Can't Look Away(10)
You’re dressed nicely for the doctor. A sage-green cotton dress, gold hoops swinging from your ears, leather sandals that look like they could be from some Grecian market. You’re not as conservative as most of the women in this town. You march to the beat of your own drum, as far as I can tell. Ironically, your style is not unlike my own.
Today, you’ve even put on a little mascara, and your cheeks have that natural pink flush I’ve always observed in pictures. You really are pretty, Molly.
We briefly acknowledge our fertility struggles—an experience that binds us, no doubt. You keep your voice hushed, and I sense this is a topic you’re self-conscious about at the root, but you clearly crave the kind of connection I’m offering. There aren’t a lot of women like me in Flynn Cove, that’s for sure.
So you and I will get together soon, and that will be splendid. I’m looking forward to spending some quality time with you, something beyond the passing pleasantries of thanking you for yoga or the five brief minutes in Dr. Ricci’s packed waiting room.
I’m looking forward to meeting your husband at some point, too. You didn’t tell me Hunter’s name, but I know it, obviously. I know a lot about you, Molly. Much more than you realize. Obtaining all this information hasn’t been easy—after all these years, you still haven’t caved and gotten Instagram. What’s that about, anyway? Are you trying to prove something? Or trying to hide something?
Nevertheless, I have my ways. Your friend Liz was helpful in pointing me in the right direction for a good long while. Once I learned your married name, that gave me a window into so much more.
Still, it doesn’t feel fair how unbalanced our relationship is, Molly. I know so very much about you, while you hardly know a thing about me. But don’t worry. That will change soon enough.
Chapter Seven
Jake
2013
On Thursday, Jake was proud of himself for getting to the restaurant before Molly. He had a habit of running late, but tonight—even with the snow coming down—he arrived right on time.
It was a nice place, Italian, and much fancier than the spots where Jake usually ate dinner. Between the white tablecloths, candlelight, and the sounds of hushed conversations and classical music, the feel was intimate, cozy. The hostess led him to a table in the back, against a wall of tastefully exposed brick.
Jake’s memory of Molly Diamond was hazy, diluted; it was more a feeling he recalled than her physical appearance. But when the front door swung open and she breezed through, he remembered why he’d chased Jeb’s friend down for her phone number with an urgency that felt excessive, especially for him.
The current of Jake’s blood quickened as he drank in the sight of her: sandy-blond hair falling in loose waves around her shoulders, a warm smile breaking across her face as she waved, striding toward him. She shimmied off her wool coat, which was damp with melting snowflakes, and draped it over the back of the chair across from his.
“Sorry I’m late,” she said, pulling off her hat and taking a seat.
Words momentarily escaped him as their eyes met, the blurred memory of his gaze locked on hers from the makeshift stage at the Broken Mule sharpening into a focused reality.
“Hey there,” he said, continuing to study her—the sharp structure of her flushed cheekbones, the scooped cut of her top. A pair of bulky earrings—the kind girls seemed to be wearing these days—swung from her ears. They were a jade color that brought out the green flecks in her hazel irises.
“It’s really snowing out there, and I wore these dumb shoes.” She gestured down to her feet, a pair of leather boots with spiky heels.
“You’re hardly late.” Jake smiled, suddenly a little nervous. There was something about this girl, and he felt relieved that his instinct from Saturday had been right—particularly since that wasn’t always the case. “I was just on time for once in my life.”
They ordered a bottle of Chianti, and as the wine settled in Jake’s stomach, his nerves began to dissipate, replaced with something solid and pleasant that hummed just under his skin. He listened to Molly talk about NYU, where she was pursuing her MFA in creative writing.
“So you graduate in the spring, and then what?” he asked.
Molly twirled a fork into her plate of carbonara and shook her head. “I don’t know. I should know, but I don’t.”
“Hmm.” Jake spun the stem of his wineglass with his thumb and forefinger. “You want to write?”
She hesitated. “Yes. But I never say that out loud.”
“I get it. It’s a lot of pressure.”
“It isn’t just that.” Molly blinked, her lips slightly parted. “Not everyone who wants to write gets the luxury of being able to do so.”
Jake swallowed a bite of pasta. He said nothing, studying her.
“I have student loans to pay, you know?” She brushed a loose strand of hair off her collarbone. “I need to think about a steady income.”
Jake nodded. “I get it. I still have loans to pay off, too.”
“Really?” Molly looked genuinely surprised. “Sorry, it’s just … most of my friends don’t relate to that.”
“Neither do mine, actually.” Jake thought of Sam and Hale, of the college fund Mr. and Mrs. Lane had started for them when they were babies. “My parents never saved any money.”