Can't Look Away(30)

Jake was quiet for several long beats. “Let me see if Dixon would pay for your flight. Okay?”

“Do you really think they’d do that?”

“Maybe. It doesn’t hurt to ask.”

“Okay.” Molly sank back into the pillows. The thought of not seeing Jake for more than a month made her unbearably anxious.

Jake sighed. “Hey, I’m so sorry about this. I really love you. I hope you know that.”

Fresh tears pooled in Molly’s eyes, gliding down her cheeks. “I love you, too,” she managed, trying to hide the emotion in her voice. “And I’m really proud of you. I’m just bummed because I miss you. But this is big, Jake. You deserve it.”

“Thanks, Moll. I miss you, too. It hurts, the way I miss you. But it’s only a month—okay, a little more—and it’ll fly. You’ll be teaching, and writing, and I’ll be back before you know it.”

“I’m not really writing at the moment,” Molly said, stifling a sniffle. “I’m sort of in limbo, still waiting to hear back from your friend.”

“What friend?”

“Bella. Your agent friend. The one you know through Sam and Hale.”

“Oh. Right.”

“It’s been almost two months, and I haven’t heard anything. And I followed up. Do you think that’s a bad sign?”

“Nah. You know how busy people get around the holidays.” Jake paused. “But I can check in with her, if you want? Though I don’t want to annoy her.”

“What do you mean?” Molly asked. “I thought you knew her?”

“Well, yeah, but she’s not exactly a friend, Moll. She’s Sam’s godmother’s daughter. I met her a bunch when we were younger, when she and her family would visit the Lanes. She’s, like, five years older than us or something.”

“Okay.” Now Molly was annoyed. It had been Jake’s idea to connect them in the first place; he’d made it sound like an easy ask.

“You know what, never mind. I’ll just reach out and be casual—I’ll mention that you said you pitched your manuscript, and see what she says. Okay?”

“That would be great, if only for my peace of mind. Thanks.”

“Cheer up, Moll. Tomorrow you’ll be swimming in the ocean.”

“Yeah.”

“Life is good.”

For you, Molly thought, but she didn’t let herself say it. She hated the way spite made her feel—bitter and small—and besides, she was proud of Jake. Nothing had been handed to him; he’d worked tirelessly to get to where he was. He and Sam and Hale had worked odd jobs all throughout college and their first years in the city, pooling their money to pay for rented studio space. It was only just last summer that Jake could finally afford to stop busing tables at the Greek restaurant where he’d worked since arriving in New York. Danner Lane was the product of years of practice and dedication and hustle and sacrifice. Molly, of all people, had to understand that.

The following week, as she sat on the beach in Naples with her family, Molly barely heard from Jake. He didn’t let her know if Dixon would consider covering the cost of her flight or if he’d followed up with Bella. As she lay on her chaise and anxiously thumbed through the most recent New Yorker, Molly could only assume he hadn’t. The pit in her stomach deepened as the days passed.

Her mother rubbed sunscreen on her back—this always made Molly feel like a little girl, but it was the part she couldn’t reach—and asked how Jake’s tour was going.

“Fine,” Molly lied, unable to tell her mother the truth—that she didn’t actually know.

He’d called only twice that week, both times late, hours after Molly had fallen asleep. His voicemails were quick and breathless. Sorry, Moll. What a crazy day. The show was amazing—we killed it, we really killed it—and then went out after. Too late, probably, I’m so fucking tired. And drunk. I miss you so much. Let’s try to talk tomorrow, okay? I love you.

But when Molly would call him back the next day, it would go straight to voicemail. She knew Jake well enough by then to understand how he operated; she knew he’d probably passed out and forgotten to charge his phone overnight. She didn’t let herself think about Maxine being on the tour, because she just couldn’t go there. Molly trusted Jake—she had to. Trust was relationship oxygen. Without it, she and Jake wouldn’t survive.

She had a text from him when her plane touched down in New York.

Lost my charger for forty-eight hours—just found! Can you talk?



The next month went on like that. Jake on the road, partying, missed calls, drunk texts, crappy communication. During the first substantial conversation they’d had since Jake left—a couple of days after Molly got back to Brooklyn—she asked if there was any news about Dixon paying for her to come meet him on tour or if he’d heard from Bella. Jake had sighed audibly, and she’d imagined him sitting on the edge of the bed in his hotel room, rubbing the back of his neck the way he did when he was agitated or hungover, or both.

“Fuck. No. I need to check in with Ron. I’ll do that today.”

“What about Bella?”

“Bella?”

“Bella.” Molly could no longer mask the aggravation in her voice. Pent-up frustration bubbled to the surface. “Are you serious, Jake? The literary agent you know. The one who’s had my manuscript since November.”