Can't Look Away(67)
She pulled away from him. “I’m really not in the mood.”
He frowned. “We’ll stay here, then. Finish the champers. I’ll make you an omelet.”
“I’m exhausted,” she lied. “I’m just going to read in bed.”
“What about dinner?”
“I had a late lunch. I’m not hungry.” The second part was true, at least. She’d lost her appetite.
“Really?” Jake looked down at her, and his eyes were sorry. “Don’t let me ruin tonight.”
You already have, Molly wanted to say. But she felt too deflated to continue their argument. Her happy mood was gone—Jake had sucked it out—and she hated that he had the ability to do that. To suck the life out of her just by being who he was. Lately he saved all his charisma and charm for the stage—for his fans—and Molly was left to bear the brunt of his stress. His dark side.
“I really am tired,” she told him with a shrug, desperate to be alone. “We’ll celebrate another night.”
“Tomorrow? I want to hear everything.”
“Sure.”
“I really am so crazy proud of you.” Jake squeezed her shoulder. “I guess I’ll watch a movie if you’re going to sleep. Can you toss me a beer on your way to the bedroom?”
Molly took an IPA out of the fridge. She placed it on the coffee table, resisting the urge to chuck it at Jake’s head.
As she brushed her teeth and washed her face, she realized he hadn’t even asked about Brooklyn Flea. She’d harbored a pang of guilt all day, suspecting Jake might be anxious about her spending several hours with another man, but he hadn’t even remembered.
Molly read the same page of her paperback four or five times before giving up—her mind was elsewhere. She turned out the light and nestled underneath the covers, her thoughts restless, churning. When Jake crawled into bed beside her a couple of hours later and whispered, “I love you,” she pretended to be asleep. And she realized, with a pang of sadness, that it wasn’t the first time that winter she’d done so.
Early feedback on Precipice came in a few weeks later. Jerry called Jake to say that Ron and his team at Dixon Entertainment liked it, though they agreed it was a departure from The Narrows in terms of sounding a bit more pop infused. By that point, Jake could read between the lines when it came to Jerry, and it was obvious his manager was painting a prettier picture than the real thing. Clearly Dixon wasn’t going crazy over Precipice, but it had been a full year since “Molly’s Song” released as a single, and a second album was overdue. They would have to make it work.
The album drop was slated for June, which meant the band would spend the spring recording and gearing up for the launch.
Jake was barely around, spending most waking hours at the fancy recording studio Ron had booked for them in Tribeca. Everly was crazed with work, Nina and Cash were off in their own world, and Liz hardly ever seemed to be available. Molly had the book deal keeping her busy—she and Alexis were deep in revisions—but still. Writing was often a solitary process, and as thrilled as she was to be doing it, Molly found that her days could be lonely. And so, she continued to see Hunter.
She wasn’t entirely sure why or how their friendship blossomed, only that the connection they shared felt natural. Romantic wasn’t the word for it. Hunter felt like someone she’d known all her life; there was something familiar in his smile that infused their meetings with a déjà vu–like quality.
They’d meet for coffee or a casual lunch, sometimes a walk along the waterfront. He told her about the dates he went on—some promising, some disastrous—and she gave him unfiltered advice. In turn, however, Molly never said much about Jake. They weren’t in a great place, but somehow, discussing her and Jake’s relationship with Hunter—as close as they’d become—felt like a betrayal. Whenever Hunter did inquire about Jake, Molly only said that he was busy recording the new album. Which was true.
“He’s playing the long game with you,” Nina insisted one night in April. They were at Charlie Bird in SoHo with Liz and Everly. The four of them hadn’t had a meal together in ages, and Molly had roped everyone in to getting a dinner on the books. It was finally spring, and the mood in the city was happy and light.
“Hunter? No.” Molly sipped her martini. She used the little plastic stick to spear an olive, then slurped it down. “He’s my friend.”
Liz raised an eyebrow. “How often do you see him?”
“Once a week, probably.”
“Hmm.” Everly flashed her a skeptical look that mirrored Liz’s and Nina’s.
“But that’s because you guys are all too busy to hang out with me,” Molly justified. “And Jake never leaves the studio. Plus, Hunter and I are practically neighbors.” She didn’t like sounding defensive. Especially because she wasn’t doing anything wrong. Since when was it a crime to be friends with someone of the opposite sex?
Molly did wonder, a month later, why she felt a stab of envy when Hunter told her about a girl he’d hit it off with. Her name was Blair; she was an interior designer from Westchester and the first girl Hunter had felt excited about since his ex.
That night, Molly found Blair on Facebook and scrolled through her pictures. She looked preppy and manicured, too conservative for Hunter. Hunter was traditional, yes, but rough around the edges. He chopped wood for his mother in Connecticut; he built things with his hands. If he dressed like a prep, it was because he wore old Brooks Brothers sweaters of his father’s from the seventies. There was no effort in his style. A man like Hunter was timeless.