A square shot of you sitting outside at a restaurant drinking a Bloody Mary, your aviators slipping down the bridge of your nose. #mygirl
A photo of you standing on the street in a cap and gown, tall and long-limbed, a wide smile spread across your face as you wave your diploma in the air. #mygraduate
A picture of you with a rolled-up yoga mat tucked under your arm, flashing the peace sign in front of Bhakti Yoga. #myyogateacherintraining
An artsy shot of you at the beach: a close-up of the back of your shoulder and tangerine bikini strap, strands of your wheat-blond hair caught whimsically in the wind. #mymuse
A rarer photo of the two of you together, sitting side by side on the front stoop of an ambiguous building, your head on his shoulder, a set of keys dangling from his pointer finger. #myroommate
The guy who hadn’t wanted to move in with me after more than a year together was shacking up with a new girl after six fucking months.
The night I saw that Instagram post, I texted Chad—one of the dull finance guys Debbie and Elena had forced me to go on a date with several months earlier—and asked if he could meet for a drink. It was a weeknight; I think it was past ten. We went to the Penny Farthing and did a series of Fireball shots before I dragged him back to my apartment, where we screwed on the living room floor. I closed my eyes and tried to drown out thoughts of you and Jake in your new apartment while fibers of the sisal rug chafed my back, Chad thrusting mightily.
It wasn’t the first time I’d brought a near stranger into my bed with the hope of extinguishing Jake from my mind. It never worked, though, and after Chad left, I curled into a ball on the couch and cried myself to sleep.
I hated you, Molly. I really, really hated you. And perhaps this hate was exacerbated by the fact that I didn’t—and couldn’t—know a thing about you. Not even your last name. Jake sometimes referenced you as “Molly” in his posts, but he never tagged you.
You remained a mystery to me and to all the girls who ogled Jake from afar as the hype behind Danner Lane skyrocketed. To be honest, I’ve never been able to understand what it is about you that had him so smitten. You’re pretty, yes, but you’re not the most beautiful girl in the room. If you wore sexier clothes and more makeup, I might be able to see it, but you let your features remain muted, ordinary. But I, on the other hand—I turn heads. Admitting this doesn’t make me conceited, just honest.
That winter, a year after Jake left me, Danner Lane embarked on a twelve-city tour following the successful release of their debut album. I didn’t have to be stalking Jake to get this information—everyone knew. The dates and venues were listed all over social media and the band’s website, and ads for the tour appeared across the city.
There was one stop that caught my eye. Saturday, January 25, West Palm Beach, Danner Lane opening for the Black Keys.
I wasted no time booking a round-trip ticket to Florida. I emailed my parents and told them I’d be coming home that weekend, knowing they would never bother to ask why. Then I texted Martelle, my closest friend from childhood, who still lived in Palm Beach.
Coming home the weekend of 1/25, save the date, I have concert tix!
Martelle replied immediately, with two smiley faces and about a hundred exclamation points.
I banked on the fact that Jake would be traveling alone—I knew there was a chance you’d be there, following him around on tour, but my instincts told me you wouldn’t be. You just seemed more independent than that.
After the show, Martelle and I would find a way to get backstage and say hi. I’d explain that I’d been home for the weekend, that Martelle and I had tickets to the Black Keys and hadn’t realized Danner Lane was the opener. What a coincidence. What a small, small world.
Chapter Thirteen
Molly
2013–2014
The irony of that terrible night at Brooklyn Bowl was that it sealed Molly and Jake’s relationship; coming so close to losing each other brought them to a new level, one where they were openly in love. After months of privately knowing that she loved him, Molly was finally able to say it, finally convinced that he felt the same way, that he had from the beginning. Aside from the Maxine hiccup—Molly had become more and more convinced that the moment she’d witnessed was the extent of it; nothing had actually happened—her life with Jake felt close to perfect.
At the end of June, Liz announced that she was moving in with Zander in Greenwich Village when her and Molly’s lease ended in August. Molly felt a stab of hurt and nostalgia—she and Liz had been roommates for five years—but she wasn’t fully surprised. Liz was eager to move in with Zander, and Molly had known it would happen sooner rather than later. But she hadn’t expected such short notice. It was nearly July; she only had a month to find a new roommate.