Can't Look Away(17)
Stella plops down on the towel. She’s wearing red shorts and a blue-and-white-striped T-shirt, looking perfectly patriotic. “But I think…” She pauses, pushing loose strands of white-blond hair off her face. “Mom, I think some crabs do live in those kinds of shells.”
“You think? Maybe you’re right.” Molly gives Sabrina a knowing smile.
“We can look it up on the computer when we get home,” Stella decides.
“That sounds like a good plan.” Molly rubs sunblock into her daughter’s face and arms, then has her stand so she can do her legs and the tops of her feet. Stella throws her head back in feigned exasperation, and Molly has to smile—it reminds her of Hunter’s melodramatic body language when she asks him for help with something mundane, like taking out the recycling.
“Can we go swimming, Mommy?”
“Not today, Stell. We didn’t bring your bathing suit. Next time.”
“’Kay.” Stella studies Sabrina. “Are you coming swimming next time?”
“I don’t know that Sabrina wants to swim in Long Island Sound, baby.”
“Why, Mom?”
“Some people don’t like to swim in it. It’s a little dirty.”
“It’s dirty?” Stella’s jaw drops.
Sabrina laughs. “Well, it still beats the club pool.”
“That’s for sure.” Molly nods, appreciating their new in-joke.
“I like pools,” Stella offers, sinking back down onto Molly’s towel. “Grammie has one.”
Molly pulls her daughter between her legs so that she’s resting on her stomach. “Grammie’s pool is cold, though, right?”
“Freezing. And it has frogs in it.”
“Basically, it needs to be heated and cleaned,” Molly explains to Sabrina. “Becky’s more invested in her garden.”
“Where’s your pool?” Stella asks Sabrina.
“Well, it’s not my pool. It’s the pool at the country club in town.”
“Oh yeah. I went there with my friend Harper. We had chicken nuggets and vanilla milkshakes.”
“That’s right. You and Harper had fun that day.” Molly hands Sabrina the Coppertone. “Thanks.”
“Anytime. This has been such a great morning.”
“It really has. I love Skipping Beach when it’s not overcrowded. We’ll have to come back.”
“Count me in.” Sabrina grins.
There’s something so likable about her, Molly thinks. She’s comfortable in her own skin. Happy-go-lucky in a way that reminds Molly more of her old self.
Molly feels almost giddy as she gazes out over the lapping waves, wine slackening her limbs, her daughter snuggled against her chest. And a new friend by her side. Molly has a strong, heartening feeling that Sabrina will be in her life for a long time.
Chapter Nine
Sabrina
Jake Danner. The name—if written, if read, if heard, if spoken—sends an electric shiver up my spine. Those three syllables are ground into my subconscious, a permanent footprint on my heart.
I can only imagine how confusing this will be for you to learn, Molly. That I, your new gal pal in the suburbs, am well acquainted with your ex. And not just any old ex: the one who got away.
But here’s the thing: Jake was mine before he was ever yours.
Let me start at the beginning. The beginning of Jake and me, anyway, which is the only beginning that really matters in my life.
I was a twenty-one-year-old student at the Fashion Institute of Technology in Manhattan when Jake Danner walked into my life. You know when you make a batch of chocolate chip cookies and there’s one that comes out that’s just absolutely perfect? Crispy at the edges, doughy in the middle, with the chocolate chips spread evenly throughout? That was Jake. Mr. Fucking Perfect, if I’d ever seen him.
We met at a bar in the East Village—near my apartment, and around the corner from the studio space he rented with his bandmates. He had tan skin and blue eyes and a disarming smile, and when he looked at me, I instantly felt lit up from within. It was summer, and the mood in the city was light and happy; he bought me a vodka soda and we sat on the back terrace under rows of string lights, talking and drinking for hours, long after the friends we’d come with had gone home. His voice matched him perfectly—genuine and cool, shot through with a slight Southern drawl that puddled my heart. He’d just graduated from college in North Carolina and had moved to New York to try to make it as a musician, he explained. He told me I reminded him of Mila Kunis; I said he looked like the epitome of an up-and-coming rock star, because he did.
And that was all it took, really. We fell in love quickly and easily. It was a perfect year—my last at FIT, his first in the city. Jake lived in Williamsburg but worked most nights busing tables at an upscale Greek restaurant in Nolita. He hated it, but the tips were good, and there wasn’t yet money coming in from the band. After his shifts, he’d walk the ten quick blocks to my apartment on East Fifth Street, slipping in the door past midnight. I always waited up for him, sliding my hands underneath the waistband of his boxers the second he crawled into bed beside me. On those nights, he smelled of garlic and grilled meat, but I didn’t mind. Everything about him intoxicated me.