Can't Look Away(26)
My closest friends from FIT, Debbie and Elena, didn’t know about the miscarriage, but still, they were worried about me. They tried to set me up on blind dates with “catches” named Chad and Owen and Derek. But I didn’t want Chad or Owen or Derek; I wanted Jake. Jake, whose callused fingers plucked the strings of his guitar the same expert way they plucked all the right strings inside my body.
He had been mine for eighteen perfect, euphoric months, and now he belonged to someone else. He belonged to you. It wasn’t right.
In the midst of my grief, I’d lost weight, and stupid Debbie went so far as to call my mother in Palm Beach when she saw how much. I suppose fifteen pounds is a lot for a petite gal whose BMI is already on the verge of low. But Debbie didn’t understand that my mom lived most of her waking minutes in a reclined position in front of Bravo or by the pool, desensitized on painkillers. When she did muster the energy to leave her couch or chaise, she played golf with other rich housewives and nibbled lettuce under the clubhouse terrace.
Still, Mom did bother to text me one evening in March. It was the first time I’d heard from her in months.
Debbie says ur not eating. U have to eat little shrinking Sisi!!!
I decided right then and there that I was done being called Sisi. It was a name that made me feel like a child, and I’d started going by Sabrina at Marc Jacobs, anyway.
Nobody at work seemed to notice or care about my diminishing waistline—all girls in fashion are twigs; disordered eating is par for the course. I still loved my job—I’d gotten a big promotion in the fall—and was grateful for the escape work provided. But when I left the office each evening, my thoughts had nowhere to go. I’d get back to the privacy of my apartment, pour myself a generous glass of chilled white wine, and think of nothing but Jake.
And you, Molly. Over the years, I’ve spent a great deal of time focused on you.
Jake started posting more on Instagram that first year you were together. His photos were often of the band, informational posts regarding Danner Lane’s past and upcoming shows. But there were also plenty of you.
A square shot of you sitting outside at a restaurant drinking a Bloody Mary, your aviators slipping down the bridge of your nose. #mygirl
A photo of you standing on the street in a cap and gown, tall and long-limbed, a wide smile spread across your face as you wave your diploma in the air. #mygraduate
A picture of you with a rolled-up yoga mat tucked under your arm, flashing the peace sign in front of Bhakti Yoga. #myyogateacherintraining
An artsy shot of you at the beach: a close-up of the back of your shoulder and tangerine bikini strap, strands of your wheat-blond hair caught whimsically in the wind. #mymuse
A rarer photo of the two of you together, sitting side by side on the front stoop of an ambiguous building, your head on his shoulder, a set of keys dangling from his pointer finger. #myroommate
The guy who hadn’t wanted to move in with me after more than a year together was shacking up with a new girl after six fucking months.
The night I saw that Instagram post, I texted Chad—one of the dull finance guys Debbie and Elena had forced me to go on a date with several months earlier—and asked if he could meet for a drink. It was a weeknight; I think it was past ten. We went to the Penny Farthing and did a series of Fireball shots before I dragged him back to my apartment, where we screwed on the living room floor. I closed my eyes and tried to drown out thoughts of you and Jake in your new apartment while fibers of the sisal rug chafed my back, Chad thrusting mightily.
It wasn’t the first time I’d brought a near stranger into my bed with the hope of extinguishing Jake from my mind. It never worked, though, and after Chad left, I curled into a ball on the couch and cried myself to sleep.
I hated you, Molly. I really, really hated you. And perhaps this hate was exacerbated by the fact that I didn’t—and couldn’t—know a thing about you. Not even your last name. Jake sometimes referenced you as “Molly” in his posts, but he never tagged you.
You remained a mystery to me and to all the girls who ogled Jake from afar as the hype behind Danner Lane skyrocketed. To be honest, I’ve never been able to understand what it is about you that had him so smitten. You’re pretty, yes, but you’re not the most beautiful girl in the room. If you wore sexier clothes and more makeup, I might be able to see it, but you let your features remain muted, ordinary. But I, on the other hand—I turn heads. Admitting this doesn’t make me conceited, just honest.
That winter, a year after Jake left me, Danner Lane embarked on a twelve-city tour following the successful release of their debut album. I didn’t have to be stalking Jake to get this information—everyone knew. The dates and venues were listed all over social media and the band’s website, and ads for the tour appeared across the city.
There was one stop that caught my eye. Saturday, January 25, West Palm Beach, Danner Lane opening for the Black Keys.
I wasted no time booking a round-trip ticket to Florida. I emailed my parents and told them I’d be coming home that weekend, knowing they would never bother to ask why. Then I texted Martelle, my closest friend from childhood, who still lived in Palm Beach.
Coming home the weekend of 1/25, save the date, I have concert tix!
Martelle replied immediately, with two smiley faces and about a hundred exclamation points.
I banked on the fact that Jake would be traveling alone—I knew there was a chance you’d be there, following him around on tour, but my instincts told me you wouldn’t be. You just seemed more independent than that.