The Difference Between Us

by Rachel Higginson

  I reread it three more times. We should do it again sometime. As in eat supper at Vera’s? Have Killian cook for us? Ride a short distance together in his car?

  What should we do again sometime, Ezra?!

  Setting my phone down, I muted the TV so I could think. When that didn’t work, I went after the ice cream, attempting to freeze the frenzied butterflies flapping around inside me.

  As I considered bowl number two, I decided it was better to be brave and face my problems Ezra than gain two pounds by stress eating.

  To: ezra.baptiste@yahoo.com

  From: mollythemaverick@gmail.com

  Date: April 2, 2017 19:23:40 EST

  Subject: Re: Answers

  Ezra,

  I can recommend a photographer that we often use. The new pictures are up to you though. I won’t move forward until you decide, but take your time thinking it over. I know it’s just one more expense.

  Yes, to the newsletter. You don’t have to send one out every week, but by offering the signup, you create a database of clientele that you can reach at any time. Valentine’s Day dinners, reminders for Christmas gift cards, upcoming cooking classes, etc.

  Which leads me to my next point, have you considered offering high-end classes for a fee? I was just thinking that you have all of these incredible chefs. What if you offered specialized classes that your customers could take as couples? Charge them a couple hundred dollars, teach them a skill and offer a meal. Like a wine-pairing night or pasta-making class. As I was doing research, I saw that CAI offers these classes to the community. I found a few things like this in Durham, but nothing from a restaurant of your caliber. Advertise through your newsletter and social sites and keep it small, intimate. I think it would only further build your reputation around the city and you’d be utilizing all those award-winning chefs you pay so highly.

  MM.

  P.S. I’m always right.

  I jumped up from the couch, abandoning my phone on a cushion. There were loose ends I needed to tie up for my meeting tomorrow morning. I wasn’t totally satisfied with my social media package for Black Soul. I had another piece to add, I just hadn’t figured out what it was yet.

  But I didn’t have the mind for work right now. I escaped to my studio, pulling out paints and brushes and palette. I propped up a fresh canvas and perched on my stool.

  Squeezing a generous line of white, black and cerulean blue, I started blending colors and shades, looking for the shade that matched the grays that I felt all the way to my bones.

  I couldn’t get the image of a thunderstorm out of my head. I pictured the comparison I’d made to Ezra earlier. He was the dark sky before the rain fell. The flash of distant lightning. The roll of thunder, low and rumbling. He was big, billowy clouds stretching from one horizon to the other.

  The portrait flowed from my vigorous fingers as I brushed paint in flicks and swoops, blending everything together in a kind of ominous harmony. My grays were dark at first, profound and foreboding. Clouds swirled in warning, pregnant with the threat of downpour. I added the blue, softening the yawning charcoals, but deepening at the same time. They weren’t less dangerous, just now also beautiful. Treacherous and lovely and worrisome all at once.

  I streaked lightning through the heavy clouds. Crooked fingers of thin light breaking through the sky, splitting it in two, then three. My hands moved swiftly around the canvas, adding, blending, detailing more and more and more.

  The whole time I worked, I kept making it darker, scarier, more and more menacing. And yet when at last I sat back to examine my work, I wasn’t satisfied with it. There was something missing.

  This was how I felt about Ezra, how I imagined him. He was everything I didn’t understand about men. He was the unattainable, the too successful, the tempting mystery that I would never get to explore. Except he wasn’t any of those things now that I knew him better.

  “Son of a bitch,” I whispered.

  I reached for a clean brush and jabbed at the white, quickly mixing it with yellow, and then orange, and a tiny bit of blue. At the top of the canvas, above the black, thunderous clouds, I added light—bright, pure and striking.

  The sun stretched over the dark clouds, mostly hidden from those who would stand beneath the storm. But those with hope would believe the light existed behind the rainy curtain. Those that dared to believe that the clouds were only one small part of the vast sky would know how bright the sun shined.

