Can't Look Away(63)
“That’s huge that you have an agent,” Hunter said when she’d finished speaking, his expression genuine. “My aunt is a writer, and she’s never been able to find representation, not in thirty years. She’s self-published three novels now, each of which have about seven Amazon reviews. All by family members, I’m fairly sure.” Hunter smiled. “No, really, publishing is a tough business to crack. I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone with a literary agent. Well done.” He blinked. His eyes were the color of milk chocolate, and something in them was so familiar.
“Thank you.” Molly knew he could be trying to flatter her, but his words felt authentic. “And what do you do?”
She listened to Hunter describe his job in sports marketing, a career that seemed to fit him entirely. The industry wasn’t particularly interesting to Molly, but she could tell that he was genuinely passionate about his work, and she’d always found passion attractive.
When the waitress came by, Hunter ordered another coffee, and Molly followed suit. She didn’t think too hard about it. It was nice talking with a man who wasn’t Jake, someone who wasn’t consumed by his own impenetrable self-torment, who hadn’t thought to ask her once in the past two weeks how she was doing.
Their conversation flowed into the afternoon, the tables around them emptying and filling with new customers. Molly learned that Hunter had grown up in Connecticut, where his mother and older brother still lived. He’d gone to Dartmouth and, after graduating, had spent a year traveling through South America before moving to San Francisco for business school, then back to the East Coast. He’d recently moved out of the Murray Hill apartment he’d shared with friends and into his own place, a one-bedroom in a high-rise on Kent, overlooking the river. He played in a weeknight soccer league and loved sports, and woodworking was a longtime hobby. And, he confessed to Molly, he’d recently broken up with someone. They’d dated for a year and change, and he hadn’t felt serious enough about her to keep it going.
Hunter interlaced his hands on the table, and Molly noticed the half-moons on his neatly trimmed fingernails—the opposite of Jake’s, which were bitten down to the quick. She needed to stop doing this, stop comparing everything about this stranger to Jake.
“And what about you? Boyfriend?” The way Hunter asked the question wasn’t creepy or intrusive. Slightly hopeful maybe, but nothing more.
Molly nodded. She felt an odd impulse to apologize, but knew it wasn’t necessary. “We live together,” she said.
“Ah.” Hunter glanced down into his steaming mug, then back up. His eyes found hers. “Well, at least I didn’t put myself through the humiliation of asking you out.” He smiled softly, and Molly couldn’t help but do the same. He had a sense of humor; he was nice. There was something so easy and familiar about talking to him, she couldn’t help but feel like they’d known each other for years.
“What does your boyfriend do?” he asked.
“He’s a musician. Have you heard of Danner Lane?”
Hunter chortled, sitting back into his chair. “Yes. My ex was obsessed. I’ve been to a couple of their shows.” He paused. “‘Molly’s Song’—let me guess. You’re that Molly.”
“I’m that Molly.” She flipped her palms up, felt Hunter’s eyes on her. “Jake—he’s the songwriter and lead vocalist—he’s the one I date.”
Hunter grinned, impressed. “That is very cool.”
“Sometimes,” she said, clipping her gaze to Hunter’s. She almost added, It doesn’t feel as cool as it used to, but thought better of it. There was something in the air between them that felt weighted, charged with a feeling she couldn’t identify. “This is weird, but…” She paused. “I feel like I’ve seen you somewhere before. Is that possible?”
He tipped his chin forward, and there was something about his face that was so likable, so genuine. “I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe around the neighborhood?”
“Maybe.” Molly blinked, unsatisfied. “Well, speaking of the neighborhood … you’re new to Williamsburg, right?”
He nodded. “Yes, and it’s a world away from Murray Hill, let me tell you.”
“So maybe … maybe we could be friends.” These words had formed as a thought in Molly’s head; she wasn’t entirely sure what prompted her to speak them out loud. It wasn’t flirtation—despite the place they were in, her heart belonged to Jake. She was sure of that.
Hunter’s mouth cracked into a small smile. “I could use a friend or two in Brooklyn.”
“Good,” Molly said, waving to the waitress for the check.
Hours later, she lay in bed with a book, feeling funny about the coffeeshop interaction, and exchanging numbers with a man she hardly knew. A twinge of guilt. Jake continued to scribble frantically in the other room. He worked through dinner and didn’t come to bed till long after Molly had turned out the light.
Molly didn’t really expect Hunter to text her—what guy is stoked about making a female friend—but a couple of weeks later, he did. The sight of his name on her phone sent a jolt up her spine. She wished she’d forgotten all about this arbitrary man, but she hadn’t.
Hey Molly, it’s Hunter O’Neil. Was thinking of checking out the Brooklyn Flea on Saturday—in need of some artwork for my bachelor pad. Any interest in joining? Bring Jake, if he’s free.