Can't Look Away(3)
And maybe she is pregnant, Molly lets herself imagine, in the middle of Meredith Duffy’s newly renovated kitchen, the chatter of female voices around her fading as the dream blooms in her mind. A baby brother or sister for Stella, finally. Molly pictures her daughter’s blond head bent over a bassinet, and a warmth spreads through her lower abdomen. Eight more days and she’ll know for sure.
The sound of a fork scratching across a plate pulls Molly out of her head, and she swallows the hope down like it’s something sharp. She stares across the room at Whitney’s giant belly and reminds herself that she probably isn’t pregnant, that she and Hunter have been through this too many times already, that they’ve set themselves up for one too many disappointments, all the while draining Stella’s college fund to try to give her a sibling. She’s lucky to just have Stella, Molly tells herself for the thousandth time. She has one healthy, beautiful child, and that’s something that millions of women struggling with infertility would kill for.
Molly takes a pink macaron from a white tray and drifts into the living room to watch Whitney open her presents. She looks at her watch, which reads five of two. Twenty more minutes, she tells herself, biting into the gooey cookie.
She makes small talk with Edie Kirkpatrick, who tells Molly much more than she cares to know about the various golf tournaments her husband is competing in across the East Coast this summer.
At two fifteen, Molly thanks Meredith for hosting such a lovely afternoon, then sneaks out the back door. It’s a ten-minute drive to the studio where Molly teaches, and technically, she doesn’t have to be there until fifteen minutes before class starts, but the thought of spending another second with all those women is more than Molly can bear.
She feels low as she drives across town, missing Nina and Everly so much that a lump forms in the back of her throat.
She thinks about what Hunter would say—what Hunter will say, when she tells him the shower was a drag. You don’t have to go to those things, Moll. Why bother if they make you so unhappy?
Because I actually do like Whitney, Molly will say. Whitney is one of the ones I could actually see myself being close with, and I wanted to show my support.
And then there’s the piece of it she won’t tell Hunter: that Meredith and Betsy and Edie and that whole group of women are the social scene in Flynn Cove and that the occasional bits of connection she feels when she’s with them are better than nothing. It’s better to have some form of female companionship in her day-to-day life—unfulfilling as it may be—than none at all. Right?
In the parking lot of Yoga Tree, Molly takes out her phone and crafts a text to Whitney.
Whit-so sorry I didn’t say goodbye, had to rush out early to teach. That was a beautiful shower and you are just glowing! Let me know if you’re up for a walk sometime in the next couple weeks, assuming the babes don’t come early! Xo
Molly rereads the text three times, chewing her bottom lip and wondering if her tone is overeager, or if it’s awkward or assumptive to call her friend “Whit.” God, she thinks. I didn’t used to be so insecure. I didn’t used to be so fucking neurotic.
Molly hits Send before she can agonize over it a second longer. She’s about to put her phone away when she sees a notification for a new voicemail, a call she must’ve missed during the baby shower. She doesn’t recognize the number, but it’s a 917 area code. New York. She hits Play.
Molly, hi, it’s Bella. Sorry to bother you on the weekend. I’m calling because … well, I sent you an email, did you see it? I know it’s been forever—legitimately years—but the other day I walked by that place on Bleecker, the little French bistro where we met for lunch when I first signed you. Remember it was the middle of a snowstorm, and we drank all that red wine? Well, I thought of that, and it made me smile. Anyway, I’d really love to catch up so, just call me? When you can? We should talk.
Molly blinks, chews her bottom lip. She pictures Bella in one of her crisp, starchy button-downs, horn-rimmed glasses, raven hair piled on top of her head. She did get Bella’s email, two weeks ago, and never responded. Molly feels a twinge of guilt, but not enough to do anything about it. Certainly not enough to actually consider calling her back. She chucks her phone into her bag, tries to forget the voicemail and the person who left it. Molly can’t think of Bella without thinking of Jake, and she can’t handle that, especially not when she has a class to teach.
There are only six students signed up for Vinyasa flow, which isn’t too surprising. Sundays at Yoga Tree are never particularly busy, especially when the weather is nice like today.
Three of the students are Molly’s regulars, two are drop-ins who look familiar, and the sixth is a woman she doesn’t recognize. The woman is slender and tanned, lying on her mat in black Lululemons and an olive-green sports bra. She looks to be in her late twenties or maybe early thirties, Molly thinks, observing her silver belly button ring, which rises and falls on the woman’s flat stomach as she breathes. Something about her reminds Molly of Nina—her coloring, maybe, her slightly edgy style. Molly doesn’t love teaching yoga—certainly not the way she used to, and she often complains to Hunter about how tired it makes her—but today, suddenly, she is glad to be there. She’s grateful for the thing that dragged her away from Meredith Duffy’s house and for the warm, cozy skylit studio with its patchouli scent and attentive, willing practitioners.