Can't Look Away(119)
He shook his head. “I bought a place, actually. It’s a loft in Gowanus. I love Brooklyn. I can’t really imagine going anywhere else.”
“That’s good,” I told him. “You seem happy.” I took in the sight of Jake, and it was true. His eyes were clear and bright, his shoulders relaxed. He seemed more comfortable in his own skin than when we’d been together. I hadn’t been surprised to learn—through a passive-aggressive email from my father—that Jake had left Randolph Group to pursue music full-time again.
“Your solo album comes out soon, right?”
Jake nodded, pride blooming all over his face. “It drops October third. Look for it on Spotify.”
“I will. That’s just before the baby is due.”
“Good.” He’d grinned. “I hear listening to music in utero helps with brain development.”
Jake had gestured to the box at my feet in the empty foyer, the last of my belongings from the house. Overlooked items, like the Sonos speakers from the pool cabana and a few forgotten toiletries from the medicine cabinet in our bathroom. Everything else had been packed up and taken on the moving truck the week before.
He picked up the crate of stuff. “Let me carry this to your car.”
From the driveway, we turned to face the house together, one final time. Neither of us spoke. There was nothing to say.
I climbed into the driver’s seat of my Range Rover. I turned on the ignition and rolled down the window, searching Jake’s face.
My mouth opened instinctively—I wanted so badly to ask, to pose the question he must’ve known was on my mind. But I closed my lips. It had to be over, my sleuthing, my relentless interest in you. Why did I still care, anyway?
“Good luck to you and Hans.” He held up his hand, a parting wave, as I began to reverse the car. “Sisi.” He rapped the base of the window with his knuckles.
“Yeah?” I pressed down on the brake.
Jake found my eyes and studied them. I saw the pulse at his neck, the golden-brown stubble creeping up his jawline. “I know I deserved better.” He sighed. “But so did you.”
I watched him get smaller and smaller in the rearview mirror until I turned out of the driveway, and then he was gone. I sped back down I-95 toward Manhattan, leaving Flynn Cove in my wake. I doubted I’d ever go back there again.
That was back in the late spring. I’d be lying if I said you didn’t still pop into my mind on occasion. Mostly I think about you and Hunter and the baby you lost. I lie in bed at night and feel the roundness of my growing belly, the thumping of a little foot or fist, and I hope you’ll be able to feel this again, too. Because you deserve that, Molly—you do.
The first week in October, when I’m about ready to pop, I get a notification on my phone that Jake’s new album—titled Jake Danner—is available to stream on Spotify. I’m out for a walk in Central Park—I’ve been walking daily after lunch to try to get things moving in the right direction. It’s sunny and pleasant, but there’s a crisp quality to the air that’s a welcome relief after a hot summer, particularly for a nine-months’-pregnant-woman waddling through Strawberry Fields.
I pop my headphones in and click on Jake’s album. The first song is the acoustic version of “Molly’s Song”—hard pass—but I tap the second track and let the rest of the album play chronologically. I read the names of each song as a new one begins. “Wild Start,” “This Time,” “Night Drives,” “The Music in Me,” “Flipping Out,” “Back in Brooklyn,” “Tell Me Your Lies”—woof, I’m almost positive that one is about me. I guess I finally got my song after all. There are several others with ubiquitous names, all equally catchy and solid tunes. I can tell, by the time I’m nearly finished listening to the album, that it’s going to be a hit. It’s good—even better than The Narrows—and in spite of myself, I’m proud of him.
A new track begins to play—it’s the last one, I think—and when I glance down at its title, “Stella’s Song,” I lose my breath. My heart sinks, but I keep listening because I can’t not. The melody floods my ears, Jake’s voice as clear and smooth as honey.
Yellow hair, sunny face
Beautiful like your mom
Stella; oh, sweet Stella
You deserve a song
Half of me hates it, of course, but it’s the best song on the album, hands down, and the other half of me really fucking digs it. I play it again, exiting the park and crossing over to Lexington, back up toward my apartment. And then something funny happens. As I’m trudging up the street, out of breath and ready to park myself on the couch with my laptop for the rest of the afternoon, I see something, out of the corner of my eye.
It’s you. You’re sitting outside at a busy restaurant with a woman I don’t recognize. She has thick raven hair—almost jet-black—pulled up into a messy-but-chic bun. She wears horn-rimmed eyeglasses and a starchy button-down shirt. I can only see your profile, but it’s you without a doubt. That wavy curtain of sandy-blond hair, wide smile, sharp cheekbones. On one side of the table between the two of you sits a stack of papers, unbound. You’re deep in conversation, your salads untouched. I notice something else, too. The woman you’re with is drinking wine, but you’re not. There’s only a glass of tap water next to your plate, a wheel of lemon secured to the rim.