The week passed like a snail—slow and slimy. Even the Black Soul meeting had been a waste of my time anticlimactic. I had been looking forward to representing edgy artists with our branding push, excited about all the possibilities our marketing team had to offer. Instead, I’d gotten stuffy suits that were more interested in dollar signs than original content.
Considering the client, Henry was perfect as acting creative director. He pitched to their level, offering overused, dated tactics that wouldn’t do anything for their image, reach or business. Even Ethan’s super cool new logos were debated over, deciding at long last that they would take the logo options to a focus group and see how they tested.
My social media package went about as well as you can imagine—in that it was a train wreck didn’t go well at all. There were vague compliments regarding my graphics, but the majority of the meeting was spent debating the ROI of social media ads and trying to explain that seventy-one percent of digital minutes were spent on smartphones—not desktops. Clearly making it pointless, or at least less relevant, to target desktops alone.
And yet all of my golden nuggets fell on deaf ears.
When we got back to the office, Henry had made us congregate in the conference room for a brand-new strategy meeting. He wanted to start from scratch. We wouldn’t have to throw out all of our graphics, just one hundred percent of our innovative ideas.
The Black Soul project, the project that was supposed to launch me into office-wide notoriety, had been about as successful as my previous projects for the Baptist church and the mowing company. It had done nothing to further my career or cement my standing at STS. I was stuck on the same rung of the corporate ladder I’d started on.
And I hated it. I was no longer satisfied with anonymous background jobs and being the sucker Henry got to sexually harass.
However, there was still work to be done for Black Soul, and maybe not all was lost. We had been told at the meeting that two of their marketing experts were in California for the week. The rumor was that the missing execs were better in tune with what was on trend.
I had to keep trying, right? It wasn’t in me to quit anyway. If my mother had taught me anything in this life it was that you never, ever, no matter how awful or wretched or dangerous, you never quit anything. Or so help me, God.
Other arguments included: Do you want to end up like your father? Where would the world be today if everyone just gave up and quit? Oh my god, you’re turning into your father. And my personal favorite: Quitters quit, Molly. Do you want to be a quitter? Well, do you?
Ahem. Needless to say, I couldn’t actually imagine a scenario in which I walked away from this project. I didn’t want to be a quitter after all. And I really didn’t want to end up like my dad. Or my mom for that matter.
I would continue to come up with original ideas that would blow their socks off and make them jump feet first into this wonderful new technical age. I would continue to pour myself into this project even though it had lost all its luster and made me feel sad for the bands that signed with such a backward-thinking studio. And I would continue to put up with Henry and his silent staring and not so silent accidental touching. Although if his hand landed anywhere near my boob again, my knee was definitely going to find its way to his balls. Chuck Norris style.
It all seemed pointless. I realized it was too late to pass the account off to someone else, but I dreamed about doing that every single day. I had been so looking forward to this account. I’d placed so many hopes and dreams and future shopping purchases on it, but when it had come down to it, this was the account that would end up ruining the fa?ade that I loved what I was doing.
Because I didn’t.
This was nothing like painting. I couldn’t lie to myself for a second longer. Graphic design was the antithesis of having the freedom to create. Because there was no choice in this. There was no open-minded thinking or wide space to invent and process and make. It was all rigid lines and somebody else’s visions. It was people pleasing, mindless yes sirs, and the corporate world disguised in a cool office with a loose dress code. I couldn’t for the life of me remember why I’d wanted to move up in the company so badly. There was no end game to this madness. Only the constant crazy cycle of pleasing stubborn clients and perverted bosses.
When I finally walked into Bianca Saturday morning to work on the mural, I took a deep breath and it felt like the first one all week. Ezra had met me at the front door all easy smiles and sleepy eyes. It wasn’t fair how attracted I was to him. Not even a little bit.
“Molly,” he’d greeted instead of a regular good morning.
“Ezra,” I’d returned, wondering if he was going to kiss me again.
He’d taken my awkward canvas tote that contained all the paint and supplies I’d brought with me. The bag was overpacked with brushes and more brushes— every kind, size and shape in my arsenal. I’d brought them all. Even though I was pretty loyal to my pouncing brush and it was the best choice for what I had in mind. But the truth was I’d never painted an entire mural before so I didn’t really know what I needed. Better safe than sorry.
After he’d placed my things on a cloth-covered table set aside just for me, he started digging around in my tote. “There are so many brushes.” He looked up at me. “I had no idea there were so many to choose from.”
I shrugged, basking in the excitement I felt because he was interested. “They all serve different purposes.”
He looked doubtful. “If you say so.”
“How many different kinds of forks are there? Or spoons? How many serving spoons or spatulas, different kinds of whisks, pans, dishes? Knives?” I pointed at my brushes. “Same concept.”
His smile stretched wide. “You’ve explained this before.”
“Once or twice. I can provide the same comparison using bike gears, aerodynamic wheels, and tools if you’d like.”
Taking a step toward me, his hand slipped around my waist. “No need.”
I looked up at him, amazed that he had initiated physical contact. We’d exchanged work emails and fun texts during the week, but there was nothing said that indicated whether our kiss was a blooper or a prologue.
I’d tried to focus on work instead of obsess think about what this was with Ezra, but let’s be real. Obviously, I was only human. And obviously, Ezra was more than human. Although I couldn’t tell you exactly what he was yet, I was positive it was along the lines of a Greek god or superhero, or maybe even a sparkly vampire. It didn’t really matter, because I was none of those things and it was hard to believe that our kiss had meant anything to him.