Only it wasn’tEzra, it was the little Tucker. He wanted to schedule a meeting first thing inthe morning. We had things to go over. He needed updates on where I was with theBlack Soul account. We were meeting with them face-to-face for the first timethis week, and we had to prepare strategically.
Realizing, I wasn’tnearly where I should be with that project, I took a minute to panic. Shootingback an email full of false bravado, I agreed to the meeting. Then, I abandonedEzra’s mural and dove into my real job.
Black Soul was theproject that would change things for me, I reminded myself. This was the onethat would be the foundation of a lifelong career. This was the one that shouldbe getting all of my attention.
I played aroundwith graphics and fonts and the exact measurements for every single detail. Itwas tedious and precise and I drove myself crazy with over-the-topperfectionism. But the wrong font could mean the difference between a wildsuccess and utter failure. Same with the right placement. Even the slightestdegree one way or the other could mean a graphic I had slaved over, pouredmyself into and placed all my hopes and dreams in could totally bomb.
The key to graphicdesign wasn’t natural talent. It was the patience to be totally, completely,obnoxiously anal with every minute detail. It wasn’t just the devil that livedin the details. Designers had real estate there too.
My graphics were asperfect as humanly possible because I didn’t leave room for error. I wouldspend hours fussing over moving elements one degree at a time or finding justthe right shade of a specific color.
Painting was thesame way. I couldn’t just slop something on canvas. I mixed paints until theywere the exact shade I’d imagined. I meticulously added details and color andwith slow, painstaking care breathed life into what was once flat, white space.
I took nothing andcreated something.
When my eyesstarted to cross, I decided it was time for a break. I stood up, stretching myhunched shoulders and worried over the hump I knew I was growing.
This was why I wouldbe single for the rest of my life. Give me another five years and I was goingto be a living, breathing cosplay of the Hunchback of Notre Dame.Another Disney reference?You’re welcome.
I walked over to mykitchen and grabbed a bottle of water from my fridge. I rummaged around forsomething to eat, but there wasn’t anything except Greek yogurt and carrotsticks.
The rumors weretrue, I was a terrible cook. It wasn’t that I had never been interested inlearning how, but the kitchen was my mom’s space and she didn’t often invitevisitors. The few times I had been allowed to help out, she’d been so obsessedwith the mess and my mistakes that I’d been too afraid to try. Eventually, Igave up.
In recent years,I’d asked Vera for help, but even she had been daunted by the amount of work itwould take to teach me simple tasks. I couldn’t bring myself to take interestnow. It had been ruined for me.
Plus, I was reallygood at ordering takeout. Not to brag, but it was one of my top life skills.
Opening my junkdrawer, I rifled through the different menus that delivered in a reasonableamount of time, but nothing sounded good. What I really wanted was breakfastbecause that was what Sunday night needed. I didn’t want dishes or anythingheavy. I just wanted… cereal.
But the cupboardswere bare. Also the milk was expired. I would have to leave the house. Whichwas a travesty.
Stopping by thebathroom, I threw my wilder-than-usual hair into a messy bun on the very top ofmy head, not bothering with the specifics of making it look nice. I’d beenworking all day, so my outfit was straight from theI’ve-given-up-on-life-completely collection. Paint-stained yoga pants, and anoff the shoulder sweatshirt I’d stolen from my dad and cut the collar off.Basically, I looked homeless.
I grabbed my keysand my wallet and headed for the small market a couple of blocks away. The sunsat low in the sky, hidden by the tall buildings rising up on every side of me.I wrinkled my cold nose and hurried along quiet streets that had been abandonedfor the evening.
The market wasquiet when I stepped inside. I shivered in the fresh warmth and inhaled thedelicious smells coming from the deli. My stomach rumbled and I remembered whyI was here.
I snagged a basketnext to the door and headed for the produce.Clementineswere a staple in my kitchen, but mainly because I was irrationally terrified ofscurvy. I could admit that I didn’t have the best diet, something Vann liked toremind me of constantly. But I’d be damned if I got scurvy because I didn’t getenough Vitamin C.
I rounded thecorner to the dairy section, wishing I’d grabbed a cart instead of a basket nowthat I had to tote around milk and oranges. And coffee creamer. Oh, and bagels.Also cream cheese. And some new yogurt I’d never tried before.
Maybe I should gogrocery shopping more often…
“Molly?”
Looking up, I cameface to face with the prettiest blonde. She was dressed similarly to me becauseit was Sunday evening after all, only she looked less like she’d just gottenover the ten-day flu and more like she was modeling athleisure. Her hair waspulled over her shoulder in a braid and the yoga pants and long sleeve tee shewore were not stained or ill-fitting.
She was the yin tomy very badly dressed yang.
“Hi,” I smiled ather, hoping I didn’t smell bad too.
“Dillon.” Shepointed at herself. “I don’t know if you remember me or not, but we met at Killianand Vera’s engagement party. I’m Ezra’s sister.”
I nodded along,feeling weird that she was explaining herself to me. I felt like out of the twoof us, I was the forgettable one. She made a very strong impression.
“I remember,” Iassured her. “So did you have a good time?”
Her eyebrows drewdown, reminding me of her brother. “Where?”
