Molly says nothing, absorbing this.
Hunter turns to her, his eyes growing serious. “Would it have mattered if I had told you?”
She shakes her head. The answer comes so easily. “No, Hunt. I chose you then. I choose you still. You’re my husband.”
His expression softens, but there’s still worry there. Molly hates that she’s done this to him, that she’s the cause of this deep, anxious pain in the person she loves most.
“Is it finished now?” he asks. “Your business with Jake?”
“Yes. I promise it is.” She reaches for his warm, steady hand. “I love you. You’re the one I want, but I—” She hesitates.
“What is it?”
She blinks up at him. “That person I left behind, Hunt? I miss her. It’s not about Jake, it’s truly not, but I … I haven’t really felt like myself here. In Flynn Cove, I mean.”
“I know.” Hunter sighs, rubbing his temples. “And I’ve been selfish.”
“That’s not what I—”
“No, listen. It doesn’t matter where we live, okay? We can go somewhere else. I just want you to be happy.”
“I’m not saying Flynn Cove is the problem.” Molly pauses. “I don’t know that it is. I mean, yes, there are some insufferable women in this town, but when I stop being so negative, I realize that there are also some really great ones. I think the problem is just … me.”
Hunter is silent for several long beats. Finally, he turns to her and stands. “I want to show you something.”
He leads Molly through the den and the kitchen, past the powder room they’ve wallpapered with old covers of The New Yorker and Life—half of each, their dreams combined. A literal dream come true, their life together. When did Molly stop remembering this? Or is it inevitable to forget how lucky you are, to eventually take the miraculous for granted when it’s no longer shiny and new?
Hunter stops when he gets to the alcove off the dining room, the space he uses as a home office. It’s where he pays the bills and keeps old trophies from sailing regattas, along with important documents like their tax returns and Social Security cards. But the secretary desk is gone, and so are his black file cabinets. In their place is a smaller desk that Molly recognizes instantly. It’s her desk from Brooklyn, from her old apartment on Driggs. The desk Jake got her their first year together, the one he’d found at the secondhand store. He’d painted the grubby wood white.
Molly looks at Hunter, her heart in her throat. “My desk. How did you…？”
“You’re a writer, Molly. You should be writing. And I’ve been terrible about reminding you of that. Truthfully, I think … I’ve been scared.” He rakes a hand through his dark flop of hair. “I know your creative side is so reminiscent of your life with Jake that I think a part of me has been afraid, that if you got back into writing … I could lose you to that. To him, even. I know that isn’t fair.”
“But you’re my husband, Hunter. You’re Stella’s father—”
“But Stella is his, Molly. I mean, I know she’s mine, but Jake is her blood. It doesn’t change the way I love her, but I can’t ever unknow that, and it’s hard as hell sometimes.”
Molly nods. There’s a tightness in her chest. “I can’t even imagine how hard it is, Hunt. I think—out of the million reasons why I want another baby—that’s the biggest one of all.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that I want you to know I’m never going to walk away from us. That this marriage is where I want to be, forever. And sometimes I feel like until we have a baby who’s biologically ours, you won’t ever feel completely safe with me. And that breaks my heart, and it eats away at me. Because even though I haven’t acted like it lately, I’m the luckiest woman in the world to be your wife.”
“Thank you for saying that.” Hunter gives a small smile. “I know it’s not fair of me to project those fears onto you. But I can also see that maybe you’ve been hesitant to ask for the things you really need from me, Moll. Because of how we started. Because subconsciously, you feel like I rearranged my whole life for you.”
Molly nods. Hunter is articulating what has for so long been unspoken in their marriage, the thing she says to herself when she feels something isn’t quite right. “But that isn’t your fault.”
“It’s been my fault not to realize how much you need this. And I’m sorry.” He smooths his palm over the surface of the desk, where the paint has begun to chip. “I may want to punch Jake Danner’s head through a wall, but he is right about some things.”