  I set my brush down with shaking fingers, finally coming to terms with the fact that maybe, possibly, I didn’t quite hate Ezra as much as I wanted to believe.

  Not even a little bit.

  When I checked my phone before bed, Ezra had sent one final, simple email that said:

  Come see me tomorrow night. At Bianca. I’ll show you the wall.

  Chapter Sixteen

  I tried really hard to be on time to the meeting. Really hard. But being punctual just wasn’t in the cards Monday morning. The past two hours had been a comedy of errors. I’d had one problem after another. Starting with stupid spin class. My foot had slipped off the pedal at an ungodly, inhuman pace and I’d managed to knee myself in the chin. Which took a bit of talent and unexpected flexibility. But it had resulted in an instant headache.

  To cure said headache, I’d stopped for coffee. Except they’d given me the wrong order. I’d asked for the flavor of the day with cream and sugar. They’d given me the flavor of the day without cream and sugar making it completely undrinkable because everybody knew that coffee without creamer was just the worst. Basically, I’d declared war with their Twitter account. Hasta la vista, Daily Grind, @mollythemav is coming for you!

  To rectify the caffeine situation, I’d been forced to stop at a gas station to pick up a new to-go coffee. In step with the rest of the morning, they had only had one working cash register and a new girl behind the counter. I’d stood in line for fifteen minutes sipping cheap, sickly sweet sludge that barely took the edge off.

  Now I was exactly seventeen minutes late to the Black Soul strategy meeting and I was only seventy-five percent prepared.

  Holy bad Mondays, Batman.

  “You better have a damn good excuse for making us wait,” Henry growled when I attempted to slip quietly into his office.

  “The printer jammed,” I mumbled lamely, quickly passing out the hard copies of my graphics. I avoided his glare and plopped down next to Ethan. “Sorry, I didn’t realize how late it had gotten.”

  Ethan handed me a stapled packet of papers. His logo was front and center, revealing an entirely new brand identity. He’d done an excellent job. Together with my graphics package, Black Soul was getting the hottest makeover ever. I also had an idea for a social media push that I hoped Henry would listen to.

  The missing piece. I’d thought of it late last night while I was trying to fall asleep without success.

  Henry glided into his chair, rolling it forward so he could rest his elbows on his mammoth desk and steeple his fingers in front of him. “Now that we can finally get started, let’s begin with you, Ethan.”

  Ethan dove into his presentation, giving the specs of the logo and how it would appeal to the widest audience. He then talked about the brand, how we could help Black Soul expand with the right social media package.

  When it was my turn, I walked them through the graphics and how I wanted them to be used on each platform. Henry had a lot of questions about the different sizes of banners and pictures and why they had to be altered according to the different sites. I patiently explained the clarity and resolution of each platform and the ability of that site to display high res graphics on all devices.

  Henry had no idea what I was talking about. But his cluelessness didn’t stop him from asking inane questions. About halfway through my presentation, his eyes started to glaze over. I got it. The specifics of my work weren’t interesting to anybody, not even me. But they were important.

  Unfortunately, Henry didn’t get it even a little bit. By the t
ime I suggested my major giveaway idea using hashtags and the current signed bands from Black Soul, he was totally lost.

  “It’s simple,” I explained. “We’ll blast Black Soul and their current talent by having their followers post hashtags of the shows they can’t wait to go to. The grand prize will be a season pass to Black Soul’s summer concert series. Second place can pick three concerts of their choice or something and third place can pick one. Their followers will post about the bands they love and use hashtags that promote Black Soul so it’s a win-win for everybody. We can also require that to enter they must follow Black Soul and the bands they want to see on all of their socials on top of using the hashtag we pick.”

  “Who would host the giveaway?” Henry asked.

  “Nobody is hosting it,” I explained. “We’ll use hashtags as a search tool. As long as they use the hashtag-black-soul-summer-fun or whatever we pick, we’ll be able to add them to the pool of contestants.”

  I could tell he still didn’t understand, but I’d been over it enough times that I had lost patience with him.

