Can't Look Away(35)
I bet you didn’t know I was on that tour, Molly. As Jake would say—What a coincidence.
I flew to West Palm Beach after work on that Friday in late January, and Martelle and I met up Saturday morning for a boozy brunch at Buccan. I love Martelle—she’s the kind of friend who’s always down for anything, though I can’t say she has much ambition. At the time, she’d just started dating her now husband, Perry, a real estate mogul whose bank account meant she’d never have to work. Not surprisingly, they’ve never left Palm Beach.
I was never like Martelle—I’d always wanted to get out of Florida. It felt like a bubble; the weather was consistently pleasant, and as much as I enjoyed the sunshine, it could also be stifling, and I’d always been a bit skeptical of the lack of seasons. Before my father retired and moved us south to an oceanfront villa in Palm Beach, I’d spent the first nine years of my life in New York. I had fond memories of how Manhattan would change with the weather: the early buds of spring outside the windows of our apartment on tree-lined East Seventy-sixth Street; steamy summer nights when the air felt like velvet coating my skin; crisp fall afternoons in Central Park with my nanny, Rebecca; the eager, bustling crowds that swarmed FAO Schwarz at Christmastime. I’d always known that I would make it back to New York someday.
After brunch, Martelle and I did mani-pedis and blowouts before heading back to my parents’ place to get ready for the concert. My father wasn’t home, and my mother may as well not have been—she’d locked herself in the den with a bottle of Chard; I hadn’t had more than a two-minute conversation with her since I’d been back.
Anyway, I wanted to look my absolute best for Jake. After scrounging through my closet, I decided on a black leather miniskirt with a white crop top and combat boots. Hey, it was 2013, and I was twenty-fucking-three—I could pull it off. I let Martelle do my eyeliner—she’s the best at liquid. If she had wanted a career, I think she would’ve made a phenomenal makeup artist.
“Oh my god,” I said when we picked up our tickets at will call, feigning shock. “You’re not gonna believe this, Marty. Danner Lane is the opening act.”
“No!” Martelle’s jaw dropped. “What are the chances, Sees?”
Love her to pieces, but Martelle really is the most gullible person on the planet.
We only caught the last half of their performance—Martelle had insisted on doing an unnecessarily long photo shoot outside the venue—and by the time we found out seats, Danner Lane was in the middle of “Salt River,” one of my favorite songs on the album.
When they finished, the packed audience erupted in applause, and Jake raised a hand in appreciation. Just the sight of his tall, familiar frame sent a rush of adrenaline through my body, filling every cell to the brim with intoxicating lust.
“Jeez, I forgot how hot he is. And he’s so talented.” Martelle sipped her vodka lemonade and gazed at Jake. They’d met once, when she’d come to visit me in the city the year before. She knew we’d broken up, but I hadn’t told her about the positive pregnancy test or the blood. I hadn’t told anyone.
“Yeah,” I agreed, watching as Jake stepped toward the microphone, the guitar strap snug around his shoulders. “It’s true. When he’s onstage, you really can’t look away.”
He cleared his throat. “This next song is very special to me. It’s about a girl I love very much, who unfortunately couldn’t be here tonight.”
Martelle gave me a pouty look that said, Ouch, sorry. I knew what was coming, my heart sinking in my chest as the band began the familiar, torturous tune of “January Girl.”
But at least Jake’s little speech confirmed what I’d hoped: you weren’t there.
After Danner Lane finished their act, and after drinking our way through two hours of loud electric guitar spasms from the Black Keys—“You like these guys?” Martelle asked more than once during their performance—we made our way backstage.
“I have to at least say hi,” I reasoned, and Martelle nodded in drunken solidarity.
“I’m an old friend of Jake Danner’s,” I told a security guard, who traced the length of my body with dubious eyes.
“Okay. Name?”
“Sabrina Randolph; this is my friend Martelle.”
The guard sighed. “Wait right here.”
A few minutes later, he reappeared, motioning for us to follow him. He led us to a room behind the stage, where Jake, Sam, and Hale were gathered with several other men I didn’t recognize. They were all drinking longnecks and cracking up over something, their laughter stopping abruptly when they noticed Martelle and me in the doorway.
Jake’s mouth spread into a genuine smile as he moved toward us. “Sisi! What a surprise. What on earth are you doing here?”
He was even handsomer than I’d remembered, and being so close to him got me instantly high, like he was a drug binding itself to my synapses. His eyes were such a pure, crystalline blue, and they were drinking in the sight of me. Behind him, Sam and Hale watched us, tipping their beers forward in some semblance of a greeting. Next to me, Martelle smacked her gum.
“You remember Martelle.”
“Of course.” Jake grinned politely in her direction.
“Anyway, what a small world. I was home in Palm Beach for the weekend, and Martelle and I had these tickets to the Black Keys. I had zero idea you guys were opening until we got here.”