I took a sip of my drink—some sweet, lemony vodka thing. “‘Salt River’？”
“Nah, not that one. Uh, let me think … my roommate’s girlfriend, like, plays it on repeat. It’s about some chick. ‘Molly’s Song,’ that’s what it’s called.”
“Excuse me?” I spun toward Warren, so quickly my drink splattered across the floor.
Warren shrugged. “Haven’t you heard it? It’s all over iTunes.”
I flashed my gaze back to the stage, where Jake looked utterly perfect in dark jeans and a worn tee. A little bit rock and roll, a little bit country. Tim McGraw meets Kurt Cobain. I felt my limbs turn to butter. I watched his hands grip the microphone, the same way they’d gripped the back of my head when he kissed me.
“Hey, New York City.” The smooth, distinctive sound of his voice sent a delicious ripple through my body. “It’s Saturday night, and we’re Danner Lane, and we’re gonna play some music.”
Quickly, discreetly, I pulled up the iTunes Store on my phone and searched Danner Lane. Sure enough, “Molly’s Song” was listed as their top track. It had just been released as a single the week before. I couldn’t believe it. How had I missed this? Work had been insane since Fashion Week, but still. How did I let myself get so cocky that I stopped keeping close tabs on Jake? Even Warren knew about “Molly’s Song,” for fuck’s sake.
“We’ve got a new song for you guys, though some of you might’ve heard it already.” Jake’s clear voice boomed through the mike, that slight Southern drawl pulling the edges of his words. “This one is for my Molly.”
The crowd exploded. My insides twisted violently; the taste of bile and lemony liquor burned the back of my throat. I knew I would be sick. My Molly. I had to get out of there.
“Bathroom,” I mouthed to Warren, who was already bouncing his knees in tune to the music. He flashed me a stupid, goofy grin and a double thumbs-up.
I grabbed my purse and shimmied my way through the row of mesmerized people. I bolted for the exit, not stopping until I was all the way down the escalators and outside the arena, safely on the street.
Liz had been wrong. She’d been so, so, so wrong. I hailed a cab home, ignoring the series of texts that had come in from Warren, asking if I was okay. I put in my earbuds and played “Molly’s Song” on repeat, letting every excruciating lyric sink into my consciousness.
When I got back to my apartment, I marched straight into the bedroom. I threw my purse on the floor and opened the top drawer of my nightstand, digging out the framed photograph of Jake and me that I’d kept beside my bed when we were together. It was my favorite picture of us, a selfie taken on the High Line that first summer we spent as a couple. We look stupid happy, our smiles reaching our ears, a slice of the Hudson River visible in the backdrop.
I studied the photo, my hands trembling as I recalled the details of that perfect Saturday. We’d gotten Mexican food at Tacombi after the High Line, then walked over to the Lower East Side for a gig Danner Lane had at some dive bar. I don’t remember the name of it, but I remember the way Jake played that night, the way no one in the crowd could take their eyes off him while he sang into the microphone. I remember how he pushed me up against the bar after the show and kissed me, long and hard, in front of all the girls who wanted him to be theirs. But he was mine.
I couldn’t bear to look at the picture for another second. I flipped the frame around and smashed it against the side of the nightstand. I smashed it over and over again, until shards of glass littered the floor and the bed. When I looked down at my hands, they were covered in blood.
Chapter Nineteen
Molly
2014
That spring, a month after Molly moved back in with Jake, The Narrows peaked at number two on the Billboard 200 album chart. “Molly’s Song” was in its eighth consecutive week at number one on the Billboard Adult Pop Songs chart.
Meanwhile, Danner Lane had started preliminary work on its second album, which Dixon wanted wrapped up by the end of the year. And Molly was deep in the trenches editing Needs, passing revisions back and forth with her new agent, Bella Wright.
“I don’t understand why Bella is this heavily involved in the editing process,” Molly told Jake one Sunday afternoon, when they were working in the living room. “She’s an agent. I thought editors were supposed to do the editing.”
“Well, what does Bella say?” Jake glanced up from the coffee table, where he was scribbling notes on a new song.