Molly grinned. “Why didn’t you think I’d say yes?”
Jake shrugged, struck with the sudden certainty that he didn’t want to bullshit this girl. There was a quality to her that captivated him—he’d felt it the moment he’d spotted her in the crowd at the Broken Mule. It wasn’t just that she was beautiful—there were thousands of beautiful girls in New York, and he’d come across women that were more striking. It was the way she’d looked so firmly rooted, he decided, utterly present and expectant, ready for something to happen. On the phone, when he’d told Molly he’d never tracked down a girl from one of his shows, he hadn’t been lying.
“Well, first I thought you might have a boyfriend,” he told her. “And then, when I called you, I thought there was a good chance you’d be creeped out. I meant what I said on the phone, though—I’ve never done that before.”
“Sure.” She tipped her head teasingly. They hadn’t finished the second bottle of wine; still, they were both a little drunk.
“I swear!” Jake reached forward and took both of Molly’s hands in his, squeezing gently.
“Do you date a lot?” she asked, blinking up at him.
“Nah.” He shrugged, uncomfortable. “Things have really been picking up with the band…” He paused, propelled by the urge to share more, to be honest in a way that didn’t always come naturally. “Truthfully, I’m—” He stalled. Her gloveless hands were warm despite the cold. “I’m in the middle of a breakup.”
“Oh.” The playful expression on Molly’s face dropped, the air between them shifting as she drew her hands away.
“It’s over, it really is.” Jake studied her hopefully, hating himself for ruining the moment, and even more for dodging the truth until now. He thought of Sisi, of their drawn-out eighteen months together. He wasn’t in love with her, and being around Molly made him all the more certain that he never would be.
Jake sighed. “Sisi wanted to move in together, and I guess … I guess I didn’t love her as much as she loved me. And I started to feel guilty about that.” He wrapped his arms across his chest, rubbing his shoulders. “I should’ve ended it months ago. I just kept putting it off—I’m not good with confrontation—but I’ve been over it for—” He paused, latching his gaze to Molly’s. “For a while now.”
Molly pulled her red hat lower over her ears. “Are you fucking with me?”
Jake shook his head. “I promise I’m not.”
She blinked. Her nose and cheeks were pink, her blond hair a halo around her face, and Jake thought how pretty she looked, on this frigid January night, underneath the glow of the streetlight on Driggs. Around them, snow had begun to fall again, little white flakes dancing down from the inky sky.
“I promise,” he repeated, stepping toward her. He lifted his hand to her face, tracing his fingers along the scar above her left eyebrow. “What is this from?”
“I fell out of an apple tree when I was seven,” she explained, her voice breathy, electricity whirring in the space between them.
“I’m a little drunk,” Jake admitted, one side of his mouth curling. “And it’s cold. Walk you home? Or … do you want to come over and listen to music?”
Molly rolled her eyes. “You just told me you’re more or less in a relationship, and you want me to come over?”
“I’m not in a relationship,” Jake insisted. “Not anymore. Besides, no funny business. Just music.”
She gave a small smile. “Your music?”
“God no. I’m not that kind of narcissistic artist. I was thinking more like … Blink-182?”
“Blink-182? Random.”
“Not random. Blink-182 is my favorite ever. They’re all I listened to as a kid. They have some great fucking songs. They’re probably the reason I wanted to start making music.”
“Danner Lane sounds nothing like them. No offense.”
“None taken. Punk rock was a nineties thing, and it should stay that way. But it’s iconic. Come on.” Jake reached for one of Molly’s hands, and she let him hold it as they walked. “I’m only four blocks away. One song and you can leave. And Sam and Hale won’t be there to bother you.”
“Sam and Hale being … your roommates?”
“Yeah. And my bandmates. They’re brothers. So it’s the three of us. We grew up on the same street in North Carolina. We started dicking around with music in the Lanes’ garage when we were—God, it must’ve been elementary school? Maybe Sam was in middle school by then. He’s a year older than Hale and me.”