Can't Look Away(96)
Jake’s heart clenched, shrouded in guilt. He knew how bad this looked.
“What is this, Jake?”
“Sees.” He removed his navy coat, the shoulders dusted with snow. “I didn’t think your flight landed until nine.” Sisi had been in Milan for Fashion Week; she’d been gone ten days. “I … I found that box in the back of my closet last night. I was just bored without you, so I started looking through it. I don’t even know why. And I guess I forgot to clean it up before I left this morning.” He set his briefcase down.
“What is it?” Her eyes narrowed, green slits.
“A bunch of stuff I saved after Molly and I broke up.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Honestly, I’d forgotten it even existed. I’m obviously going to toss it.”
But he didn’t. He couldn’t bring himself to trash what little he had left of Molly, even if their story was ancient history.
It wasn’t until four years into their relationship that Jake and Sisi began to talk seriously about marriage. Her nudges in this direction were not as subtle as he could tell she intended, but by that point, Jake loved her enough to find this endearing. He couldn’t imagine losing Sisi, the way he’d lost everyone else. And so, one early spring day among the cherry blossoms in Central Park, he dropped to one knee. She squealed, elated, like he’d known she would be. Sisi had been wanting the proposal for a while, but Jake had taken longer to be ready. And still, at the sight of her wearing the ring—a brilliant-cut diamond flanked by tapered baguettes—he couldn’t help imagining what it would’ve felt like to slip an engagement ring over Molly’s finger. The thought filled him with shame, and he pushed it away.
They scheduled the wedding for January in Miami, at a luxury resort in South Beach. It surprised Jake that Sisi wanted to get married so close to where her parents lived, but she countered that it had nothing to do with them at all, that she’d been close with relatives in Miami growing up and loved the city, and the idea of a winter ceremony on the ocean.
A month before the wedding, Jake got a call from a music manager named Clay Berenson. Jake had continued to be approached by a number of managers in the years since he’d started working for Randolph Group, but never anyone he’d considered seriously. The few he’d agreed to have coffee with were all focused on “Molly’s Song” and how to re-create this same kind of superhit. Jake could practically see the dollar signs in their eyes.
But Clay Berenson was different. He didn’t even mention “Molly’s Song” at first. Instead, he gushed about the lesser-hyped tracks from Danner Lane, his favorites from The Narrows and Precipice, songs no one had mentioned to Jake in years. “January Girl,” “Gut Feeling,” “Bayside,” “Give it Love, Give it Time.”
“But if you’re actually serious about a solo album, we’d have to do something with ‘Molly’s Song,’” Clay told him candidly. “For better or for worse, it’s what everyone still remembers about you. It’s your hook—the way you get people to listen. Otherwise, no one will give a shit.”
Jake knew Clay was right, and appreciated his straightforward approach. And though a significant part of Jake was so still hesitant to face the music—no pun intended—he craved it in his heart. He missed the weight of the guitar in his hands, the freeing way it felt to sing from the very bottom of his soul.
“This guy Clay actually gets it,” he’d gushed to Sisi after their lunch meeting. “He truly believes in my work—my old songs from back in the day that nobody else even remembers. He thinks a solo album has real potential.” Jake smiled pensively, a dreamy sheen in his eyes. He felt light and buzzy. Maybe he was simply worn out from spending every day of the last four years behind a computer screen, his fingers glued to the keyboard, crunching numbers for the kind of conglomerate his younger self never would’ve entertained selling out to. Maybe the appeal of a reliable job was wearing off; maybe it had always only been a matter of time. “I think I’m going to give him a shot.”
“Wow. Babe.” Sisi grinned, but she looked worried. “That’s great, but what about work? You’ve been at Randolph Group for a while now, and my dad got you that job.”
“It’s not like I’m gonna quit, Sees. This solo album—if it even happens—would just be a side gig, at least for now. I’ve really missed music. You have to know that.”
“Not really. You never say that to me.”
“Well, I’m sorry. I should.” He reached for her hand, which was smooth and steady. His love. His future wife. “Since the band split, something in my life has just been … missing. I mean, I started playing guitar with the Lanes when I was a little kid.”
“Do you miss them?”
Jake nodded wistfully. “Of course.” He rarely listened to the Lane Brothers—it was too hard—though he thought of Sam and Hale often. Jerry as well. He wasn’t even sure he was angry with them anymore, for leaving him in the dust. In retrospect, he saw where they were coming from, though he didn’t think he deserved the way they treated him. But he wasn’t sure what good it did, holding on to anger like that. Still, the Lanes were the closest thing to brothers Jake had ever had. “It’s not about them, though, Sees. Making music is part of who I am. Despite what I’ve said before, I don’t think I’m ready to walk away for good.”