“Good luck to you and Hans.” He held up his hand, a parting wave, as I began to reverse the car. “Sisi.” He rapped the base of the window with his knuckles.
“Yeah?” I pressed down on the brake.
Jake found my eyes and studied them. I saw the pulse at his neck, the golden-brown stubble creeping up his jawline. “I know I deserved better.” He sighed. “But so did you.”
I watched him get smaller and smaller in the rearview mirror until I turned out of the driveway, and then he was gone. I sped back down I-95 toward Manhattan, leaving Flynn Cove in my wake. I doubted I’d ever go back there again.
That was back in the late spring. I’d be lying if I said you didn’t still pop into my mind on occasion. Mostly I think about you and Hunter and the baby you lost. I lie in bed at night and feel the roundness of my growing belly, the thumping of a little foot or fist, and I hope you’ll be able to feel this again, too. Because you deserve that, Molly—you do.
The first week in October, when I’m about ready to pop, I get a notification on my phone that Jake’s new album—titled Jake Danner—is available to stream on Spotify. I’m out for a walk in Central Park—I’ve been walking daily after lunch to try to get things moving in the right direction. It’s sunny and pleasant, but there’s a crisp quality to the air that’s a welcome relief after a hot summer, particularly for a nine-months’-pregnant-woman waddling through Strawberry Fields.
I pop my headphones in and click on Jake’s album. The first song is the acoustic version of “Molly’s Song”—hard pass—but I tap the second track and let the rest of the album play chronologically. I read the names of each song as a new one begins. “Wild Start,” “This Time,” “Night Drives,” “The Music in Me,” “Flipping Out,” “Back in Brooklyn,” “Tell Me Your Lies”—woof, I’m almost positive that one is about me. I guess I finally got my song after all. There are several others with ubiquitous names, all equally catchy and solid tunes. I can tell, by the time I’m nearly finished listening to the album, that it’s going to be a hit. It’s good—even better than The Narrows—and in spite of myself, I’m proud of him.
A new track begins to play—it’s the last one, I think—and when I glance down at its title, “Stella’s Song,” I lose my breath. My heart sinks, but I keep listening because I can’t not. The melody floods my ears, Jake’s voice as clear and smooth as honey.
Yellow hair, sunny face
Beautiful like your mom
Stella; oh, sweet Stella
You deserve a song
Half of me hates it, of course, but it’s the best song on the album, hands down, and the other half of me really fucking digs it. I play it again, exiting the park and crossing over to Lexington, back up toward my apartment. And then something funny happens. As I’m trudging up the street, out of breath and ready to park myself on the couch with my laptop for the rest of the afternoon, I see something, out of the corner of my eye.
It’s you. You’re sitting outside at a busy restaurant with a woman I don’t recognize. She has thick raven hair—almost jet-black—pulled up into a messy-but-chic bun. She wears horn-rimmed eyeglasses and a starchy button-down shirt. I can only see your profile, but it’s you without a doubt. That wavy curtain of sandy-blond hair, wide smile, sharp cheekbones. On one side of the table between the two of you sits a stack of papers, unbound. You’re deep in conversation, your salads untouched. I notice something else, too. The woman you’re with is drinking wine, but you’re not. There’s only a glass of tap water next to your plate, a wheel of lemon secured to the rim.
I feel something flicker inside me—call it instinct, call it affinity. I just have a feeling. You’re wearing an oversize jean jacket, and the table next to yours blocks me from being able to see your figure. I linger at the street corner, watching you for a few minutes. But it’s impossible to know for sure.
I secure my sunglasses more tightly as I pass by the restaurant. I don’t want you to see me, but my apartment is just up the block, and I’m too damn uncomfortable to cross the street and take the long way home. I keep my head down as I get closer to your table, my heart beating fast and strong. Without really meaning to, I peel my eyes up from the ground, and that’s when I see your head turn in my direction. It’s slight, just an inch or two, but from behind the protection of my sunglasses, my gaze locks with yours. Those bright hazel eyes. My heart jumps. I feel naked as I sense you watching me, even when I turn my face straight ahead and keep walking. Maybe you recognize me. Maybe not.