He wrinkled his nose and made a disapproving sound. “Reality shows are what’s wrong with America.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, Mr. Judgmental. Let’s not throw insults around like they’re candy.”
His lips twitched. “I’m afraid to ask which shows you like.”
“Real Housewives.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Have you ever watched an episode?”
“Not an entire episode but I’ve seen—”
I put my fingers over his lips stopping his next words. “Okay, so your argument is null and void. Don’t worry, I’ll introduce you to the Real ladies. It will be fun.”
His smile finally broke free. “You’re going to introduce me to the Real ladies?”
“We’ll make a night of it. Netflix and chill.”
“Relationship goals?”
I laughed. I couldn’t help it. “Was that a pop culture reference?”
He shrugged, looking embarrassed, adorable and enamored all at once. “This gorgeous girl I know is teaching me all about hashtags. I can’t help it.”
“Wow, she sounds amazing.”
Ezra’s head dipped toward mine. “Oh, she is.”
We kissed again. Nothing more than a PG, end of a Disney movie lip-lock, but it was perfect and meaningful, and my skeptical heart grew three whole sizes.
A waiter appeared with food for supper, which ended up being tonight’s special—crispy frog legs with lemon aioli, and sausage and pork belly cassoulet. We were like the romantic version of Fear Factor, only everything was incredibly delicious and I would never be able to go back to eating Hot Pockets and cereal for supper again.
Ezra had ruined me for all other men and food that wasn’t five stars.
Great. I was wasn’t setting myself up for a lifetime of regret and disappointment. Not at all.
After dinner, Ezra disappeared into the kitchen or his office to get more work done and I meandered over to my wall where my vision was beginning to take shape.
I ran my fingers over an unpainted section of white and smiled at what I knew it would become. I had heard once that art wasn’t supposed to be beautiful, it was supposed to make you feel, make you think make you step outside of your own life and view the world with a bigger perspective.
Personally, I thought art could be both. Beautiful and emotive. I liked beautiful things. I liked drawing, painting, and creating them. But my definition of beauty was also broader than the societal norm. I didn’t pay attention to the flat beauty of a pretty face or perfect body.
Beauty was found in the things that caught my eye, that made emotions flow. It was deeper than the skin, buried in the spirit, in the soul, in eyes that sparkled, or a mouth that twisted in an interesting way. It was at that one moment of life when you knew everything would be different, when you were finally forced to wake-up and pay attention, or change something about yourself, or even let go of something you loved. Beauty was not just an opinion, it was a way of life. Something I aspired to capture every time I picked up a brush.
I spread a generous amount of black and white on my palette and added a spot where I could mix the two colors to blend a neutral gray. Then I got to work.
Chapter Twenty-Two
My pouncing brush danced over the wall, twisting together smoke from one end with smoke from the other. I added dark lines of black to give it depth and quick flicks of white to give it light. I intertwined wisps and tendrils until the entire wall from floor to ceiling was covered in smoke. There were large sections where white was the predominant color, and others where I’d went heavier with the black. But the overall story was smoke.
Stepping back, I surveyed my work. It wasn’t finished. I had places to touch up and rough edges to smooth, but it was getting there. Looking around the restaurant, I noticed for the first time that everyone had left. Even the kitchen was dark and quiet.
I spun around, disbelieving that I’d painted my way through closing. Ezra sat at his usual table, his long legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles, his arms crossed over his chest. There was a laptop and papers spread out in front of him, but he was staring at me, lost in thought.
“Don’t let me interrupt you,” he said quietly, his voice rough and deeper than usual.
My mouth lifted in an embarrassed smile. “I didn’t realize it was so late. I must have been in the zone. Sorry, you probably want to go home for the night.”
He gazed at me, but his eyes were unreadable from this distance. “Go back to it,” he said. “I have more work to do anyway.”
“Are you sure?”
He ducked his chin in a succinct nod. “Absolutely.”
My progress had inspired me to do more and I was anxious to start a new section, so I turned back to the wall. Keeping the colors I’d been using, I talked to Ezra over my shoulder.
“So, tell me about Bianca?” I asked, my voice only barely trembling with nerves.
“What do you mean?”
“The woman,” I clarified. “Not the restaurant.”
He did not sound willing to release details when he demanded, “Why?”
“I’m about to paint her soul,” I told him. “I need to know what kind of woman she is.”
He remained silent for a while, thinking. Tension rolled through the room as his mood shifted and changed. I couldn’t turn around to look at him. I stared at the curls of smoke in front of me, adding details in an effort to distract my skipping heart.
I heard him exhale in a long forced rush, like he’d been holding his breath and couldn’t keep it in any longer. “Cold,” he finally said. “Calculating. She never smiled.”
Staring at my shoes I tried to imagine Ezra with a woman that never smiled. A few months ago, it would have made sense to my uninformed mind. I would have pictured him with a woman just like that. The two of them arm in arm, never smiling, never laughing, never talking about anything important.
But now? I couldn’t reconcile Ezra without laughter, without deep, late night conversations or secret smiles. He was the opposite of cold and calculating. Careful maybe. Shrewd for sure. But not distant, not deliberately cruel.
“She didn’t like Dillon,” he added, not as an afterthought, but the crux of his entire point.
My rounded arc became a harsh slash. I swiped the paintbrush through my palette and transformed the pair of eyes I was working on from exotic and mysterious to angry, bitter… tired.
Without looking at Ezra, I asked, “How long did you date?”
He loosed another long exhale. “A year.”
I had been afraid to look at him until now, afraid that he would see the insecurities floating so close to the surface. But I wasn’t expecting a year, and had to turn to see his face.
For someone that couldn’t make it past the first date, let alone secure a long-term boyfriend, a year felt like forever. A year felt almost permanent. A year felt messy.
“You dated her for an entire year?” I didn’t mean to sound accusing or disappointed, but I felt both.
His gaze met mine across the restaurant. “Are you judging me?”