Can't Look Away(64)

The text made Molly smile. It was just Brooklyn Flea—no the.

She didn’t respond for twenty-four hours. She knew Jake would be wrapped up with the album all weekend—it was due to the record label by Sunday—and something about spending Saturday afternoon with another man felt wrong. But Molly was allowed to be friends with a guy, wasn’t she? She didn’t have any real male friends these days, but that was probably because she spent most of her time with Jake.

Molly’s internal debate persisted through the three back-to-back yoga classes she subbed that Wednesday. Between the exhale chataraungas and the inhale up-dogs and the million other yogic cues she recited from memory—as ingrained in her as her own breath—Molly considered the text from Hunter, sitting unanswered in her phone.

She hurried back to the apartment after teaching, speed walking through the biting wind chill. Like most New Yorkers, Molly was ready for winter to end.

Jake was making a sandwich when she walked in the door. It was the first real meal she’d seen him prepare for himself in weeks.

“Hey, beautiful.” There was a peppiness in his voice that told Molly he’d had a productive morning. She brushed a golden curl off his forehead, her body filling with lust at the sight of him.

Jake pulled her in for a kiss. “I love when your cheeks are all pink after you teach.” He pressed his forehead against hers. “I love you, Molly Diamond.”

“And I love you, Jake Danner.” She nestled her face into his good-smelling neck and thought how much she meant it, and how the thing with Hunter truly was harmless, platonic. “Random thing I wanted to run by you.”

“Yeah?” Jake went back to slicing an avocado. His knife skills were excellent. Molly was always impressed when she watched him in the kitchen.

“I met this guy at Devoción the other day—you know that coffee shop I like on Grand Street? Anyway, he sat at my table because the place was packed, and we ended up talking for a while and he was really … nice.”

Jake looked up from the cutting board, his lips parted. “Nice?”

“I told him about you and everything—believe me, it wasn’t like that. He’s actually been to a couple of your shows. His ex was a fan.” Molly smiled innocently. “Anyway, I sort of felt like we could be friends. He’s new to Williamsburg and wanted to check out Brooklyn Flea Saturday. Would that be weird?”

“Would what be weird, Moll?” Jake cocked his head and gave her a funny look. “Are you asking me if you can go to Brooklyn Flea with this guy?”

“I guess.” She shrugged. “You know I love Brooklyn Flea. He said to bring you, too, but I know you’re on deadline. I don’t really have any male friends, but I figure there’s nothing wrong with it. Right?”

Jake laid the avocado slices over one end of his open sandwich—turkey, bacon, tomato, and provolone cheese. “Well, do you get the vibe that he likes you? As more than friends?”

“No.” She shook her head. “It really wasn’t like that.” Molly knew she should probably tell Jake what Hunter had said after learning she had a boyfriend—Well, at least I didn’t put myself through the humiliation of asking you out—but decided it would only prompt unnecessary concern.

“If you say it’s harmless, it’s harmless.” Jake took a huge bite of sandwich.

“Totally harmless.” Molly leaned against the laminate countertop and began riffling through the mail. “That looks good, Jake.”

“He’s single, though?” Jake’s mouth was still full, and the question came out muffled.

“Apparently, he just broke up with someone.”

“Last question.” Jake swallowed his bite. “Is he good-looking?”

“He’s not bad looking.” Molly used her thumb to wipe a smear of mustard from the corner of Jake’s mouth. “But trust me when I say he’s nothing compared to you. I will never—as long as I live—be as attracted to anyone as I am to you, Jake Danner.” She meant it then. She meant it always.

When Molly met Hunter at Brooklyn Flea on Saturday, she hoped she’d be able to recognize him—the details of his physical appearance were fuzzy in her memory. But he spotted her first, and once he called her name and she whipped around to the sight of him, she remembered. Floppy, dark hair, that crooked smile, wide-set brown eyes that still seemed familiar. Taller than Jake by an inch or two, maybe. He’d traded in his suit for a pair of worn jeans and a dark red Patagonia. They laughed because Molly was wearing a similar outfit—jeans and her crimson puffer jacket.

“You’re cramping my style,” Hunter deadpanned.

Molly grinned. “I don’t think you’re using that phrase correctly.”

He shrugged. “You would know, writer.”

They walked around all afternoon, browsing the dozens of vendors selling furniture, art, vintage clothing, funky jewelry, and antiques. Hunter found an oil painting of the ocean that he loved and a few old issues of Life magazine.

“I collect these,” he explained, picking up an issue from 1965. On the cover, Frank Sinatra beamed in an orange sweater. “Well, my dad did. Now I do.”

“Is your father…”

“He died when I was in grad school.” Hunter blinked, staring at the magazine. “Brain tumor.”