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: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
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?
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: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
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.