Can't Look Away(70)
“The ones I found at Brooklyn Flea. Wow, I haven’t thought about those in a long time. They looked terrible, in retrospect. I don’t even think they fit the windows.”
“They were perfect, Moll.” Jake smiles sadly. He lowers his voice. “We were perfect.”
A breeze rolls off the ocean, with it the scent of salt and brine. Molly brushes a piece of hair off her face. Her throat is tight. “‘Perfect’ is a stretch, Jake.”
“We were pretty damn close.” He sighs. “Tell me how you really are, Moll.”
She fidgets with her engagement ring, spinning it around the way she does when she’s anxious. It’s a three-stone diamond—an heirloom, Becky’s late mother’s—and Molly has barely taken it off since Hunter gave it to her six weeks before Stella was born. “I feel busy,” she tells him. “Stella’s had camp all summer, and I’m teaching four classes a week now, which I guess isn’t that many, but still. The days are full.”
“I’m glad you’re still teaching,” he says. “Your classes at Bhakti were always my favorite. Does it make you happy?”
“Teaching?” Molly considers this. It’s a question she hasn’t been asked in a long time. Maybe ever. “I’m not sure,” she answers truthfully. “It used to. My first few years, I got so jazzed about sequencing my classes and building playlists and themes.”
“I remember.” Jake smiles.
“I never thought teaching yoga would be so permanent. But nearly a decade later, here I am.” Molly pauses. “It’s sort of a chore now, to be honest. I’ve been doing it for so long, I know I’m good at it, but I’m not sure I enjoy it.”
“Hmm.”
“When Stella started preschool, I thought about going for a steadier job—one where I’d be bringing in a real salary, but I don’t know…” Molly’s voice trails. She doesn’t want to tell Jake that the real reason she’s held off on going back to work full-time is because they’ve been trying to get pregnant again. It’s the last thing she wants to discuss, especially with him. She shrugs. “Maybe in a few years.”
Jake is quiet for a moment. “But what about writing? I need to know why you gave it up.” He stops walking, pivots his shoulders so they’re facing each other. Stella is still a ways behind them, hunting for shells. “I’m serious, Molly. You were really fucking great at it.”
“Only if you tell me why you gave up music for a job in insurance that I can’t imagine you actually care about.” She studies his fingers, remembers the easy, expert way they used to strum his old acoustic guitar. “Because I think the whole world knows you were really fucking great at that.”
“Well, I’m trying again to get it back, aren’t I?” Jake’s expression is tinged with remorse. “That’s more than you can say.” He lets out a breath. “Fine, I’ll go first. To be clear, I didn’t give up music. I’m sure you read about Danner Lane’s split. It wasn’t long after you and I…” His voice trails.
“I heard about it, Jake, yeah. I’m … I’m really so sorry. I couldn’t believe Sam and Hale did that to you. I still can’t.”
He looks up at her, injured, and Molly can tell it’s a wound that hasn’t healed. “The fucking Lane Brothers.” He shakes his head. “They thought they’d be better off without me, and look how right they were.”
Molly remembers how hard Jake had always worked—his tireless grit, his late nights at the studio or agonizing over lyrics and chord progressions in their tiny living room—and his pain is palpable. She feels it for him. She’s heard of the Lane Brothers, of course—they’re popular—but she doesn’t particularly enjoy the folksy, bluegrass style of the duo. In her opinion, they’re nothing compared to what Danner Lane was at its best.
“Sam and Hale weren’t right,” she tells him. “You were the heart and soul of that band. You were its special sauce, and they knew it and resented you for it. You wrote the songs, Jake. Every last line of every last one.”
He says nothing, gazing past her shoulder, out at the sea. Fat clouds fill the sky, more of them on the horizon.
“Not to toot my own horn,” Molly starts, a smile at the corners her mouth, “but as far as I can tell, the Lane Brothers haven’t had a hit that comes close to rivaling ‘Molly’s Song.’”
“I guess that’s true.”
“You could’ve done your own thing, like Sam and Hale did. Back then, I mean. You were the fan favorite, by leaps and bounds.”
“It’s not that simple, Molly.” Jake blinks, and the way he’s looking at her tells her that whatever he’s about to say is the truth. “That was the year you left. You were just … gone. You left me with nothing but a note and a half-empty apartment. I was … broken.” He rubs his forehead, closes his eyes. “Sam and Hale were done with me, you were done with me, Jerry and Ron went with Sam and Hale because they had a plan and I didn’t. I can’t explain it, I just … it all just seemed pointless without you.”
Tears clog Molly’s throat. She thinks of the last email Jake wrote her, remembering its bleak, desperate tone. She’d only skimmed it, truthfully—it was too painful to confront each of his carefully crafted, deliberate words. It had genuinely never occurred to her that leaving him could destroy his motivation, his potential. He was Jake Danner. An actual famous rock star, whose raw talent was just as breathtaking as his movie-star looks. His picture had started appearing in the tabloids of gossip magazines; flocks of girls desperate for his autograph swarmed him after every show. Molly knew he’d be crushed when she left, but she figured he’d wallow for a bit, then get on with the big life that awaited him. She’d banked on it. And after she became happy and settled with Hunter, she’d made it a point to stop googling Jake, even after learning of Danner Lane’s split. She simply didn’t want to know what he was up to—it was easier that way.