.

  Working for Ezra Baptiste was this strange dichotomy of receiving major opportunities, but also getting gigantic chances to screw everything up in the biggest way possible on the biggest stage possible in front of the biggest audience possible.

  I still couldn’t believe I’d demanded he butt out of his EFB account. What had I been thinking? Was I really planning on handling that entire account all on my own?

  My computer made a sound, alerting me that I had a new email. I jumped at the sound, afraid it was Ezra firing me already. He’d come to his senses.

  Only it wasn’t Ezra, it was the little Tucker. He wanted to schedule a meeting first thing in the morning. We had things to go over. He needed updates on where I was with the Black Soul account. We were meeting with them face-to-face for the first time this week, and we had to prepare strategically.

  Realizing, I wasn’t nearly where I should be with that project, I took a minute to panic. Shooting back an email full of false bravado, I agreed to the meeting. Then, I abandoned Ezra’s mural and dove into my real job.

  Black Soul was the project that would change things for me, I reminded myself. This was the one that would be the foundation of a lifelong career. This was the one that should be getting all of my attention.

  I played around with graphics and fonts and the exact measurements for every single detail. It was tedious and precise and I drove myself crazy with over-the-top perfectionism. But the wrong font could mean the difference between a wild success and utter failure. Same with the right placement. Even the slightest degree one way or the other could mean a graphic I had slaved over, poured myself into and placed all my hopes and dreams in could totally bomb.

  The key to graphic design wasn’t natural talent. It was the patience to be totally, completely, obnoxiously anal with every minute detail. It wasn’t just the devil that lived in the details. Designers had real estate there too.

  My graphics were as perfect as humanly possible because I didn’t leave room for error. I would spend hours fussing over moving elements one degree at a time or finding just the right shade of a specific color.

  Painting was the same way. I couldn’t just slop something on canvas. I mixed paints until they were the exact shade I’d imagined. I meticulously added details and color and with slow, painstaking care breathed life into what was once flat, white space.

  I took nothing and created something.

  When my eyes started to cross, I decided it was time for a break. I stood up, stretching my hunched shoulders and worried over the hump I knew I was growing.

  This was why I would be single for the rest of my life. Give me another five years and I was going to be a living, breathing cosplay of the Hunchback of Notre Dame. Another Disney reference? You’re welcome.

  I walked over to my kitchen and grabbed a bottle of water from my fridge. I rummaged around for something to eat, but there wasn’t anything except Greek yogurt and carrot sticks.

  The rumors were true, I was a terrible cook. It wasn’t that I had never been interested in learning how, but the kitchen was my mom’s space and she didn’t often invite visitors. The few times I had been allowed to help out, she’d been so obsessed with the mess and my mistakes that I’d been too afraid to try. Eventually, I gave up.

  In recent years, I’d asked Vera for help, but even she had been daunted by the amount of work it would take to teach me simple tasks. I couldn’t bring myself to take interest now. It had been ruined for me.

  Plus, I was really good at ordering takeout. Not to brag, but it was one of my top life skills.

  Opening my junk drawer, I rifled through the different menus that delivered in a reasonable amount of time, but nothing sounded good. What I really wanted was breakfast because that was what Sunday night needed. I didn’t want dishes or anything heavy. I just wanted… cereal.

  But the cupboards were bare. Also the milk was expired. I would have to leave the house. Which was a travesty.

  Stopping by the bathroom, I threw my wilder-than-usual hair into a messy bun on the very top of my head, not bothering with the specifics of making it look nice. I’d been working all day, so my outfit was straight from the I’ve-given-up-on-life-completely collection. Paint-stained yoga pants, and an off the shoulder sweatshirt I’d stolen from my dad and cut the collar off. Basically, I looked homeless.

  I grabbed my keys and my wallet and headed for the small market a couple of blocks away. The sun sat low in the sky, hidden by the tall buildings rising up on every side of me. I wrinkled my cold nose and hurried along quiet streets that had been abandoned for the evening.

  The market was quiet when I stepped inside. I shivered in the fresh warmth and inhaled the delicious smells coming from the deli. My stomach rumbled and I remembered why I was here.

  I snagged a basket next to the door and headed for the produce. Clementines were a staple in my kitchen, but mainly because I was irrationally terrified of scurvy. I could admit that I didn’t have the best diet, something Vann liked to remind me of constantly. But I’d be damned if I got scurvy because I didn’t get enough Vitamin C.

