Ick, spin class. Nothing like having a bike seat up your bum first thing in the morning.
Me: Sorry, my phone was in the other room. Obviously I’m famous. But only because my sex tape is such a crowd pleaser. And spin class? Isn’t there prenatal yoga? Hot yoga? Any kind of yoga?
Vera: Last time we did early morning yoga you fell asleep in Child’s Pose.
Me: So did you!
Vera: Which is why we’re doing spin class!
Vera and I had joined a gym together shortly after her engagement. She’d decided to lose fifteen pounds before her wedding and wanted me to go through the pain and suffering too. She was one of those girls that carried her weight like a Kardashian. No, she wasn’t the skinniest girl ever. But damn… dat ass.
I didn’t have an ass. Or thighs. Or muscles of any kind. I was like the female version of Gumby. If Gumby had decent-sized boobs and hipster bangs.
Me: Vera don’t make me.
Vera: This is for your own good. I’m torturing you because I love you.
Me. I don’t love you.
Vera: Liar liar pants on fire.
Me: You’re buying me coffee after. And an Egg McMuffin. And also, I demand hash browns.
Vera: What’s the point of working out if I buy you McDonald’s after? Also, HELLO! Chef here! We’re not going to McDonalds.
Me: We’ll see.
Vera: 5:30. Don’t be late!
I realized I’d been tricked, but chances were Vera would have always talked me into it. But she better not hold back the McDonald’s. On that point, I was very serious.
My phone buzzed again, but this time it was an email. Choosing to ignore it for a while, I set to work cleaning my brushes and tidying up my workspace. After I’d dropped my wine glass off next to my sink, I double checked the locks on the front door and balcony. I didn’t really think someone would scale six stories just to steal my costume jewelry and hand-me-down furniture, but I just knew that the one night I didn’t check it would be the one night I had to deal with a serial killer. A Spiderman-impersonating serial killer.
After brushing my teeth, washing my face, and changing from the oversized t-shirt I used for painting to the oversized t-shirt I used for sleeping, I crawled into bed and wiggled my toes under the sheets. It wasn’t very late, but if I was seriously going to meet Vera at the crack of dawn in the morning, an early bedtime was in order.
Checking my phone one last time before I plugged it in for the night, I saw the email I’d ignored earlier. My heart jumped in my chest and a large horde of butterflies suddenly took flight in my belly, dipping, diving, and flapping giant wings.
[email protected]
A strange panic stirred the already fidgety nerves inside me. I wondered how he’d gotten my email address until I belatedly realized I’d been the one to give it to him. For his florist.
Because he had a florist.
The man had a florist!
Could we all just take a minute to roll our eyes in unison? Please and thank you.
My finger hovered over the email, but I couldn’t make myself open it. What did he want? Why had he emailed me? Why did I care so much?
I thought about the half-finished painting of him in my office and decided to burn it. All evidence that I’d contemplated the shape of his eyes and curve of his jaw must be destroyed ASAP.
Ugh, it was stupid, but the truth was hard to face. I wanted to hate Ezra. Or maybe not hate him, but at the very least be unaffected by him. And I still couldn’t make myself not care.
He was too cool, successful, and larger-than-life. I couldn’t help but be mildly fascinated by him. I wanted to know how late he worked every day, and how early he got up. I wanted to know how he took his coffee, and which of the four restaurants he owned was his favorite? I wanted to know if the rumors were true that he really named his restaurants after his ex-girlfriends. I wanted to know so many things that I shouldn’t want to know.
Seeing his name in my email inbox did funny things to my resolve to ignore him. He’d made a terrible first impression on me, but if he wasn’t so wholly intimidating, I might have given him a second chance. Instead, it wasn’t just that a business owner had insulted my sense of design… it was that Ezra Baptiste had belittled me.
Another email came in while I stared at Ezra’s. The email was from my boss, Henry the Little Tucker, and had Ethan Baker cc’d. I opened it with a touch of my finger and zero fear or uncertainty.
I scanned the work details, noting our meeting time tomorrow. Henry sent a second email before I’d finished the first one. When I opened it, I had to pause at the oddity of it. He was apparently back to being inappropriate. I deleted it as soon as I finished reading, Really looking forward to working with you on this, sweetheart. Let’s kick some Black Soul ass.
Wrinkling my nose, I somehow found it easier to open Ezra’s email after reading Henry’s. Although it took me a second to see the words. It was hard to shake off the creepy feeling Henry managed to vibe my way through email.
It was probably nothing. He just wanted this account to do well. So did Ethan and me. There wasn’t anything to read into. I decided to forget it ever happened and never bring it up again. There. Done.
Denial was a sign of maturity, right?
I blinked and Ezra’s concise and unexpected email came into focus.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Date: February 20, 2017 19:48:22 EST
Subject: Friday Night Confirmation
Molly,
I never confirmed that I would get Killian and Vera to the restaurant. I’ve got it covered so don’t worry about it.
I also reached out to my florist and she will be in touch with you tomorrow.
What are your thoughts on wine? Would you like to look over my cellar? I have time this week, but I’ll need to schedule in advance.
Let me know,
Ezra
P.S. The temperature isn’t supposed to get above thirty tomorrow. Wear a coat.
I read the email three more times. And then another three times for good measure.
Was he serious?
I rolled over and contemplated forwarding the email to Vera. This situation seemed like it needed a second opinion. But then Vera was all in love right now and she might not see everything with clear eyes.
Her vision was currently clouded with hearts and wedding bells.
And it would ruin the surprise of her surprise engagement party.
Wear a coat.
Ezra Baptiste. Businessman, restaurateur, weatherman.
After twenty more minutes of staring at my phone until the battery icon turned red and I had to plug it in, I decided on my reply.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Date: February 20, 2017 21:58:52 EST
Subject: Friday Night Affirmation
Dear Ezra…
Dear Mr. Baptiste…
Jerkface…
To whom it may concern…