“Oh my god!” she exclaimed. She crouched beside me, and I took in the details of her small, fox-like face. Her chest glistened with sweat, but she smelled clean, like deodorant. “Are you okay?”
I nodded, wincing in semi-faux pain. Perfectly, I’d arranged for my headphones to rip from my phone during the crash. “January Girl” by Danner Lane blared from the shitty iPhone speaker.
“I’m an idiot,” I said, sitting up. “I was trying to keep a seven-minute mile, and I’m just not there yet. So sorry for spilling on you.”
“It’s just water.” Liz shrugged passively. “I’m a seven-minute mile, but only after years of training. I ran track in college.”
“Wow. Impressive.”
“Hey.” She gestured to my phone. “You like that band.”
“Love them.”
“Ha.” Liz scrunched her nose. “You’ll never believe this, but that song is about one of my good friends—my old roommate. She used to date Jake Danner.”
“Stop it.” Used to date. Jackpot.
“Seriously. ‘January Girl,’ because they met in January.” She rolled her eyes. “Kinda lame.”
We stood. Liz’s blasé, possibly snarky attitude toward your relationship with Jake had my curiosity extra piqued. But I couldn’t act too interested, not right off the bat. I could tell immediately that Liz was cool and detached, yet perceptive. You know what I’m talking about, Molly. With someone like her, you have to play your cards right.
“That’s crazy.” I wrapped my headphones into a neat circle around my fingers. “I’ll let you get back to your run. But hey, I just joined here this week. Are there any classes you recommend?”
Liz placed a hand to her hip. “Like yoga?”
“I’m more of a Pilates girl.”
She nodded. “More my speed, too. Um, yeah. Check out Erin’s class. Mondays and Wednesdays at six.”
“Cool. Thanks. Have a good one. I’m Caitlin, by the way.”
“Liz.”
She waved goodbye. I took note of her nail polish, glossy and black.
There was an edge to Liz that captivated me, Molly. Mostly I just liked that she didn’t seem particularly enamored of you—I got the sense that the two of you had drifted apart. I wanted to know more, and I knew that would happen—Liz and I would become friends around the gym, I’d make sure of it. But in the meantime, she’d already given me the critical piece of information I needed: confirmation that you and Jake were no longer a couple, no doubt thanks to my handiwork.
Danner Lane had a big show coming up—they were slated to open for Arcade Fire at Madison Square Garden in March. I knew this was huge for Jake; the Garden had always been his holy grail of venues, and even though they weren’t the main act, it was still a big fucking deal.
I bought two tickets to the concert—floor, center stage. I debated bringing Debbie or Elena along, but ultimately decided to make it a date night. I needed to make Jake jealous. So I called up a guy named Warren, a good-looking advertising executive I’d had casual sex with around the holidays. I’d ditched him the moment he’d made it clear he wanted more; he was too straitlaced, too Banana Republic. Most of all, he just wasn’t Jake.
But Warren was the most attractive man I’d slept with since Jake, and I decided he’d have to do. He accepted my invitation to the concert pathetically quickly, volunteering that he was more than willing to bail on a friend’s birthday dinner to attend. What a loser.
Warren wanted to get drinks before the show at some “cool” cocktail lounge he knew of in Chelsea, but I was adamant about seeing the opening act. My plan was straightforward: stay through the whole show, then pop backstage to congratulate Jake. Similar to my plan in West Palm Beach, but this time would be different. For starters, I had Warren on my arm—that would show Jake what he was missing—and, more important, I had confirmation that you were out of the picture. Officially.
The Garden was packed; there was hardly an open seat in the house. Warren was overeager, and I needed to be drunk, so we were already two and a half cocktails deep by the time Jake and the band stepped onto the stage. The crowd went wild; The Narrows had been an outrageous success since its release, and I had a feeling I wasn’t the only one in the audience more interested in Danner Lane than Arcade Fire.
“Ohhh, these guys,” Warren slurred, already tipsy. “Now I see why you wanted to be here early.” He slung his arm around me, and I fought the urge to fling it away. “They’re everywhere. They have that new song everyone’s obsessed with.”