  “It’s an interesting idea, Molly, but I don’t think we want to bring up a giveaway during our first meeting. I can’t ask them to give away a season pass at the same time I hand them the bill for our services.”

  “No, I get that it will cost them money to do this giveaway, but it will also bring them money in the end when their listenership is expanded.”

  He nodded along as if he understood, even though I knew he didn’t. And maybe it was the hashtags that were tripping him up. Or maybe he just didn’t want to understand, maybe he didn’t see the value in a strong social media game. Either way, the end result was the same—disappointing.

  “I’m not sure you’re considering the best interest of the client, sweetheart. We’ll table this for now and see how our initial meeting goes before we discuss it further.”

  I bit my tongue, swallowing bitterness at being scolded for having a brilliant idea. The meeting went on. We—and by we, I mean the Little Tucker—decided that Ethan and I could be present for the meeting, but as creative director, he would take lead. Which was fine, except he hadn’t actually done any work. He was going to pitch our ideas and take all the glory while Ethan and I cheered him on from the invisible background.

  By the time we wrapped up, I was stewing with silent fury. I gathered my things with the poise of an angry bull while Ethan hurried out of the office like his desk was on fire.

  “Molly, can I talk to you for a minute?” Henry asked in a much gentler voice than he’d used during the meeting.

  I looked up at him, hating that I hadn’t been as quick as Ethan. Somehow, I managed to sound polite when I said, “Yes?”

  “Look, I know I came down hard on you today, but I want you to have the right perspective going into the meeting on Thursday. You’re innovative, Molly. And light years ahead of your peers. It’s why you’ve done so well here. It’s also why I put you on this project. But what you need to understand is that not everyone speaks your techy language.” He got up from behind his desk and walked around to put a hand on my shoulder. “The most important piece of advice I’ve ever gotten at this job was to know the temperature of the room. You can have the greatest marketing plan in the world, but if you don’t know who you’re pitching to, the message will never make it to the audience.”

  I breathed in deeply through my nose, hating that he made a good point. It was an intuitive idea to feel out Black Soul before I pitched a giant giveaway. It physically hurt me to admit, “You’re right. It’s smart to hold back for now.”

  His hand moved over my bicep, brushing up and down in a slow caress that grabbed my attention. Abruptly, my priorities shifted from the Black Soul project to Henry’s inappropriate touching. Was this the right time to say something?

  He stepped closer, smiling serenely at me. “I’m so glad you see it my way.” His hand squeezed my bicep but didn’t let go. “How are your other projects going? Specifically, I’m interested in the EFB Enterprises account. It’s not too big for you, is it? I’m happy to step in and help out where I can.”

  “That one is going great.” My voice shook with nerves, so I pasted on a plastic smile to hide how uncomfortable I was. “I have a meeting with him later today.” Er, tonight… “He’s very open to my ideas.”

  “And why wouldn’t he be?” Henry asked, but his words were facetious and patronizing.

  He had single-handedly made me feel like a child playing pretend at the grown-up job where she didn’t belong. I took a step to the side, desperately trying to shake Henry’s hand off me.

  It worked. But it worked too well.

  To my utter horror, as Henry’s hand disengaged with my arm it passed over my boob, resting there for a second too long. His whole palm flattened against my breast before he pulled it away.

  “Oh my god,” I gasped, feeling dirty, molested and small. So, so small.

  “What?” Henry asked, totally unfazed.

  I stared at his shoes, my voice shaking as I choked out a horrified whisper. “D-did you just grab my b-boob?”

  His voice flattened, turning sharp as a knife. “Excuse me?”

  I was only marginally more confident when I asked the question for a second time. “D-did you just grab my boob?”

  “What? Are you serious? Of course not!”

  His outrage soothed some of my worst fears. “It-it felt like you did.”

  He laughed, but it was bitter and accusatory. “Do you mean just now?” His voice dropped low in a snarl, “I didn’t grab your boob, Molly. For god’s sake. You moved and my hand accidentally bumped into you. I didn’t realize it was your breast until you accused me of assaulting you.” He pumped his hands. “You need to settle down.”