  I rounded the corner to the dairy section, wishing I’d grabbed a cart instead of a basket now that I had to tote around milk and oranges. And co
ffee creamer. Oh, and bagels. Also cream cheese. And some new yogurt I’d never tried before.

  Maybe I should go grocery shopping more often…

  “Molly?”

  Looking up, I came face to face with the prettiest blonde. She was dressed similarly to me because it was Sunday evening after all, only she looked less like she’d just gotten over the ten-day flu and more like she was modeling athleisure. Her hair was pulled over her shoulder in a braid and the yoga pants and long sleeve tee she wore were not stained or ill-fitting.

  She was the yin to my very badly dressed yang.

  “Hi,” I smiled at her, hoping I didn’t smell bad too.

  “Dillon.” She pointed at herself. “I don’t know if you remember me or not, but we met at Killian and Vera’s engagement party. I’m Ezra’s sister.”

  I nodded along, feeling weird that she was explaining herself to me. I felt like out of the two of us, I was the forgettable one. She made a very strong impression.

  “I remember,” I assured her. “So did you have a good time?”

  Her eyebrows drew down, reminding me of her brother. “Where?”

  “Er, at the engagement party?”

  “Oh, right! Yes, I did.” Her expression relaxed and her smile widened. “I always have a good time at parties. They’re like, my thing. If I could do them professionally, I would. Although Ezra’s head would probably explode.”

  We laughed together and then I realized this was a really good opportunity to covertly pry into Ezra’s life uninvited. Hey if he could stalk me at my jobs, a little secret spying on my end wasn’t going to hurt anybody.

  “He’s super intense about work, isn’t he?” I prompted.

  “For sure. He’s always been like that. Our dad was a workaholic too. I would swear it’s genetic except I’m the total opposite.”

  “You’re in culinary school though, right? Killian mentioned it Friday night when we hung out.”

  She nodded, patting the basket hooked over her forearm. “I’m almost finished actually. I just have this semester left.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Charlotte. CAI.”

  “Oh, my friend Vera went there. She loved it.”

  Dillon grinned. “Vera is basically my hero. I love her.”

  I smiled back, immediately endeared to anybody that loved the same people I did. “Me too.” I set my basket on the ground when it got too heavy to hold and resumed my snooping. “So, are you going to get Bianca after you graduate? I hear Ezra is having trouble finding an executive chef.”

  She glanced at the ceiling, again reminding me of her exasperated brother. “I wish. But there’s no way Ezra would trust me with executive chef. Or even sous chef. Honestly, I’ll be lucky if he lets me be a dishwasher in one of the three witches.”

  “The three witches?”

  “His restaurants,” she clarified. “It’s what I call them because he named them after three of the worst hags that I have ever met.”

  I felt my eyes bug, but there was little I could do to hide my surprise. “Are you serious?”

  “You have no idea. They were horrible women. They only cared about his money.”

  Swallowing a laugh, I admitted, “I always pictured these great, passionate love stories. I mean, he named famous restaurants after them! And the names are so… exotic.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Please, Ezra is not that exciting. He works too much to have erotic affairs. Really, they were just money hungry party girls that wouldn’t know a good man if he bit them in their lipo’d asses.”

  Dillon was this perfect mixture of stuck-up socialite blended with sass and genuine charm. I really liked her. “If they were so awful, why did he name restaurants after them?”

  She shrugged. “Revenge? To remind him of all the mistakes he’s made along the way? I honestly have no idea. He’s weird.”

  “I agree with that. He is weird.”

  Her smile wobbled. “But you like him, don’t you? I mean, you’re friends?”

  Not in the slightest.

  “Er, maybe? I don’t really know what we are, but friends doesn’t seem to fit us.”

  Her eyes brightened and she nodded enthusiastically. “You’re friends,” she decided. “He talks so highly of you. He’s always like, Molly this and Molly that and you should see what Molly did to the website. Honestly, I feel like we’re already friends because I’ve heard so much about you.” She wiggled her finger back and forth between us.

  I laughed nervously, not knowing what to make of any of that. “Can I ask you a question?”

  She dropped her heavy basket next to mine. It was full of ingredients I would have no idea what to do with. “Sure.”

  “He has this weird thing with me wearing a coat. What’s that about?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Because it’s cold out. He always wants me to wear a coat. He’s like obsessed with it.”

