“And what about you? Boyfriend?” The way Hunter asked the question wasn’t creepy or intrusive. Slightly hopeful maybe, but nothing more.
Molly nodded. She felt an odd impulse to apologize, but knew it wasn’t necessary. “We live together,” she said.
“Ah.” Hunter glanced down into his steaming mug, then back up. His eyes found hers. “Well, at least I didn’t put myself through the humiliation of asking you out.” He smiled softly, and Molly couldn’t help but do the same. He had a sense of humor; he was nice. There was something so easy and familiar about talking to him, she couldn’t help but feel like they’d known each other for years.
“What does your boyfriend do?” he asked.
“He’s a musician. Have you heard of Danner Lane?”
Hunter chortled, sitting back into his chair. “Yes. My ex was obsessed. I’ve been to a couple of their shows.” He paused. “‘Molly’s Song’—let me guess. You’re that Molly.”
“I’m that Molly.” She flipped her palms up, felt Hunter’s eyes on her. “Jake—he’s the songwriter and lead vocalist—he’s the one I date.”
Hunter grinned, impressed. “That is very cool.”
“Sometimes,” she said, clipping her gaze to Hunter’s. She almost added, It doesn’t feel as cool as it used to, but thought better of it. There was something in the air between them that felt weighted, charged with a feeling she couldn’t identify. “This is weird, but…” She paused. “I feel like I’ve seen you somewhere before. Is that possible?”
He tipped his chin forward, and there was something about his face that was so likable, so genuine. “I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe around the neighborhood?”
“Maybe.” Molly blinked, unsatisfied. “Well, speaking of the neighborhood … you’re new to Williamsburg, right?”
He nodded. “Yes, and it’s a world away from Murray Hill, let me tell you.”
“So maybe … maybe we could be friends.” These words had formed as a thought in Molly’s head; she wasn’t entirely sure what prompted her to speak them out loud. It wasn’t flirtation—despite the place they were in, her heart belonged to Jake. She was sure of that.
Hunter’s mouth cracked into a small smile. “I could use a friend or two in Brooklyn.”
“Good,” Molly said, waving to the waitress for the check.
Hours later, she lay in bed with a book, feeling funny about the coffeeshop interaction, and exchanging numbers with a man she hardly knew. A twinge of guilt. Jake continued to scribble frantically in the other room. He worked through dinner and didn’t come to bed till long after Molly had turned out the light.
Molly didn’t really expect Hunter to text her—what guy is stoked about making a female friend—but a couple of weeks later, he did. The sight of his name on her phone sent a jolt up her spine. She wished she’d forgotten all about this arbitrary man, but she hadn’t.
Hey Molly, it’s Hunter O’Neil. Was thinking of checking out the Brooklyn Flea on Saturday—in need of some artwork for my bachelor pad. Any interest in joining? Bring Jake, if he’s free.
The text made Molly smile. It was just Brooklyn Flea—no the.
She didn’t respond for twenty-four hours. She knew Jake would be wrapped up with the album all weekend—it was due to the record label by Sunday—and something about spending Saturday afternoon with another man felt wrong. But Molly was allowed to be friends with a guy, wasn’t she? She didn’t have any real male friends these days, but that was probably because she spent most of her time with Jake.
Molly’s internal debate persisted through the three back-to-back yoga classes she subbed that Wednesday. Between the exhale chataraungas and the inhale up-dogs and the million other yogic cues she recited from memory—as ingrained in her as her own breath—Molly considered the text from Hunter, sitting unanswered in her phone.
She hurried back to the apartment after teaching, speed walking through the biting wind chill. Like most New Yorkers, Molly was ready for winter to end.
Jake was making a sandwich when she walked in the door. It was the first real meal she’d seen him prepare for himself in weeks.
“Hey, beautiful.” There was a peppiness in his voice that told Molly he’d had a productive morning. She brushed a golden curl off his forehead, her body filling with lust at the sight of him.