  My spine started to crack and crumble beneath the weight of his defensiveness. “Henry, your hand rested on my breast.”

  “Miss Maverick, that was a complete and total accident. If you’d like to drag my name through unnecessary mud, you’re welcome to complain about me to HR. But good luck getting the charge to stick when it was an accident. Do you really think I’m in the habit of fondling my employees during the middle of the morning? On a Monday for fuck’s sake?”

  The hysterical part of my brain wondered why it made any difference that it was Monday? Was he just not usually up for fondling on Mondays? Did he prefer to fondle closer to the weekend? Was there a specific day of the week that was best for fondling?

  Regardless, he was adamant that he’d touched me on accident. And while it didn’t feel like an accident to me, in fact, it felt very, very on purpose, right now it was his word against mine. I wanted to call him out on his bullshit. I wanted to go straight to HR like he’d suggested and file a formal complaint. But there was no proof that he’d done it on purpose. I couldn’t even be sure myself. So what good would it do to complain about the son of the founder of the company I was working for?

  Nobody would believe me.

  And while I felt icky from the inside out, an accidental brush of my boob wasn’t the end of the world.

  It wasn’t, I told myself again. And then once more with feeling.

  I took another step back, debating. He was handsy. He’d made me feel uncomfortable on several occasions. But if I drew the line now, then maybe it would stop him from reaching out and grabbing my boob whenever he felt like it.

  I could end his inappropriate behavior without escalating this into something that could really damage his standing in this company.

  “Please don’t touch me again,” I told him, barely meeting his eyes. God, this was awkward. And awful. And I needed it to be over STAT.

  “I told you it was an accident,” he huffed. “I’d appreciate it if you would be more careful in the future.”

  And I’d appreciate it if you’d keep your filthy hands to yourself.

  I shook off the lingering scummy feelings and stepped farther away from him. “Then it’s settled. You won’t touch me again on accident or ot
herwise and I won’t unintentionally put my boob in your hand.”

  “That’s all I ask.” He gave me a tight-lipped glare before he turned back to his desk, effectively dismissing me.

  He didn’t have to tell me to leave; I was more than ready to escape. I all but ran back to my desk, needing to get away from Henry as quickly as possible. God, I felt like such an idiot! I hated that had happened. And I hated even more that I couldn’t decide how to feel about it.

  Two parts mortified, two parts furious, all I wanted to do was burst into tears. And take a hot shower. A hot, scalding shower was definitely in order.

  It wasn’t like I was this giant prude, but I had never been touched inappropriately before without my consent. Maybe it had been an accident, but instinct burned through me, whispering that it hadn’t been. But what was there to do about it?

  I pushed my laptop out of the way and contemplated banging my head against the desk. See? This was the problem with confrontation. I’d been afraid to talk to Henry for weeks about his inappropriate touching and yet the second I was forced into it, I wanted to give up or puke or move to Tahiti. Real smooth, Molly. Real fucking smooth.

  “Are you okay?” Emily asked when she returned from the break room with a fresh cup of coffee. “How did the meeting go?”

  “Fine,” I told her quickly. “Terrible. I don’t know. Ask me later.”

  “What happened?”

  The words were there, on the tip of my tongue. I wanted to tell her. Henry grabbed my boob. But it sounded ridiculous in my head. Would she laugh about it and make a joke?

  It wasn’t funny to me. Because it wasn’t a joke.

  And yet if I told her, then I would have to make a formal complaint. I loved Emily, but she wasn’t going to keep something like that a secret. It would get around the whole office. Without a formal complaint I would look like a liar or like I wanted to ruin him out of spite.

  “He hated my giveaway idea.” I heard myself say the words, but I felt detached from the conversation, like I was outside of my body watching myself cover up for someone I couldn’t stand. My mind spun and spun and spun with the memory of what had happened, trying to remember every single detail so I could make sense of it.