Can't Look Away(27)
After the show, Martelle and I would find a way to get backstage and say hi. I’d explain that I’d been home for the weekend, that Martelle and I had tickets to the Black Keys and hadn’t realized Danner Lane was the opener. What a coincidence. What a small, small world.
Chapter Thirteen
Molly
2013–2014
The irony of that terrible night at Brooklyn Bowl was that it sealed Molly and Jake’s relationship; coming so close to losing each other brought them to a new level, one where they were openly in love. After months of privately knowing that she loved him, Molly was finally able to say it, finally convinced that he felt the same way, that he had from the beginning. Aside from the Maxine hiccup—Molly had become more and more convinced that the moment she’d witnessed was the extent of it; nothing had actually happened—her life with Jake felt close to perfect.
At the end of June, Liz announced that she was moving in with Zander in Greenwich Village when her and Molly’s lease ended in August. Molly felt a stab of hurt and nostalgia—she and Liz had been roommates for five years—but she wasn’t fully surprised. Liz was eager to move in with Zander, and Molly had known it would happen sooner rather than later. But she hadn’t expected such short notice. It was nearly July; she only had a month to find a new roommate.
Molly vented to Jake about the situation that night while he cooked them spaghetti and meatballs, Frank Sinatra playing in the background. Jake loved Sinatra.
“Move in with me,” he said plainly, when she’d finished speaking.
“What?” Molly held a full glass of Malbec and placed it down on the counter. Her jaw lowered. “Jake, it’s barely been six months. We can’t move in together.”
“Why not?”
“Because—because that’s so fast. We’re still so young.”
“We’re in love, Moll.”
Jake had a way of taking such complex, monumental decisions and boiling them down to the simplest answers.
“Think about it,” he continued, stirring the tomato sauce. “Liz left you hanging. Would you rather scramble to find some random person to live with, or move in with the guy who cooks for you every night? Who writes songs about you? Who loves you to pieces?” He raised a wooden spoonful of sauce to his lips.
“You don’t cook for me every night.” Molly grinned, nerves and excitement building in her stomach. “Be serious, Jake.”
“I am being serious, Molly.” His light blue eyes rested on hers. “Sam and Hale were just saying the other day that their buddy is moving to the city and needs a spot. I could give him my room, and we could find our own place. You and me. Why does it have to be complicated?”
“The Best Is Yet to Come” blared in the background—an omen, it seemed—the notes of Sinatra dipping and rising, and Molly stared at Jake’s face. His handsome, golden face. The sweet smell of simmering tomatoes filled her nostrils.
“You never say what you’re thinking.” He paused. “Is this about Maxine?”
“No, Jake. You know that’s behind us.”
“Then what is it?” he pressed. “Just say it.”
“Fine.” Molly sighed, brushing a wisp of hair off her face. “If I’m being honest, I’ve always sort of had this pact with myself … I’ve always told myself that I would never move in with someone unless…” Her voice trailed.
“Unless what?”
“Unless I was sure we’re going to end up together.” She watched the words land, the indiscernible expression appeared on Jake’s face. “I know that sounds old-fashioned. I didn’t mean—I just meant that we’re young. And I’m sure you don’t want that kind of pressure on you.”
“Moll.” Jake set the spoon down. His expression grew serious. “I do think we’re going to end up together. Don’t you?”
Molly smiled. The answer was so easy; she didn’t even have to think about it. Maybe it was the naivete of being twenty-three, the freedom of being able to choose with your heart over your head, of not being trapped by implications or inevitabilities. Or maybe it was Jake; maybe the two of them were—plain and simple—meant to be.
“I do,” she said truthfully. For a moment, she let her mind wander back to six months earlier, a life without Jake. An enjoyable life, too: one with friends and family and books and yoga and vacations. But a stubborn darkness had persisted inside her, a crushing form of self-doubt that dissipated when she met Jake. He made everything so much better; he took her world and brightened it, like the filter on her phone that made images sharpen and colors pop. She’d never been this happy.
Jake put the lid on the skillet and let the sauce continue to simmer. He walked around the counter to where Molly stood. He tucked her long, blond waves behind her ears and kissed her deeply.
“Then let’s do it. Let’s live together. Just say yes,” he said, but Molly was already nodding.
They moved into a one-bedroom on Driggs Avenue, just around the corner from the subway. The apartment was small, nothing fancy, but it was theirs. It was a fifth-floor walk-up, but the selling point had been the wide, east-facing windows in both the bedroom and living room that flooded the mornings with light. That first summer together, they fell into an easy, intuitive routine.