“Isn’t that part of what it means to be an artist?”
“To be in a constant state of self-doubt except for the odd five minutes when you sit back and let yourself appreciate hard-earned success?” Jake smiles knowingly. “Sounds par for the course.”
“And you hate golf.” They both laugh.
There’s a spark in Molly’s heart, then, in the dark, dense grief that pools there. A flicker of something like hope, or maybe clarity. He isn’t the love of her life—not anymore—but Jake Danner has always been the one to inspire her most. Molly thinks of what Nina said to her on the phone a few weeks earlier. Maybe being around him again is connecting you with that part of yourself you feel like you’ve lost. She understands, suddenly, that her pull to Jake this summer has been more about coming to terms with the life she abandoned, reclaiming the identity she lost, than it has been about him. Thanks to Stella, a piece of her will always love Jake, but she doesn’t yearn for him. It isn’t really about him at all.
He stands, giving a wistful smile. He leans down to touch her forehead, tracing his fingers above the bandage on her left brow, along her scar, the one she got falling out of the apple tree when she was seven.
He kisses her forehead, then moves his lips lower, until they touch hers. She lets the kiss last a few beats longer than it should, knowing it will be the last time.
“I’ll get your mom and Andy,” Jake says on his way out. “They’re grabbing a bite in the cafeteria.”
“Thanks. Hey, Jake?”
“Yeah?” In the doorway, he turns back, his figure haloed by the fluorescent hallway lights.
“I’ll find a way to tell Stella. She deserves to know the truth. And she deserves to have you in her life. In whatever capacity that can be. You … both deserve that.”
Jake smiles, his eyes shining. “I’d love that, Moll. I really would love nothing more. Whenever you’re ready, you know I’ll be there.”
He holds up a hand, and Molly absorbs the parting sight of him—Jake Danner, the man she’s loved for so much of her life, who will always be a part of her. And then he is gone.
Chapter Forty
Molly
August 2022
The morning after her fall, Molly is discharged from the hospital. The doctor tells her to rest and to call if the concussion seems to be worsening. Her mother, who stayed the night, drops Molly at home on her way back to New Jersey.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to stay, Moo?” Her mom’s voice—tender, brimming with concern—reminds Molly of being little.
“I’m sure.” She leans over the center console and wraps her arms around her mother, comforted by the familiar smell of her Lanc?me. She remembers the day she came home to Denville, newly pregnant, filled with equal parts conviction and fear as she sat her mother down at the kitchen table and explained that she was carrying Jake’s baby. “I’m keeping it,” she’d said, her voice trembling. “But I’m leaving him, Mom. I’m going to do this without him, and he can’t know. Promise me you’ll never tell him.”
And her mother hadn’t questioned or argued with her. She’d listened. She’d accepted. She’d provided gentle guidance, but she hadn’t inserted her own opinions or tried to change her daughter’s mind. Molly feels a burst of love. She knows how lucky she is to have a mother like that.
“Call if you need anything, okay?”
“I will. Thanks, Mom.” Molly stretches her neck toward the window. Pain still blunts the left side of her head. “Is Andrew…？”
“Back in the city. Took the train last night.”
“Gosh. Sydney must think—”
“Shh. No one thinks a thing, Moo.” Her mother tilts her head toward the house. “Now get in there and talk to Hunter.”
Molly nods. “I love you so much. Safe drive back.”
She watches the old blue Honda Civic pull away—the one her mother has driven since Molly was in college—her eyes glued to its tail until it hooks left at the end of the street, love and grief clenching her heart.
Molly walks around the house to the back door. Inside is quiet and cool, the air-conditioning a welcome relief. The kitchen counters are wiped clean, the chrome sink polished and empty.
Hunter sits at the round table with his mug of coffee. He wears boxers and an old Dartmouth T-shirt, his dark hair tousled from sleep. The Times is splayed out in front of him, but Molly can tell he’s not really reading it.