Can't Look Away(8)
She feels a sharp stab of annoyance.
“How are people still playing that fucking song?” she says—almost yells—aloud to no one.
She wants to switch the station, but her arm is frozen on the steering wheel. She lets herself listen, surrenders to the nostalgia that squeezes her heart like a fist at the sound of his voice.
Five days ago I didn’t know
The feelings in me now
It’s not even a good song, she thinks as she speeds through a yellow light, all the while knowing that, on the contrary, it is a good song. It’s a great song, the best song Danner Lane ever released and the only one—five years after the band split—that still gets played on the radio.
The gentle plucking of the guitar slows as the song fades out. Molly isn’t prepared for what comes next, as the radio show host’s voice fills the car.
“That was Jake Danner, everyone, with his recently recorded acoustic version of the old favorite, ‘Molly’s Song.’ Beautiful, isn’t it? I’m lucky enough to be here with Jake this afternoon, who’s kindly agreed to say a few words to our listeners. Jake, great to have you on today. How’s it going?”
Molly turns numb, her heart in her throat. She pulls into the parking lot of Dr. Ricci’s office and slows the car to a stop, her whole body prickling and hot. And then Jake is speaking, the sound filling the Audi.
“Thanks, Aaron, thanks for having me on the Coffee House. I’m doing well. Just happy to be here talking about music.”
“You know how much we all loved ‘Molly’s Song’ when it came out in—god, was it 2014? Anyway, it’s a real treat to hear you perform it again, and this acoustic version is so raw. Now, I’ve heard some rumors, but can you tell us if a solo album might be in the works?”
Jake laughs softly, passively, and Molly imagines him brushing a hand through his hair. She wonders if he still wears it long or if he succumbed to a crew cut. “Oh, I don’t know about that, Aaron,” he demurs. “I suppose time will tell, won’t it?”
Molly kills the engine and bolts out of the car, unable to stomach the familiar pitch of Jake’s voice a second longer. The sound of him is an invasion, an assault on the years she’s spent pushing the past as far back as she can.
As usual, Dr. Ricci’s waiting room is packed. Molly finds the only open seat, wedging herself between two women flipping through glossy magazines. She fiddles with her wedding ring, agitated, the lyrics of “Molly’s Song” on repeat in her mind.
Your beautiful mind, your secret smile
Change me, won’t you change me
Molly glances around the room at all the tired, stressed-looking women—many of whom appear older than she does—and tries to shift her anxiety toward gratitude. So many of these women would kill for a daughter of their own, and how lucky is she to have Stella? Only one of her fellow patients sits straight and alert, and she is staring in Molly’s direction. It takes a moment to place her—perfect posture, bright green eyes. Yes, it’s the woman who took Molly’s yoga class two Sundays before.
“Sabrina,” a voice says as though the universe is reading her mind, and suddenly, the woman has plopped down in the newly vacant seat beside her. “I was in your yoga class the other weekend. I’m not sure I actually introduced myself. You’re Molly, right?”
Molly nods slowly, caught off guard. “Yes. Of course I remember. Hi.” She keeps her voice low; Dr. Ricci’s waiting room is not exactly a chatty environment.
Sabrina smiles, and Molly notes, once again, how attractive she is. Her dark, glossy hair falls long and loose around her shoulders, and she wears one of those thick, knotted headbands that seem to be trendy lately. Molly tried one on in a store the other day and decided she couldn’t pull it off—her head seemed to be the wrong shape; it looked like some sort of embarrassing want-to-be crown.
“Sorry I haven’t made it back to your class yet.” Sabrina’s voice is genuine. “Things have been so busy. I’ve been in the city nonstop, dealing with a work crisis.”
“No worries,” Molly says, surprised and slightly intimidated. None of the women she knows in Flynn Cove have serious careers—or even work at all.
“I was in fashion merchandising for years,” Sabrina continues. “Now I consult for a few brands. There’s been this huge disaster with the fall line at Dolce and Gabban—” She pauses. “Well, I shouldn’t go into details. But you get it. You’re a working woman.”
Barely, Molly thinks, insecurity piercing her stomach. But it isn’t the time or place to explain to Sabrina that teaching yoga isn’t a career for her, that it never has been, never will be. She thinks of Bella’s voicemail and feels sick with something she can’t define. A kind of nostalgia for a life she didn’t choose.
Molly swallows, eager to change the subject. “You’re new to town, aren’t you?”
Sabrina nods. “This is my first appointment here, though I was seeing another fertility specialist in the city, before we moved. My husband and I have been trying for over a year.” She blinks, her emerald eyes clear and calm, and Molly wonders how a relative stranger can be so forthcoming on a topic that’s so private and painful.
“Are you seeing Dr. Ricci?” Molly asks.