  She rolled her eyes, but her expression was warm with sisterly affection. “He’s used to taking care of people. It’s how he shows love. Trust me, I know how annoying it can be, but it’s better to just let him have his way. Besides, he can’t help it. His mom was really sick when he was a kid and he had to take care of her until she died. And then he didn’t really have anyone, so he learned from a very young age to take care of himself. Then he took care of our dad when he was dying. Although our dad, the selfish bastard, didn’t deserve it. And now he takes care of me. I probably don’t deserve it either to be honest.” She looked down at her shoes and smiled warmly. “And thank God, you know? Could you imagine me on my own? I would be so lost without him.”

  Something warm and bubbly sprung up in my chest. It felt like melted chocolate and fuzzy slippers and understanding for a man that was always such a mystery. The feeling shocked my entire system, surprising me with its permanency. I tried to reason it away. This was the heavy-handed maniac that had basically demanded I ride with him the other night. No gentle please. No thoughtful consideration. Just bullying me into whatever he decided was right. I shouldn’t feel sympathy or compassion or anything hot and fizzy and comfortable. “I guess that explains why he’s always so… responsible.”

  “Oh shit!” she gasped. “Is that really the time? I’m so late! I’m sorry, but I have to go.”

  “No worries!”

  She stepped forward, pulling me into a surprising hug. “It was so good to chat with you. We should go to dinner or something sometime. I’ll get your number from Ezra.”

  “Oh, uh, okay.” I cleared my throat, feeling awkward in her prolonged hug. “Sounds fun.”

  Dillon pulled back and gave me her thousand watt smile. “Yay! K, see you soon!”

  Then she was gone, taking all her excitable energy with her. I stared after her for a minute, marveling at how different she and Ezra were. She was all in your face with her enthusiasm and big smile. Ezra was dark ambiguity that slipped in and out of social situations, preferring to be unseen. She came in like a hurricane. Ezra was the silent night sky.

  Or storm clouds before they released their rain.

  But then again, Ezra was different than anyone I knew. Different and alluring, and totally unexpected.

  I finished up my shopping, adding cereal, ice cream and Skittles to the basket. Fact: I should know better than to shop on an empty stomach. Second Fact: I said that every time I bought ice cream.

  When I left the market the sky had darkened, bringing twilight. I hurried home, my hunger urging me to move faster.

  I put my groceries away and turned on the news over dinner, which consisted of two bowls of Golden Grahams and an orange. Yep, that’s right. Molly Maverick, twenty-seven-year-old independent woman, graphic designer, closet toddler.

  Grabbing my phone, I pulled up Vera’s number and texted her. I just had kid cereal for supper. I give up on life. Maybe I should let you teach me to cook?

  Vere: No way. You’re a lost cause.

  Me: It could be fun!

  Vere:
It could be dangerous!

  Me: Do you want me to starve? Man cannot live on sugar and carbs alone.

  Vere: YOU’VE been living off sugar and carbs for your entire life.

  She had a point.

  An email notification popped up and I abandoned all hope that Vera was going to rescue me from my life sentence of terrible cooking.

  Maybe I could convince myself that I liked burned food. Maybe it could become my thing. Like I would start asking for restaurants to purposefully scorch my steak and char my chicken.

  With that disgusting thought in my head, I opened my email to see a new one from Ezra. I’d sent over notes on his website earlier today, although since it was Sunday, I hadn’t expected a reply until tomorrow. Even Ezra carved out a little time on Sunday to have a nap. Or maybe not a nap, that didn’t really seem like his style, but a few hours away from work.

  Immediately, I felt restless. I thought about walking away from my phone completely. I wanted to paint. I wanted to grab a bowl of ice cream. I wanted to go to spin class and drive out my confusing frustration by torturing my butt and legs.

  That’s how desperate I was.

  In the end, I settled for pulling my legs beneath me and braving the email.

  To: mollythemaverick@gmail.com

  From: ezra.baptiste@yahoo.com

  Date: April 2, 2017 19:12:51 EST

  Subject: Re: Questions

  Molly,

  Do you really think we need new photos of all the restaurants? Do you have a photographer in house? Or is that someone I’ll need to hire?

  I’ve never considered a newsletter signup before. It’s hard to believe that newsletters are the wave of the future. But, if you think it would be beneficial by all means, go for it.

  Why do you ask about cooking classes?

  We should meet next week about the mural.

  ~Ezra

  P.S. You were right about Friday night. I had fun. We should do it again sometime.

  I blinked at the email. What did that mean?